Liberty Belle (7 page)

In minutes, they were at the lead wagon. Taylor must have put up a good fight. Wade had left the Indian dead untended. Four surrounded the man’s wagon. He hoped the grisly sight wouldn’t upset the boy.

He grasped the kid’s wrist and lowered him to the ground.

The boy pointed at the crude mound. “Is that my pa’s? He had on a blue shirt. You sure it’s him.”

Wade felt like a child caught lying. He cleared his throat and nodded. “He was barely alive when I found him. He asked me to look after you.”

There, he’d said it. Now he was responsible for the kid. Forced to tell the boy before he wanted to. Another trick of fate from the God his mother had held so dear. The One who was supposed to look out for him and help, but instead, He only laid heavy burdens on his shoulders. Wade clenched his teeth and wondered what he’d done to anger the Creator.

A clap of thunder shook Wade out of his thoughts. Wade glanced at the grave. Kneeling before the mound, Mark, hands folded and head bowed, was praying.

He owed it to the kid to help. After tying Banjo to a wagon, Wade scrounged for a suitable board for a marker. The raw hatred he had for Martin Taylor collided with the man’s son. Mark seemed like a good boy and, except for the limp, one any man would be proud to call as his own. Watching the way the boy tended the grave proved Taylor must have been a good father.

With a whack, Wade broke a board and gave it to Mark. “Here you go. Think you can scratch out the name?”

Mark nodded and took the wood, carrying it as if it were sacred. After setting it on the ground, he picked up a handful of sand and rubbed the board with a stone to scrape off the black charring. Wade watched; intrigued that the kid had figured out how to clean up the wood on his own. A knot tied his gut, whether from the boy, his enemy’s grave, or the Indians, he wasn’t sure. Unsettled, he turned to keep an eye on the horizon in case the raiders came back for their dead.

“Mr. Wade, could I borrow your knife?”

He pulled out the hunting knife and realized there was no way the kid could handle the large blade. “How about I carve the name for you?”

Mark nodded.

Wade sat next to the boy and dug into the wood, going deeper and harder with each letter. His clenched jaw ached. God must be having a good laugh. Only yesterday, Wade’s purpose was to choke the life out of the Martin Taylor. Now he was wasting his time scratching out Taylor’s name and taking responsibility for his son.

He cut leather straps from his saddle and helped Mark form a cross. After hammering the marker over the grave, Wade stood ready to leave.

The boy swallowed hard and gazed heavenward. “
Rock of Ages cleft for me
.”

Taken aback, Wade whipped off his hat and bowed his head. Old words, long discarded, joined his deep voice with the boy’s. Images of Wade’s mother and father, younger brother, and sister passed through his mind and left a flicker of peace.

Finished, they stood in silence.

A deep rumble in the distance broke the quiet. Wade jammed on his hat and touched Mark on the shoulder. “We got to go. Don’t want to get caught in that storm.”

The boy wiped his arm across his face and nodded.

Wade untied Banjo. A gust of wind blew swirling ash and smoke into the animal’s face. The horse reared, knocking Wade backward and slamming him into the wagon. Stars danced in his eyes as pain shot through his head. Stunned, Wade stumbled toward the horse.

Lightning flashed.

The gelding broke free and raced away.

Wade whistled and yelled, but Banjo continued to gallop across the prairie. Glaring into the heavens, Wade cursed, roaring at the wind, the storm, and God. Another gust drove his attention to the coming tempest. Lightning split the sky and outlined a low, strung out  cloud leading the charge.

Mark stumbled close to him. “Mr. Wade, what do we do now?”

“Well, we sure can’t outrun the thing.” He hadn’t meant it toward Mark’s limp, but the crestfallen look on the boy told Wade his words had hit hard. With a playful clip on the kid’s shoulder, he nodded to the last wagon. “That one ought to protect us if those clouds decide to throw hail. Come on, I need your help.”

Two of the wheels on one side had snapped from the axle, leaving it at a sharp tilt. He had the boy stand beside him and together they shoved until they turned the wagon over.

“Crawl under and we’ll ride out the storm and hope Banjo remembers who feeds him.”

After Mark squirmed under, huge raindrops fell. By the time Wade squeezed his big frame under the shelter, the hail started. The boy scooted toward him and huddled beside Wade. Howling winds, driving rain, and pelting hail hammered the wagon. Although covered from above, the water ran in rivulets underneath, soaking them in no time.

The boy shivered.

Wade put away his thoughts on just who Mark was and snugged his buckskin jacket around the boy. The kid hadn’t done anything wrong. At the nearest town, Wade would dump him on a family or maybe a church, though they were scarce in these parts.

“Mr. Wade, I don’t know where to go. Pa and me was going to the gold fields in Denver. But I don’t know where they are.”

Gold fields? More than likely Taylor planned to rob some poor family. “We’ll worry about that after the storm lets up.”

Loud and fierce, the wind pounded. The wagon rattled and lifted up. Debris stung his face as he did his best to shield the boy.

Something hard smacked Wade in the head and all went black ….

“Mr. Wade, please wake up. Please don’t be dead.”

His eyelids were held shut. Struggling, Wade finally managed to open his eyes. Everything was a blur. His head roared like a locomotive while every muscle screamed for attention.

“Mr. Wade, are you all right?”

After several bouts of blinking, the kid came into focus. Cuts and bruises marred his face. Fear darkened his eyes. Wade wanted to sit up, but his body told him to take it slow. He hadn’t ached like this since that brawl with the Jayhawkers in the saloon.

The rain had stopped. The dark clouds rumbled north and east. Wade raised his head and scooted to the side of a wagon. He assumed it was the one they had been under, but now it was upright again and several feet from where he’d crawled under before the storm.

“I think I’m in one piece, kid. Just give me a minute to find my legs and arms and I’ll get up.” He didn’t have to wait, the pain found them for him. Blood oozed from a cut on his right arm, but it was his left leg that throbbed for attention. A piece of wood protruding from his thigh answered why.

“You’re bleeding.” Mark’s voice shook.

“Yeah … tell you what, take my knife and find some clothes in the wagon and cut strips for bandages.”

The boy slowly nodded and some of the fear left his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

The kid did a good job. Soon Wade had his arm bandaged, but the leg was going to be a different story. From what he could tell, the chunk of wood hadn’t hit bone. That was the good news. Bad news, it was still sticking out of his leg.

He took hold of the boy’s arm. “Listen. I’m going to pull out that oversized splinter. When I do, you wrap that bandage around my leg and tie it as tight as you can. Okay?”

Concern creased his young face, but he nodded

Wade worked his way to sit up straight and brace himself. He glanced at the kid.

Mark’s eyes were closed and hands folded.

The boy was praying.

Wade couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed, probably a smarter thing to do than curse like he’d done when Banjo ran off.

Finished, Mark nodded. “I’m ready, Mr. Wade.”

Chapter 8

Wade opened his eyes to a new morning. His leg still throbbed but that meant he was alive. Yesterday’s events flashed in his mind, wagons, bodies, and the crude grave with the makeshift marker. He bolted upright and scanned the area until he saw what he was looking for huddled in the corner of the upturned wagon.
The boy.

Relief squared off with Wade’s frustration. Two-years-worth of hate and his quest came down to this? He’d never felt so empty. Perhaps the day he’d stood over the graves of his parents, sister, and brother, but even then he’d had the revenge that burned in his heart. Now there was nothing.

Thirst grabbed him, and he searched for a canteen. Right beside him. Wade stared at Mark. The boy had tied a good tight bandage on the wound and made sure he had water nearby. Smart kid. After several gulps, Wade moved his leg. Sore but he could manage. He figured they were maybe two days from the stage road but that  had been on horseback.

“Mark. Wake up. We need to get started.” Wade pushed to his feet and tested the leg. The bleeding had stopped, but he’d limp.

“Let’s go.” He chided himself for not speaking in a more gentle tone to a boy who’d just lost his father but considering who that father was justified his reason for limited patience.

The boy stirred and rubbed his eyes. He jumped up, gazed at his father’s grave, and back to Wade. “You’re alive. I was afraid—”

“You did good. We’re going to have to make it to the stage road and then on to the camp house. We’ll find help there, maybe even that crazy horse of mine. But I don’t know how far we’ll have to walk.”

Mark ambled toward him.

Wade frowned. The boy appeared frail and favored his weak leg with a noticeable limp. “Think you can walk that far?”

The boy’s face reddened. “My leg is getting better.” He gave a shy grin and pointed at Wade. “Can you?”

Some of the ice in Wade’s heart melted. “Good point. Between the two of us, we have one sound pair of legs.”

After jerking his hat down on his head, Wade pointed northwest. “I’ve got the canteen. Look around and see if you can find another. Water can be scarce.”

Mark scrounged in the wagon where Wade had discovered Taylor. Minutes later, the boy emerged, stuffed something in his pocket, and slung a container over his shoulder. “Found it. Full, too.”

“Try to keep up.” Wade took a step. His injured leg gave out, and he grabbed hold of the side of the wagon.

“I’ll help.” Mark ran to him and put his arm around Wade’s waist.

He cringed. He wasn’t used to accepting help, much less from a small boy. The fact that he was the son of Martin Taylor didn’t help. Wade sighed, let go of some of the old hate, and patted Mark on the head.

“Thanks. Soon we’ll be eating beans and sleeping in a bed.” He hoped the boy took comfort in his words. He hoped they might be close to being true.

Wade trudged along the wagon path. His leg throbbed, matching the ache in his head. The boy lagged behind but did his best to keep up. Wade admired the kid. He never complained and made himself useful.

The shadows grew short and signaled noon and time to stop and eat that is if they’d had anything to eat. He shook the canteen and heard a scant sloshing. Wade stopped and scanned the land. A little to the west, the top of a scraggly tree scarred the horizon. Hopefully, he’d find a spring or creek. Looking back, his heart dropped.

Mark knelt, folded his hands, and closed his eyes.

Wade snorted. Just his luck, hunt a man, intend to kill him, only to find him just before he dies, and then have to promise to care for his son. And if that wasn’t enough, God sent him a boy that acted more like a pint-sized preacher than a kid.

Not sure why Mark’s prayers rubbed his likes the wrong way, but they did. Wade’s mother had seen to it that she raised children who knew the Lord, and maybe that’s what bothered him. She’d been a good woman. His father a hard-working man that did the best he could by his family. His younger brother and sister never had a chance at life. All good people. None of them deserved to be shot down like dogs.

Wade sank to the ground. The weight of hard memories shook the life out of him. A little rest might help. The boy looked at him, worry etching his young face. A face that reminded him all too much of Martin Taylor.

“You all right?” Mark’s voice faltered.

The boy was scared. Wade didn’t blame him. Being left alone in the middle of a wild land would unnerve anyone. He tried to grin without scowling to ease the kid’s mood. “Just thought we could use a little rest. I see a tree up ahead. Hopefully there’ll be some water.”

Mark grinned. “That’s what He told me.”

“Who?”

The boy limped toward Wade. A few feet away, he slumped to the ground, grimaced, and rubbed his bad leg. “The Lord. I asked him for water. He told me we’d find it near a tree.”

Who did this kid think he was?
Wade didn’t reply. Didn’t have anything he could say. There’s no way the boy could have seen that tree. Wade barely saw the branches reaching over the hill, and he was a feet taller than Mark.

Stifling his anger, Wade concentrated on his bandaged thigh and the blood oozing through the strips of cloth.

“I prayed for your leg, too.”

Like a knife to his soul, the statement stabbed him. Wade glanced up and met Mark’s gaze. With bright blue eyes and angelic face, the boy’s innocence swallowed Wade’s anger. He nodded thanks, not trusting his voice.

After a few minutes rest, Wade stood. “Let’s see about that tree.”

Mark jumped up. “There’ll be water, and it’s a good thing. My canteen is almost empty.”

“Yeah, mine, too.” He winked at the boy and set off toward the west.

Stomach rumbling, Wade kept watch for any game. Nothing. No deer, antelope, or rabbit. Maybe near the creek, he’d find something. Mark had to be hungry, too.

Wade checked his pistol and loaded bullets in the empty chambers. If any unsuspecting food popped up, he wanted to be ready.

Mark caught up to him. “I prayed for food, too.”

“I suppose you thought to pray Banjo would come back and get us.”

The boy laughed. “Yep.”

“Well, there’s the tree. We’ll soon see how good a prayer you are.”

Wade topped the rise. A twisted oak with a thatch of scrub trees and green brush nestled beneath it beckoned to his hope. Might mean a spring bubbled in the midst. Gun ready, Wade almost expected a deer to come walking up to him, but nothing but a few small birds flitted in the brush.