Wagons West (Illusion & CharmSnake)

Kanesville, Iowa

April 22nd, 1850

Slowly the wagons rolled down Main Street, stirring up clouds of dust. The hooves of the oxen and horses that pulled them clumped in the dirt. They passed in groups of four and five, then a late straggler, each flanked by the occasional outrider and trailed by all those on foot. Their canvas bonnets gleamed in the late morning sun as they stretched over their iron hoops. Entire extended families, some with hired help, were uprooting to emigrate and start anew. For some the journey would end in prosperity and independence, perhaps even great fortune, while others would find only grim sickness and death. Nearly daily these trains rolled west, across the plains to the mountains, most destined for Oregon, some California. They came from the east and the south and gathered in the pasture on the highland overlooking town. Kanesville was a collecting point of sorts, where people congregated in hope.

Samuel wiped the sweat from his brow upon his sleeve before reaching up to the porch timber of the post office. With a hammer in the other he carefully tapped in a nail. From it hung a paper poster written in his own hand.


An old man covered in dirt with no teeth and rot with drink fanned the dust with his hat as the last wagon turned right at the end of the block and followed the ruts of the ones before along the road to the river bank. He looked up at Samuel and spoke.

"And there goes another one," he remarked, shaking his head with the sage wisdom that had got the old drunk to where he was in life. "If you ask me, you're all crazy." He spat in the dirt and took another swig from his jug.

The evening sun was waning but Tom was still sweating as he hauled the last sack of feed from the wheelbarrow to the trough in the rickety barn. The old man Jenkins didn't take much care of things, leaving them to rot, including his gut with liquor and his family with scorn. His wife had passed a few years back from some illness or another. Addie wouldn't say which and he didn't have the heart to push the subject of her deceased mother. Her older brother had run off a couple of years before, leaving her alone with her drunken tyrant of a father. The pigs jostled about as he dumped the feed, clambering over one another for something to eat. They should have been fed in the morning, but there was nothing to serve them so old Jeb Jenkins had sent Tom with the pack mule trudging the three miles into town and then back to get some. If he had managed things halfway decently he would have grown his own and saved the money like most of the other farmers did. Tom's ears perked up at the gravelly shouts from the dilapidated house. The old coot was at it again. Tom couldn't stand the miserable old bastard. Jenkins was cruel and dishonest, but work was work for a farm hand like Tom and he needed the money. He also let Tom sleep in the loft of the barn, not out of generosity, but rather for the control that went with it. Tom had lost count of how many times Jenkins had reminded him, "If it weren't for me you wouldn't have a roof over your head!" Would he accuse Tom of short changing him again? He was always full of shit. If he didn't trust him with his money, then why didn't he head into town to get his own supplies? Of course the reason was because he was too busy sitting around drinking and mistreating his daughter, or off in the brush shooting a rabbit or a quail for dinner.

The day's work done, Tom stood the wheelbarrow up against the barn wall and leaned his slight body in the doorway. He stood a skinny five foot ten but what he lacked in muscle, he made up for in endurance. No matter how weary his muscles became he could always push himself further. Life was a struggle but it was far better than the orphanage that he had run away from. He had been twelve at the time. Since then he had spent five years of independence. With odd jobs and a fishing line he had survived. A fly buzzed about as he adjusted his suspenders. Then he ran his fingers through his dirty hair. It was blonde and was getting a bit shaggy over his ears and into his eyes. He knew that he should get it cut but he was trying to save the ten cents that the barber charged in town.

There she was, sweet Addie Jenkins, cresting the slope up the hill from the path to the well with two full pails. The water sloshed about as she labored with the awkward weight. His own body softened at the sight of her. She was the one shining gem in this pit of black ash and the real reason that he hadn't left to find work elsewhere. With newfound energy he trotted out towards her. He couldn't watch her struggle alone.

"You leave her to it, boy!" the old man shouted from the door of the house. He wavered on his inebriated legs as he leaned a forearm on the jamb. "Maybe if ya had a mother she'd've taught ya not to stick yer nose in where it don't belong!"

Tom stopped in his tracks. It wasn't worth it. Intervening would only make things worse for Addie. He could only scowl at the old crud.

"Look at ya, spillin' all over!" he yelled at his daughter as she made her way slowly across the yard. "Not good fer nothin', Jesus!"

She deserved so much better and Tom so dearly wanted to give it to her. The poster that he had seen nailed to the post office was burned into his mind.