Part 1

The Land Beyond the Mist

By Ernest Haycox Author of “A Wooing in the Wilds,” etc.

To keep out the misery of the eternal Oregon rain, Tom Cameron sang.

The heavens leaked with a persistence beyond the experience of the emigrant train. In seven days there had been no sun or sky above the tops of the fir trees. A heavy rolling mist hung over the line of wagons, shutting them out from the rest of the world as effectually as if they were in a fog bank at sea. Through this dark, lowering curtain came the steady deluge, soaking into the canvas schooner tops, wetting clothes, bedding, penetrating the food--reaching every fabric and every article. There was not an ounce nor an inch of anything dry in the whole weary column.

Cameron’s pony walked as if he were a twenty-year-old nag. His flanks steamed and twitched, his hoofs were weighted down with huge lumps of gummy clay, his mane hung in separate twisted hanks. The animal was in no worse shape than his master, whose blanket capote dripped water like a colander sieve. Rivulets ran from the man’s beaver cap across his wet face to a yellow mustache; fell from either side of this, like twin waterfalls, to the capote and thence streamed down the buckskin breeches in an ever-growing course, falling finally to the sodden, mud-sunken road in a tiny cascade.

“I’d be a danged sight more dry if I turned this hyar shirt inside out,” muttered Tom, wringing his mustache free from its accumulation of water. Then he fell again to the song.

“Oh, Kernel Doniphan-o----”

It was in the late fall of ’48, and these twenty wagons were traversing the Barlow Road over the Cascades to the valley of the Wallamet. The trail ended for them after a long, long journey. They had started from Independence, Missouri in April and it was now November. In the beginning, it had been a hundred wagons trekking across the vast prairie lands, following the plainly marked, deeply rutted Oregon Trail. At Fort Hall many months later the greater part of the caravan turned south for California and gold while the rest followed the older road to the Columbia and the old Wish-Ram villages at the Balles. Here they split again, part rafting down the bitter-cold river to Fort Vancouver, the rest coming over the new Barlow Road.

The patient oxen pulled at the traces, slipping and sliding in the muck. The bull whips whistled and cracked. Somewhere ahead of Tom Cameron the lead wagon groped in the mist seeking the road through the everlasting, dismal firs. The cattle herd was equally lost in the mist behind. It was all a confusion of noises, overborn by the clack and clatter of vehicles and the incessant pattering of the rain. The wailing of infants came up to him from many a direction, mingling with the shouts and epithets of the drivers. A brave pioneer woman in some distant schooner was singing a hymn:

“Bless’d be the land of plenty----”

It was a stirring tune and an inspiring thought, yet the woman’s voice cracked in the middle of the verse and went down a-wailing. Ah, it was weary and heart-breaking, this last stage of the trip! Where was the promised land, the lush meadows free for the preempting, the bountiful game, the smiling sun? Had they come so far to find so poor a welcome? Better by far the fever and ague of Missouri, infinitely better the crowded, dearer land of Iowa.

Off to the right boomed the turbulent Clackamas. Tom Cameron wrung his mustache again and pulled a little aside to allow another horseman passage room. It was “Old Man” Follett, holding a dripping hand to a Websterian brow. The elder’s face formed an incongruous appearance. A bulging upper part harbored a pair of sweet, candid blue eyes, complemented by an undershot bull-dog jaw covered with stubble.

“By Godfrey, Tom, ain’t there any sun in this cussed land?” A linsey woolsey coat hung like a meal sack from his shoulders. “My fambly’s all got chills. I ain’t been dry fer a week. Ef we don’t find Oregon City mighty soon thar’ll be some buryin’ to do.”

“What’s Captain Bell say?”

“Shucks, Tom, he ain’t no wiser nor you and me. Dang, sometimes I wish I was back in old Illinois. Ef I don’t find good land here I reckon the missis won’t ever look me in the face again.”

A lank Missourian shouted from his wagon seat. “Land o’ plenty, hey? Thunder, I’m ready fer the turn around! I’d like to git aholt of the alligator who guv me the idea of leavin’ St. Louis! I’d put his haid in a tub o’ water an’ see how he liked drownin’. Got a chaw?”

Old Man Follett moved on. “No, I ain’t. Ain’t been up to our wagon for a couple days, Tom. Another scrap with Susie? Waal, I reckon I wouldn’t blame anybody fer quarrelin’ this weather.” He was lost the next minute in the fog, leaving the younger man silent. There was no longer any savor in singing the song about Colonel Doniphan. The misery of the dank, skin-creeping atmosphere worked on his nerve. A draggled sight he made, but no sorrier than any other of the train. There was no laughter throughout the whole caravan; the flame of anger and personal grievance had burst out continuously in the past week. Elders were bickering over directions; young men going at it rough-and-tumble fashion behind the cattle herd where there was no hindrance to gouging or heel and toe. The Emory boys bullied all the rest. Tom Cameron pulled at his mustache and was warmed by a persistent anger.

The horse started and wheeled, plunging against the Missourian’s wagon. Cameron brought up and turned to see the dripping face of an Indian buck poke through the vine maple, stare a moment, and disappear. He spurred the horse in pursuit, but the underbrush was too heavy and, recollecting a clearing a short distance back which seemed to promise entrance into the soaked woods, he swung around and galloped down the line of schooners. The coast tribes, he had heard, were not openly hostile. It paid, however, always to keep on the alert. One Indian might mean a whole band of warriors waiting at some convenient ambush.

So thinking, he edged between bushes and wagons, the horse sliding in the mire. Of a sudden the brush dropped back into the mist and a bare foreground loomed up ahead. Turning, horse and rider were immediately isolated from the column. The grind and clatter advanced out of the haze, witness to the proximity of people; a driver spoke to his oxen in tones that boomed up to Cameron like a gun shot; and yet there was not a single glimpse of movement to be seen through the uncanny pall. The rain beat slantwise against him, redoubled in force. Then the horse stopped and a young man in homespun, hatless, dashed through the mist, closely followed by a mounted trio. The young fellow pulled up directly before Cameron with something like a gasp of relief. Upon sight of this the horsemen came to a sharp stop.

“Oh, you’re hereabouts, huh?” grunted the foremost. A scowling chap, he was, with a black cowlick roaming below the brim of his Missouri hat and dividing a narrow forehead. It was a dark face with a broad nose and thick, mobile lips--handsome in a way and possessing, when broadened into a smile, an undoubted attraction for women. It was otherwise with the men of the train, who saw only the danger signs in the ill-disciplined features. They left “Hank” Emory, leader of the three Emory boys, alone. The other two were lesser copies of the older brother, with much the same sullen expression, the same pouting lips and depth of chest.

“Tom,” said the young fellow, panting. “They’re pickin’ on me ag’in.”

“I’ll teach you to stand in my road!” cried Hank Emory, swinging down from his saddle. “Make a monkey out o’ me, huh?”

The first rule of frontier existence bids each man shoulder his own burden and go his own way; interference is not tolerated save as it comes by request. Here was a fight brewing between the bully and the other, with three men a-saddle impassively looking on. Emory was the heavier, the more dangerous, carrying with him the threat of many whispered brutalities. The chap facing him, while not much younger, seemed to be overawed by his reputation, but he shook his fist at the aggressor and appealed to Cameron. “I ran because all three were on me. You see fair play’s done, and I’ll fight. I ain’t afraid.”

Cameron nodded. “Clean fightin’, Emory. No rough an’ tumble.”

Emory bore down upon his opponent viciously. There was a wild swinging of fists and the swift escape of breath. The lad’s head snapped back and his hands went down; he was sprawled upon the wet turf with a hand to his stomach, writhing from side to side and sobbing like a child.

“Teach you manners!” yelled Emory, jumping forward. His hat fell off, and the mop of black hair waved wildly above the cowlick. The dark face was a seamed battleground of unrepressed fury. The two followers looked on with satisfaction. Tom Cameron brought his arm from beneath the capote, bearing a pistol.

“That’s a plenty. Stop right thar.”

Emory stumbled and brought up. “Plenty? Why, I ain’t begun to teach him manners.”

“You’ve had yore chance. That’s plumb plenty. Git along and leave him alone.”

“Maybe you’d like to try it out,” said Emory, his eyes growing wider. “I’ve had my fill of yore ways. Climb down and risk a fall.”

“When I fight with my fists I’ll choose the place,” replied Cameron. “Want to have somebody holding a gun on the rest of yore friends.”

“Haw! Reckon yore back is made out o’ the color yaller!”

“Thar’ll be plenty o’ time to decide that, too.” Cameron pulled on his mustache until the skin grew white at the roots. “When I come callin’ you’ll git plenty chance to prove it.”

From beyond the curtain of fog there emerged an unusual, disconcerting sound. It started with a distant shout from the front, half inaudible. The successive wagons picked it up, men and women alike adding their voices until, when the rear of the column was reached, it had become a mighty cry. Guns were fired, pans beaten. A woman screamed at the top of her voice:

“Glory, glory, glory! Oregon City! Praise God!”

The whole train resounded with the racket. Dogs were yapping; the cattle bawled out of fear. Some one took up a banjo and a popular tune trembled on a nasal voice while the strings made a flat, unmusical sound against the wet sounding board of the instrument. No matter, the song was sung with vigor, with a dozen voices picking it up.

Journey’s end at last! Somewhere in front was the goal they sought, the shining reward that had held their courage night after night. Somewhere in the mist was Oregon City, the capital of the provisional government of Oregon, whose fame had lured them away from solid, comfortable homes and sent them all the way across the desert and over the mountains. Oregon and plenty!

Emory gave a last scornful glance at Cameron, sprang to saddle and tore through the fog, with his followers close behind. The fallen lad picked himself up and hobbled toward the train with an apologetic glance at his protector. “Reckon they’ll be layin’ for you now,” he said. “There’s been plenty of talk of a fight atween you and him. Whole camp speaks of it.” He grew angry all in a moment. “Don’t you let him swipe yore girl.” Then, ashamed at the outburst, he broke into a trot and vanished.

The noise lost volume as if the wagons had of a sudden plunged over a precipice. Cameron urged his horse through the gray wall and found the cow herd driving in front of him; he pushed around it and alongside the train until the trees vanished once more. Through the mist he made out the spire of a church. A screeching of brakes and a cry of warning was born back down the line. “Watch fer the grade! Turn yore wagons out o’ line at the foot o’ the hill--goin’ into camp!”

Cameron cut through and galloped along the side, descending a precipitous hill. In this pocket the fog thinned, and before his astonished vision stood the city mentioned by a thousand camp fires, the Mecca of the West.

One narrow street wavered between a double row of frame houses and cabins. To the left reared the gray shadow of the basaltic bluff the travelers were descending. On the other hand Cameron heard the sheeting sound of the rain pouring on a river. This, he decided, would be the Wallamet, for the roar of the falls, likewise famed in a hundred reports, thundered down the mud-bogged street. The houses were weather-beaten; across the false fronts of a few stood painted captions. A store, a grain shed, a pit saw and--witness of civilization’s march--a newspaper. In all the length of the rain-drenched thoroughfare there was not a single sign of life. Cameron arrived at a glaring sign across one such false front announcing “Rickerson’s Gen’l M’ch’d’se.” On impulse he slid from the dispirited horse and entered the place, slamming the door against the wind. There, at last, he saw people; one sallow woman stood behind the counter and fixed her snapping eyes at a tall, loosely jointed character against the wall.

“Honest?” she asked in a shrill voice. “Did I say you wa’n’t honest? But ef you was Governor Abernethy himself I wouldn’t give a nickel’s credit! How can a body make a living that a way? You are like every other shiftless man--wantin’ to run off to Californy and hunt gold while the crops go to pot here and poor wimmenfolk near starve!”

“Ma’m, I reckon my credit ought to be good. Yore husband never denied me what I needed. It’s only a sack o’ flour and a shovel I’m askin’.”

“To traipse off to Californy with. Fools’ gold! Stay home, I say, and grow wheat. That’s better’n gold. Ef my husband guv you credit, why, go an’ hunt him up.” She turned toward Cameron with a bitter smile. “Nary an able-bodied man left in Oregon any more since this turrible gold fever. January it was they discovered it at Sutter’s Mill. A bad January for Oregon. Women and children plowin’ the ground and the pesky Indians bolder’n ever. My husband gone off with the first, vowin’ to git rich. Not a word have I heard since. But what would you be wantin’?”

“Some tobacco,” said Cameron. “And a few sticks of that dry kindling wood by the stove, if I may.”

Overcome with a mumbled dissatisfaction, the lackadaisical fellow sauntered toward the door, shooting a glance at Cameron’s wallet when the latter paid for his tobacco. “I wouldn’t blame old Joe,” he called over his shoulder, “ef he never come back. Fer a wife you talk too much.” Then he slid hastily into the rain. Cameron, grinning, followed, tucking the kindling wood beneath his capote. He bent his head against a sudden onslaught of the storm and picked a way between the houses, now and then casting a wistful glance at the cheery lights that glowed from within. He passed the church a second time, and in five minutes was within the circle of wagons.

The site picked for this day’s rest was indeed a miserable one. Half of the ground was overflowing with water; the rest was ankle-deep in mud. One great blaze shot up from the center, and lesser fires struggled by several of the wagon tongues. The families for the most part stuck within the damp shelter of the wagons. The burst of excitement had subsided; not a song rose above the splashing rain; not a cheerful word could be heard save from one small group of men near the big fire. There, surrounded by the newcomers, stood a plump, middle-sized gentleman, dressed in lawyers’ black and with a gray-shot beard and beaming eye, sheltered under an umbrella. It was Abernethy, the governor.

“Rain? Bless you, rain does no harm in Oregon. But we have plenty of it. From October to May. As for land, God made the finest land and placed it in these valleys. But the best pieces near by are taken. You’ll have to scout around, go farther into the bench, or beyond Chemeketa, six and seven days’ riding.”

Cameron rode on to a certain wagon in the circle where Old Man Follett struggled with a dying flame. He turned his mild eyes upward, and for the first time in all that two-thousand-mile trip the bitter discouragement was apparent in them. “Tom, whar’s mercy in this world?”

Cameron drew out the handful of dry kindling and passed it to the elder. When he raised his head he saw Susan Follett watching through the front opening of the wagon. His mud-splashed countenance resumed some small measure of its gayety. Yet there was no answering smile on her clear, oval face; no welcome in the gray, spirited eyes; no encouragement in the manner she lifted her determined little chin. She was a frontier girl, born of a frontier family and having that fusion of elements in her blood which forever left its impress on all things coming under its influence. It was as if Tom Cameron had struck flint with steel and aroused a spark. Well, there was powder to put that spark in action. He was no lovesick swain. He compressed his lips and turned away.

The cause of the quarrel? Who might tell? Who knows the list of nine thousand and nine things, any one of which may be disagreed upon by man and woman. A thousand miles back on the Sweetwater there had been a quarrel and a reconciliation. But thereafter disagreement kept obtruding itself. Then Hank Emory, arrayed in his finest trappings, swirled up to pay court, leering at Cameron’s impassive face. There would be trouble brewing there. Such a man was Emory that other men distrusted him, and women found something attractive in the rough coat of gallantry. Susan Follett spent one defiant glance at Cameron and chose to give the bully her attention. It was more fuel than Emory needed to augment his overbearing attitude.

The fire guttered in the wind and took fresh life from the dry kindling. Follett shielded the blaze with his coat. “I darn near got my bellyful of misery. I ain’t no glutton fer such punishment. Whar’s all this good land, eh? Tom, somebody’s stretched the truth. I might have known.” He drove two sticks into the ground and fashioned a crane. “Susie, pass out the big kettle.”

There was a splashing of mud and the profane shouts of men; through the downpour appeared Emory and his brothers. The horses reared and sat wildly on their haunches. Follett muttered his disapproval. Cameron moved not an inch.

“Wet weather, wet weather!” cried the leading Emory. “Didn’t I tell you Californy was yore proper station? Thar’s gold and sun to be had.”

“Tarnation!” muttered Follett. “Do ye take me for an old fool?”

Emory guffawed and favored Cameron with a sharp, sudden look of malice, then doffed his hat in a gesturing circle to Susan Follett who once more appeared at the front oval. “Lady, it’s shore damp for purty faces.”

She smiled. Cameron, looking up, saw that the smile was a little pinched about the corners of the mouth. Her answer, though welcoming, lacked warmth. Any less obtuse individual than Hank Emory might have noticed it. But he grinned broadly and swung nearer the wagon. “Well, yore at the end of the trip, Susie. Ain’t it about time fer an answer?”

Follett started up with a burning stick in his fist. “Susie?” he said softly to Cameron. “Thar’s liberty for you.”

Cameron laid on a restraining hand. “Let it run a little longer,” he counseled, and pulled at the yellow mustache.

The girl shook her head and seemed to draw away. “Mister Emory, aren’t you a little hurried?”

“Haw! That’s the same song you guv me last time. I ain’t to be put off. Hyar I be, a two-fisted fellow, good enough for a lot of women. Ain’t I good enough for you? Sartain, I can fight harder’n that fruz-faced Methodist stickin’ so close to yore paw.”

“Reckon that’s a point to be settled now,” broke in Cameron, handing the reins of his animal to Follett. The scene had attracted attention, and the quick dismounting of Emory brought a dozen of the younger men up on the rush. “It was sort of agin’ my principles to fight in the train,” continued Cameron. “Thar was trouble a-plenty. We’re camped now and it don’t matter.”

Emory jeered, “Nice boy, nice manners,” and looked around for his brothers. They had been edged away by the spectators, so he shoved his burly head between his shoulder blades and began weaving his fists. “I’ll tan you! The devil with sech nice ways.”

“Any way goes,” countered the other and stepped swiftly aside. Emory rushed in with the black, curly poll pointed like a battering ram. Cameron was not to be deceived; he saw the little red-rimmed eyes peering up at him, waiting for a slip off guard. A fist whirled out, grazed Cameron’s chest and passed on. For so heavy a man the braggart worked lithely. He was about in a moment and charging again, this time upright, both arms flailing. Cameron stumbled in the mud, caught desperately at one of those arms and, going down, pulled his opponent along.

It made a weird, unbelievable scene with the rain falling in a never-ending downpour, and the ground six inches deep in muck. The crowd stood closely about and yelled. Follett clung to his club; the fire was trampled out and the ashes smoked dismally. Governor Abernethy had advanced with the rest and stood foremost, the umbrella shielding the lawyer’s black coat, watching the battle with humorous eyes. “This,” he said to Follett, “is a peaceful land. Most of our quarrels have to be imported from Iowa and Missouri.” From her vantage point on the wagon Susan Follett stared in alarm, fists clenched and body moving unconsciously with the fighters. When Cameron went down beneath the braggart’s weight she struck the wagon seat with her knuckles and cried “Tom!”

But Tom was buried too deeply in the mud to hear. The stuff covered both men from head to foot. Neither could get a grip and hold it. Time and again blows were launched which missed and landed in the gumbo. The braggart churned both feet to get a better position, lost his balance, and went rolling. The lanky fighter found his opportunity at that moment, got to his knees and fell astride Emory, seizing the black hair. That brought a roar of delight from the crowd. Emory’s head sank down until a yell of fear bubbled out of the muck. Cameron swayed in his improvised saddle, raised the braggart’s head for the moment and recited a short apology. “Say it after me; I beg the lady’s pardon fer causin’ so much trouble.’”

“The devil----”