"Don't hold with violence, John. I'm not a violent man, but teamsters are a breed apart. Let them run roughshod over you, and you're buying a wagon load of trouble. You can't be a pantywaist and expect to keep order on your train."

"You handle yourself well, Phillip."

Trag disrespected the man in charge. Had Phillip not hit him, all the other teamsters would have seen it. They plainly saw that Phillip Dubois was no pantywaist. There was a lot more to Phillip Dubois than I was aware of. He had been seasoned by what he did. He wasn't a man who left things to chance. You headed off trouble before you were up to your neck in it.

No one challenged his orders and the horses were unhitched shortly after we were seated next to our fire. It wouldn't be the last we heard from Trag and his teamsters, but there was peace on the train for a while.

Things seemed to be getting better for me. I hadn't shed the cough. It still came on me and stopped me in my tracks. I did make tracks, because I got out and about every day now. I'd felt some better, but I'd felt a hell of a lot worse, and feeling better was good.

I don't know what I thought of Phillip before the new wagons joined us, but he grew in stature after his run in with the teamsters. Phillip was in charge. He gave no one a reason to doubt it. I never doubted it from the beginning.

It took us ten days to be back on the trail to St Louis. We reached it before leaving Ohio, and we passed into Indiana Territory.

"Why Indiana, Philli? Isn't that an insult to Indians?"

"European doesn't have the same ring. Indiana is definitely a place where a lot of Indians lived when the immigrants came. They named the place before they took it away from the Indians. I don't know who named it Indiana."

There was a bitterness in his words. He was involved with taking immigrants across the continent. I didn't get the idea it was a noble exercise in his mind. Someone was going to do it. Settlers didn't create the situation that existed, and neither did Phillip Dubois.

Indiana was flat. Indiana was hilly. The green of the grass said, spring had arrived in all its glory. The air was magnificent, the landscape beautiful. I'd never seen such wide open spaces. There were open spaces in the South. Nothing like what I saw in Ohio and Indiana.

Each day we traveled about ten miles. There was no rush. The horses had no difficulty in taking the wagons across country. You didn't go faster than a walk, but we were walking with all the belongings of someone who had come a long way to get here.

"If this is Indiana. Where are the Indians," I asked one afternoon.

"They're here. Most have gone west, because they've been pushed west. There are bucks who will never give in to white people. They stay just out of sight. As long as you respect them, you've got no problem. Disrespect them and you're buying yourself trouble. They've been pushed about as far as anyone can be pushed, John."

"How do you know so much about Indians?"

It was one of those questions that had no answer he was going to give me. Phillip knew plenty. He knew his business and that's why people wanted Phillip Dubois at the head of their wagon train. He'd begun to talk more, but there were things he didn't explain, which made me even more curious about the man.

The five wagons with teamsters driving hung back. During the earliest days with them following us, Phillip got on his horse, Dobbin, and he rode back to tell Trag, "Pick up the pace. I'm not going to tell you twice. If you can't keep up, you can wait for the next train. I expect one will be along in a few months. Maybe next spring."

I rode Chestnut behind Dobbin when he issued the warning. True to his word, he didn't go back again, and the five wagons seemed to catch up by dark each night. They'd be nicely circled fifty yards behind the five wagons that stood in a straight line.

The original five wagons continued to follow along in a neat line behind us. During my daily rides, before climbing up to sit by Phillip on the wagon's seat, I rode my horse behind to the fifth wagon following us. I offered my greeting to each wagon as I passed.

These seemed like fine people. Each morning. as Phillip was preparing to break camp, Mrs. Simpson sent over a tin of biscuits that were heavenly. Phillip brewed the coffee I depended on to get me solidly in my saddle.

Once you had a cup of Phillips brew, the idea of sleep flew off into the distance as first light came upon us. I'd ride back behind that fifth wagon to wait to see how long it took for the new five to catch up with us. They lagged back each morning, and it took a while for the first wagon to come into view, but the new five were back there bringing up the rear.

He gave the order to keep up once. At dawn our wagon began to roll. We could hardly see the trail, but the light grew on the new day and we'd see fine in a few minutes. The new five lagged behind each day, but there was a limit to how far ahead they'd let us get. I was sure Trag was showing his disrespect for Phillip without pushing the issue far enough that he might get socked again.

Phillip didn't go back to instruct them to be ready to move at dawn again. They knew when we moved and if they didn't choose to move with us, that was up to them. Each night, fifteen or twenty minutes after we stopped to make camp, the new five circled up fifty yards behind us, immediately unhitching the horses.

"There's going to be trouble," Phillip said on the way back from our last conversation with the new five

"Why do you say that?"

"Teamsters are always trouble. They drive those wagons. They do it their way, no matter what. There will be trouble," Phillip informed me. "I feel it coming."

I got my waist gun out of the carpetbag and hung it next to the tailgate. I wasn't going to wear it. I'd never worn it as a habit, but there were places you went that were dangerous enough that you wanted to be armed. I'd never fired my wait gun at anyone, but I knew how to use it if the situation called for it. Trouble sounded like such a situation.

On this day I leaned on my saddle horn and yawned three times before the first of the new five wagons appeared. It took me five minutes to catch up with the last of the first five, and I rode at a trot. The teamsters went at their speed, but at least they were moving.

I could have gone to report to Phillip, but why aggravate the man. He knew they'd eventually catch up and it wasn't his responsibility to nursemaid the irresponsible.

Phillip was a practical man. He was quiet as he went about his business. When I took to helping him hitch the horses in the morning and unhitch them at day's end, he'd smile as we worked together to get the job done.

"You look like you feel better, John," he said, when I climbed on the wagon seat.

"Still tired in the afternoons. I feel better. The cough isn't as painful."

"Takes a while to get the medicine out of your system. Stamina is a funny thing. When you got it, you don't notice. When you don't got it, it's all you notice."

"I never took to my bed before, Phillip, Not since measles when I was ten. I've done no labor in two years, helping you, well it does a body good, Phillip."

*****

"Why do they do that, Phillip?" I asked one morning after I poured my second cup of coffee and took my third biscuit.

"What's that, John?"

"Circle their wagons like that."

I was looking back fifty or sixty yards where the new five were circled.

"Injuns."

"Indians?"

"Can't break into a circle. You fire out and the wagons protect you."

"You don't circle your wagons?"

"Indians aren't going to bother us. Most of them know me. I know plenty of Indians. I'm from the west. I know the people. You disrespect them, you'll buy a passel of trouble. Doing that, making that circle, tells the Indians you are the enemy of Indians."

"How's that?"

"Circling the wagons is an insult. You're on their land. It's been their land since forever. You come out here prepared to fight them, and they might give you a fight."

"How do they know you, Phillip?"

"Been out here all my life, John. It's an accident I ever went east. I didn't do anything, but knowing what I know, doing what I do got me attention. Turns out I have the skills bankers rely on to get them to where the money is made. Life is funny that way. I had to go east for my health, you might say. Met Dan, president of 1st National, St Louis. You'll meet Dan. He's a regular guy. I need to update him and give him papers from back east. Dan's the one who thought I'd be a big help in the surveying of the west. It's worked out so far."

"Because everyone is going west?"

"Not everyone. A few people still in New York City, but the new immigrants are going west. They don't know what they're getting into, but they keep coming. They'll keep coming until every place looks like New York City. The banks buy up land and people need land to live on," Phillip explained. "That's how the money is made."

The sinical nature of Phillips feelings for what was happening were obvious. It remained a mystery why he did the things he did. Why take settlers west if you didn't like the idea of settling the west? These were mysteries I didn't understand.

The answer seemed obvious. Lesser men couldn't do what Phillip did, but what did I know? I didn't know much and Phillip wasn't talking about his motivation.

We trundled along from dawn to dusk each day. The five wagons that came with us from New York stood in a straight line, tongues resting on the good Indiana soil as the horses grazed beside them. The new five stood off in a circle fifty or sixty yards away.

"We're calling it a day early, John. I've seen signs of deer for the last couple of miles. I'm going to go see if I can't get me one. Want to come along?"

I did want to go along. I wasn't much of a hunter, but I wanted to see Phillip hunt.

Phillip saddled and got on Dobbin. He rode back to tell each wagon his plan, and we rode together into a grove of trees a mile to the left.

The forest was filled with pine needles and dead leaves. Phillip walked his horse as we moved deeper into the shade. It was cooler on a warm day. I suppose it was late May by that time. Could have been early June.

I couldn't see very far.

Phillip walked his horse a few steps and stopped. I did what he did. We'd been moving ever deeper in to the dense grove of trees. When he nudged Dobbin, he walked a few steps, and when Phillip nudged him again, he stopped.

After half an hour, Dobbin had just taken four or five steps, Phillip removed his rifle from the sleeve on the horse's front flank. He raised the rifle and fired.

I'd never fired a rifle while on my horse. Horses were skittish animals. They had a tendency to resist unusual motion or sound. Dobbin did not flinch. The horse knew his rider, and Phillip knew his horse. He knew Dobbin didn't bolt at the sound of his rifle.

When Phillip used his rope to pull the eight point buck up behind his saddle, Dobbin danced when he felt the extra weight.

In no time at all, Phillip was preparing the meat to be cooked for supper.

"This will be a treat for everyone. After living on the supplies we brought with us for two months, venison will put a smile on everyone's face," Phillip told me.

Maybe not everyone.

I helped carry the roasts he'd cut and each wagon got an equal share. When it came to the new five, we stepped into the circle for the first time.

"I want to be sure each wagon gets an equal share," he said to Trag as we stepped in near their campfire..

As soon as we stepped into the circle, Trag stood, puttin his hand on his gun.

"Want to give you folks an equal share of the venison," Phillip said.

"I'll take care of it," Trag said. "Just put it down there."

"No, I want to be sure you teamsters don't take it all, Trag. I'll hand it out."

Any time these two came in contact with each other, he hair stood up on the back of my neck. If there was trouble, it would start with Trag. Each time he saw Phillip, he rubbed his chin. He could have gotten up when Phillip told him to stay down, but he didn't.

It wasn't dark when we sat eating venison. Phillip was right. It was glorious. I'd eaten plenty of meals cooked over an open fire, and this was among the best. Phillip knew his way around when it came to keeping a wagon train moving and the settlers happy.

Mrs. Simpson sent around several side dishes. She still had carrots and potatoes, which made for a superb meal. The supplies were beginning to dwindle again, and having the fresh venison before all we got was dried meat and beans was a nice touch.

We were working on our final cup of coffee before bed when a tall thin man stepped into the light of our fire.

"Don't appreciate you cutting us short on venison," Mr. Stewart said.

"Mr. Stewart, and how are you this fine evening," Phillip tried with a smile.

"Don't appreciate you cutting us short on venison. Trag told us how you gave these folks bigger roasts."

"You got the same as everyone, Mr. Stewart," Phillip said. "Trag is a troublemaker."

"Didn't either give us as much."

Phillip stood, tossing the remainder of his coffee on the fire before walking to where Mr. Stewart stood.

If there was one thing Phillip didn't waste, it was coffee.

"Let's see, Trag is the one put this bee in your bonnet, Mr. Stewart."

"Says you gave the nice folks more."

"Mr. Stewart, you got the same as everyone. You have five teamsters to feed. That's not on me, that's on you. I give each wagon the same. You don't like it, kill your own deer."

Mr. Stewart took his leave without saying anything else.

"There's going to be trouble, John. Trag will see to it."

"Why do you put up with it, Phillip? You don't need to carry these people to where they're going. You could go without so much responsibility and no headaches at all."

"I don't do it, someone else will. When I do it, no one dies. The settlers get where they're going and the Indians don't get shot. I know the country. I know the people. I'd rather do it than trust someone else to do it. These folks don't know what they're getting into. I do."

"You don't even like settlers going west," I said, finishing my coffee.

"No, I don't. Time to turn in. It's going to be a long day tomorrow, John."

Every day was a long day. We did start earlier than usual, and I started off on Chestnut and I got on the wagon seat after we stopped at a pond to let the horses drink. There were more farmer's fields as we approached Illinois. One farmer even waved at us.

They fenced in their farms, which seemed like quite an undertaking to me. Some varmint comes along, they'll go right under the wire. Maybe he had cattle to keep in. I didn't see any, but I didn't see a lot of things.

I continued to ride out front and tell Phillip of watering holes I found. Phillip smiled and nodded when I rode back to tell him of my find. He didn't have much to say, and the new five weren't keeping up any better. They always caught up by day's end.

"Here's the plan," Phillip told everyone gathered around for the meeting.

"We're going into Middletown. It's a mile ahead. The general store there is reasonable, and you won't get cheated by the proprietor. You want to replenish your supplies here, because in St Louis prices will double."

Everyone went into the general store, and it was like a mob looking over all their goods. Phillip suggested the kids and people who weren't involved with the buying, wait until after the buying was done to come in and sightsee.

After thinning out the crowd, each man could tell the proprietor what they wanted in the way of flour, beans, sugar, coffee and such. While the buying was going on, Phillip made a deal with a farmer to deliver us a pig ready to cook where we were camping.

As the piles of fifty and hundred pound sacks were stacked at the back of the warehouse, Phillip checked each pile, pulling out sacks that had signs of vermin. Out of fifty sacks of goods, Phillip sent ten to be replaced.

The stock boy didn't like being told that vermin had gotten to those ten sacks. He'd pulled those sacks out and replaced them. That was more work than he wanted to do, but It was a banner day for sales at the general store.

Trag and the four teamsters leaned against their respective wagon. They didn't lift a finger. They drove the wagon. That's all they did, besides eat and take up space.

"Appreciate you making sure we didn't get soiled goods, Phillip," Mr. Mazeroski said.

"Part of my job Jacob. Don't plan on letting my people get cheated. You need to check the corners of sacks you buy. That's where they get into them."

It took most of the day to load each wagon with the goods they bought and by the time we were ready to call it a day, Phillip had the pig the farmer butchered for him. It was a good size pig and would feed us for a few days as we made our way toward St Louis.

Only we hadn't left Middletown yet, and there was going to be trouble. I figured Phillip had delt with trouble more than once, and being near a town meant there would be at least one saloon nearby.

"Don't want to be putting no more on you than necessary, Phillip, but those teamsters are going into town to drink. Heard them talking at the general store. They're mean when they're sober. Going to be handful drunk. I know it and you know it."

"Thanks, Jacob. I'll take care of it."

There was no doubt when the drunks got back to camp. They were too loud and too disruptive not to wake the dead, but no one went to bed, because they were aware of what was going to happen. The five wagons that left New York together had become friends and nothing happened that everyone didn't know about. They all knew about this.

Phillip strapped on his waist gun. I reached for mine as we passed the back of our wagon, heading for the five wagons pulled into a circle fifty yards away.

"Mr. Stewart," Phillip said. "Have you been drinking?"

I looked for Trag. He sat his horse looking glassy eyed as his men sat their horses near him. He showed no sign of getting involved, but his eyes were on Phillip, and all the teamsters were wearing waist guns. If shooting started, we were badly outnumbered.

I let my hand drop near the handle of my six gun. I wanted to be ready.

Stewart glared at Phillip with fire in his eyes.

"Yeah, what you going to do about it?"

"Don't allow no drunks on my train, Mr. Stewart."

"What? What I do is my business. It's no business of yours."

"Yeah," the teamsters agreed.

Trag remained silent.

"What you do is my business, Mr. Stewart. This is my train. Next time you want to go off to drink, pull your wagon out of line and take it with you. Won't have drunks on my train."

"You ask me, you ain't much of a wagon master. I ought to…."

"No one asked you, Mr. Steward. Get off your horses, water them and hobble them where they can graze. Go to bed. Heaven help you if you aren't in line at dawn tomorrow."

Stewart moved his horse in a way that had him nearly stepping on Phillip. Before I knew what was happening, Phillip grabbed Stewart off his horse. He had a hold on the man and he shook him like a rag doll before setting him on his feet, ready to give him what for.

Mr. Stewart sunk to the ground. He was so drunk he couldn't stand up.

"Anyone else," Phillip said, looking directly at Trag.

No one said anything. No one went for his waist gun.

"Get off your horses. Water them and let them graze. Go to bed. Heaven help you if you aren't in line in the morning."

Phillip turned and started back toward our wagon. I fell in behind him, Mr. Mazeroski fell in behind me, and Mr. Simpson fell in behind him.

"Thank you, Phillip," Mr. Mazeroski said when he passed.

"No problem, Jacob," Phillip said.

I couldn't believe it when the smell of coffee got to my nose. It couldn't be morning already, but it was, and we were hitching the horses to the wagon ten minutes later.

I did get part of a cup of coffee before I pitched in, and even earlier than usual, we began to move. I started out on the seat beside Phillip, because I thought I might fall off my horse if I tried to ride. We'd stayed up late to deal with the drinkers, and we were starting early because we quit early the day before.

After an hour it was daylight, and I stood up to look over top of the wagon.

"They there?"

"They're there," I said. "Up right close this morning."

"Won't last," Phillip said.

Phillip smiled. The trouble wasn't over, but he'd made his stand and luckily no one got shot, although they did need to carry Mr. Stewart to his wagon after Phillip yanked him off his horse. He couldn't stand up or walk.

My estimation of Phillip took a sharp rise after the night of the drunks. I kept trying to figure out if he might shoot one of them. I wasn't sure Phillip would shoot one, but thereafter, I figured Phillip did what needed doing. If he needed to shoot someone, he'd be getting himself shot. I went along so he didn't go alone.

I was feeling good, not better, but good. This was perplexing. How could I have been as sick as I was, and now I felt better? Not simply better, I felt good.

I had a hard time believing I'd live to get out of New York. Then, I was certain I wouldn't live to see Ohio. We were ten days from St Louis. I wasn't dead. I wasn't even sick. Phillip Dubois saved my life. He'd said that concoction came from Medicine Woman. He called her his grandmother. They lived in a village.

Who was Phillip Dubois?

I wondered about who he was. I felt close to the enigmatic wagon master, adventurer, surveyor, and doctor. I felt as close to Phillip as I'd ever been to anyone. I didn't know him, and I was a project he agreed to take on along with his other responsibilities. I'd like to have known him. I doubted I'd ever know the depth of the man or why he seemed so mysterious to me.

As we grew closer to St Louis, I realized that I had no plan. I hadn't seen anything beyond the trip. I would die before I got anywhere, and thus, I needed no plan. Now, I was alive and I had a future with no plan. I was with Phillip. He was going to Colorado Territory to survey new tracks of land 1st National Band bought.

I'd survey with him. We were together on his wagon, and I'd stay to help him survey.

I didn't know if Phillip wanted my help, or if he needed help, but I'd help him. I didn't know what a surveyor did, but he could teach me, and that was my plan before I had a plan. There would obviously be more to it than that, but Phillip never mentioned dropping me off somewhere. I was going west for my health, and my health was good.

At ten miles a day, it took three months to go from New York to St Louis, but that wasn't the half of it. It took another six months to get to the cities the furthest west. It was as far to Cheyenne from St Louis as it was from New York to St Louis.

"How far do they have to go, Phillip? Once you let them off in St Louis?"

"Three months to Cheyenne. This time of year, they'll wait until spring before trying to cross the mountains. Winter is no time to be in those mountains. You don't want to get caught in a blizzard. Everything freezes, the horses, the people, everything."

"Why do they do it?"

"They're leaving something behind them. Whatever they left is bad enough that they'll cast their fate into the unknown. If they knew what it would take to get to a new place where settlers were settling, they'd stay where they were, but they don't know the hardship they are about to face. No one is going to tell them. No one will say, think about it."

"You're a smart man, Phillip. I get the impression you aren't well educated, Lord knows I ain't. I left school at twelve to make money. You're wise beyond your years to know as much as you know," I said, impressed by his knowledge.

"Going to be trouble, Phillip. Better get your gun," Mr. Mazeroski said as he came up followed by Mr. Simpson, Mr. Keene, and Mr. Scala. They were all wearing waist guns.

"What is it?" Phillp asked, reaching under the seat in the wagon for his waist gun.

A minute later Trag rode up with his four teamsters. He was still leading the group.

"Ain't going to forget this favor you done me, Dubois. We'll meet again when you don't have so many guns behind you," Trag growled as Phillip buckled his waist gun.

"Who put the burr under your saddle, Trag. I got nothing to do with you."

"You'll be seeing me later. You better be wearing a gun when you do."

Trag rode away in a cloud of dust and with a hardy, kiss my ass.

"What was that all about?" Phillip asked Mazeroski.

"Stewart fired the teamsters. Said you said to fire them. That Trag said he was going to shoot you before he left. I wouldn't sleep too sound with that snake around, Phillip."

We marched in a crowd to the five wagons nearly circled fifty yards away.

"Stewart, what's this about you firing the teamsters and telling them I said to do it?"

"Had to tell them something. They were eating all the food and anyone can do what they do. Mostly it's standing around scratching fat asses. Getting fat on my food," Stewart said.

"I got a man gunning for me because he scratched his ass? I ought to…."

Mazeroski and Simpson stepped between the two. Phillip put his hand on one of their arms to remove it, but then, reconsidering he dropped the hand and turned around to go back to our wagon.

"They'll come back for you?" I asked as we got coffee.

"No, I doubt he's going to hang around to take a shot at me. I don't know."

"Why'd Stewart put it on you, Phillip?"

"Too gutless to put it on himself. Trag is a snake. Steward knows that much."

There we were, nearly to St Louis and now Stewart is driving his own wagon, and the other men with him drove the other four. Why they paid the teamsters to do what they ended up doing would remain a mystery, but the teamsters were gone, and that removed one headache for the time being.

Trag was out there, and we'd meet him again, when we least expected it.


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"St Louis"

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