A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy (30 page)

“He better not be saying nothing ‘bout me, that old brushface.”

Wolf looked up just in time to see Jesselynn roll her eyes. Had she been listening to the conversation all along? He stood and tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “Thank you for a fine meal and a pleasant evening.” He tipped his hat to Agatha, nodded to Jesselynn, and followed the stream of folks congregating in the center of the circle.

The legendary Jehosaphats were in rare form that night, with Nate Lyons playing one part of the family after the other, from the grandfather sitting in the rocking chair to the mother scrubbing clothes on the washboard and the children getting in trouble no matter what they did. The fiddler got into it, playing on the low notes in the dark parts and lively high notes on the happy.

Jesselynn took her knitting over to the circle, chuckling along with the rest of them until she sensed Wolf behind her. She dropped two stitches and had to stop because she couldn’t see well enough in the near dark to pick them up again.

“What’d you go and do that for?” she hissed.

“What?” He leaned down to hear her better.

“Nothin’.” She stabbed the needles back in the ball of yarn, not wanting to admit the desire to stab them into him. Where had all this violence come from? She who never wanted to hurt anyone, unless of course they were wearing a blue uniform—or any uniform, for that matter.

As the applause broke out, she knew she’d missed a good part of the story. That man. Not only would he not let her hunt buffalo, now he’d ruined a perfectly good evening as well. She turned and left, oblivious to the lack of good-nights directed her way.

Wolf, however, was not oblivious. He steamed instead, responding to a pleasant “Good night, Wolf” with a curt nod.
What a cluster of hypocrites
. His father had always said,
“Give me a straight-up Indian any day before a backbiting white.”
Maybe there had been truth in that theory. Now that he could live comfortably in either world, all he could dream of was the life he’d lived as a child—before his mother died of the pox and his father took him back to civilization.

Meshach was still chuckling when he returned to their own fire. Sammy lay sleeping in Ophelia’s arms, and Thaddeus clung to Meshach’s hand. Ophelia put the two boys to bed while Meshach checked the meat hanging on the rack. He threw more chips on the fire to keep it smoldering all night to dry the meat. By the time the camp settled down, the moon had leaped from the horizon and floated like a silver disc in the heavens. After making sure everything was put away in their camp, Jesselynn rolled into her quilt on the ground under the wagon. Why had Wolf stood behind her like that? Silencing a yipping coyote would be easier than silencing her thoughts.

At a whine from Patch, Jesselynn rolled over, fully alert, listening with every nerve. She held still, wishing for Ahab, who was out with the remuda. Laying a hand on the quivering dog, she tried to see what he saw. A growl rumbled in his throat.

Could it be Indians?

Early June 1863

Another dog barked.

Patch growled again, and the hair rose on the back of his neck.

Jesselynn slid out from the covers and to her feet as soundlessly as whoever or whatever was bothering the dogs. She stood at the end of the wagon, searching the flatlands around them. The grass wasn’t deep enough to hide much.

A third dog barked. Patch, at her knee, growled again. This time the hair stood on her own neck. Something was out there, but what?

She knew Meshach was behind her without looking. “You think something’s botherin’ the horses?” She kept her voice soft so only he could hear it.

“I go see.”

“Take Benjamin?”

“I’se here.”

She strained, hoping to hear something, anything. Meshach and Benjamin looked like shadows flitting across the prairie. Patch streaked after them. She could hear others rustling. The dogs had sounded the alarm.

A shout! A rifle shot! All from the direction of the grazing animals.

Jesselynn grabbed her gun. If someone stole the horses, this long ordeal would have been for naught. “Stay here and guard!” she ordered Daniel and threw him a gun. A volley of shots and shouting made her run faster.

The hoofbeats of a running horse caught her attention, even above the thundering of her own heart. Another shot. Then a horse and rider in pursuit.

She met Meshach and Benjamin returning with the Thoroughbreds.

“Dey got Marse Wolf’s Appaloosa and one other.”

“Who?”

“Indians, we ‘spect.”

“Where was the guard?” She knew two men had been assigned to keep watch, as they always did. She swung atop one of the mares to ride back to camp.

Meshach’s snort said what he thought of the guard. “Mos’ likely sleepin’. He weren’t on him horse, dat’s for sure.”

“Who?”

“Dat worthless Rufus Jones. He was mountin’ when we got dere.”

“Where was McPhereson?”

“Don’ know. Got to look for ‘im.”

By now half the camp was awake and other men running out to join them.

“Where’s Wolf?” several men asked at the same time. “What happened?”

“Indian raid. Got two horses, one Marse Wolf’s.”

At least our horses are safe
. But guilt stabbed her as soon as the thought. Wolf and his horse were like one. She’d heard he’d raised the striking bay-and-white Appaloosa from a colt and never rode any other horse. But where was he?

She tied the mares to the wagon and waited for Meshach and Benjamin to return with the others. They’d gone to help round up the herd and bring it closer to camp. A shout said they’d found McPhereson. When they rode in with a body draped across the saddle, she knew.

Not only two horses, but they’d lost a good man. While Jones slept.

You don’t know that for sure,
she reminded herself.

A lantern flared and lit the circle where they lowered the body to the ground. The gash across his jugular glowed black in the light. His wife burst through the circle and dropped to her knees beside the body, her keening cry bringing tears to Jesselynn’s eyes. Surely this was a death that could have been prevented.

“Where is Wolf?” one of the men growled.

“Mebbe gone after de horses?” Meshach dismounted and joined the circle.

“On foot?” The man snorted this time.

“Where’s Benjamin?” Jesselynn spoke for Meshach’s ears only.

“Out on guard.”

“What about Jones?”

“Don’ know. Just someone got to stand guard. I go back out. We bring dem all close to camp.” Meshach headed back out to the herd.

The sound of galloping hoofbeats drew their attention to a rider, etched in the moonlight, coming into camp.

Jesselynn knew who it was as soon as she caught the white splashes on the lead horse. It was Wolf’s horse, so Wolf must be the rider. A second horse raced beside them.

Silence greeted his halt at the edge of the camp.

“One brave—he won’t steal horses again.” He glanced around the circle. “Where’s Jones?”

Several shrugged. The wife’s keening continued, broken only by her gulps for air. Aunt Agatha knelt beside her, her murmurs of comfort lost in the sorrow.

“Shouldn’ta happened.”

“High price.”

The muttering caught Jesselynn’s attention. Why were they blaming Wolf when Jones was to blame? If he’d been on watch like he was supposed to . . . but did they know that? Had her men kept that knowledge to themselves? Knowing Meshach, she was sure that’s what had happened.

Edging closer so she could tell Wolf what had happened without announcing it to everyone, she caught her breath. His left arm wore a gash from shoulder to elbow, the blood dripping down over his hand. She turned to see Jane Ellen at her side.

“Get my medicine box, please.” Still keeping her voice soft, she added, “And ask Daniel to build up the fire. We need hot water.”

Her attention shifted back to the circle. Wolf stood at an angle so the men couldn’t see his arm.

“I didn’t sound an alarm because that was the job of the men on guard. If there had been more braves, more horses would have been stolen, but since I heard one set of hoofbeats, I knew . . .” His words wore the patient tone of a man explaining things to children.

“Didja know McPhereson was dead?”

Wolf shook his head. “No, but I suspected as much. What about Jones?”

“He was sleeping.” Jesselynn raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Meshach found him just mounting his horse, his bedroll out by the fire.”

“Ya sure about that?” A voice rose from the gathered men.

“Meshach never lies.”

“That worthless—”

Jesselynn took a step forward, hands clenched at her sides.

“No, I don’t mean your sla—er, man.” The man with a full mink beard backed off, hands in front of him. “I mean that lowdown Jones.”

“Good thing, Henry, he—er, she woulda dropped ya for sure.” The air lightened at the general chuckle but for the keening that had now diminished to hiccupping sobs.

“Oughta just string those two brothers up. Save the woman a life o’ trouble.”

“There’ll be no talk of stringing anyone up. We don’t know the entire story yet.”

Jesselynn took her box of medical supplies from Jane Ellen and, holding it with one hand, tapped Wolf’s arm with the other. “How about I fix that arm of yours before you bleed to death?” Not that there was much danger of that. The bleeding had slowed, the dark river coagulating on the buckskin shirt.

Wolf glanced down at his arm, then at her. “It’s fine.”

“It will be after I get it bandaged. Once I see it in the light, I’ll know better if you need stitches or not.” She wasn’t prepared for the tension that ran up her hand to her shoulder when she touched his arm. Like touching a hot stove, only in that case she was wise enough to pull back. Instead, she pointed to the hunk of oak they’d been toting across the plains. “Sit.”

Jane Ellen held the lamp as she examined the wound.

“You need to take the shirt off, or I’ll have to cut out the sleeve.”

“You’re givin’ me a choice?”

She nodded.

Even in the lamplight, his face went white when he tried to raise his arm to pull his shirt over his head. Sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip.

“Jane Ellen.” Jesselynn nodded to her helper and between them they pulled off the shirt, cushioning the injured arm as best they could in the process. Firelight played over muscles that bunched when she touched a hot, wet cloth to the arm.

Trying to be gentle, she ordered her shaking hands to get the job done.

With the dried blood cleaned off, the slash started bleeding again.

“I’m going to have to stitch it.” She paused, half expecting him to argue. But when he only nodded, she motioned for Jane Ellen to thread the needle.

The rest of the wagon-train folks faded away, heading back to their beds for what remained of a short night for sleeping. Jones had yet to enter camp.

“This is going to burn.”

His grunt said only that he’d heard her.

She trickled the whiskey down from his shoulder, the length of the slash. The deepest section crossed the muscle from elbow to shoulder, but while it nicked the muscle, the cut didn’t appear to have severed it.

“You’re lucky.”

Grunt or snort, she wasn’t sure of his response, other than the white skin around his eyes and mouth.

“Had it severed this muscle, you’d have lost the use of the arm or hand.” Holding the lips of the slash with one hand, she inserted the needle through the skin and drew the thread through, back and forth, until the gaping wound lay snugly shut. She knotted the thread, snipped it with the scissors, and stepped back with a sigh. At least somewhere in the stitching her hands had stopped shaking. She applied some of the salve from her medicinals and, taking a roll of two-inch-wide sheeting, bandaged the arm. “If you wear a sling for a few days, it will heal more quickly.”

“Thank you.” He didn’t look at her.

“How is he?” Aunt Agatha returned from settling the new widow into her wagon.

“Good, if we can keep this from goin’ putrid.”

“Leastways, it wasn’t your right.” When he didn’t answer, Aunt Agatha cocked an eyebrow at her niece, who shrugged.

Lord, get me outa here
. Her hands burned him far worse than the whiskey or the wound itself. Her touch, firm but gentle, set him to twitching, which only the stiffest resolve kept him from succumbing to. What was happening? Ever since he’d realized she was a woman and the original rage wore off, he’d fought to keep his distance.

He tried working up that initial rage at her duplicity, but somewhere in the last few days he’d lost that as well. And now he was in her debt, all for a knife slashing that should never have happened. All he’d wanted was his horse back. Fool young buck, counting coup by stealing a horse. Cost him his life and the train a good man.

He clenched his teeth against the pain of the needle pulling the thread through his skin. Would she never be done? In spite of his steel resolve, his stomach roiled, and he blinked to clear the black spots from his eyes. Sure, all he needed to do was pass out now.

His arm might as well have been branded.

When she stepped back, the cool breeze of the coming dawn dried the sweat on his chest. He stared at the ground. Could he stand without making a fool of himself?

“Thank you.” Never would she know what the two words cost him.

“You’re welcome. Can you make it back to your bedroll all right?”

He glanced up at her to see her nod at Daniel, who had come to stand beside him.

Right now what he’d really like was a tote of that whiskey she had so carelessly poured down his arm. It might have done more good down his throat. Instead of answering, he lurched to his feet. Without a backward look he staggered once, then gained his equilibrium and strode off toward his simple camp. He could feel her gaze all the way. Calling himself all kinds of names did nothing to ease the holes she burned in his back.

“Well, if that don’t beat all.” Agatha planted her hands on her hips and stared after the retreating wagon master.

Jesselynn felt as if she had been horse whipped. Her shoulders ached, her hands ached too, but more for the touch of him than the weariness. She jerked her mind back from where it had wandered and began putting things to right in her box. Each stab of the needle through his flesh had been like piercing her own.
What in the world is the matter with me?

“Good night,” she said to Agatha, who was settling in the wagon. She tucked the box back in its place, and after checking on the herd of oxen and horses that now grazed near the circle of wagons, she crawled back in her bedroll, wishing for sleep for her burning eyes. The warmth seeped into her flesh and bones but did nothing to shut down the rampaging thoughts. She listened for the night noises—cattle and horses chewing the grass, an owl hooting, the cry of a nighthawk. Either of those last two could be an Indian signal. But surely they wouldn’t come this close to camp. Agatha turned over above her with a sigh. Snores could be heard from the wagon in front of them.

Patch raised his head, setting her heart to thundering immediately, and it didn’t stop when he sighed and lay back down. Since he felt his place was next to hers, she sensed his every move. He leaned into her stroking fingers, giving her wrist a quick lick in appreciation.

If one Indian got that close undetected . . . the thought made her stomach flutter. But all he’d wanted was a horse. Was that one horse worth the death of two men, one white, one red?
And would this be the last?
What if they were attacked by Indians? Other wagon trains had been, or at least she’d heard tell of it. Had Wolf ever fought off an Indian attack? Or was his being half Sioux an added protection for them?

Thoughts raced through her mind, circled, and came back for another attack. She turned over on her other side, Patch snuggled up against her back, his sigh a strong comment on her restlessness. Surely they had prayed for God’s protection on their journey. Surely others had too, yet look what happened to some of them. She’d seen a blackened wagon or what remained of it. Had that been the work of Indians?