Let not conscience makejou linger,
Nor of fitness fondly dream,
All the fitness he requireth
Is to feel jour need of him.
he coffee was weak, but John William took no notice. He sat on his little campstool, as he had for countless mornings, surrounded by this latest variation of God's creation. He'd had breakfast in the shadows of mountains and had slept beside lapping lakes and roaring rivers. But this morning, this landscape, was different.
Gloria hadn't roused yet, and he felt no compulsion to call her from her slumber. The sun was not quite up; the silence settled his soul.
Well, not complete silence.
The sounds of the Umatilla River had lulled him to sleep, and now it serenaded him across the dawn. Umatilla. “Rippling water.” The Indians named this land for its sound. After years of whistling Wyoming wind and months of heavy-summer-air silence, the sound of the river called to him and gave him the message he'd been waiting to hear.
Home.
He'd left Silver Peak with a vague notion of Oregon. He knew about the floods of people fighting their way across the country to make a home in this new Promised Land. He himself felt the thrill of accomplishment at the first step after crossing the Snake River. But he hadn't arrived with a plan. He had no destination in mind. He likened himself to Abraham, content to journey with faith and diligence until God saw fit to tell him to stop. This morning, the song of the Umatilla River and the gray outline of the Blue Mountains served as God's missive.
John William set down his coffee and went to his knees, elbows braced on the seat of his campstool, immersed in prayer. Silent, at first, but at some point he spoke aloud.
“Lord, I ask for your guidance. Give me direction. Give me wisdom. Give me—”
“Coffee,” her voice invaded.
“Patience,” he finished. “Amen.”
She hadn't yet emerged from the wagon, and by the time Gloria popped her head through the canvas opening at the back, John William was back on his feet, waving his cup under her nose.
“Does it ever occur to you to pray to yourself?” she asked, her voice cranky and dry
“Good mornin’ to you, too.”
“G'morning," she said with a self-conscious smile, her crankiness apparently short-lived this morning.
“Get up,” he said. “I have good news.”
“Is it coffee?”
“It might be, if you get up. But there's not much left, and I'm feelin’ a little greedy”
Gloria scowled and dropped the tent flap. Moments later she emerged, her hair pulled back and loosely tied at her neck. She brought with her a snuffling, stretching Kate, who was immediately traded for a steaming cup of coffee. Gloria inhaled its fragrance, took a sip, closed her eyes, smiled and sipped again before turning her full attention back to John William.
“So what is it?” she asked. “What's the good news?”
“We're here,” he said, beaming a smile back and forth between his daughter and Gloria.
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Where exactly is here?”
“That,” he said, cupping his ear to indicate the sound of the river, “is the Umatilla River. We are, according to the last map I looked at, in Umatilla County. We're home.”
“Home? Home? You can name a county and decide its home?”
“I don't decide,” John William said. “God told me.”
“Really? I must have slept right through that. All I heard was you mumbling a request for directions.”
John William started with an equally sharp reply but stilled himself. For just a moment, he allowed himself to feel flattered that she listened for his voice. He settled himself down on his stool with Kate in his lap.
“It's a feeliri 1 have.”
“A feeling?”
“Yes. It's hard to explain, but I've been prayin’ so hard for so long for God to show me where to go. Every other mornin’ I've had this restless feelin', like I can't wait to get hitched up and movin'. But this mornin', there was just a feelin’ of…”
His voice trailed off when he saw the look of dumbfounded incredulity on Gloria's face. She looked like someone had just whacked her in the head and told her that black was white, and had been all along.
“Am I to understand,” Gloria said, speaking slowly deliberately, “that you get this feeling, decide that it's the voice of God, and just like that we've arrived?”
“Yes.”
“No hint of civilization. No town.”
“There must be something,” John William said. “We passed two homesteads yesterday.”
“Hmm,” she murmured through a sip of coffee before she turned away from him.
“What did you expect?” John William asked. “Did you think we were going to roll into another Virginia City?”
“I don't know what I thought.”
“Gloria, we're in a new territory A new country, really It's a place to start life over. Nobody knows us, who we are. What we are.”
She turned to look at him again. The sun was just coming up, and she stood, bathed in new light, the Blue Mountains a stunning backdrop behind her. John William's breath left him, and he was grateful when Kate demanded his attention by grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking with all her tiny strength.
“It's a new start,” he concluded, his voice lame and flat, distracted by his efforts to wrest his hair from his daughter's fist.
Gloria crossed over to John William and took Kate out of his arms. Gracefully holding her coffee aloft, she sat cross-legged, nestling Kate against her. The baby turned to nurse, but Gloria entertained her by twirling long blonde locks across the baby's face. “So, what does God's voice sound like?”
“This morning, it sounds like the Umatilla River,” he said. “Listen.”
And she did. At least she seemed to. John William was faintly amused at the serious, concentrated look that came over her face as she listened.
Lord, he prayed silently, give her somethin’ too, please. Somethin’ to hear. Give her—
Music.
Just over the horizon, voices carried across the morning.
“Comeje sinners, poor and needy,
Weak and wounded, sick and sore.”
The song grew stronger as a wagon, pulled by a fine-looking team of horses, came into view The first thing John William noticed was that this wagon lacked the familiar canvas cover that graced nearly every one he'd seen since leaving Wyoming. A young man and woman sat upon its bouncing seat, and the small heads of children peeped just over the open box.
While they were still several hundred yards away, John William stood and waved his hat.
“Hello, there!” he called.
“Shhh," Gloria said, the crankiness returned to her voice. “They'll come over here.”
“It's called being neighborly. If this is our home, then these are our neighbors.”
“I'm not even dressed!”
“So close a few buttons,” John William said over his shoulder. “They're a ways off. You have time.”
They were the Logan family: David, Josephine, and their children James, Eliza, and Charles. Months on the trail made it nearly impossible to distinguish one day from another, but this family said it all: Sunday.
David Logan wore a calico shirt so starched that its creases nearly crackled; Josephine wore a crisp straw hat adorned with a wide blue ribbon tied just below her chin. The Logan children were scrubbed raw. Wet comb marks ran furrows across the boys’ pink scalps, and Eliza's hair was drawn back into a crisp blonde braid. These were the cleanest children John William had seen since his days peeking through the prison bars. He wondered what the fans of Killer MacGregan would think if they saw their hero getting almost weepy at the sight of a wagon full of shiny children.
“John William MacGregan,” he said, after meeting the Logan family. “And this is Gloria and baby Kate.” He was acutely aware of Gloria's disheveled appearance and his own unshaven face.
“Pleased to meet you,” David said. “You folks passing through or planning to settle?”
“Wasn't sure until this mornin',” John William said. “Been waitin’ on the Lord's word on that, but 1 think this is where He wants us to stay.”
“It's beautiful country,” Josephine said, speaking directly to Gloria, but when Gloria failed to meet her gaze, she turned to John William. “And it's growing, too.”
“Will you join us in church this morning?” David asked.
“There's a church nearby?”
“Just north about three miles, in Middleton,” David said.
“Middleton," John William said, turning toward Gloria. “So there is a town?”
“Town's stretchin’ it a bit,” David said. “A post office, general store.”
“And a church,” John William piped in, his voice full of wonder. He'd spent many Sunday mornings apologizing to Katherine for taking her away from a civilized congregation.
“It's quite a small gathering, really,” Josephine said. “About ten families. But we do enjoy our time together. Won't you come?”
“We've been travelin',” John William said, gesturing around him. “We haven't had a chance to even wash up.”
“Well, you're not far from the river,” David said. “Go splash around in it a minute.”
“Yes,” Josephine chimed in. “Surely Mrs. MacGregan would—”
“Gloria. Call me Gloria.”
“Of course.” If Josephine was taken aback by Gloria's abruptness, she showed no sign of it.
“And we have two babies to wash up,” Gloria continued. “This one, and another asleep in the wragon.”
“Oh, my,” Josephine said. “Twins?”
“A little boy, Danny, and the girl,” Gloria said. “So you see, there's no possible way we could join you this morning.”
An awkward silence settled over the little gathering and stayed there until the youngest Logan child, Charles, stood up in the back of the wagon and dangled a basket over its side.
“Wanna doughnut?” he asked.
“Yes, please have one,” Josephine said. “I fried them last night, but they're still rather fresh.”
“No, thank you,” Gloria said, her eyes never leaving the basket. “I was just about to make our breakfast.”
John William stifled a laugh.
“Please,” Gloria continued, “don't let us keep you any longer.”
“It's only an hour's ride from here,” David said. “We've got plenty of time.”
Gloria started to speak again, but John William strode to stand between her and the Logan family “Give us just one minute," he said to David, then he turned to Gloria. He towered over her, and she rose to her feet.
“We're not going,” she said.
John William sensed the uncomfortable shuffle of the people in the wagon behind him. He thought he heard the oldest Logan boy giggle.
“You do not speak for this house,” John William said, raising his voice to an authoritative pitch.
“In case you haven't noticed,” Gloria said, shifting Kate to her other hip, “this isn't a house. And there has never been a time when I didn't speak for myself. So I suggest that you remember who I am and why I'm here, or 111 just pack myself back home.”
“You couldn't make your own way across the creek,” John William said. “Now get yourself washed and dressed. We're going to church.”
“No.”
“Gloria.” He attempted a threatening tone.
“No. Listen, MacGregan, do what you want, go where you want. Ill be here.”
He bent to her, his forehead resting on hers. “Gloria, you are my family now,” he said in a voice he was certain the Logan family could not hear. “I haven't had a chance to go to a church in years. I want to go, and I want you to go with me.”
He sensed a change in her breath, a synchronization with his own.
“I…can't,” she said at last.
“You can,” he said, reaching for her, but caressing Kate's soft cheek instead.
“I won't.”
“I'm going,” he said.
“Go.”
“I don't want to go alone.”
“You won't be,” Gloria said, stepping away from him and offering a consoling smile. “You have your new friends to take you.” She shouldered baby Kate and turned to the Logan wagon.
“It was nice to meet you all,” she said before passing Kate through their wagon's canvas flap and following her inside.
John William turned to face ten boldly staring eyes.
“May I ride with you?” he asked, his tone light, if forced.
“Of course,” Josephine said.
“Just give me five minutes to wash up.”
John William splashed his face with the icy water drawn from the barrel strapped to the side of the wagon. Lacking a comb, he ran his fingers through his hair, careful to keep his disfigured ear covered. He was wearing his cleanest shirt, which he smoothed with his damp hands and tucked into his pants. He grabbed his Bible from its place on his bedroll, dropped his hat on his head, and turned with a cheerful, “Let's go!”
When John William climbed up into the wagon box, the dumbfounded children scuttled to make room for him, and he felt enormous sharing a space with such little people.
David Logan clicked to his team, and the wagon started its bumpy journey. John William turned back frequently to see if Gloria would emerge, but she didn't. And after only a few minutes of travel, the rolling foothills made any sight of her impossible. When he turned back, sighing, he felt a tug on his sleeve.
“Wanna doughnut now?” Charles asked, offering the same basket.
John William gave what he hoped was a friendly smile and reached under the towel to pluck out a pastry. When he popped it in his mouth, the smile became one of pure joy. There was just a hint of crispness left in the fried bread. It had been dipped in sugar, and the sweetness was almost overwhelming. There was little need to chew; the morsel seemed to melt against his tongue.
Gloria would have loved this.
“The journey is hard on a woman,” Josephine said, her voice full of compassion. “I'm sure your wife just didn't feel at her best.”
“I think she's very pretty,” the small voice of Eliza Logan lisped through two missing front teeth.
“I think you're very pretty,” John William said, and her blushing smile warmed him.
“I dunno,” James said. “She sure seems like a wild one.”
John William burst out in a heartfelt guffaw, and David, too, gave a hoot and a giggle.
“James!" Josephine turned in her seat to reprimand her son. “That was not a kind thing to say.”
“But true, eh?” David said over his shoulder. “A real little scrapper?”
“Brother, you don't know the half of it,” John William said.
As they rode, the full force of what he had taken on hit. Until now, he and Gloria and Danny and Kate had been their own little family, isolated in the middle of this huge country, owing nothing to anybody.
But now…this might be their home. His home, anyway, and he was entering it under a canopy of lies. He wondered what David Logan would do if he knew the stranger in the back of his wagon had killed two men with his bare hands. He wondered how comfortable the Logan children would be if they knew he had once watched children through the bars of a jail cell. Would Josephine make such overtures of friendship to Gloria if she knew she was a prostitute dragged along to nurse his dead wife's daughter alongside her illegitimate son?
Then he looked into the earnest, clear-eyed faces of Eliza, James, and Charles as they offered to share with him their treasures of ribbons, buttons, and rocks. Periodically, Josephine would turn around to check on her children and would include him in her reassuring smile. David filled the silence with occasional details about the land, the crops, the promises of this new country. Maybe, he thought, none of it would matter after all.
“Hey, Logan,” he called, “will you have me back before dark?”
“Should be. Worried?”
“Yeah," John William said. “She doesn't know how to start a fire.”