“I’m going to assume that most of you don’t have any idea why I’ve heralded this meeting tonight with our trumpet,” Hargrove began, his stentorian voice clear as a clarion bell over the crowd of hundreds.
“You don’t want my father-in-law to ride along to Fort Hall,” Burwell roared as the throng fell quiet. “Him and his friend, both men good on the trail—”
“They did not sign on at our Westport depot, the way the rest of you did,” Hargrove interrupted. “If there is a rule, there must be a good reason for that rule. You all joined our company according to the rules, agreed to abide by the rules, and this wilderness is by far the last place we should be letting those rules slide—not here in the lawless wilderness.”
“What harm does it do to bend a rule this one time?” asked a man at the edge of the crowd.
“I’ll tell you what harm it does, Mr. Bingham. It begins the breakdown in civil order,” Hargrove preached with that booming voice of his.
Another settler asked, “How will they break down civil order?”
Turning, the wagon master said, “Mr. Iverson, all a man has to do is look at these two … two ruffians Burwell wishes to bring along to see that there can be no good come of this to our wagon company.”
“What are you claiming they’re gonna do, Hargrove?”
He turned slightly again to address the new speaker, “Dahlmer, isn’t it? Agreed, we have no idea what men such as these might do to disrupt the law-abiding orderliness of our company. These roughs have been freed of the constraints of civil society for more years than we could ever guess. They have lived without the fetters of responsible, God-fearing men, like the rest of you.”
“How safe are our wives and daughters around these two strangers?” one of Hargrove’s backers prompted.
“Yes, yes,” Hargrove said. “Wouldn’t you fear for your wives and daughters with such lawless, unscrupulous creatures as these ruffians and scoundrels along on the journey?”
“Hold on a minute!” cried a man standing near Burwell. “Why the devil we have to fear for our wives and daughters from these two? You know something about them you ain’t told us?”
Hargrove took two steps toward the doubter. “Just look at them, dressed like Indians, their hair long and unkempt like a pagan savage keeps his hair. Dp you want that specter residing in our camp?”
Off to Bass’s left a man took a step into the ring before he spoke, “So what the blazes do you call that?”
Turning on his heel, the wagon master looked in the direction the farmer was pointing. “What, Ammons? Call what?”
“That pilot you hired back at Fort Laramie.”
With a hearty laugh, Hargrove asked, “Harris? You mean Harris?”
“Yeah,” Ammons responded with a tug on his soiled suspenders. “These two who came along with Burwell don’t look no worse than your handpicked pilot.”
“For God’s sake, the man is our pilot!” Hargrove shrieked.
Roman Burwell snorted, “Sure as the devil looks like he’s your pilot to California, Hargrove!”
“Listen, Burwell,” Hargrove snarled as he whirled on the big farmer, “ever since Laramie, Harris has been our pilot. Each and every one of you trusted in me to engage a pilot when we reached Fort Laramie. This man is our guide. He’s not like those other two who threw in with your family at Fort Bridger.”
“The man’s my father-in-law,” Burwell growled. “An’ the other’n is his good friend. That makes ’em both near kin to me.”
“But we do not have room for any travelers to throw in with this company!” Hargrove said, frustration crimping his features.
A new voice called out, “What’s it hurt?”
He turned on the man, “Why, Fenton—it hurts the rule of law and orderliness here in the wilderness. If we let things slip out here, even a little, then we truly are not bringing God’s order and civilization to our new homes.”
“These two won’t ruin nothing!” another shouted.
Then a voice seconded that opinion, “And I haven’t seen either of ’em coming round my wife and daughter like you claimed they would.”
Hargrove countered, “This is but the first day! There hasn’t been time for these beasts to show their true stripes.”
“Maybeso we oughtta put it to a vote!” called a voice.
“No, Pruett!” cried the wagon master. “We haven’t had our full debate.”
Bingham took two steps away from Burwell and yelled, “We can call for a vote now!”
“No!” Hargrove bellowed his desperation, wheeling to gesture at his supporters. “We haven’t heard anything from the other side!”
“I say let’s vote!” Burwell called.
Titus felt the palpable surge of electricity that shot through the murmuring crowd like a jolt of lightning.
“No—you can’t!”
But Burwell was not distracted. “Those who don’t want my father-in-law and his friend along to Fort Hall—”
“Not yet, you can’t vote yet!”
Yet Burwell continued, “—let’s see a show of hands!”
Immediately those on the far side of the assembly raised their arms—perhaps as many as twenty men, along with Hargrove’s eight hired men, while the train captain began to wave both of his arms frantically.
“No, no—there must be time for more debate!”
Roman Burwell continued, “So we should have a show of hands for those who see nothing wrong with these two men coming to Fort Hall with us.”
Only a blind man without ears would have trouble sorting out which way that vote went. As soon as more than sixty men held their arms in the air, they began a spontaneous cheer of relief, of jubilation, of revolt against the tyranny of the man who had arrogantly turned his back on them and would be making for California, leaving them high and leaderless at Fort Hall.
Burwell turned to Hoyt Bingham and said in a voice just loud enough for those close to hear, “I think it’s time we got this all settled here and now.”
“The new captain?” Bingham whispered.
“Yep. Let’s get this over with so we can toss Hargrove out on his ear.”
Bingham quickly looked at the wagon master shuffling over to his supporters, listened to the noise of their arguing, then pursed his lips and nodded his head once in agreement.
“Friends! Friends! Fellow members of the Hargrove Oregon Company!” Roman bellowed, shaking both arms aloft for silence. “We have an important vote to make tonight. Even more important than the one we just made.”
“Vote?” Hargrove squealed as he wheeled about on his bootheels. “What other vote? You can’t do this without your captain’s permission!”
Burwell took a step toward the center of the ring and told the crowd, “We oughtta vote on a new captain!”
For a long moment the entire assembly fell into a dead hush. Not a sniffle or cough, not one shuffle of a boot on the sandy soil or the murmur of a mother scolding a child—nothing for three long heartbeats. Then all hell broke loose. Hargrove’s supporters and hired men began screaming their objections—which only prompted the man’s detractors to cheer, clap their hands, and stomp their feet on the ground. Which drowned out most all of the naysayers.
Once more Roman was signaling for some quiet; then he yelled, “For our new captain, I throw in the name of Hoyt Bingham!”
“Hoyt B-bingham?” Hargrove yelled.
“I put a second on that vote!” Iverson shouted.
“How ’bout you, Roman?”
Burwell turned to the speaker, who stood at the side of the throng. “Mr. Ryder, I do appreciate your confidence in me an’ all—”