I wasn't much older than Barnaby when I left home. I left with the idea of finding adventure while making my fortune. I was raised in New York City at a time when it had begun to sprawl. The paths and passages I knew as a boy were gone, overtaken by wide thoroughfares that went in all directions that were traveled heavily in the daytime and not so heavily at night.

I'd been out in the country and while I knew Atlanta, Memphis, and Louisville, mostly I knew what was between them. My time wasn't spent in big cities. My time had been spent on land that was up for sale. If I got to a place where the land was cheap but its location was in a direction the migration was going, I arranged to buy it.

My first sales were clumsy affairs bankers and lawyers made more money off of than I did. I was learning the lay of the land. Bankers and lawyers were teaching me my trade.

At times they were shiftless in their dealings with a boy who obviously knew nothing about wheeling and dealing land for a living. I watched their slight of hand and learned to give them a little taste of what I'd eventually offer them, but in the beginning I let them have their way with me.

I was not shiftless. I did not take advantage of people who didn't try to take advantage of me. I established what a piece of land was worth by learning its history at the Land Office. If a seller didn't know the railroad was coming that way, or development was planned, it wasn't my job to tell him.

It was my job to know such things. The Civil War had just ended, on my first trip to the South. People were dirt poor but some had land, and they'd sell in a minute if the money I gave them bought them out of extreme poverty.

Cotton fields were overgrown, luxurious plantation homes were falling down around the owners. There was little commerce in the south at that time. I bought and sold and I learned a lot about land. My deals got larger and the profits grew as well.

I'd been sick for two years. I kept moving, traveling, buying and selling, figuring I'd get better, than a stop to see Mr. Jasper finally gave me the incentive to come home and see the oldest man I knew, and the idea he'd out live me never entered my mind.

Once again I was lucky enough to fall into the right hands. I was always lucky that way. I suppose as a green kid, going to get rich, I was ripe to be taken to the poor house. I'd beaten the odds until consumption beat me down.

I took a carriage to meet Phillip. I had him let me off at a corner of the stock yards. I could see the man I'd go west with when I stepped down from the carriage. I'd walk the rest of the way carrying a carpetbag with my belongings.

I didn't move at first. I watched Phillip. He was attending to a rather handsome looking red horse. He patted his neck and carried on a conversation with the horse.

There was a wagon and more horses next to him. The wagon was fairly long, but not Conestoga long. It was maybe a step down from the largest wagons that would be going west with us. George said he'd come east on his horse, but they needed another wagon in the field with the right equipment, and that's the wagon we'd be heading west in.

Phillip was an adventurer, a wagon master, a surveyor, and he knew all there was to know about going west. People signed on with 1st National Bank, once they came to America, and when it was time to migrate west, the bank would set the move up, making sure their funds were available once they arrived in their new home. These were wealthier immigrants that paid to have their belongings shipped from Europe to New York City

Phillip came to the city to meet with the most important men at 1st National. The conversations were all about land holdings in the Colorado Territories they'd purchased and wanted him to survey. Phillip knew and trained most of the western survey teams. He got his pick of the territory he wanted to survey when it came time to go back to work.

The five wagons that were leaving for St Louis were ready for Phillip's wagon to take the lead. He'd get them to St Louis to meet the wagon master who would get them the rest of the way to as far west as they wanted to go.

I watched as Phillip moved to the other four horses standing next to the wagon as he hitched them to it. He took the same care placing each horse where he belonged. He patted and explained what he was doing as he did it. I don't know if the horses understood him, but the effort seemed to calm them as they were placed in the spot they'd occupy for months to come.

I'm not sure the horses were impressed, but I was. You watch the way a man takes care of his animals, you'll find out what kind of man he is. Phillip Dubois was impressive.

I'd said goodbye to Barnaby, and it was time to say hello to Phillip.

I picked up my carpetbag and I went to the wagon.

"Morning, John. You're early," Phillip said. "How do you feel this morning?"

"I'm tired, Phillip. I think I'll ride in the back for now," I said.

"As you wish, John. Step over here and I'll introduce you to Chestnut," he said.

He moved down the side of the wagon after picking up my carpetbag. He stopped at the rear of the wagon. The tailgate was down, and it was surprisingly roomy inside.

"Chestnut, meet John. John, Chestnut is your riding horse. I picked him out myself. He's young but he has wonderful lines. He'll be tied to the back of the wagon with my horse Dobbin. You can ride in the back of the wagon, ride beside me on the seat, or ride Chestnut. It's up to you what you want to do and when you want to do it. You'll find the variety can break up the day nicely, when you're on the move from dawn to dusk.

I was as likely to ride Chestnut to St Louis as I was to fly there, but I didn''t say so.

"Your bed is mostly straw. It's cushioned on cloth and some of my clothing. The going can get rough back here," Phillip told me as we looked in at the bed. On this side is surveying gear. It doesn't take up much room, and you can spread out as you like. All the goods I carry are in the sacks stacked behind my seat, and they're secure. They will not move in your direction when the going is the roughest."

Phillip said more that morning than I'd hear him say in the next month. I knew he'd gone over what he'd say in his head, because it sounded rehearsed and properly detailed for me to get the idea for what was coming.

The stockyard smelled just like what it was. While we were a distance from the cattle pens, the smell kept me from getting a good breath of fresh air, and the coughing began predictably around noon.

I arrived early expecting this turn of events. I had six bottles of laudanum and a note from Dr. Jones explaining my condition and asking any proper provider to give me as much laudanum as they could to get to the next stop along the way.

I kept the note in my shirt pocket. It seemed more like a lifeline than a note from my doctor. I'd be dead in a day without laudanum. I would covet my supply and cushion three bottles with care to be certain none met with misfortune.

The ride was surprisingly rough as Phillip guided the wagon to the exit of this section of stockyard. I could see out of the opening at the back of the wagon, and my bed was elevated enough that I could see what was behind us. With the tailgate shut, I couldn't see the ground, but I watched as we drove past the five wagons that would follow us.

The best thing about the stockyards, they were at the western edge of the city, and once we got clear of the more industrial part of New York City, we were on the trail we'd take west.

My coughing subsided after drinking the laudanum. I watched lanterns, bridals, pots and pans sway over my head. Each was secured to the top of the wagon by a piece of rawhide.

"Those, don't worry about those. They're secure. Wouldn't fall on you if the top doesn't collapse, and it's well supported," Phillip told me

I coughed, watched the swaying iron skillet, and I went to sleep. I began my second coughing spell later in the day.

I drank my laudanum and watched the man on the seat of the wagon behind us as I breathed deeply and was grateful for the smell of fresh clean air without the benefit of horse or cow shit in it. My bed in the wagon was as soft as the bed in the Grand Hotel. Only the bed in the Grand didn't move.

It was getting dark the next time I became aware. We weren't moving and I could smell campfires and freshly cooked food. I had no interest in food. I drank laudanum and went back to sleep.

I had been exhausted by the business I did in New York City. I was worn out. The next thing I heard were children. They were laughing and dodging about on the left. The night was lit by fires, which made what was behind the wagon visible, and children passed back and forth, burning off energy that built up after a day of riding in the wagon.

I didn't mind kids. I didn't mind the noise they made. I did mind when Phillip decided to annoy me. This wasn't mentioned in the rundown of events he'd given me before we left.

"Sit up, John," Phillip said, after lowering the tailgate.

"I want to sleep," I told him.

I expected him to go away.

"Sit up, John,' came more as an order than a request.

What was this about?

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"John, sit up."

I figured whatever he had in mind would go a lot easier if I just did what he asked me to, and I sat up and moved to where my feet hung over the back of the wagon.

"Drink this, John. It's warm, not hot."

"I'm not hungry, Phillip."

"I didn't ask you if your were hungry. Drink it."

He trust a mug at me and it was warm, not hot, and the worst tasting soup I ever had. I began coughing.

He took the mug and held it while I tried not to vomit up whatever it was he had me drinking. He would not go away until I drank every drop.

"Finish it?" he ordered, once the fit passed.

He handed me the mug back

I drank it down rather than nursing it. It was best to get it over with. I resisted the urge to vomit it back up. If I vomited it, I'd be smelling it all the way to St Louis, and that would only make it worse.

"Take care of your necessities off to the right. Just beyond the light of the campfire. You don't want to encounter no varmints, so go just outside the light of the fires. No further."

No, I didn't want to encounter any varmints. What I wanted to do was go back to sleep.

When I woke again, we were moving. It wasn't daylight. It wasn't dark, but I could see the horses moving behind us as the wagons trundled along behind the wagon I was in.

Each day was the same and one day seemed to become the next day without me being much involved. My head was never really clear and the coughing fits came on me, rolled over me, racked my innards, and exhausted, I went back to sleep.

Each night it was the same thing. I woke to smell campfires and freshly cooking food. I heard the children running about, and Phillip came with that horrible soup. I took to tossing it back like a glass of whiskey. It burned a bit like whiskey did when it went down. Phillip stood like a guard watching over a condemned man.

As quick as I handed him back the mug, I was back in my bed sleeping. I slept a lot. At one time I didn't waste a lot of time sleeping, and now, I slept all the time.

Each night we seemed to stop in exactly the same spot as the night before. I took to imagining I was in a dream that kept repeating itself. What woke me up from that idea, that awful concoction Phillip had me drinking, and another day had come and gone.

We started to climb in April. Phillip told me it was April. I don't know why I asked him what month it was. I asked him where we were, he said, "Pennsylvania."

We left New York in mid March. We made one stop during the second or third week. I woke to a lot of commotion and I could see the wagons being loaded with supplies.

It was a grand open market when I peaked out from under the cover of the wagon. People moved all about as they bought and sold. The kids ran about holding candy and drinks purchased for them. Phillip had bought several items he placed in the wagon beside me.

"You're awake. Lancaster Market. These people have wonderful items for sale at a more than reasonable price. Found it a couple of years ago and always stop here. How do you feel today?"

I sat up on the open tailgate to watch the activity, and Phillip came to button back up when he was ready to start the wagon train moving again..

"How long to St Louis," I asked in a lucid moment.

"Two months, give or take," he said, after giving it some thought.

"How far from New York?"

"We left a month ago tomorrow," he said, when I handed him back the mug.

I don't remember all our conversations. I was sitting on the tailgate each evening, after we'd moved all day. I took to watching the children playing after drinking that drink Phillip was giving me. For some reason I wasn't going right back to sleep after a month on the trail. I slept most of the month away as the wagon rocked, rolled, dipped and lifted me in my bed.

They were happy children. Probably glad to get their feet on solid ground after rocking and rolling in a wagon all day.

My innards ached from the constant motion. I think we hit every chuckhole between New York City and where ever we were. The coughing didn't seem to rack me the way it did while I was in New York. It was further between coughing fits, but I couldn't be sure if I was coming or going. Each day seemed to repeat itself.

"Your John," a little girl said, standing about ten feet away.

"I am," I said.

"Your sick," she said. "My daddy said not to get near you."

"He did, did he. Who are you?"

"Hildy Simpson," she said, dashing away to join her friends.

Mr. Simpson came to stand not as far from the tailgate as his daughter. He brought Mr. Mazeroski with him.

"Nice evening," he said.

"Yes," I said, not noticing the evening.

"How you feel? Phillip said you is sick," Mr. Simpson said.

Mr. Mazeroski nodded like he agreed.

"Consumption," I said.

"Nasty business that," Mr. Simpson said.

Mr. Mazeroski nodded.

They seemed nice enough. I met migrants along the trail all the time in the south. Most seemed okay. Most seemed a bit nervous. I suppose when you are going to a place you know nothing about, you might be nervous about what you'll find.

It was a week after we started climbing that we were going downhill. My feet were higher than my head the next few days.

In the middle of one afternoon, the wagon behind us lost it's right rear wheel. It just came right off and rolled into the woods.

I was awake and I heard the commotion as everything came to a stop when it was completely daylight. We usually started moving right after dawn, and we kept moving until dusk each day, but in this country, you couldn't get far on three wheels.

I sat on the open tailgate and watched Phillip and three other men lifting the rear of the wagon to put the wheel back on. He had a big wrench he used to tighten it.

For the rest of the afternoon, Phillip went about checking every wagon wheel, including our own. He climbed under each wagon to check the axles and supports as I trailed along behind him, interested in a new talent I discovered Phillip had. He was a mechanic.

A man who surveys for a living has a lot of other skills he takes with him. Phillip was the wagon master for this small wagon train, which was about to grow larger by five wagons. I didn't know that when the wheel came off, but there were five wagons waiting for us.

"I climbed on the seat to sit beside Phillip one morning after we stopped to let the horses drink at a creek.

"Morning," Phillip said, as if I climbed up to sit beside him every morning.

"Morning," I said. "Mind if I ride up here a while."

"Suit yourself," he said, wiggling his hands to jiggle the reins.

He made a clicking sound with his tongue to tell the horses it was time to get to work.

The seat was a bit rougher than my bed, but a man can only lie in bed for so long. He needs to get up a spell. I felt like getting up. I felt dizzy and out of sorts, but I got up anyway.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired. I'm always tired," I said.

"That's the medicine," Phillip said.

"Medicine?" I asked.

"Medicine Woman had success treating folks with consumption. She gave it to me when I had a broke leg. She was the closest thing to a doctor in our village."

The word village didn't slip past without me noticing it. Phillip was a direct man, he didn't say things by mistake. In fact, if I asked him something he needed to think about, he thought about it there and then, as I waited on an answer. There weren't always answers.

Some things he'd think about before he kept it to himself. His silence wasn't unusual. He wasn't ignoring me. For Phillip, a question didn't mean he needed to talk. He did think about what I asked. I could see him thinking.

"Had a broke leg once."

We'd been riding for hours with neither of us speaking. I looked at him and I waited. It wasn't a conversation stopper. I figured there was more to come. I could wait.

"Drank that medicine for months. Slept all the time. When I stopped sleeping, I walked out and started playing with the other boys. No limp. No pain. Just went to playing."

"I'm tired all the time. I'm tired when I get up," I said.

"Wears off in a week or two. You'll get your energy back."

I thought about my laudanum for the first time in well over a month. I never finished the first bottle, and there were five bottles in the bottom of my carpetbag. I don't know what happened to the note or the bottle I'd been drinking from. It was like I slept a month or two.

I took to getting back in my bed in the morning, but a few days after a talk about his broke leg, he came to stand at the tailgate.

"John, Chestnut is not feeling the love. He's a riding horse and he can't figure out why no one rides him. Why don't you get out here and ride a spell. He'd like that."

It was one of those things I was going to do whether or not I liked it, so it was best to just take my medicine and ride Chestnut. Phillip took a saddle from the side of the wagon. He showed me where it was kept and where I'd put it after I rode.

He saddled Chestnut for me, but I'd unsaddle him and saddle him myself from that day forward. Chestnut had been walking behind the wagon tied to the right hand corner on about six feet of rope. Dobbin, the horse Phillip rode east, was tied to the other corner.

It felt good being in the saddle again. Riding my bed was nice, but being on Chestnut gave me a different perspective. I took to riding ahead to find water or just to see what I could see. I liked sitting on top of a rise and seeing out over what had become flat lands.

"Where are we?"

"Ohio."

"Pretty."

"I've got to go south to Cincinnati. There are five wagons waiting for me there. They broke down and got left by the train they was on. 1st National customers George wants me to take them on."

The flatland had rolling hills and it took over a week once we turned south off the trail we'd been on all the way through Pennsylvania.

"Why Cincinnati? Isn't that an Indian name?"

Phillip needed to think it over.

"Indian chief. It was named that before the Europeans came. I suppose it was easier just to call a place what it was called before they got to it, but it's Cincinnati. We're almost there. There's a trail we'll take out of Cincinnati that will get us back on track to St Louis. It's not a good trail, but it will save a lot of backtracking."

The five wagons sat in a line near a corral that Phillip and I went to, once we got close. We took them to join up with the other five wagons, and we were on our way by late afternoon.

We got outside of town before we set up camp, and the new wagons circled some fifty or sixty yards away. The five wagons behind us were all in a line where they unhitched their horses to drink and then graze once they were hobbled to keep them from wandering away.

"We're going to have trouble, John," Phillip said as a matter of fact.

We were at the campfire eating some meat Phillip picked up while we were in Cincinnati. He distributed some to each wagon as a treat for holding them up for what would be days.

"I need to go deal with those teamsters," Phillip said with the displeasure in his voice.

"Teamsters?"

"They hire out to drive wagons. They're a rowdy bunch. If I can get them under control right off, we do better, but I don't like the looks of these teamsters."

I walked behind Phillip as he walked back to the five wagons that had drawn themselves into a circle.

"Hey, Captain, you aims to be unhitching these horses some time tonight. They've been pulling your wagons all day, they'd like to have a break too."

A rather surly man with no more than a passing acquaintance with a razor, impatiently stood. His spurs jingled when he walked. There were five seated around the campfire, and they were busy eating, but they took notice of Phillip's interruption.

"And what's it to do with you? I drive the wagons. It's my show," the surly man said.

"I run the train, and it's my show, Partner. We're going to unhitch those horses each night before you get to feeding your face. You'll see they are watered and hobbled in a place where they can graze. Those horses pull the wagons. They work for a living."

The inference was clear and the teamster took the appropriate offense.

"You trying to tell me my business?" the man spat.

Phillip walked closer to the disagreeable fellow.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Trag," he said, spitting a wad of something on Phillip's boot to prove his disrespect.

I didn't see it when it started, but I saw his fist land on the point of the man's chin, and both boots came off the ground before he fell.

Phillip wiped the toe of his boot off on the teamster's pants.

"Who are the teamsters? Come over here," Phillip ordered.

Trag twitched a couple of times before his eyes opened.

"I'm telling you once. Listen up. You will unhitch and water your horses before you take care of yourself. Am I making myself clear? If you don't understand, speak up now."

There was grumbling as the teamsters mumbled to one another.

Trag took that moment to try to get up.

Phillip pointed one finger as he discouraged his effort.

"Stay down. Don't make me put you down again," he ordered the man.

Trag locked eyes with Phillip before easing himself back down. Phillip looked back at the gathering of teamsters he'd attracted.

"Wagons roll at first light. Heaven help you if you aren't in line. I'm the wagon master. My name is Phillip Dubois. You have any questions, you bring them to me. Now, unhitch those horses and take care of them. Do you job properly."

Phillip turned and we went back to our wagon.

"Trouble, Phillip," Mr. Mazeroski asked as we passed his fire.

"No, Jacob, making rules on my train clear to the new folks."

I could hear Mazeroski laugh. He'd fallen in behind me when we passed on the way to speak with the teamsters. He'd watched the wagon master take care of business before he walked back to his wagon.

Phillip was a man who took care of business. I admired his ability to take charge. He didn't explain the rules to the teamsters, he'd laid down the law. It was his wagon train and they would do it his way, or they were free to pull out of line and wait for another wagon train to come by in a few months or a year.

Phillip poured my cup full of coffee before pouring his own full.

"John, you aren't obligated to back me up. Some days I need to clear things up to avoid trouble later on down the road."

"I'm aware, Phillip. I like seeing how a wagon master works."


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"Pantywaist"

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"Phillip Dubois"

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