Savage Autumn (4 page)

Joanna glanced out the second-story window of the inn, watching the people scurrying by. She and Tag had been staying at the Wellmore Inn with Simon and Franny for three weeks now.

Tag had been overjoyed to hear that their father was still alive. He pestered Joanna each day, wanting to know when they would be going to Oregon.

Simon had discreetly inquired at the docks about a ship that would carry them to Oregon. But Joanna’s uncle had foreseen that they would try to make their way to their father, so he had alerted the authorities about her’s and Tag’s disappearance and the docks were alive with men searching for them. There would be no way for them to board a ship without their Uncle Howard finding out about it.

Joanna hadn’t known what to do until she saw a notice which had been posted in the paper. There was a wagon train that was headed for Oregon Territory, and when it left Philadelphia, she intended for her and Tag to leave with it.

When she had first told Simon and Franny her plans they had protested loudly, but in the end they had agreed that the situation was desperate enough to call for reckless measures.

Joanna was overcome with relief and gratitude when Franny and Simon insisted on accompanying her and Tag on the long and dangerous journey.

To Joanna’s surprise, Franny had somehow managed to
smuggle much of her and Tag’s clothing out of the house before she left.

Some of Joanna’s mother’s jewels had been sold to buy a wagon, horses and supplies.

Tomorrow morning before sun up, the train would be heading out, and Tag was a bundle of excitement. He looked on the excursion as an adventure, while Joanna looked upon it with fear. She had heard all sorts of tales about the brutal Indian attacks on the wagon trains. If she weren’t so desperate she would never have decided to go overland to Oregon.

Howard Landon stood beneath the portrait in the study and gazed at the likeness of Joanna with a grim expression on his face. His eyes were blurry from too much wine, and he raised his glass in a salute to the flaming-haired beauty.

“I got to admit you were the clever one, but I’ll find you, and when I do, you will pay, Joanna.” Her violet-colored eyes seemed to mock him, and Howard threw the wine glass at the picture and the red-colored wine looked like blood as it ran down Joanna’s face.

“Damn you! Some day I’ll make you pay.”

He slumped down in a chair and stared at Joanna’s face once more. “You are so beautiful. You make a man forget many things, but he can never forget you.”

One thing was certain; Joanna might get to her father but he would be dead by the time she arrived. Howard had sent a man ahead to see that Russell James wasn’t in any condition to cause him any trouble. The man would remain behind to wait for Joanna and Tag when the deed was done. One day he would have her back.

August

Joanna sat beside the river with her back braced against a Cottonwood tree, trying to concentrate on the book she had been reading. She sighed in exasperation when she realized she had read the last sentence over several times without comprehending its meaning.

She closed the book and laid it down on the grass beside her. It was such a beautiful day, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. A warm breeze was blowing, and she could smell the sweet scent of the blossoming wild flowers.

She lay down on the sweet-smelling grass and rolled over on her stomach to observe a bumble bee as it buzzed from buttercup to buttercup gathering nectar to make honey.

It was so peaceful beside the river that Joanna felt she was the only human being within hundreds of miles.

She trailed her hand in the river water, which felt icy in spite of the fact that it was late August.

What was she doing in the middle of this no man’s land? she wondered. Closing her eyes, she allowed her thoughts to drift backward. She remembered the night she and Tag had been forced to flee from their home. Her anger was still smoldering just below the surface. When they reached Oregon their father would take care of his sister and her husband. Joanna’s violet eyes flashed. Someday her aunt and uncle would pay for what they had done to her and Tag. She thought of her father and hoped he was recovering from his injury. What would he do when the
Althea
docked in Oregon and she and Tag were not on board? Had she known about all the delays, she would have found another way of reaching Oregon. She
shook her head, knowing she had done the right thing. At the time there had been no other alternative.

The journey had been ill-fated from the start. They were traveling with ten other families, and the plan had been to meet up with a larger wagon train at Independence, then continue on to Oregon. They had been plagued with broken equipment, sickness, and flooded rivers. By the time they reached Independence, it was to find that the main wagon train had left a week earlier. Captain Thatcher, who was in charge of the small train, had been confident that they could overtake the larger wagon train, but he hadn’t counted on the bad luck that still continued to hound them.

It was now late August, and everyone was resigned to the fact that they would never overtake the other wagon train, and they couldn’t continue the journey with so few men to protect them.

The wagon train was now camped near a trading post beside the Platte River. The families were laying in winter stores with the intention of wintering at Fort Leavenworth, which was yet another four weeks journey.

From her vantage point, Joanna could see the wagons which were drawn into a small circle, their white canvas tops gleaming in the bright sunlight. How long ago and far away England seemed. She stood up and gazed at the bright blue sky that seemed to stretch across this desolate prairie. This land was so alien to her. With the exception of the trees that grew along the Platte River, the prairie was nothing but a never-ending sea of grassland. Would the Oregon Territory be anything like this? she wondered. This land had no name; it stretched from New Orleans up to Canada, and was called the Louisiana Purchase.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to the bottom of the incline leading away from the river, and she saw Tag waving his arms as he ran toward her. When he reached her side, his face was flushed with excitement and he was gasping for breath. His red-gold hair was tumbled in his face, and with a careless sweep of his hand he brushed it aside.

“Guess what? You’ll never guess what Mr. Clifford just told me and Bobby!” he blurted out.

Joanna took him by the shoulders and turned him around, tucking his shirt into his trousers. “You have ruined your best shirt, Tag. Look at the rip on the sleeve,” she scolded.

Tag ignored her reprimand. “I saw a real live Indian this morning, and Mr. Clifford, who runs the trading post, told me and Bobby that two tribes of Blackfoot would be arriving tomorrow.”

“Slow down, Tag, and tell me what you are talking about,” Joanna said, smiling fondly at him. “We saw several Indians from the barge on the Missouri River. Thank goodness they were on land and showed very little interest in us.”

Tag gasped in a breath of fresh air and started to speak again, this time more slowly. “Mr. Clifford told Bobby and me that the Indians were coming to do some fur trading and to have horse racing and games. I didn’t know Indians played games, did you, Joanna?”

Joanna’s eyes widened with apprehension. “Mr. Clifford was only teasing you and Bobby, don’t you think?”

“No, it’s true, Joanna. An Indian rode right up to the trading post. Me and Bobby saw him. I ain’t never seen anything like him before.”

“Don’t say ain’t, Tag. I have told you repeatedly that there is no such word,” Joanna said, trying to discount her brother’s announcement as foolishness. “Are you sure the Indians are coming here, Tag?” Joanna asked in alarm.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Mr. Clifford told me the Indian was a Blackfoot.”

“I heard Mr. Phillips and Captain Thatcher talking, and they said the Blackfoot don’t like the white race, and wouldn’t come within a hundred miles of us unless they were on a raid. I have cautioned you before not to believe everything that someone tells you.”

“But I saw the Indian with my own eyes,” Tag argued.

“I don’t doubt that you saw an Indian, Tag, but it wouldn’t have been a Blackfoot. They live too far north. Captain
Thatcher said that this is Pawnee territory. Chances are, the Indian you saw was a Pawnee.”

“No,” Tag insisted. “He was a Blackfoot. That old trapper Crazy Farley was at the trading post and he was talking to him in Indian language, and when the Indian left, he told Bobby and me that the rest of the tribe would be arriving just before dark tomorrow. They are going to camp on the other side of the river.”

Joanna remembered overhearing Captain Thatcher telling Simon that the Blackfoot were the most fearsome of all Indian tribes, and she had a feeling of dread deep inside. Tag saw the fear in his sister’s eyes and smiled at her confidently. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Joanna. I’ll take care of you.”

She smiled in spite of her fear. Tag was trying so hard to be a man, but he was still so young. She hated that his life had been touched by tragedy and ugliness. “How could I be afraid with such a brave brother to look after me,” she said, hugging him tightly.

As they both stared westward, Joanna glanced at Tag and caught the most wistful look in his eyes. “Don’t worry, Tag. We will reach Oregon, and when we do, Papa will go back to Philadelphia and deal with Uncle Howard and Aunt Margaret.”

“I know, Joanna, but we won’t see Papa until next summer and that’s a long time away.”

Joanna tried to divert Tag’s attention, knowing the bitterness he felt against their aunt and uncle. “Let’s just look on this as an adventure, Tag. How many of your friends back in England will ever get the chance to see the sights and wonders you have seen? Just think, you will be spending the whole winter at an army post.”

He grinned up at her. “Not to mention seeing the Blackfoot that will be arriving here tomorrow night. I always wanted a tomahawk. Do you suppose one of the Indians will trade me one for my knife?”

Joanna raised her eyebrow. “No, because if the Blackfoot really are coming, you are not to go anywhere near them.”

“Aw, Joanna, I won’t be in any danger. Mr. Clifford said so, and Crazy Farley agreed with him.”

Joanna pulled Tag’s ear playfully. “Don’t refer to Farley as crazy, Tag. It isn’t proper.”

“That’s his name, Joanna. He told me so himself.”

“Nevertheless, since you don’t know his last name, you will simply call him Farley.”

Looking at the position of the sun, Joanna saw that the day was slipping away. Taking Tag’s hand, she led him toward the wagon train. Her mind was filled with visions of fierce-looking Indians with brightly painted faces, and she shivered.

The heat from the afternoon sun beat down on the peaceful valley with a punishing force. There was a slight breeze blowing, and it stirred the leaves on the cottonwood trees that grew beside the winding Platte River. A doe and her fawn were grazing on the sweet green grasses that grew in abundance in the valley.

The only sound that could be heard was the cooing of the mourning doves that nestled in the branches of the tall cottonwood trees. It was a peaceful world, somehow untouched by the hand of man. Here, nature was the supreme ruler.

Suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of thundering hooves. Man had intruded on this wondrous paradise.

The doe raised her head and became alert and watchful. With a powerful leap into the air she bounded up the hillside, followed closely by her young fawn. The mourning doves took flight and soared into the cloudless blue skies.

A lone Indian topped the hill and surveyed the surrounding countryside, searching for anything that could represent danger. His keen eyes were alert and watchful. Raising his hand, he signaled that all was well and the others should join him.

There were fifty fierce-looking Blackfoot warriors who rode down the hill toward the stream to water their thirsty horses. When they reached the river, all but one dismounted. He was chief of the mighty Blood Blackfoot tribe. Although he was no more than twenty-seven summers old, his warriors followed him with blind obedience. There was something about him
that set him apart from his companions. Perhaps it was his dark eyes that somehow seemed to reflect a deep sadness as if he had seen too much—felt too much.

He sat so still that it seemed as if he were carved of stone, but his eyes were watchful and alert. It had been seven sunrises since he and his warriors had started out on this journey, and he had been plagued with a feeling of unrest. He felt somehow that something was about to happen to him that would change his life completely. He knew not if the omen bore him good or ill. He knew only that he could not prevent it from happening. The time was drawing near—he could feel it in the very depths of his soul. Soon, very soon, he would meet his destiny.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled his long ebony-colored hair, and still he didn’t move. Around his head he wore a leather headband from which hung five eagle feathers that fell down his back. His face was deeply bronzed and handsome.

He dismounted and led his mount forward to drink from the river. His movements were graceful for one so tall. Fawn-colored buckskin trousers hugged his long legs like a second skin. His wide, muscular chest was bare but for the twelve bear claws which dangled from a leather strap that was tied about his neck.

He had been named for the mighty predatory bird that soared through the sky on the breath of the wind. His name was Windhawk!

Windhawk became aware that his warriors had remounted and were silently waiting for him to do the same. He drew in his breath, wondering what the future held for him. If the omen foretold his death, he would meet the event with courage and daring. Windhawk had never felt fear until now. He faced the unknown, and he knew he could not battle destiny.

He swung onto his horse, and without a backward glance urged his black steed forward. Riding swiftly eastward, the Blackfoot warriors soon disappeared from view, leaving no sign that man had intruded on the peaceful valley. The mourning
doves returned to their perches in the cottonwood trees and all was quiet once more.

Joanna and Franny had just finished the dishes and put them away in the wooden crate while Tag read a book by the light given off by the campfire. Joanna had insisted, in spite of the adverse conditions, that he continue with his daily lessons, much to Tag’s displeasure.

Joanna was lifting the heavy kettle which contained the deer stew, when Crazy Farley came ambling by.

“Here, now, young lady, you shouldn’t be handling anything so heavy.” He took the pot from her and sniffed. “My, my, that do smell good. I ain’t even ate yet.”

Joanna smiled. “Would you like some stew? I was about to throw it out, Mr…”

“Call me Crazy Farley, everybody does.”

Again she smiled. “Farley, I’ll get a bowl and dish you up a generous helping.”

He grinned. “That would be right kindly of you, young lady.”

Tag laid his book aside and sat down beside Farley on the wagon tongue. “Do you live around here, Farley?” Tag wanted to know.

Farley took the bowl Joanna handed him and took a bite before answering. “Nope, I don’t call no place home. I travel, mostly in Blackfoot country.”

Farley finished his bowl of stew. The juices from the stew had dribbled down his snow-white beard, and Joanna watched in horror as he took his fingers and cleaned out the last remaining scraps of stew from the bowl and licked them from his fingers. He was an awesome figure, with long shaggy white hair and beard. His filthy buckskin clothing gave off a repugnant odor. His eyes were a funny color that she could not put a name to. They were somewhere between a gray and a brown.

He smiled, showing a surprising number of white teeth. “That were mighty good, young lady. I ain’t had nothing half so good in many a long year.”

“Thank you. Would you like more, Mr…Farley?”

“Well, seeing as how you were gonna throw it out anyway, I’ll save you the trouble,” he said, smiling once more.

At that moment Joanna looked into his eyes and knew for a certainty that he was not crazy as he claimed to be—his eyes were alive with wit and intelligence.

When Farley had finished the third bowl of stew, he reached into his buckskin shirt and withdrew a plug of tobacco and offered it to Simon, who had just joined them. Simon refused with a shake of his head. Farley bit off a large chunk and then slipped the remainder into his shirt pocket.

“I once had me a wife, and she could sure cook up a mighty fine pot of deer stew. She were full-blood Blackfoot, a beauty too. Never had me no younglings though. She Who Sings were taken by the pox nigh onto ten years back. Ain’t never been inclined to take me another woman.”

“Will you tell us about the Blackfoot?” Tag asked enthusiastically.