each leading an extra horse as they rode past. Elliot and Jordan followed with two wagons. He glanced down the muddy street, looking for the youngest Jones boy. The fact that Jessie Jones wasn’t with his brothers wasn’t a good sign. Now what mischief was he up to? Feelings of misgiving assailed him. On one hand, the boy was not his concern, but by hiring Jessie as Rook’s assistant, he’d personally assumed responsibility for him.
He knew better than most that the trail was unforgiving of the rashness of youth. This trip would either make a man of the boy or claim his young life. When the ground vibrated beneath him, Wolf instinctively stepped out of the road and back into the shadows to avoid being hit. His gaze narrowed when he noticed that the reckless rider galloping past was none other than the youngest Jones boy. A black-and-tan dog streaked past, then stopped abruptly to eye the wolf.
Hackles raised and head lowered, Wahoska growled low in his throat, but before Wolf could call the animal off, a shrill whistle rent the air. The dog turned away, surging forward in a burst of power to rejoin her master.
Wolf joined his pet in a warm pool of sunlight. “There goes trouble, my friend,” he said to his companion, feeling unaccountably uneasy. Tension radiated beneath his fingertips. He glanced down to see Wahoska tracking the dog’s movements with his keen eyes. Low rumbling continued to erupt from his throat. Wolf pulled at his freshly shaved chin, his gaze pensive as he stared after the youngest Jones brother, now riding ahead of his siblings. Somehow it seemed fitting that Jessie’s dog had agitated the wolf. Heaven only knew the boy managed to get under his skin. Damn. It was going to be a long trip.
The sound of mules braying down the street reminded him that there was work to be done. “Time to get moving, my friend.” Resolution filled him. He had a job to do, and he’d do whatever it took to see that every man, woman, child and beast made it safely to Oregon. Mounting his nervous black stallion, he rode out into the sunlight. Giving a low whistle, he commanded Lady Sarah, the Indian-trained mare he’d named after his mother, to follow. Wahoska padded alongside.
He rode to the meeting spot outside of Westport, joining Rook, who stood near four wagons loaded with food and provisions for the hired men. Aside from food, there was also feed and shoeing equipment for the forty-plus horses that were needed to see the cattle to their destination in the Willamette Valley.
Wolf ran an experienced eye over each team of oxen, checked each wagon, then conferred with Rook over the food and feed stores. When he was satisfied that everything was inorder, he turned to the older man. “Have the rest of the wagons line up for inspection,” he ordered.
“Yes, boss.” Rook hurried off. His bowed legs carried his burly figure from wagon to wagon; his deep booming voice rang loud as he shouted out instructions. In short order, the emigrants pulled their wagons into three long lines.
Wolf leaned against the rough wood of a supply wagon, his arms folded over his chest. Tipping his chin to the sun, he breathed deeply and felt his blood race in anticipation of the challenging trip ahead of him. He thrived on pitting his skills and knowledge against the outdoor world he knew so well. What he didn’t enjoy was leading unseasoned travelers across the rough and dangerous terrain. Too many of them had heads filled with unrealistic dreams rather than good sense. Often their lack of preparation resulted in death.
He grimaced. To avoid most of the common mistakes green emigrants made, Wolf insisted on inspecting each and every wagon, draft animal and load before setting off. Nothing brought morale down faster than having to abandon a family along the way. When Rook rejoined him, he pushed away from the wagon and squared his shoulders. All resentment at being saddled with the trip faded. From that moment on, he had a job to