Passage West (27 page)

In order to calm their fears, Mordecai invited the group to the Market wagon, hoping that by facing the object of their fear, they would overcome it.

“Miss Violet. Miss Abby,” Mordecai said, removing his hat. “I’ve asked Reverend Coulter and the others to see for themselves that Two Shadows means them no harm.”

“Reverend Coulter?” Violet looked up from her mending and frowned. “I’m surprised that a man of the Lord would object to our desire to tend to one of God’s creatures.”

The minister looked distinctly uncomfortable as he yanked the dark hat from his head and stood before them. “I’m sorry, Miss Market. But I have a wife and baby to think about. How do you know that Indian won’t slip into our wagons in the night and kill every man, woman, and child on this train?”

“Why should he?” Abby asked indignantly. “Do you think he would kill simply for the sport of it?”

“They’re heathens,” Jed Garner said, and Abby knew that she was listening to her father’s words coming from another man’s mouth. “You never know what they’ll do just for the fun of it.”

“This boy is too weak to even stand yet,” Violet said, crossing her arms across her chest. “We still have to help him sit up to eat.”

“And what is it he eats?” Lavinia Winters asked. “I’ve heard they eat human flesh and drink the blood of white men.”

“You’re being foolish, Lavinia,” Violet said, feeling her temper rise. “He eats the same things we do.”

If Abby hadn’t been so angry, she would have burst out laughing. The truth was, Two Shadows made no secret of the way he felt about their food. He ate what they gave him only because he had no choice.

“And what about our children?” Doralyn Peel asked, thinking about her young son lying this very minute in his blankets, dreaming the innocent dreams of the young. “I’ve heard they steal white children and make them slaves.”

“I’ve heard that too,” Jed Garner said. “It’s easy for you two women to ignore the facts. You have no children to worry about. A spinster and a misfit, according to your own kin. But we’re parents, and we have a right to fear for our children’s safety.”

A misfit? Is that how her father described her to others? “If you’re so worried about Timmy,” Abby snapped, “why don’t you and Nancy spend more time with him and less time fighting with each other and drinking my pa’s jug dry?”

The moment the words were out, she regretted them. Glancing at the disoriented stranger that Nancy Garner had become, Abby bit her lip. “I’m sorry. Nancy and Jed, forgive me. I had no right to say such things.”

“That’s right. You didn’t,” Nancy hissed. “From now on, you stay away from Timmy. In fact, I think you two should stay away from every decent person on this wagon train.”

As heads nodded and voices murmured, Mordecai held up his hands. “Please everyone. This isn’t why I brought you here. I had hoped you would see that the lad is too weak to be a threat to anyone on this train.”

“Those two are the threat,” Lavinia Winters said loudly, jabbing a finger at Abby and Violet. “They had no right to jeopardize the safety of everyone on this wagon train by bringing that Indian here.”

The others nodded in agreement.

Rourke leaned against the wagon wheel and lit a cigar. He’d been expecting this. He only wondered why they’d waited so long. It was natural for people to fear the unknown. And in this wilderness, it was necessary for survival. What these two good women didn’t understand was the ease with which a mob could turn on anyone who threatened their safety. Not only would these people turn a wounded Indian out, but they would be willing to sacrifice Abby and Violet as well. Hearing the chorus of voices grow, Rourke expelled a stream of smoke and studied the faces in the crowd. How quickly these people were willing to overlook the kindness of these two women. How many times had Abby shared her bounty with the others? When their children were sick, or one of the women took to their beds, it was always Violet and Abby who were the first to offer help. Yet these same people who accepted their kindnesses were the first to turn against them.

He’d have to be more alert, he reminded himself. Especially late at night when fears became magnified. It wouldn’t surprise him if someone on the train decided to take matters into his own hands and eliminate the problem of the Indian. Rourke sighed. He wouldn’t mind missing a little sleep. Lately his dreams had become more intense. There was no escape for him in sleep.

Crushing out the cigar, he studied Abby, her face flushed, her hands on her hips. He wasn’t doing this for her, he told himself. It was just that she and her aunt were women in need of help. And even though he’d argued against taking in the Indian, now that Two Shadows was here, he had a right to protection.

Rourke glanced again at Abby and felt the sexual pull. Who in hell was he kidding? He was beginning to feel things he’d thought he’d never feel again.

While the crowd milled about, staring at the Indian, spewing anger and hate, Two Shadows lay perfectly still, watching and listening.

“All right now,” Mordecai said. “You’ve all had a chance to voice your concerns. I ask that all of you return to your own wagons and think about the lad who is causing you such concern. You can see for yourselves that his presence is no threat to any of you.”

The wagon master knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Nothing had changed. He glanced at the silent Rourke and saw that he knew it too. Then he herded the people away from the Market wagon and into the shadowy darkness.

Abby touched her aunt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aunt Vi. I had no right to involve you in this. Everyone tried to warn me that taking Two Shadows to my wagon was a mistake. But I wouldn’t listen to them.”

Violet’s voice was low with feeling. “Are you sorry you stopped to help the boy?”

“Of course not,” Abby said quickly. “I’m only sorry I involved you in this. Now your friends have turned against you.”

“Child, if they choose to turn their backs on me, they weren’t friends to begin with. Remember that. You have to live your life according to your own beliefs, not according to what others may think about you.” Violet brushed the hair from her niece’s cheek, and allowed her fingers to rest there a minute. Peering deeply into her eyes, she murmured, “You did the right thing, Abby. I’m proud of you.”

Abby leaned over and kissed her aunt’s cheek. “And I’m proud of you, Aunt Vi. You’re the finest lady I know.”

As she walked away, Violet stood very still, watching the tiny sliver of moon in the blackened sky. What if all those brave words she’d spoken were false? Could it be possible that they had made a mistake taking the Indian in? Were they inviting an attack on the train and all its occupants? Violet shivered and blamed it on the cool breeze from the mountains. She shook her head, as if to dispel any lingering doubts. They were doing the right thing. He was one of God’s creatures. If she were capable of overcoming one of her cherished prejudices, she would be a better person for it. She and Abby would stand by their convictions, despite what the others said or did. And if she harbored a few fears, she would just have to live with them.

As she drew a shawl about her shoulders and stirred the fire, two dark eyes watched from the wagon. Ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder at the movement, Two Shadows shifted in his bed and reached for the knife that had been carelessly left behind from the supper tray. Fumbling beneath the blanket, he slid it between two boards in the floor of the wagon. Checking to be certain it wouldn’t fall through the cracks, he replaced the blanket. Then, closing his eyes, he listened to the familiar sounds of the night.

*  *  *

It was nearly dusk when the wagon train stopped to make camp. They were following the trail of the Humboldt River, which snaked from northeastern Nevada some four hundred miles across the arid flatlands. Lying between mountain ranges of the Great Basin, it was a lifeline that provided water and grass to the travelers heading toward California. Without it, the western crossing would have been impossible.

Rourke saw Brand’s riderless mount galloping hard toward the circle of wagons. Instinctively, Rourke checked his gun, then made his way to the cook wagon.

The horse was foaming, his coat thick with dust.

“What do you make of it?” Parker asked, grasping the reins.

“Trouble,” Mordecai muttered. “Brand is too smart to ever lose his mount.”

“Could be Indians,” Rourke said, studying the horse.

“They would have caught his horse to keep from warning us.”

“If they could catch it.”

Mordecai looked at Rourke, then nodded. “We’ll have to ride out and find him.”

“I’ll go,” Rourke said firmly. “That’s why you hired me.”

The wagon master leaned heavily on his stick and watched as the gunman began saddling his horse. When he swung into the saddle, Rourke called, “Send someone to the Market wagon to watch the Indian.” Wheeling his mount, he disappeared into the gathering shadows.

*  *  *

Brand’s mount had left a clear trail. From the looks of him, Rourke knew that he had run for miles. What surprised Rourke was that the horse had come from the direction the train had traveled the previous day. Why would the scout follow a trail they had already taken when his job was to scout ahead? He scanned the flat terrain and felt the adrenaline begin to pump. Brand must have seen something suspicious. Something that caused him to circle back on the trail.

It was past midnight when Brand’s trail ended just below a small rise. Twice Rourke circled, doubled back, then circled again. Each time he came up with nothing. There was no sign of a struggle. And no sign of the scout. As he had trained himself to do, he began a slow, methodical search for nearly a mile in each direction, then enlarged the area until he had covered every foot of ground for miles.

A quarter moon offered little to light the darkness, and his eyes grew heavy from the effort. Still he continued circling, alert for any sign of trouble.

He had tracked men before. He had taught himself to be patient, watchful. Now it was almost second nature.

He almost passed by. There wasn’t anything there really. Just a shadow, slightly darker than the surrounding shadows. Still, on a hunch, Rourke reined in his horse and slid from the saddle.

Brand was lying on his side, one arm flung above his head. His clothes and the ground around him were soaked with his blood. His eyes were wide and sightless, his mouth open as if to scream. His throat had been slit.

Taking a blanket from behind his saddle, Rourke knelt to wrap the body before taking it back to the train. As he rolled the scout’s body forward, he spotted the blood-soaked wound in his back. When he examined the flesh, he knew with chilling clarity. Brand hadn’t been killed by a lone gunfighter or gang of cutthroats. This was the work of Indians. And they had removed the arrow and then slit his throat to make certain he was dead. Rourke felt his blood run cold. To make certain Brand didn’t return and warn the wagon train.

Leaving the body, Rourke pulled himself into the saddle and urged his horse into a run. Brand had doubled back on the trail because he had spotted the Indians following the train. Ute or Paiute? This was their territory. His eyes narrowed. Kiowa, coming to claim the escaped Cheyenne? Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he urged him even faster. Whatever tribe they were, the people on the train were in grave danger. And though he feared for all the people, only one name sprang to his lips. Abby. Dear God, Abby.

*  *  *

Dawn had not yet lightened the horizon. The night sounds had stilled. The morning sounds had not yet begun.

In the wagon, Abby and Violet slept. Beneath the wagon, James Market lay where he had fallen after drinking an entire jug of whiskey . Thompson sat with his back to a tree, a rifle across his lap. He had agreed to keep an eye on the Market wagon until Rourke returned. Though he fought to stay alert, his head bobbed.

Inside the wagon, Two Shadows heard the whistle of a prairie bird and lifted his head. So far from home, that bird, he thought with a smile. Moving his hand slowly to the canvas flap, he peered into the eerie gray light of the predawn. Within a few minutes he saw a figure move from the shadows toward the man at the base of the tree.

Thompson was yanked to his feet. The rifle in his hands went off with a terrible explosion of sound, shattering the stillness before clattering to the ground. The Indian brought his arm around Thompson’s throat, cutting off his air.

Instantly the quiet camp erupted into bedlam. Men rolled from their beds, groping for weapons. Women herded the children into small clusters, struggling to still their crying.

Mordecai and Parker leaped from the cook wagon and ran toward the sound of gunfire.

Abby grabbed her rifle and jumped from the wagon only to find herself staring at Thompson, being held in a death grip by an Indian.

A second Indian on horseback motioned for her and the others to throw down their rifles. Seeing Thompson struggling for breath, they did as they were ordered. Behind them, Violet stepped from the wagon. She had wrapped herself in her blanket for modesty.

Beneath the wagon, James Market stirred from his drunken stupor. Befuddled, he tried to stand, fell to one knee, then pulled himself up. Seeing the Indians, he sank back down to his knees, staring in fascination.

As each man came running, he was ordered to throw down his weapon. No one wanted to be the cause of Thompson’s death. Soon all the men of the train stood around the Market wagon, feeling helpless.

“We come for the One with Two Shadows,” the Indian on horseback said.

“So you can enslave and torture him again?” Abby called out.

The Indian seemed surprised by the woman’s voice from the one dressed like a man. “Who would say these things of us?”

“He did. The One with Two Shadows. He said the Kiowa captured him and made him a slave.”

“We are not Kiowa,” the horseman said. “We are Cheyenne. Where are you holding the son of the chief?”

“The chief?” Stunned, Abby studied the Indian. Hadn’t Brand said Two Shadows was important to his people? Were they speaking the truth? Or were they really Kiowa, planning to take him back against his will?