Prologue

Fort Hall, Idaho

March 1840

“Cash Sawyer!” Ma demanded in an exasperated voice. “I declare, child, you’re as fidgety as a dog with fleas! Will you get out from underfoot so I can finish dinner? You can’t make time pass any faster by running out the door every other second.”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” the ten-year-old said, although he fidgeted from the jumpy excitement inside. “I just wish Uncle Paul would hurry and get here.”

Ma’s chestnut-brown eyes, so like Cash’s own, smiled with love. Maybe she wished Pa’s brother would come sooner too. Especially since she’d bustled around the kitchen all day making apple pies and baking ham. The delicious smells filled the room and made Cash’s stomach rumble. It would be a fine supper, but even better would be Uncle Paul’s stories. No one could spin a tale like his favorite uncle.

“Paul said he’d be here as soon as he set foot in Fort Hall. Now, go find something to do. Maybe Pa needs help in the barn. Or your brother?”

Cash shook his head, a lock of brown hair falling in his eyes. “Pa said I don’t have any chores right now. An’ Callum said to leave him alone. He’s shooting tin cans off the corral fence.”

“Then go read one of your books.” Ma flapped a dish towel at him. Putting a firm hand on the shoulder of his second-best plaid shirt, she nudged him toward the loft where he and Callum slept.

Sighing, Cash did as he was told. Even though he climbed up into the loft and plopped down on his straw-tick mattress, his heart wasn’t in reading. There was a new dime novel under his pillow—Dastardly Dan and the Daring Daytime Robbery—but just this second, it didn’t hold much interest. Cash pulled the book open and read a few lines, but they weren’t enough to hold his attention long. Not with Uncle Paul coming. As far as Cash was concerned, Uncle Paul’s adventures as a trail boss on a wagon train were every bit as exciting as a dime novel.

And someday, I’m going to be just like him!

Paul Sawyer was Pa’s younger brother. Every time Uncle Paul came to Fort Hall to head off on a new wagon train, he’d spend a few nights with the family. Cash hungered for stories about wide-open spaces, fighting off Indians and bandits, fording rivers that could swallow a whole wagon in one gulp. There were shootouts, stampedes, buffalo hunts, and always, the lure of traveling all the way to the Pacific Ocean. What a wonder that would be—to see water as far as the eye could look.

Cash dropped the dime novel and lay down on his mattress. Hands behind his head, he dreamed of being old enough to one day travel along with Uncle Paul. Hadn’t his uncle promised more than once?

“When you’re older, Cash, I’ll make you a trailhand. You can sleep out under the stores, cook over a campfire, and help me wrangle the horses. Would you like that?”

“Yes!” Cash always answered. It sounded like the most adventurous kind of life a body could have. Sure enough more exciting than planting crops or taking care of livestock year-round.

Lost in daydreams about the future, it took Cash a few minutes to realize he heard loud, angry voices coming from outside.

“You’re a liar!” Pa hollered. “Why you want to come all this way out here, causing trouble? It ain’t true. He ain’t dead!”

Jumping off the mattress, Cash leaned out the open window of the loft. Down in the yard, he saw Pa and … why, it was Sheriff Williamson from Fort Hall. The tall, big-boned man stood with a serious expression on his leathery face, lips downturned in a frown. He clenched a wide-brimmed tan hat in one hand. The other lay on the shoulder of Pa’s brown shirt.

“I wish it wasn’t true, Anson,” he said to Pa, “but I’m sorry. Paul is dead.”

Paul? Uncle Paul? D-dead?

The words beat at his ears, and Cash wanted the sheriff to take them back. To stop from saying the dreadful words. It couldn’t be true. Not his brave, strong uncle, who swam fifteen miles before he could climb out of a swollen river. Not the uncle almost trampled when a herd of antelope stampeded and knocked him off his horse. Uncle Paul could do anything. Nothing could hurt him—ever!

But Pa gave an anguished cry, shoved off the sheriff’s comforting hand, and to Cash’s shock, huge sobs shook his body. As Cash watched, Ma ran out to fold her arms around Pa. His brother, Callum, stood off to the side, tears streaming down his tanned cheeks.

The sheriff spoke again, but softly, too low for Cash to hear. It didn’t matter. A knot of pain grew in Cash’s stomach, and he lay down on his mattress and sobbed out his own grief.

Why, God, why?

***

Uncle Paul’s funeral took place two days later at the small graveyard beside the little clapboard church in Fort Hall. Because he was so well loved, a crowd of people pressed up to the gaping hole in the ground. Men in their Sunday best black suits, women in black or dark dresses, and plenty of the immigrants who’d planned to join Uncle Paul’s latest wagon train. There were some who said Paul Sawyer was the best trail boss alive.

“Sadly,” Reverend Clark spoke out, hands clasped over a worn, leather bible, “Paul Sawyer’s life ended too soon. As we now know, he was ruthlessly killed by a gang of thieves.”

Standing beside his family, Cash itched in the woolen black suit Ma made him wear to Sunday preaching. His red-rimmed eyes burned, but he knew better than to cry in front of people. Ma wept openly and Pa … there was something … funny … about how he acted today. A few times during the funeral, Pa laughed—out loud. Once, Pa whispered under his breath, “He was a fool who got what was coming to him. Chasing off after impossible dreams.”

“Shall we pray?” The preacher bowed his head.

. Uncomfortable in his scratchy clothes, Cash rubbed his eyes and tried not to look at that hole or the pine box in it.

Uncle Paul can’t be in there. He just can’t. The box is so small, and Uncle Paul was so big.

“Trusted the wrong people,” Pa muttered and spat at the grave.

A couple of men standing nearby edged a step or two away from him, giving Pa a startled glance.

Cash stared at Pa’s bleary eyes; even his nose seemed too bright red this morning. Pa had been acting strange the last few days. Ever since the sheriff had come, Pa had left most of the chores to Callum and Cash. Even Ma had helped feed their livestock while Pa sat on the front porch, staring at the sky.

Callum glanced at Pa, then nudged Cash to stop staring.

“Let’s sing a hymn,” Revered Clark said in a calm, reassuring voice, “I’m told one of Paul’s favorites was ‘Shall we Gather at the River.’”

Ma and some of the other women began to warble out the familiar song. Several men joined in, and after a punch from Callum, Cash added his own voice to the tune. A tear slid out of the corner of his eye when he remembered Uncle Paul singing it in his loud, lusty baritone.

I’ll never hear him sing again. The thought was so painful, Cash couldn’t contain a gulped sob.

“That concludes our service.” The reverend reached down, picked up a small handful of reddish-brown dirt, and dropped it onto the pine box.

Another shameful sob slipped past Cash’s lips; he couldn’t help himself. When he realized what he’d done, he choked it back. Ma put a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezed. To everyone’s surprise, Pa leaned over, grabbed a huge clod of dirt and threw it down to the casket. It made a loud plop. In a voice full of scorn, Pa shouted, eyes flashing, “That’s where your adventures got you, Paul! Six feet under!”

Several women gasped. Sheriff Williamson came forward, took Pa by the arm, and steered him toward their farm wagon. “You best go on home, Anson,” he said sternly, leading Pa like a schoolboy to the corner. “Getting drunk doesn’t help your grief in the long run.”

Drunk?

Shocked, Cash stared closer at Pa. Even though he stumbled and slurred an answer, Cash had never imagined Pa getting drunk. Maybe that’s why Pa had smelled so sickly sweet when he leaned over.

Embarrassed at all the heads turned away, the whispers, Cash hurried to the wagon and climbed onto the board across the back. Callum helped Ma up beside Cash, then climbed in front to drive the wagon home. Pa slumped on his side of the seat.

For a couple of miles down the jolting washboard road, no one spoke. Then Pa slurred out, “I don’t want to ever hear the name Paul Sawyer again! As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead. You hear me …” He brayed a wild, frightening laugh. “All that foolish talk about following a dream is what got him killed.”

“Why, Pa?” Cash had an ache in his middle, but he couldn’t understand. “I liked when Uncle Paul talked about his adventures. Can’t we remember them?”

“’Cause He should’ve stayed put, built up a ranch, not gone on some highfalutin trail to California!”

“But, Pa …”

“You shut up, Cash,” Callum hollered back, his strong, capable hands on the reins of their buggy horse, Milton. “Don’t upset Pa. You do what he says—he’s the boss of this family.”

“I don’t understand,” Cash insisted. Even if Pa hollered, Cash wanted to know why. All his dreams were of growing up and following Uncle Paul on his adventures.

“Don’t you question me again, Cash Sawyer, or you’ll get the whipping of your life, you hear me? Your uncle is dead, rotting in the ground because he had the wanderlust. Couldn’t stay put and do a hard day’s work. Well, I’ll not have any son of mine take after him. You’ll stay on the ranch and do a man’s work. You mind me, now.”

Ma nudged Cash’s arm, but her eyes were gentle as she looked down on him. Swallowing his disappointment, Cash managed to mutter, “Yes, sir,” even though his heart wasn’t in it.

I want to talk about Uncle Paul. To remember his adventures. And someday I wanted to be just like him. But if Pa said no, then he had to obey. Like Callum said, Pa was the head of the family. And I’m too little to do what I want to do.

His dreams were as crushed as a rotten apple. In his heart, Cash left a tiny ember of hope hidden.

One day, he’d be old enough to follow his own dreams. No matter what Pa said.

Someday.

***

Blackfoot Mountains

Southeast Idaho

A week later

Sitting beside a crackling campfire, the man’s sharp, angular face could have been carved from stone. His cold, dark eyes glared down at the newspaper in his hands, a sneer across his lips. Every leathered crease on his face told a story of cruelty and ambition. No one would stop his lucrative schemes. Glancing at the bold headline, he chuckled, remembering his part in the event.

Beloved Wagon Master, Paul Sawyer, Laid to Rest, the bold type proclaimed.

“Beloved?” the man spat into the fire, sending up a spurt of sizzling smoke. “Only by fools like him, traveling along the California Trail.” Again, his lips twisted into a cruel smirk.

This is only the beginning.

Chapter One

Fort Hall, Idaho

Spring 1848

“You darn fool horse, hold still!” Tall, slim, muscles bulging in his tanned arms, Cash Sawyer tightened the halter around the wild mustang’s neck. At eighteen, he could do the work of any man he’d ever met, and more than many. The idea of taming wild horses to sell might seem foolish to some—especially Pa—but Cash was determined to try. With the loose end of the rope, he tethered the horse to a corral post.

We’ve got to make this ranch profit someway.

The horse strained and jerked until Cash’s arms quivered as he held tight. Grinding his well-worn boots into the dusty ground, he struggled to keep the horse from bolting. It had taken weeks to get to this point, and he was darned if he’d let a thousand pounds of horseflesh best him.

“Now, you just hold still, and let me see if I can get on your back.”

Breaking a mustang wasn’t Cash’s first choice of a way to spend a bright, sunny day. But with the ranch becoming run-down more and more each day, they needed another way to earn money. If getting himself trampled by a wild horse could ease the worry lines around Ma’s eyes, Cash was honor-bound to try.

Slowly, cautiously, Cash climbed up the slats of the corral fence. He had built a makeshift corral away from the ranch. So far, no one had discovered his secret hideout. “I’m just going to sit on your back for a minute, let you get the idea …” he cajoled the dark brown mustang, black eyes rolling in fear.

The horse snorted and tried to yank away, but Cash had tethered him taut to the fence. Once he climbed on the horse’s back, he’d release the rope and then … well, as Uncle Paul used to say, “There ain’t a horse that can’t be rode or a man that can’t be throwed.”

Just thinking of his long-dead Uncle put heart into Cash, and he eased himself onto the horse’s quivering back.

For one glorious second, the mustang seemed to settle. Cash felt the muscles in the flanks shiver beneath his legs, the loud, almost panicked gusts of the horse’s breath slow.

“Easy now, easy,” Cash murmured.

Slowly, slowly—he leaned over and untied the rope, then let it fall. The mustang, unsure about this release, stood one breath, two … Then, he gave a wild, uncontrolled whinny and rose on his back legs. Snorting, pawing the ground, he raced around the small corral while Cash dug his fingers into the coarse black mane, holding on for everything he was worth.

Although he later thought he might have held his seat, a shout startled both the horse and Cash. In one wild, breathless second, Cash felt himself catapulted into the air and thumped hard on the dusty ground. The impact took his breath away, and he lay, aching and still—wondering if he was long for this world. Every bone in his body throbbed.

“Cash! What in tarnation do you think you’re doing? Trying to get yourself killed?”

Pa. Dang.

Blurry-eyed, Cash managed to rise on one elbow as Pa rode up on Traveler. Beside him, Callum rode up and reigned in Buddy.

So, they know my secret now.

“Answer me, boy! What are you doing out here?”

“Trying to break this horse.” Cash struggled to get to his feet, leery of the prancing, snorting horse at the other end of the corral. His knee hurt like he’d been run over by a wagon, and dust coated his blue denim trousers.

“Why would you try to do that? Ain’t enough work around here to keep you busy?”

Cash sighed. He looked to Callum for help, but his older brother just glared, his lips stitched tight. “Yes, Pa, if the ranch was doing well, we’d have plenty of work. But things are going downhill. You know we owe Mr. Tyler at the bank and Mr. Johansson for the seed. I figured some extra money would help.”

A dark expression came over Pa’s face, and he hollered in a drunken slur, “I don’t need you to tell me what we owe, boy. An’ don’t get all sassy with me. I wanna know what you think you’re doin’ out here?”

Cash didn’t need to smell the whiskey on Pa’s breath to know he’d already downed a bottle or two, even this early. Trying to sound respectful, Cash said, “Pa, I wasn’t trying to get myself killed. I heard the army needs horses for the fort. They pay good money, too, so I figured I could break a few wild mustangs and make a profit. To help us all.”

“Looks to me like you’re trying to bust yourself up. Then, what good would you be to me? Couldn’t get the hay cut or plant crops.”

“I was doing all right, Pa. Mistakes happen, and men get thrown.” He didn’t mention Uncle Paul’s saying.

Better not rile Pa more than he already is. Ever since Uncle Paul’s death, none of them dare mention his name.

Pa swayed a bit on the horse, pulled a flask from his saddle bag, and took a big swig. “Well, I say you stop it right now. As long as you live under my roof, you’ll do as I say. If you get laid up, it’s more work for me an’ Callum.”

Cash ground his teeth. He was tired of keeping quiet. “Don’t be so stubborn, Pa. We need money to come in. Taming horses is profitable and pays cash. Money we need to pay our debts.”

“Stop it now, I say! Think you know better than your ole pa?”

Yes, I do.

“You’re a fool, Pa.” Cash didn’t realize his anger would come out in such a way until he’d spoken. And he sure didn’t expect Pa to be quick enough to jump out of his saddle, cross the corral, and yank him forward by the shirt collar.

Pa’s hard, calloused palm smacked him across the face so hard, Cash tasted blood. He bit his tongue hard.

Reeling from the unexpected blow, he felt Pa jerk him again, then shove him back against the fence. Blood dripped down his chin. Cash lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away.

“Don’t you ever, ever disrespect me like that again! You hear me, boy?” As fast as it happened, Pa crossed the corral, mounted Traveler, and took off toward the ranch.

Left behind, Callum sighed. “Don’t you know better than to rile him, Cash? He’s old and stubborn. If you’d just do what he says, things would be easier.”

“For who, Cal? You? Me? Ma?” Cash lifted a hand to his bleeding mouth and swiped a dirty hand over his face again. His cheek stung from Pa’s smack. “His drinking is running this ranch into the ground. We sold off all the cattle. Ma’s trading eggs for flour, and that’s only because Mr. Wilmarth feels sorry for her. If we don’t pay the mortgage, we’ll lose everything.”

“If we do, we do. Maybe Pa has to hit rock bottom before he realizes he needs to change. You better break this corral apart and let that mustang go. It just makes life hard for Ma when you cross him.”

After Cal left, Cash kicked a clot of dirt so hard his wretched knee screamed in agony. A loud bellow came past his lips, and he let himself holler as loud as he wanted. Was this how it would be for the rest of his life? Stuck here? Trapped on this old, falling-down ranch, watching Pa drink himself to death and Ma die from worry?

I want to do something with my life. Have adventures like Uncle Paul.

Despite Pa’s insistence they forget his brother, Cash never had. He still had all the letters Uncle Paul had sent him hidden in a box in the barn. Letters about adventure, the wide-open spaces in the West, where a man could start out with just his determination and make something of himself. Be somebody.

Maybe it’s time I follow the California Trail, too.

***

Cash lay on his mattress, staring up into the rafters of the log cabin, thinking long and hard about his life. His brother snored, low and steady. Even though he was four years older, Cal had stayed on, stoop-shouldered and unsmiling.

If he remained, Cash knew he’d never have a future. He’d be trapped like a caged animal, like Callum. Cal had a sweetheart in Fort Hall, but he’d never be able to marry her if he kept kowtowing to Pa’s whims. Cash couldn’t deny a yearning in his heart for more, a better life.

Unable to sleep, Cash climbed down the ladder and went to the pail of drinking water. He scooped up a ladle and took a refreshing drink. Moonlight filtered through the window, and as he turned, Ma came to stand beside him. Wrapped in a faded gray robe over her threadbare nightgown, she came to give him a kiss on the forehead.

“What’s wrong, son? Is it your pa? I know he’s been hard on you boys lately. Cal told me you want to break horses, and he won’t let you try. Guess it’s hard for him to understand you aren’t little Cash anymore. Paul’s death hurt him badly, Son.”

“It’s not just that, Ma.” Cash pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. Quietly, he tried to put his confused feelings into words. “I just thought taming horses could help us bring in a profit. But even that makes me feel … restless. Like there should be more I could be doing.”

Ma pulled out another chair and listened. Her brown eyes studied him with love and understanding as he continued.

“Mr. Wilmarth at the general store mentioned there’s a wagon train forming in the next couple of days. Headed for the California Trail. Ma …” Cash took a deep breath and spoke his deepest dream. “I want to join it.”

“Oh, son, I don’t know. Think about what happened to your Uncle Paul. There’s still rumors that gang is still around.”

“That was eight years ago, Ma. That’s why I can’t tell Pa. But ever since I’ve been a little shaver, it’s all I ever thought about. I kept all Uncle Paul’s letters. He lived life, Ma, didn’t just exist on the edge of it, like we do here. Pa doesn’t want anything better. Maybe if I went west, I could find gold or start a business, then send for the rest of you. There’s opportunity out west, Ma. I’ve read about it. People are getting rich—and not just on gold.”

Ma’s brown eyes crinkled. “You remind me a lot of Paul, and even your pa when we first courted. That same spirit of adventure, the same …”

“Wanderlust?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a yearning for someplace new and exciting. I sense it in you, Cash. That desire to make something of yourself.”

To his surprise, Ma stood, went to the cabinet over the dry sink, and pulled down a small tin box. It had once held some fancy tea. She reached inside and pulled out a small roll of bills. “It’s not much, Cash. I’ve been saving it, but I want you to take it. Go, join the wagon train if you can. You’ve been a good son, and if you can find a way to send more home, I know you will.”

“But, Ma—” He hesitated, knowing how much it had cost her to keep this money safe from Pa’s whiskey cravings. “Are you certain?”

“You’ll need money for supplies. This won’t buy a lot, but you’ll be able to get something to outfit yourself. I’ll get up early and pack you what I can.”

Cash’s eyes burned. “I’ll send money home, Ma. And when I get settled somewhere, if you want to join me, we’ll find a way.”

She reached up to pat his cheek, tears sliding down her weathered face, crisscrossed with a dozen lines of worry. “Get some sleep, son. Morning comes early.”

A knot of fear clenched Cash’s heart, but a bubble of hope and excitement welled up in his chest.

Pacific Ocean, here I come!