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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Donovan’s Dream
William S. Hubbartt
Donald Donovan woke with a start, with a vivid memory of the painful screams of his wife, Kathleen. He looked around, in a grey fog, again hearing high pitched screams. Up the hill he saw a ringtail, half out of its hole, squealing noisily. To his left, down the hill, he heard a rustling sound, a momentary flash of movement, showing reddish brown fur, which he recognized as a fox chasing another ringtail into the safety of its hole in the ground. That one got away, but the fox would find another.
The pounding pain in his head and the ache in his back from sleeping on the hard ground caused his thinking to be as thick and foggy as the morning sky above. He shivered momentarily, feeling the dampness of his clothes and the cool air overhead. An awareness crept into his mind, assembling some the events of the previous night. The rig was parked and the horses stabled. Then, he had ridden the dun bareback to the saloon in Marysville. Whiskey, it seemed, was the only thing that pushed Kathleen’s painful cries from his memory.
Bartender Kevin, who hailed from the Kilkenny area of Ireland, where the Donovan family shared roots, would tolerate Donovan’s self loathing anger brought on by the third or fourth whiskey. Other patrons of the saloon, however, were tired after their day’s labor and had little tolerance for the rants of a drunken Irishman mourning his lot in life.
“Time to head for home, Donovan, you’ve had your limit,” suggests Kevin, as he places the whiskey bottle on the shelf back behind the bar.
“…need another,” mumbles Donovan, his tongue now thick from a fourth glass of whiskey, “ in memory of me lovely wife,… bonnie Kathleen.” As he held out his glass for another pour, his balance slipped and he bumped into the man standing next to him at the bar.
The bump spilled the whiskey in the hand of then next drinker, an action which was instinctively met by a swinging fist, landing squarely on Donovan’s jaw. Jarred backwards, Donovan stumbled falling onto a table scattering cards, money, gold nuggets and more spilled whiskey as the table collapsed from his 180 pounds of solid teamster muscles. Now, four more angry drunks joined the melee and piled into Donovan, each getting in a punch or kick before Kevin came around the bar with a two foot oak club.
Now here he was, on a foggy hillside, under an oak tree next to a rocky creek bed with a throbbing head and sore back. He stood slowly, and his eyes surveyed the terrain. More memory returned, as he realized, he was near the base of North Butte. When the whiskey wasn’t working, a lonely walk through the Buttes seemed to be his only sanctuary to try to bury the painful memories of loss and hopes for what might have been.
The Buttes were a collection of small mountains rising from the central California plains, about 5 miles west of Marysville. The Maidu Indians, original residents of this area, had regarded the area as a spiritual place. Though the Maidu had been driven from the area by the white settlers during the gold rush in the 1850s, Donovan felt the spirits and serenity of the area when he walked into the region and climbed the hills. Huge boulders were scattered about, boulders as large as a wagon, or even a small cabin. Old timers said that the area had been formed by a volcano of exploding rock and soil. Donovan couldn’t imagine such an explosion.
Donovan shivered again in the damp fog, then shook if off, and began his climb. Following alongside the creek bed, ascending the hill, Donovan found a wildlife trail, barely visible, marked only by hoof print ridges in the soil when larger animals like deer or an occasional strayed cow walked in the area in search of grasses to eat. The ascending hill became steeper, and the presence of the live oak and blue oak trees became thinner and more scattered, giving way to mesquite brush and juniper clinging to the rock. More of the base rock and boulders were present, causing Donovan to use hands and feet to find foot-holds and to climb up and round the boulders.
Breathing heavily, with his heart pounding from the exertion of a near vertical climb, Donovan now saw the fog begin to break as sun beams sloped through from the eastern sky. With the fog now clearing, a Turkey vulture soared in circles off to his left, some 1500 feet over the valley below where he lay moments ago, the huge bird likely monitoring the activities of the fox and hoping for some leftovers after the hard work was done.
The final 100 feet near the peak was vertical stone escarpment, with crevices, causing Donovan to sweat as he inched upward finding cracks for hand and toe holds. Reaching a level spot near the top, he sat and surveyed the surrounding vista. A river meandered to the west, lined by trees and filled with flocks of ducks, and to the east the dark gray Sierra Nevada mountain range loomed.
Again, thoughts of his lovely wife Kathleen again consume Donovan’s mind. Just 18 when she died, she had been shot and mortally wounded by a band of outlaws coming down from the gold claims in the mountains. Kathleen and her sister Coleen had set up a tent along the roadway north of Marysville, to prepare home cooked meals for travelers heading to mining sites in the mountains to the north and east.
Donovan recalled that morning a year ago, on the last day he had seen Kathleen healthy and alive. It was a sunny day, with warm breezes of the early California spring spreading the fragrant aromas of the spring blossoms along the roadway. Donovan had kissed Kathleen good -by as she worked at the food preparation table at the back of the tent, her hands dusty with flour after mixing dough for the biscuits, saying, “just one trip to Sacramento, then over to Hangtown, and I should be back in three days.“ She had given him a kiss, a smile and a wink, saying, “stay safe,” and then pushed him out of the way, leaving white handprints on his shirt.
Donovan had returned to the tent after completing the three day delivery loop. As he approached the tent, he heard a gunshot and then a scream…a scream that sounded like Kathleen. There was a commotion, and then two men raced by pushing their horses hard towards the south. He caught a glance of them, dirty looking saddle tramps, un-shaven and grimy from living in the hills. One seemed young and skinny, while the other had a bull neck with shoulders and arms built from stevedore work handling heavy merchandise much like Donovan’s own work as a teamster. Donovan walked around the corner and then found Kathleen on the ground, head in the lap of sister Coleen, bleeding from a gaping wound in her stomach. Donovan had held her for a few moments before her breathing stopped and her eyes stared lifelessly at the sky above. All he heard then were the wails of their two year old daughter, Mary Katherine.
In the days that followed, Donovan had been in a daze, numb from the unexpected loss of Kathleen. With Kathleen’s death, so too had died Donovan’s dream. He and Kathleen had planned to work hard, her at the food tent and he with the deliveries, in order to build their lives in this new land, maybe even buy a ranch. Now that was all gone. Kathleen’s little sister, 16 year old Coleen, had valiantly stepped in to care for little Mary Katherine all the while continuing to run the food tent. After Kathleen’s burial, Donovan had pushed himself to return to his teamster work making deliveries of merchandise and supplies from the Sacramento docks to the mining areas and in the nearby communities of Marysville, Auburn, Hangtown, and up to Oroville.
Since that moment, a year ago, Donovan existed, but his life had stopped; without his life partner and their dream, his life was meaningless. Donovan just went through the motions, doing his job as a teamster, delivering wagon loads and then stopping off at the Marysville tavern to wash away the painful memories that continued to haunt him, the memory of Kathleen dying in his arms.
One day, while picking up a load from the docks in Sacramento, the movements of a stevedore caught his eye. It was a bull of a man, unloading barrels from a steamboat, possessing the strength to pick up a 200 pound barrel, hoist it to his shoulder and carry it to another teamster wagon. Donovan observed man’s profile, his bull like neck, strong shoulders and tree trunk arms, hoisting boxes and barrels like they were empty, loading another wagon about 20 yards away. Twice, Donovan lost track of the merchandise being placed into his own wagon, and he had to re-count items against the bill of lading.
Then another man, a skinny one, rode up and tied his horse to a nearby hitching rail. The skinny man walked over and began talking to the stevedore as he finished loading the other wagon, and pointing over to the horse. Now, the hair stood up on the back of Donovan’s neck, and his memory flashed back to that awful day a year ago. He recalled the commotion, two riders, one skinny with toothpick arms and another bull neck, both racing away, and then coming upon his lovely Kathleen, her life-blood flowing from her midsection, pale with her lips quivering as she whispered a final ‘I love you.’ Donovan’s muscles tensed, fists forming in each hand, his jaw set and nostrils flaring as his breathing intensified.
“Donovan…You’re loaded. This load goes to Auburn. Now git your wagon off my dock!” yelled the yard master. Donovan spun around, his right fist drawing back, ready to spring a knock-out punch, when he saw 20 yards behind the yard master the skinny man shaking the reins of his wagon to spur his team out of the yard. Donovan’s eyes circled the dock and he saw the bull neck man mounting the horse left by the skinny one, and riding off towards the center of Sacramento. “Move it,” repeated the Yard master, “I’ve got wagons waiting.”
Donovan jumped up to the hard wooden seat of his wagon, pulled the lever to release the brake, and yelled “Hee-yaa…hee-yaa,” as he shook the reins over the backs of his team. The wagon lurched forward and Donovan steered the team in the same direction as the skinny driver, now about a block ahead, going east out towards Hangtown. Donovan knew he’d never catch the single rider, but he could easily catch the skinny driver and his wagon. About a mile out of Sacramento, Donovan pulled up within 100 yards behind the skinny driver.
The roadway was lightly travelled. Since leaving Sacramento, only one rider had passed by headed into town. I could take this guy out right here, right now, thought Donovan, struggling to rein in his Irish temper and his urge to take an eye for an eye. In the 1850s in the central California gold rush era, there was no sheriff or lawman like they had back east. Here, you wore the law strapped to you belt, whether it be a pistol or knife, or carried a flint lock rifle.
Thinking and planning, Donovan considered: I’ve got to be smart about this, I didn’t see who killed Kathleen, I only saw two men riding away. This skinny man and his bull-neck friend certainly look like the ones I saw riding away that day, but it was only for a second or two. Then, Donovan remembered, Coleen was there that day and she must have seen them. I’ve got describe them to Coleen to see if they’re the ones, maybe even find a way to let Coleen have a look at them. Then I’ll deal with ‘em,… make ‘em pay.
Donovan reached down to the small box under his wagon seat and pulled up a pistol which he slipped under his belt, on his left side. Then he slapped the reins to spur his team to catch the skinny driver. “Yo teamster,…hellooo,” called Donovan. Catching the other wagon, he pulled onto the left side of the pathway so that the other driver couldn’t see the pistol in his belt. The other driver finally heard Donovan’s team approach and turned looking surprised, his mouth dropping open.
“ Hey man…Ye headin’ up to Jamison’s trading post in Hangtown?” Donovan queried.
“ Huh? Oh, … yeh,” the skinny one replied hesitantly in a high pitched nasally voice.
The good lord didn’t bless this one with body, mind, or voice, thought Donovan, definitely a follower, not a leader. “You work for Smythe? I know Smythe runs a lot of wagons out of Sacramento up into the hills.”
“Uh…. Yeh, … Smythe, Yeh.”
“ I thought I recognized the brand on your team. Saw you get loaded down by the docks, … with a big fella hoofin’ the load, he a Smythe man too?” queried Donovan.
“Huh? …uh,… no, …Seamus…he’s my cuzzin. Found me this job, We was working in the hills, but had to move on.”
Seamus, thought Donovan, damned if he’s not another Irishman,… but I’ll have at ‘im if he’s the one. “I haul for Kaufman, out of Marysville. Kaufman says he’s lookin’ for a stevedore. Where does this Seamus hang his hat?”
“Huh?... Oh, Seamus an’ me got a little place west of the river, ‘bout a,…’bout a mile from Sacramento,” intoned the nasally reply.
With that, Donovan pulled left on the reins to steer his team in a northerly direction on the cut-off towards Auburn, another of the new gold rush mining towns popping up in the Sierra Nevada foothills. Donovan finished his load and then headed back towards the stable in Marysville. No stopping at the bar this night; for the first time in a long time, Donovan felt like he had a purpose. He had a lead on Kathleen’s killer and he wanted to have Coleen have a look to see if she recognized the men who attacked Kathleen.
The next Sunday morning, after an early breakfast at sunrise, Donovan and Coleen were in the wagon and on the road south to Sacramento. It was a two day trip, stopping first at a boarding house near the Nicolaus Landing ferry which crossed the Feather River. By mid-afternoon the next day, they had reached Sacramento, and were crossing the river on the ferry to look for Seamus’ place. The ferry-man, prompted by the gift of a small bottle of whiskey from Donovan, freely recalled knowing Seamus, “… and his skinny cousin Colin, I hate the sound of his squeaky voice. They’re trouble-makers, twice they’ve stiffed me on the ferry fee,… get on the ferry drunk of a Saturday night making trouble with me other customers, and the big one Seamus, is a real bully, ain’t no stoppin’ him after a nite of drinkin’. Got themselves a log and mud brick shack ‘bout a mile down the road towards ‘Frisco. I’d be careful about messin’ with the big one.”
After a short ride down the road, Donovan saw the log and mud shack ahead, and he steered the team into a small clearing behind a stand of trees near a creek. From there, he could watch the shack without being seen by its occupants or by travelers coming down the road. Donovan cut a small branch from a tree and swished away the hoof and wheel marks where they had turned off the road. He tied the horses where they could munch on some grass, and brought out a packed lunch for Coleen and himself. They found a spot on a log where they had a view of the approaching roadway and the shack.
After an hour or so, Donovan heard a ruckus from the roadway, two riders, cursing, yelling, with a horse snorting and whinnying in reaction to mean treatment, probably by the rider. Donovan alerted Coleen, and they watched as the riders approached. The big one, Seamus, clearly drunk, rode by jerking the reins of his horse, kicking its ribs and slapping its side with a leather riata, cursing at the animal and cursing at his companion, cousin Colin.
Donovan felt his muscles tense with anger watching Seamus mistreat the animal, but he held back, remembering that his purpose today was to see if Coleen recognized either man as the ones who had killed Kathleen that fateful day.
“That’s him! There’s the other one. That’s them…they’re the ones what killed Kathleen,” whispered Coleen excitedly, looking quickly to Donovan and back towards the riders. “They were drunk, just like this, and that big one comes in the tent where we’re preparing dinner, and…and…he’s cursing like this and he’s bothering a couple of early customers.”
Tears begin to flow down Coleen’s cheeks as she recalls that day, her voice getting higher pitched becoming broken by sobs, “…and,…and Kathleen says just sit and we’ll serve you. She,…she was always calm and good with the customers, and that big one bumps a table and spills this man’s dinner, and he gets up angry, and Kathleen steps between them to stop a fight and…and then there’s a shot. And they run out and I hear horses. Then you came in…Oh Donovan, it was just awful.” Donovan quickly pulls Coleen to him and buries her sobs into his chest and arms.
It was a long silent ride back to their place in Marysville, the silence broken only by Coleen’s quiet sobs and sniffles as she struggled with the awful memories of that day a year ago. Donovan’s mind, likewise, was a jumbled mess of anger and spite, as he considered various scenarios in which he would right this wrong. The man’s barrel chest and tree-trunk arms and neck probably gave him a 50 pound edge on Donovan’s 180 pound lean teamster frame. But it made no difference, this man, …these men,… had destroyed Donovan’s dream, his dream of a happy life with the lovely Kathleen .
Donovan had always prepared for danger when he travelled. The trip across the great plains several years before, threatened by bands of marauding Indians, had taught him to always travel with two more weapons, like a gun and a knife. When he began working as a teamster, he routinely carried a knife on his belt, a second knife in his right boot, and a pistol, either on his belt or in the storage box under his wagon seat. But now, he came across one of the new Colt dragoon five shot revolvers, similar to the ones used by the famed Texas Rangers. It cost him a weeks pay, but he would be ready.
Several weeks later, on a Friday evening, after a day of deliveries between the Sacramento docks and the trading posts in the hill country, Donovan found himself pulling his wagon to a stop at a road-house tavern between Auburn and Sacramento. A couple of other teamster rigs were tied outside, along with several horses. From the sound of the voices, boisterous talk and loud laughter, the travelers inside had a head start on dulling the pain of the workweek. As he secured his team at a nearby hitching post, the sounds inside grew in intensity and changed from laughter to argument.
Such talk was common when men gathered and drank whiskey. Donovan knew full well, having had a few tussles and a punch or two in reply to a whiskey induced insult. As he stepped toward the door, furniture crashed inside and a man with a white apron around his waist came flying awkwardly headfirst out the door landing against Donovan and knocking both to the ground. Donovan rolled away and Jumped up expecting a punch from the man with the apron, but then senses movement from his right, as another figure quickly emerges from the roadhouse door and jumps onto the first man, pummeling him with his massive fists. Donovan quickly assesses the situation, recognizing the attacker as the bull neck Seamus, beating up on the roadhouse bartender, a man half his size.
Donovan reaches in with his left, grabs Seamus’ shoulder pulling him off of the bartender, and follows with a solid right hook to the hunk’s jaw. Donovan could feel a tooth give and saw a bit of blood at the hunk’s lips. Seamus reacted with a grunt but quickly recovered with a roundhouse that sent Donovan spinning. Donovan was quickly set upon by Seamus, and the two exchanged a series of close body jabs to the chest and chin. Donovan became aware of others behind him, the roadhouse drinkers now cheering the fight.
Now with an audience, Seamus seemed to show off, and wound up for a right hook. In that half a second wind-up, Donovan stepped in with a left to the hunk’s stomach, knocking out the bigger man’s wind and stumbling him backwards. As Donovan stepped in for a follow-up punch, he heard a shot from behind that hit his left arm, spinning him to the ground. Following his spinning movement on the ground, Donovan instinctively reached for his colt, drew and fired at a skinny man holding the smoking gun pointed in his direction.
Still crouched, Donovan saw a metal glint from his left where he had seen Seamus gasping for a breath. Now, two guns spit fire simultaneously, and Donovan felt the heat of a bullet pass his ear, but saw Seamus recoil backwards, with a red blotch growing on his chest. Seamus attempted to pull his pistol up for a second shot, then his mouth dropped open, as his face paled to a dull gray color and his eyes looked down at the gun in his hand. The gun discharged into the ground and Seamus fell forward, head first into the dust.
The circle of men stood silently, looking at Donovan, and back to the two men who had first beat up the bartender, and then tried to kill a good Samaritan who had interceded in an unfair fight.
Only then, did Donovan fully recognize that he had stopped Seamus and Colin, the killers of the lovely Kathleen. Donovan now thought of baby Mary Katherine, and how he would focus on raising her right to fulfill the dream he had shared with Kathleen.
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