A Place Called Harmony (19 page)

Looking at the old lady, he wondered if she’d even make the trip. “What’s that thing at her side?”

“That is my momma’s musket. It’a old flintlock.”

“I know what it is, Momma Roma.” Clint hadn’t seen a weapon that old in years. “It only shoots one shot at a time.”

“That’s all’a she ever need. We call’a her Granny Gigi but you no call’a her. She not answer to you.”

Clint nodded.

The little woman frowned at him and he knew she wasn’t finished with her bargaining.

Her words came slow as if she needed to make sure he understood every word. “I cook, do notta suggest I do anything else for you or Granny Gigi will use her bullet on you.”

“Fair enough. I’m Truman and you should know that I’m a married man.”

“That no stop’a the foreman at the factory. He know the women can’t afford to say no. Women need to feed their families. They can no get fired. The young ones he forces, and if they fight he makes them fall down. Sometimes many times. He know they go’a home hurt but only tell’a their family that they fell. If they too hurt to work, he fires them.”

Anger climbed in Clint. He made a promise that if he ever came back to Dallas he’d visit that factory again and this time it wouldn’t be a woman who fell down. But right now he had his pockets already full of trouble and the safest thing to do was get out of town fast.

Clint told her to translate to her sons all the orders needed as they loaded up. She rode with one son; her mother and the little boy rode with the other. The dog rode on top of one of the wagons that was covered with canvas to protect their stores from the rain.

As they pulled out, Clint was all business; but when they left town behind, he couldn’t get what Filicita had said out of his mind.
If the women didn’t agree to the abuse, they fell down many times.
They were beaten.

The list of questions he couldn’t ask his wife was growing.

B
ETWEEN
D
ALLAS
AND
THE
T
RADING
P
OST

By the third day on the road north, Clint Truman decided the smartest thing he ever did was hire a cook. He couldn’t pronounce half the food, but it tasted great. The two regular drivers from Buford’s livery, Jack West and Harry Woolsey, said they’d make a haul anytime Truman needed drivers. One even claimed that the reason the man Buford fired last week drank was that he couldn’t stomach the bad food on the trail.

Momma Roma was a worker, Truman would give her that. She was up making coffee before the others crawled out of their bedrolls. After breakfast she’d pack up a snack for each man while her mother scrubbed the pots. When they stopped at dusk her little boy would make the fire while she cooked up food that seemed far too fancy to serve on a campfire menu. When she wasn’t busy trying to teach her sons to speak English, she sang.

Truman could hear her voice from a mile away. Though he couldn’t understand the words, he smiled, thinking how nice it sounded.

Her sons made up in effort what they lacked in skill, and the old dog they brought along barked at everything that moved near the wagons.

On the fifth day, they stopped by a stream a few hours before dark. The day was sunny, the air still. Everyone needed a break.

Clint took a bath and switched into his other set of clothes, the ones Karrisa had mended. He ran his hand along her fine stitching and thought that she’d cared enough about him to sew up all the tiny rips he’d simply gotten used to. She’d altered the new clothes she’d bought too. He was a big man, slim in the waist and wide in the shoulders. The new clothes fit him better than any he’d ever had.

With the good weather and steady progress, they’d be home in three days, ahead of schedule. He wasn’t sure he’d thanked her for the clothes, but he’d remember to do that when he got back to her.

Neither of the regular drivers had brought along extra clothes, so they simply pulled off their boots and waded into the water with a bar of soap. Without taking off a stitch, they washed body and clothes at the same time, then lay in the grass to dry.

Momma Roma and her mother rigged up a tent between two of the wagons. She boiled water in her pots, and then the women washed in privacy.

The Roma boys didn’t move toward the water. Apparently they’d just gotten their winter coat of dirt and didn’t plan to wash until spring. Truman did his best to communicate with the young men using hand signals and the few words they knew.
North, south, right, left. Hello. Thank you.
They were good boys who earned their pay and respected their mother. That went a long way in Truman’s book.

The next afternoon he rode away from the camp, planning to shoot a few rabbits and take a good look back. If anyone followed them, he wanted to know before they got close enough to fire off a shot.

The rabbits were easy to find but he saw nothing, not even a dust devil along the road behind them. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, was out there watching.

After a supper of the best hare stew he’d ever eaten, Clint climbed up a rise about a quarter of a mile from camp and studied the horizon. This time of day, just before dark, the wind settled and all the land stilled. If anything, or anyone, was out there, his best chance of catching sight of them was now.

Something had kicked up dirt toward the north, but trouble wouldn’t be coming from that direction. Clint decided wild ponies must have been running, or deer.

A thin line of smoke rose toward the western sky, almost too thin to be a campfire. Clint watched it disappear and thought of a dozen things that could have caused the wisp of smoke: a low-hanging cloud, an animal darting across fine dust. Or maybe his nerves were simply causing him to see things.

In the shadows he watched one of the drivers, either Jack or Harry, who must have walked away from the camp earlier and was now strolling back. Clint had seen the same shadow moving other nights and guessed whoever it was liked to make sure he was alone when he visited nature’s outhouse, or maybe one of the drivers drank a little and wanted no one to see him. After all, the last driver had been fired for drinking.

Clint made a note to watch them both carefully. He didn’t care about the drinking at night, but he wanted both men alert in the morning.

He flattened against the earth and listened as he watched his small band make camp within the square of four wagons. He knew how men hunted, even those who hunted other men. If anyone tried to move in on the camp, he’d see them long before they saw him. Also, there was a good chance the dog would bark or one of the men in camp would spot something moving. Since the first night he’d had the men guard in two-hour shifts.

The boy’s dog barked suddenly and ran out of the square of wagons. Someone let out a whistle and the mangy animal returned to the camp. They were settling in for the night.

Clint watched and waited. Two days, three at the most and he’d be home. Strange how he could think of one room above a trading post as home. The supplies he carried would build his house, but home was where Karrisa stayed. The little farm they were starting would be awfully quiet with just the two of them in a house. He’d kind of gotten used to all the talking and laughing at the trading post. He wouldn’t miss Ely’s snoring, though.

A little after midnight, he moved down into camp. With a low whistle he let the man on guard know that he was returning.

One of Momma Roma’s boys whistled back.

Clint took care of his horse but didn’t move close enough to the fire to feel the warmth. He’d put up with the cold in trade for the ability to be unseen.

As he had every night, he climbed up on one of the wagons and stretched out.

Watching the silent shadows of the night, he thought of his wife. Funny, in all the days they’d been together she hadn’t been on his mind as much as she was tonight. Maybe folks don’t see the good or bad in people until they step away.

He tried to stay alert. If trouble was going to come, it would probably come by tonight. After that they’d be too close to the trading post. Clint didn’t close his eyes all night. Everyone else must have felt the promise of trouble following them, for they were up and ready to move soon after dawn.

The progress went well all morning and into the afternoon, but as evening approached so did the clouds. By the time they stopped for the night, Clint couldn’t see twenty feet beyond the circle of the wagons.

Everyone was tired. Momma Roma didn’t sing and none of the men talked as they ate their supper and turned in. By dark the low fog seemed to blanket them in and the cold frosted their breaths.

If outlaws were near, this was the break they’d been waiting for. It didn’t matter how good a shot Clint was, if he couldn’t see the target, he couldn’t fire.

Lack of sleep from the night before wore on them all. Clint took the first watch, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stay awake long. With his rifle on the crook of his arm, he walked around the wagons. They’d pulled the mules inside a wider circle tonight and hadn’t even tried to keep the fire going. Though embers still offered some light, Clint knew that by midnight they’d be in total darkness.

Most of the crew elected to sleep on top of the wagon loads. It might not be as comfortable and could be deadly if someone rolled off in his sleep, but the height seemed to offer a bit of safety. Anyone storming the camp would be looking down for bedrolls, not up.

Clint guessed if it started raining, they’d all move under the wagons. He swore. How had he become a mother hen to this group? A month ago he could barely take care of himself and now he had seven people and a dog to worry about. He’d even made Granny Gigi a place between the boxes where she and her old musket would be out of the wind.

While they all slept, the mutt followed Clint on his rounds. Every time Clint stopped to stare into the fog, the dog stopped too as if somehow helping.

A little after midnight, when Clint was waiting for Jack to replace him, the dog growled low.

Clint lifted his rifle even though he guessed it was probably Jack circling around the outside of the wagons looking for him. Only, the dog usually didn’t growl at anyone in the group.

“Jack?” Clint whispered. “That you? You’re late taking watch.”

No answer.

Maybe it was a rabbit or groundhog or snake getting too close to the camp?

Clint moved between two of the wagons and continued to watch the night as the dog stared into the fog at something he saw. The hair on the back of the dog rose. Clint sensed trouble he couldn’t see.

Curling his finger around the trigger, Clint waited. Anyone coming up in this fog wouldn’t be a friend.

A sound came from the tall grass on the other side of the wagons. The old dog turned his head and barked but didn’t leave his watch.

Trouble was approaching from two sides and Clint couldn’t see five feet in front of him. He did hear movement above him and guessed the dog’s bark had alerted the others. Clint wanted to yell for them to stay put. To stay safe. But if outlaws were moving in, he didn’t want to give away his location.

He circled, the rifle ready. If rushed from all sides, he’d have time to get off one shot, maybe two, before they reached him or a bullet found him. No one else on the caravan claimed to be much of a shot except for Granny and her one bullet, so he had to make his few shots count.

A swishing sound reached him a second before a board creaked above him. Something hard and flat slammed into his head. He tumbled forward, losing his hold on the rifle a moment before he saw stars in the cloudy night.

Clint hung on to consciousness by a thread and remained still on the ground. Several men were moving around him. Shuffling in the dirt, whispering orders about where to look.

A guttural voice came through loud and clear in the still air. “Where in the hell are the others, Jack?”

The realization that Jack West had betrayed him hurt far more than the knot on Clint’s head. He’d trusted Jack. Even looked the other way when he thought the man was drinking.

“I don’t know.” Jack’s voice was low and close, a whine in the night. “I thought they were all on top of the wagons or bedded down by the fire. The old woman sometimes sleeps underneath, but even she’s disappeared.” He swore and added, “She’s a hundred years old, she couldn’t have gotten far.”

“They couldn’t have all disappeared.” Dollar Holt’s voice came through, angry and impatient. “Find them.”

“In this fog? I was lucky to even see the top of Truman’s head.” Jack’s words held a hint of panic. “He’s the one you want. Who cares about the others? Let’s hitch the wagons and move out.”

“Not before I end Truman’s miserable life.” Dollar laughed. “A couple of you men grab him and shake him awake. I want him to know I’m the one killing him. I plan to shoot him in both legs so he’ll beg before he gets the final bullet. He caused me a hell of a lot of trouble and I plan to repay the favor.”

As two of Holt’s men lifted him up, Clint heard Jack whisper to Dollar, “We got to kill Harry too. He knows me. The others will probably die out here, and even if they manage to find a post, no one will listen to them. But Harry, he’d be a witness. He might be standing ten feet away watching right now. Before we move out, we got to kill Harry.”

Dollar laughed. “That’s your problem, Jack. When you decided to go in with us, you took your chances. He probably doesn’t know you’re involved. Ran off with all the others would be my guess. Maybe you should stay behind and pick them off one by one while you try to stay alive walking to the trading post.”

“No.” Jack puffed up, ready to argue. “I go with you. These four wagons will bring a good price and I want my cut. I’m not in this for the fun of it. After all, I’m the one who told you about this shipment in the first place.”

Clint was pulled to his feet by two thugs. He raised his head just in time to see Dollar draw his gun from his holster and shoot Jack West in the heart. The driver crumbled as if boneless.

Dollar stood over him and fired another round, making the body seem to twitch in death. “There. That’s your cut. Never ask for your money before the job is done.”

Clint straightened. If this was his turn to be shot next, he’d face it head on. Blood dripped from where he’d been clubbed, blocking out most of his vision from the left side. If he could get one arm free, he’d have a chance, but the men holding him were powerful enough to make sure that didn’t happen.