St. Joseph, Missouri – Spring, 1852
In 1826 Joseph Robidoux opened his Blacksnake Hills trading post. It became a hub for fur trappers and their trade, but by the early 1850s St. Joseph had grown far beyond its frontier beginnings. After the Platte Purchase of 1837 brought the region officially into Missouri, settlers poured in, and Robidoux’s small post transformed into a bustling river town. By 1845, St. Joseph was incorporated as a city, and within just a few years it had become one of the most important departure points for the West.
By 1852, the year Maggie’s story began, St. Joseph was alive with movement and anticipation. Steamboats churned up the Missouri River daily, unloading crowds of emigrants, merchants, and fortune‑seekers. The California Gold Rush, only a few years old, had turned the town into a gateway for thousands heading toward the plains and mountains beyond. Wagon trains lined the streets, blacksmiths hammered from dawn to well past dusk, and outfitters did brisk business supplying travelers with everything from flour and bacon to rifles and oxen.
Though still rough around the edges, St. Joseph had the feel of a place on the brink of something larger—a crossroads where the settled East met the unknown West. Its muddy streets echoed with many languages, its saloons filled with rumors of opportunity, and its riverfront thrummed with the restless energy of people preparing to leave everything familiar behind. There was adventure around every corner.
It was a place where a story could begin—where ordinary lives were swept up into the great tide of westward expansion.
Preparation
The booming river town of St Joseph Missouri was loud from morning until long after sunset.
It had rained hard the night before and the last few clouds were scattering their drops as people began to stir. Wagons began rattling along the muddy streets, causing deep ruts. The mud made the work harder for the oxen pulling the wagons and they bellowed out their anger as they struggled.
Blacksmith hammers rang against hot iron. The wagon makers busied themselves with the finishing touches, as they covered the wagons with canvas. The noise of the canvas flapping in the wind, whispering of distant plains and untamed horizons, mixed with the sound of the beating hammers and drifted through the wagon yard. The smell of leather, wood smoke, and fresh-cut lumber filled the air, and made promises of new life beginning just over the horizon.
Margaret O’Hara stood near the edge of the yard where wagons were being sold and fitted for the long journey west. She held a folded list in her hand and tried to look certain of herself, though her heart felt anything but certain.
Beside her stood her daughter, fifteen-year-old Maggie.
Maggie had never seen anything like St. Joseph. Every direction she looked there were wagons—hundreds of them—some already loaded with barrels and sacks, others still bare frames waiting to be filled.
“Two thousand miles,” Margaret murmured quietly.
“What was that, Mother?” Maggie asked.
Margaret folded the paper and slipped it into her dress pocket.
“Nothing, child. Just thinking.”
But Maggie knew exactly what her mother had been thinking. The Oregon Trail stretched two thousand miles across plains, deserts, and mountains. It was a road that swallowed people. Maggie knew the stories of people who set out and never lived to reach their hoped for destinations.
Still, they had come. And they were planning to join the thousands who were hoping for a better life.
There was nothing left for them in Missouri.
Buying the Wagon
The wagon yard belonged to a broad-shouldered man named Bixby who sold “prairie schooners,” the sturdy wagons built for the trail. He had several wagons ready for sale and he was persistent as he worked to get Margaret to buy one.
Bixby led them past several models before stopping beside one.
“This one’ll do you,” he said, thumping the sideboard with a thick hand.
It was a strong wagon—arched bows supporting heavy canvas, iron-rimmed wheels nearly as tall as Maggie’s shoulders, and a box wide enough to carry the supplies that would keep them alive on the plains.
Margaret ran her hand across the wood. A mixed feeling of excitement and fear as she contemplated the purchase.
“Will it hold the trip?” she asked.
“If you don’t overload it,” Bixby replied. “And if the Lord favors you.”
Maggie stepped inside the wagon bed and looked around. It felt small for a journey across half a continent.
Still, when Margaret counted out the money she had saved for years, the wagon was theirs. The purchase included a pair of mules that Bixby assured Margaret were young and strong. He promised to deliver them with the wagon the following day.
Outfitting for the Trail
For the next several days they worked from dawn until evening, preparing themselves for the trip and outfitting the wagon.
Margaret bought supplies from merchants lining the streets:
- Fifty pounds of flour
- Salt pork wrapped in cloth
- Beans, coffee, sugar
- Dried apples
- A Dutch oven and iron skillet
- Spare wagon parts
- Rope and tools
Barrels of water were lashed to the wagon sides. A small chest held clothing and a family Bible wrapped in oilcloth.
Bixby, faithful to his word, brought the animals, hitched to the wagon—two steady mules, young, strong, and with patient eyes—at least that’s what Maggie thought as she rubbed her hands against their faces.
Maggie named them Buck and Clover. “It just seemed appropriate,” she told her mother.
The Wagon Master
While the wagons gathered outside town, Maggie often wandered near the circle where the leaders met.
The wagon train’s master was a tall gray-bearded man named Caleb Turner. Years of wind, sun, and dust had weathered his face into deep lines, and his eyes carried the steady look of someone who had seen many miles of trail. He moved with a slow, deliberate confidence, as if he never needed to hurry because he already knew the right way to go. The settlers trusted him for that reason. Caleb Turner had crossed the plains more than once, and when trouble came—as it always did on the frontier—he was the kind of man who stood firm until it passed.
His foreman, a young, lean, weathered plainsman called Eli Dawson, seemed to know every inch of the western country. He had been over the trail three times as a foreman, and a couple of times just by himself, exploring.
His eyes caught Maggie staring at him, and they both quickly averted their gaze. When her head was turned away from Eli, Maggie smiled to herself and quickly acted like she was interested in something Mr. Turner had to say.
The next afternoon Maggie stood watching Dawson inspect wagon axles. He looked up and caught her watching.
“You planning to walk all the way to Oregon?” he asked without looking up.
“No sir,” Maggie said. “My mother bought one of these wagons.”
Dawson finally glanced up. “Oh. You must be Mrs. O’Hara’s daughter. She just joined up with our outfit and, I guess, the two of you are going with us to Oregon.”
Maggie only nodded a bit, as she mumbled a little, “I believe that’s true.”
“You got a rifle?” Eli quizzed.
“No sir.”
He looked at Turner.
“She should have one.”
Turner nodded slowly.
“Trail’s no place for folks who can’t defend themselves.”
A Secret Education
Margaret O’Hara wanted no part of guns. She had seen too many people maimed or killed because folks couldn’t hold their tempers. She had never owned one and had never even held one.
When Maggie talked to her mother about it, Margaret was firm, “A young lady has no business with firearms,” and that seemed to end the conversation..
But Maggie had already heard Turner and Dawson talking about wolves, thieves, and hostile tribes. They spoke of the necessity of knowing how to shoot and shoot straight.
So, she secretly met Dawson in the hills beyond the wagons.
He smiled a sheepish kind of grin as he greeted her and handed her a rifle nearly as tall as she was. She nervously took it from him and held it in her hands, examining it. She ran her hands over the wooden stock, feeling the smooth finish of the wood. Then she inspected the barrel, seeing the brown of it and the oiled finish. She realized it wasn’t a new rifle.
“Hold it tight,” he said. Then he began to explain the many parts of the rifle and the proper way to hold it for carrying, and to shoot it. Finally, he loaded a couple of rounds, then handed it to her with another few bullets so she could finish loading.
The first shot startled her so badly she nearly dropped it.
But by the end of the week something remarkable happened.
Maggie could hit what she aimed at.
Dawson watched her split a tin cup from thirty yards and shook his head.
“You’re a natural, girl.”
He also gave her a small revolver, with advice, “Keep it where you can reach it quick. Trouble may pop up and you need to be ready for it.”
She nodded, accepted the pistol, turning it over in her hands a few times, then gripped it and sighted down the barrel. When she left, she went to the wagon, made sure her mom wasn’t watching, and hid both weapons beneath blankets in the wagon.
Her mother never knew.
The Journey Begins
Finally, one bright morning in early April, the wagons rolled out of St. Joseph. Some wagons were fitted with horses, others with oxen, while Margaret and Maggie’s were fitted with Buck and Clover, the two young mules Maggie had grown fond of in the few weeks before they left St Joseph.
Hundreds of wheels creaked across the prairie. A mile out of town and they were in the wilderness. It was going to be a long time before they saw another town—some of them never would.
Women, children, and a few men walked beside the wagons. A couple of the families brought their dogs who ran along with the children. The children, for the first few days, laughed and played and gathered wildflowers—after a while they grew tired of that and just walked. The men and women would walk along without much talking. The sun, the heat and the dust made it too tiring and mouth dry to do much talking. Other men rode horses along the column. Each evening, the women cooked over the evening fires.
Days settled into a rhythm. Day after day the trail before them looked just like the trail they were leaving behind. It became monotonous until the day they heard a thunderous noise coming from the trail in front of them.
“Everyone, git inta ya wagons,” Caleb Turner, the wagon master shouted. “People, keep the reins tight on yer animals.”
Then, a black wave came running over the hill in front of them. A herd of buffalo, more than a hundred of them and they seemed to be coming straight for the wagon train.
Mothers grabbed their children. Those holding the reins pulled tight, trying to keep their animals from running in fear. Some of the men on horseback rode forward and did their best to get the buffalo to turn. They would fire their guns, shout loudly and force their horses nearer to the lead buffalo. Just before they reached the first wagon, the buffalo turned to avoid running head on into the oxen who were hitched to it.
The people stood watching in fear and fascination as the herd thundered past. Later they learned it had been only a small band. Caleb told them that when he first came west the plains were dark with buffalo, herds numbering in the thousands. Thinking of that, they were grateful the one they faced had been only a hundred or so that thundered past them.
When the last few animals were about to go past the wagons, Caleb aimed his rifle and shot two of them.
“We’re gonna have some fresh meat ta eat tonight,” he called out as he, Eli and a couple other men got off their horses and set about cleaning the animals. The journey for that day had come to an end.
As people started climbing back out of their wagons, the children rushed over to watch as the men started gutting the buffalo. Their eyes wide with wonder, they did their best to get as close as possible to see the process.
As people do, they gathered and told each other about the buffalo, though they all knew and had all been there—still they told the story as if they were the only one who had seen it. They were still talking about it when the buffalo meat was served that night. It was a joyous event—especially since no one was hurt, and no damage was done to any of the wagons or animals. But tomorrow was another day, and it came early.
Morning began before sunrise. Most mornings the women only prepared biscuits and coffee but the morning after the buffalo they cooked a steak for their families. It was a real treat but it meant they were going to get a late start.
After eating, Maggie helped harness the mules while dew still lay on the grass. The wagons rolled west until midday, stopped briefly, then continued until evening.
At night the wagons formed a circle.
Fires burned low. Coffee boiled in blackened pots. Coyotes howled beyond the dark.
Sometimes Maggie sat beside Dawson listening to stories of the mountains ahead.
“You keep practicing,” he told her quietly. “Out here skill can mean survival.”
The Attack
A couple of weeks later, somewhere deep on the plains, disaster struck. It happened in the early morning, just after they had moved out.
The first rifle crack echoed across the grasslands like thunder. Then came war cries.
A band of warriors swept toward the wagon train. Chaos exploded. It was too late to circle the wagons, so they stopped where they were and took cover as best they could.
Men grabbed rifles. Mules screamed. Children cried.
Maggie saw arrows strike two men before they even reached their guns.
Margaret pulled her daughter toward the wagon.
“Stay down!”
But the attack came too fast. Shots rang everywhere.
One moment Maggie was beside her mother. The next moment Margaret staggered and fell. Maggie stared at the arrow sticking out of her mother’s back.
“Mama!” she screamed. For a moment she stood as though paralyzed. But the battle raged around her. She had to move.
Maggie grabbed her rifle and ran toward a rocky rise nearby. She began shooting and her first shot toppled an Indian off his pony. The though of what she had done, taking another human’s life, caused her to drop behind the rocks. Her heart was beating faster than the ponies the Indians were riding on. She couldn’t shoot again, even though the Indians were slaughtering her people.
From the rocks she watched in horror as warriors swarmed through the wagons.
Some settlers lay motionless.
Others, women and children, were dragged away.
Then as suddenly as they had come, the attackers gathered what they could carry and vanished across the prairie.
Silence followed.
Among the Dead
When Maggie was finally able to get her wits about her and stand on her feet, she walked back toward the wagons. Carefully she kept her eyes moving back and forth in case the Indians came back. Her heart was broken as she looked at the scene. The wagon train was like a graveyard. Broken wagons. Scattered supplies. Bodies lying where they had fallen.
She found her mother near the wagon. She fell to her knees and gently ran her hand over her mother’s hair, patting it as if she could feel it. Margaret O’Hara would never rise again.
Maggie knelt there for a long time. The only sound was the faint whisper of wind bending the prairie grass and stirring the torn canvas of a wagon nearby. A hat lay in the dust, and one wheel of the wagon leaned crookedly where it had splintered. The wind moved softly through the grass, but it was not soothing. It was mournful, like the last breath of those who had died there.
Finally, she stood. She went from wagon to wagon, body to body. She was hoping against hope that she might find some alive. Touching each body, her hope faded.
As she moved toward the last wagon she found Eli Dawson lying face down, his back was covered with blood. She fell to her knees once again and gently laid her hands on his head. For the first time since the raid started, she lost all hope. The thought came to her, “What am I supposed to do? I don’t even know where I am.”
Then he groaned.
Startled, she jumped to her feet, snatched up her rifle and spun around, ready to shoot anything that came at her. Then she realized the sound had come from Eli.
A bullet had torn through his shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt.
“You’re alive,” Maggie whispered.
“Barely,” he rasped.
A New Journey
For two days Maggie tended him. She cleaned the wound, brought water, and kept watch with her rifle close at hand. She dared not light a fire, fearing that if the Indians were still nearby the smoke would reveal that someone had survived the melee. So they ate only dried buffalo and stale biscuits she found among the scattered wagons. Fortunately, a couple of the water barrels had escaped the gunfire, and they had enough water to last those first difficult days.
Then one afternoon the sound of hooves drifted across the prairie. Again Maggie grabbed her rifle, pointing it toward the sound. She lowered it when she saw the two mules—Buck and Clover—had wandered back. Maggie’s heart filled with joy at this simple gift. She ran toward them and caught their halters, her hands trembling. Those mules, though they did not know it, were lifesavers. With them back, the wagon could move again, and Eli would have a place to ride while his shoulder healed. Out on the prairie a person learned to be thankful for small mercies, and this was one of them.
After surveying the damage from the Indian attack, Maggie saw that one wagon was still intact. She also knew they could not remain there, so she began preparing for them to continue west.
Slowly she loaded the wagon, gathering as much food as she could find among the scattered supplies. She felt fortunate that one of the intact water barrels was already fastened to the wagon they would be using. A full barrel was far too heavy for her to move, so finding a small tin pan, she began carrying water from another barrel nearby, making trip after trip across the dusty ground. Each time she carefully poured the water into their barrel until at last it stood nearly full.
She prepared a bed for Eli in the back of the wagon and with great effort she helped Dawson into the wagon.
He drifted in and out of consciousness.
“Which way?” she asked quietly. She did not know, and Eli lay senseless in the wagon behind her.
There was no one else to answer.
Maggie sat for a long moment with the reins resting loosely in her hands. The prairie stretched in every direction, wide and empty beneath the pale morning sky. Behind her lay the broken wagon train, the graves she had hurriedly covered, and the life she had known. Ahead was nothing but distance and the long road west. She gathered the reins, clucked softly to the mules, and the wagon wheels began to turn. Wherever the trail led, she would follow it.
Maggie turned west toward the endless horizon.
The wheels creaked forward. Behind her lay everything she had known.
Ahead lay mountains, deserts, and a future she could not yet see.
But the girl who had left St. Joseph weeks earlier was gone.
Now Maggie O’Hara rode west with a rifle across her knees and the wide, dangerous frontier before her.
And the trail went on.
The prairie seemed endless after the attack.
For the first few days Maggie moved like someone walking through a dream. The wagon creaked forward across the grasslands, pulled by Buck and Clover, while the wind whispered through the tall prairie grass.
Her mind kept thinking over and over—behind her lay the broken wagon train and the graves she had hastily covered with stones and earth. Ahead of her lay nothing but sky and distance.
Eli Dawson drifted in and out of fever. Maggie would stop every couple of hours to give him water, put a wet cloth on his forehead and try to get him to eat something. He was improving.
The bullet had passed through his shoulder, leaving a ragged wound that Maggie cleaned as best she could with water and strips of cloth torn from a spare shirt. She boiled the cloth whenever they stopped near water and bound the wound carefully, the way she had once seen a traveling doctor do in town.
For several days Eli could barely sit up.
Maggie drove the wagon alone.
She rose before dawn, coaxed the mules into harness, and guided the wagon westward by the sun. When the heat grew heavy she would stop near creeks or stands of cottonwood trees and let the animals drink while she cooked a small meal over a fire. They were far from the place where the Indians attacked, so she was no longer afraid of them seeing the smoke from the fire—though she had no real idea of where the Indians went after they ran off.
At night she circled the wagon as best she could with brush and branches, creating a fence to keep the coyotes off. She kept her rifle close at hand.
Sometimes Eli woke and watched her quietly as she tended the fire.
“You’re doing the work of three men,” he said weakly one evening.
Maggie shrugged.
“Well… I reckon someone has to.”
Days passed.
The fever slowly broke.
At first Eli could do little more than sit up in the wagon bed. Though he wanted to help, even small chores—checking the harness or gathering firewood when they stopped—were beyond him.
By the third week his strength had returned enough for him to stand and climb onto the wagon seat.
By the fourth week he could ride beside Maggie, even take the reins for short stretches.
And so, day by day and mile by mile, the wagon creaked westward across the prairie as Eli slowly regained his strength.
Maggie noticed the change in his voice as strength returned. It carried again the steady confidence she had heard back when he was the foreman of the wagon train.
“You saved my life,” he told her one morning while they watched the sunrise spread gold across the plains.
“You would’ve done the same,” Maggie said.
Eli smiled slightly.
“Maybe. But you did it.”
The Long Road West
The journey grew easier as Eli recovered.
He showed Maggie how to read the trail more carefully—the shallow grooves cut by hundreds of wagon wheels over the years. He taught her how to judge distance by landmarks and how to watch the sky for storms.
They saw other travelers now and then.
Small groups of emigrants passed them, heading west in twos and threes.
Sometimes they shared a meal by the evening fire. Sometimes the wagons simply rolled past one another in silence.
The land itself slowly changed.
The tall grasses of Missouri gave way to wide plains dotted with sage. Herds of buffalo appeared in the distance like moving shadows. Rivers carved silver lines across the land.
And always they moved west.
Fort Laramie
One afternoon, nearly two months after leaving St. Joseph, the outline of buildings appeared near the horizon.
Stone walls.
Stockade fences.
Flags snapping in the wind.
Fort Laramie.
The place bustled with life. Soldiers in blue coats moved about the yard while traders and emigrants crowded the gates. Wagons filled the open ground outside the fort.
For the first time in weeks Maggie felt something she had not felt since the attack.
Safety.
When the soldiers learned what had happened to their wagon train, the news spread quickly.
Men gathered around Eli and Maggie, listening grimly as the story unfolded.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” one of the officers said.
Another man, a trader who had seen many emigrant parties pass through, looked at Maggie with concern.
“You ought to stay here, girl,” he said gently. “Fort’s safe enough. You could find work in the kitchens or the laundry.”
A soldier nodded.
“Or go back east with the next supply train.”
They all said nearly the same thing.
The trail ahead was dangerous.
For a young girl, they said, it was no place at all.
A Decision
Eli listened quietly.
His shoulder had healed well. A faint stiffness remained, but he could move and work again like before.
That evening he found Maggie sitting near the wagon where they had stopped outside the fort. The sun was dropping behind the distant hills, painting the sky red and gold.
“They mean well,” Eli said.
“I know,” Maggie replied.
He sat beside her on the wagon tongue.
“There’s another wagon train leaving in three days,” he said. “Headed for Oregon.”
Maggie looked out toward the western horizon.
“That’s where we were going.”
Eli nodded.
“They’d take us along. They always need hands who know the trail.”
He hesitated a moment before speaking again.
“You could stay here if you wanted. Folks here would look after you.”
Maggie turned to face him.
Her eyes were steady.
“I didn’t come this far to stop now.”
Eli studied her expression.
“You sure?”
She nodded slowly.
“I want to keep going.”
Then after a moment she added quietly,
“But only if you’re going too.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Eli looked out across the open plains stretching west toward the mountains.
Then he smiled.
“Well now,” he said, rising to his feet, “I reckon Oregon’s a mighty fine place to be heading.”
And the long road west waited.
The evening air around Fort Laramie was quiet compared to the open prairie. A few fires burned where emigrants had made camp outside the stockade walls, and the smell of coffee drifted through the cooling air.
Maggie sat beside the wagon wheel, slowly turning a small stick in the dust with her boot.
Eli noticed she had been unusually quiet all evening.
“You’ve been thinking hard about something,” he said.
She glanced up at him.
“Maybe.”
He waited. Maggie had learned during the weeks on the trail that Eli Dawson was a man who rarely pushed someone to speak. He simply gave them the space to do it when they were ready.
After a moment she reached under the wagon seat and pulled out a small canvas pouch.
She placed it on the wagon tongue between them.
It landed with a heavy thud.
Eli frowned slightly.
“What’s that?”
Maggie drew in a slow breath.
“Something I never told you about.”
He watched her carefully now.
“You remember after the attack… when you were laid up in the wagon and barely able to move?”
Eli nodded.
“I remember bits and pieces.”
“Well,” Maggie said quietly, “after I buried as many folks as I could… I went through the wagons.”
Eli’s brow lifted.
“You what?”
“I had to,” she said simply. “We needed food. Water. Anything that might keep us alive.”
She stared out toward the darkening plains as she spoke.
“There were wagons torn open everywhere. Most of the folks who owned them were dead… or taken.”
Her voice lowered.
“I figured whatever they had left behind wasn’t doing them any good.”
Eli slowly nodded.
“That’s fair enough.”
“So I gathered what I could.”
She began counting softly on her fingers.
“Flour from one wagon. A sack of beans from another. Salt pork wrapped in cloth. Coffee.”
Eli smiled faintly.
“That coffee kept me breathing, I reckon.”
Maggie gave a small smile in return.
“Maybe it did.”
Then she nudged the pouch with her hand.
“But that wasn’t all.”
Eli looked down at it again.
“What’s in there?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
She hesitated.
“Almost three thousand dollars.”
For the first time Eli’s eyes widened.
“Three thousand?”
She nodded.
“I found it in a small iron cash box in one of the wagons. The family who owned it… they were all killed.”
The fire nearby crackled softly.
Eli leaned back slightly and rubbed his jaw.
“Well,” he said quietly, “that’s a powerful lot of money.”
Maggie looked at him carefully, watching for his reaction.
“You’re not angry?”
“Angry?” he said.
He shook his head slowly.
“The folks who owned it are gone. It wouldn’t help them where they are now.”
He looked back at the pouch.
“You did what anyone trying to stay alive would do.”
Then he glanced up at her again.
“What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me about it now.”
Maggie’s cheeks colored faintly in the firelight.
She picked up the pouch and turned it in her hands.
“Because I didn’t just take it to survive.”
Eli waited.
She finally looked straight at him.
“I took it so we could use it.”
“We?” Eli repeated.
She nodded.
“When we get to Oregon.”
Eli blinked.
“Get to Oregon?”
“Yes.”
Maggie’s voice grew steadier now.
“We could buy a small place. Land somewhere along a river maybe. Start a farm. Folks say land is cheap out there if you’ve got money.”
She paused, then added quietly,
“We could try to make a go of it.”
For a long moment Eli said nothing.
The idea itself didn’t shock him.
He knew well enough the wagon’s original owners were dead and that money had no purpose buried in the prairie.
What startled him was something else entirely.
He looked at Maggie again—really looked at her.
The girl he had met outside St. Joseph months earlier was gone.
The Maggie sitting beside the wagon now had crossed half a continent, buried the dead, nursed a wounded man back from the edge of death, and driven a wagon across the plains alone.
But what truly struck him was the quiet way she had said we.
He felt something settle inside him as the meaning finally reached him.
“You’re thinking about a future,” he said slowly.
Maggie nodded.
“Yes.”
“And you’re figuring I’m part of it.”
She looked down at the pouch again.
“Well… only if you want to be.”
Eli let out a soft breath and leaned back against the wagon wheel.
Truth was, he had begun caring for Maggie weeks earlier—somewhere between the prairie storms and the long evenings beside the fire.
But until that moment he hadn’t realized she might feel the same.
He picked up the pouch and weighed it in his hand.
“Three thousand dollars,” he said thoughtfully.
Then he handed it back to her.
“That’d buy a mighty fine start in Oregon.”
Maggie watched him carefully.
“And?”
Eli smiled.
“And I reckon making a go of it with you doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all.”
Across the prairie the wind moved softly through the grass.
And for the first time since the wagon train had been destroyed, the road west seemed to promise something more than survival.