[He pauses.]

Then, not a week later, came the Dog Decrees. The pie-oh-neeeer, as history demonstrates, has a boundless love of populist hysteria. The former Reverend White, as his history of employment demonstrates, had a boundless capacity for picking the path of most resistance toward the practical. The coyotes I mentioned howling were not merely present in my tale for the sake of literary ambiance:

Though those coyotes were hardly more than minor nuisances in and of themselves, they managed to agitate what should have been our most loyal protectors: the dogs each family had brought from back East. Here's how it went: the coyotes howled, the dogs bayed, the wolves ate our smaller livestock, and—finally—a stray arrow would whiz by our camp in a warning anything but idle.

The third arrow incident did the former Reverend White's nerves in: he ordered every dog shot.

Was this the worst idea in Christendom? Why, no! It certainly had merit! We kept alive the canines that had proven themselves as guard dogs and shepherds, services even the most tone-deaf fool could have regarded as indispensible. However, the rest went the way of Columbia's little girl.

Should it seem callous of me to make such an equation, I can assure you this was merely a matter of timing and raw feelings—again, of political attunement. Scarcely a week had gone by since the pained, protracted loss of that little girl and the company's remaining families were grateful for their cohesion and more eager than ever to keep their clans intact.

Along with his nerves, White had also lost his constituency and we were at the end of month two: election night was upon us.

A small roster of candidates was nominated, fewer than half a dozen, including White. I shall not bore you with their names—though a couple come to mind—rather I shall skip straight ahead to revealing the winner: Yours Truly.

Yes! Lansford Warren Hastings, Esquire, all of 23 years old was elected to lead the Oregon-bound pioneers of 1842! These were the days before it was considered seemly to campaign on one's own behalf, so I can assure you I did nothing to earn those votes, at least intentionally.

Once White realized the result was not a practical joke, he fumed—thus proving himself agnostic on the very tenets of democracy.

"Well, I—well, these proceedings—THIS!—this just takes my goddamned breath away!" he blasphemed as he stormed off to his wagon.

Do you know what it actually means to have one's breath taken away, Dear Reader? We say it all the time—it is the most worn, round, and platitudinous of rhetorical pebbles—but do you know?