Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (36 page)

The judge turned slowly to stare at the captain. “You scared of him, Kyle?”

“Hell! What gave you that idea?”

“It’s plain that you don’t want to go up against him.”

“I don’t want any unnecessary trouble. I’m suggesting that if we can’t go on ahead, we should make the best of it until we can split off from them.”

“Once you start caving in to these people out here, you lose your authority.”

“If I learned one thing during the war, Judge, it’s when to stand and when to retreat.”

“You learned that handing out supplies at quartermaster headquarters in Illinois?” A sneer colored the judge’s voice.

“I was trained for combat before I went to headquarters,” the captain said with restrained anger.

“Kyle, I’m well aware that you may have had some basic trainin’, but you’ve had very little, if any, combat experience. It’s of no consequence to me. You’re the one Cindy wants, and I’ve accepted that. You handle your patrol, and I’ll handle the politics necessary to get us to our destination.”

Kyle Forsythe was grateful that the darkness concealed his livid face and the fists he clenched in anger. The potbellied old fool had never spoken to him in that contemptuous tone before. He had to exercise considerable self-restraint to keep from pointing out to the judge that he put up with his arrogance and stupidity only because of Cindy and what she could bring to their marriage.

Damn him to hell!

Kyle stayed where he was when the judge left him to walk down the line to his wagon. He was on shaky ground here and he knew it. He had planned so carefully, and now something he’d had to do to survive had come back to plague him.

Kyle stared at the freighter-camp clearing visible in the moonlight. He had been in tight spots before—plenty of them—and brazened his way out. There was no reason why he couldn’t do it again. It all boiled down to
her
word against his. All he had to do was deny everything.

With that resolve in mind, he headed for his tent without, as was his habit, stopping by the caravan to say good night to his fiancée.

*  25  *

T
his was the fifth day on the trail. The sun sent heat waves shimmering down on the train as it moved sluggishly across the prairie of sparse grass and baked earth. When John signaled the lead wagon to turn in for the midday rest, the cry “Swing in!” was echoed down the line. The bull-whackers guided their oxen into a wide curve and stopped them when the wagon boss signaled. By the time the last wagon was in place, the oxen pulling the first wagons had been unyoked and were being led to water.

Addie and Colin went to help Bill prepare the first meal of the day, while Trisha stayed to tidy the wagon and watch the two younger children. She wore the new riding skirt Addie had bought her and a shirt tucked neatly into the waistband. Her hair was pulled back and secured with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. Addie refrained from commenting on her appearance for fear that Trisha would be embarrassed and go back to her old ragged skirt and loose shirt.

Trisha was unusually quiet, which led Addie to believe that something had happened last night between her and Buffer Simmons. This morning she stayed out of sight inside the wagon when he came by to pass the time of day.

“Dillon, I got to wash yore face and hands.”

“Ah . . . Trisha—”

“Yore mama said ya can’t go eat if ya ain’t washed and your hair ain’t combed.”

Trisha was washing Dillon’s face when Buffer rode up and dismounted. On the point of going to her, he saw her eyes drop and her hands still for a second. A mighty upsurge of confidence filled him, and he looked at her with a slow smile. He understood that it wasn’t easy for her suddenly to let down her defenses and be easy with him. He stood waiting for her to look at him.

“Hello, Mr. Buffer.” Jane Ann came out of the wagon. “You gonna go eat with us?”

“Howdy, Miss Janie. Yore lookin’ chipper.”

“What’s that? You mean I’m a bird?”

“Yup.” He glanced at Trisha and saw her smile. “A purty little wren.”

“Hear that, Trisha. Mr. Buffer said I was pretty like a bird.”

“For once, I think he’s right.” Trisha looked at Buffer, her eyes mirroring her pleasure. “Maybe he’ll teach you to whistle like one.”

“I’m not much of a whistler.” Buffer slapped the belt he had cut down for Trisha lightly against his thigh.

“You gonna whup somebody?” Jane Ann asked anxiously. She shied away from him.

“Naw. This is for Trisha.”

“Are ya gonna whup Trisha?” Jane Ann put her arms around Trisha’s waist.

“Christ on a horse,” Buffer muttered.

“He ain’t meanin’ that, honey.” Trisha hugged the little girl. “He fixed it so I can wear it an’ have my knife handy ta get a splinter outa yore finger, or cut ya some flowers.”

Buffer knelt down and swung the belt around Trisha’s waist. He fitted the strap into the buckle, then settled the belt to ride above her hip bones and the scabbard against her thigh.

“Where’s that pig-sticker of yore’s?”

She stepped into the wagon and returned with it fitting snugly into the scabbard.

“That’ll do till I get ya a good throwin’ knife.”

Buffer’s hand caressed her shoulder and arm. It was something he had to do. He had to touch her this morning to make sure that what had passed between them last night was real and not a dream. She didn’t flinch away, and his heart soared.

“Where’s Dillon?”

“There he is!” Jane Ann shouted, pointing toward where the stock was grazing. “He’s way over there.”

“Lord have mercy!” Trisha exclaimed. “That little devil is faster than scat! Stay here, Jane Ann—”

“I’ll get him.” Buffer mounted his horse. “Keep the younguns close to the wagons, Trisha. This is a good place for prairie rattlers.”

A minute later, Trisha and Jane Ann watched as Buffer leaned from the saddle and swept the boy up to sit in front of him on the horse. He held Dillon to him with an arm clamped about his waist.

“Ya ever seen a rattler, boy?”

“A snake? Colin killed one with the hoe.”

“The rattlers here on the prairie are big enough to swaller ya up whole. There’s dens of ’em. Ya stay near the wagons, hear? Snakes scatter away from the oxen ’cause they don’t want ta get stepped on. If ya run off again, I’ll tell yore pa and he’ll tan yore hide.”

Back at the wagon he set Dillon on his feet. The boy ran to Trisha and wrapped his arms around her thighs.

Buffer sat his horse and looked at her. His heart swelled with love and pride. It was a miracle that now she looked upon him with favor. He’d been alone since he had been Colin’s age. He’d had no one to look out for but himself. No one had really cared for him, or depended on him, until now.

Trisha. Trisha. I’ll spend my life keeping you safe.

“Stay in the open, sweet girl,” he said softly. “I’ll be watchin’.” He rode away still looking at her over his shoulder.

Trisha combed Jane Ann’s hair and waited for the sound of the bell to call them to the cook wagon. It had been an ordeal for her to go among the men, but this morning her heart fluttered only when she thought of Buffer Simmons and what he had said to her last night.

“Howdy, missy. Howdy there, young scutters. Grab ya a plate and get ya some flapjacks,” Bill called cheerfully as they approached.

He was pouring batter from a pitcher onto a flat iron griddle set up on legs over the fire. At another campfire, Colin turned slabs of meat with a long fork. Addie dipped coffee from a large round pot with a long-handled ladle.

This was the time Bill liked best. He ragged the men who came with their plates, calling them hogs and accusing them of having hollow legs. They grinned, knowing that if it were not for the ladies present, Sweet William’s language would not be so sweet.

Each man washed his own plate, cup, and spoon with a mop in a large pot filled with warm sudsy water, then rinsed them by holding them in hot water with a pair of pliers. Afterward they were set on a table where Addie dried them and stored them away for the next meal.

The men had become used to her and Colin being there. They teased Colin and passed a few shy words with Addie. Today a few of them paused and spoke a few words with Trisha, then hurried away.

“Glad to see ya doin’ all right, miss.”

“We find who hurt ya and he’ll get ripped, that’s certain.”

“Ah . . . señorita. Sad we are for what happen.”

“We catch the
perro,
we keel him!” The Spanish word, meaning “dog,” was hissed through the young Mexican’s tight lips.

Trisha glanced at each man, murmured her thanks, and looked down at her plate.

Addie was anxious at first, fearing that Trisha would bolt when the first man approached, then was relieved and proud. When the last man left the cook area, the girl’s golden eyes sought Addie’s. She smiled.

They both knew that Trisha had passed a test . . . of sorts.

*  *  *

It was high noon. John, with Dal Rolly, was making the round of the wagons to check the loads and the wheels, looking for signs of possible breakdowns.

“I’m just now knowin’ why Simmons signed on. He’s sweet on that gal.” Rolly cut a slice from a plug of tobacco and poked it in his cheek.

“You’d have to be blind not to see it. Simmons is a good man. I’m glad we’ve got him with us.”

“Damn good at readin’ sign, so Cleve says. He oughta know, ’cause he ain’t no slouch hisself.”

“Got any ideas how a man could’ve got in that copse and waylaid the girl without being seen by someone?”

“The only thin’ I know is that it wasn’t one a ours. It’s gotta be somebody who rode out from town. Tell ya one thin’, the men would’a strung him up and skinned him if we’d caught him.” Dal spat in the grass. “It’s a downright insult to ’em to let it happen.”

“Cleve backtracked and saw no sign. Simmons has been nosing around too.”

“Shitfire! Here comes the judge and that damned stiff-necked Yankee captain.”

“They’ll be complaining about something.”

“Ain’t they the damnedest know-it-all bunch ya ever did see? They’ve not tarred a wheel since they left Van Buren. When I told ’em that sand was gettin’ in the hubs, they didn’t bat a eye. Just sat right there on their arses like I didn’t know what I was talkin’ ’bout.”

“I hope we’ll be rid of them in a few days.”

“I’ll pray on it,” Rolly murmured, turned his back and poked at a rim on a wheel as the riders approached.

“Word with you, Mr. Tallman.”

“Step down, Van Winkle.”

The captain dismounted also, even though he had not been invited. Van Winkle removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a pristine white handkerchief.

“Hot day.”

“It’ll get hotter . . . and drier.”

“I understand you’ll be crossing the Arkansas in a few days to follow the Canadian River west. Captain Forsythe and I are considering going ahead of you tomorrow and on to the fort.”

“Tomorrow?” John lifted his brows.

“We’ve seen nothing since leaving Van Buren to indicate there are hostiles about.”

“Did you expect to?”

“We’ve seen none of the roving bands of savages and outlaws you said were in this area. If they are here, they’ve left no sign.”

“They’ve left signs. Yesterday we passed within a mile of a freshly abandoned camp. Not an Indian camp. Indians clean their camp sites before they leave.”

“It could have been an army camp—a patrol out of Fort Gibson.”

John laughed. “Not likely.”

“Who, then?”

“Renegades. Mexican outlaws. Confederate bands that refuse to admit the war is over.”

“How many days to the fort from the fork of the rivers?”

“Two. Maybe three. The closer you get to the fort, the less likely you are to be set upon.”

During this exchange the captain had remained silent, as if he were not interested in the conversation. John directed his next remarks to him.

“You’d be smart to advise the judge to hang with us until we reach the cutoff, then follow the Arkansas and run hell for leather for the fort. That outfit of his is like a hunk of bread being dangled before a starving man. You can bet it’s been spotted. News travels fast, even out here.”

“We’re not afraid of being overrun by a rag-tail bunch of misfits.”

John shrugged.

Dal Rolly spat a stream of yellow tobacco juice into the grass and shaking his head in disgust, walked away.

With his foot on the tongue of the wagon, John leaned his forearm on his thigh and wished the judge and his captain would mount up and leave. Addie and the children were coming from the cook wagon and he wanted some time with them.

Dillon broke loose from Addie’s hand and ran to him. John scooped him up to sit on his arm. Dillon put his face close to John’s.

“Papa! Mr. Buffer said you’d tan my hide—” Suddenly aware of the strangers, the boy became bashful and hid his face against John’s shoulder.

The smile died on Addie’s lips when she and Jane Ann rounded the wagon and she saw the judge and the captain standing in the shade of the freight wagon. She felt as if she were going to suffocate. Her eyes went to the captain’s face. She saw it clearly in her mind without the mustache and goatee.
It was Kirby’s face. The mole on his chin was covered by the goatee.
Dear God! It was
him.
The man looked at her and away, then turned to fiddle with a strap on his horse’s bridle.

John saw the look of shock on his wife’s pale face, saw her lips tremble, saw her suck air into her open mouth. Instinctively he knew that she had known Captain Forsythe in the past or thought she had. Forsythe’s face, however, gave no indication that he’d ever seen her before.

“Captain Forsythe, have you met my wife and son?” With Dillon still on his arm, John reached out with the other and drew Addie close to him. “And my daughter, Jane Ann?” he added as the child leaned against his knees.

“Yes, I met Mrs. Tallman and the boy the first day out. It’s nice to see you again, ma’am.” Kyle Forsythe looked Addie in the face and spoke quietly, politely. There was not the slightest tremor in his voice. But Addie knew it was Kirby’s voice, even though the northern accent was more pronounced.