by Tinnean
During the very last battle that would end that interminable war, Tom Pettigrew, a good friend of Steve’s, was killed, and Steve took on the task of returning his body home to New York, to his family.
Tom Pettigrew’s family were good people, and Steve recalled them fondly but sadly. Mrs. Pettigrew was pregnant, and George, the eldest of the three children, was trying everything in his power to keep them fed and housed. In an effort to help, Steve had bought Bella, the palomino mare, for himself, and Salida, her offspring, for Sharps.
He knew where Sharps’s father lived in Brooklyn, since before the war, Steve himself had lodgings just down the road from the gunsmith and his son. He’d take Salida to the small house. Sharps would be fifteen, an age where boys were considered young men, and while he might have a baby face, he gazed at the world through the eyes of an old soul. However, he’d always been an affectionate lad. Perhaps Steve would get lucky and the gift would earn him a hug.
Only, as it turned out, Sharps wasn’t there.
“Lieutenant—” Mr. Browne quickly corrected himself when he saw the bars on Steve’s shoulders. “Sorry, Captain.” He angled his crutch out of the way and held out a hand. “It’s good to see you’ve come through the War all right.”
“Thank you, sir. Is Sharps here?”
Mr. Browne looked confused, and Steve grinned and shook his head.
“Sorry. That’s the nickname Zach got after Antietam.”
Mr. Browne gave a rueful smile. “Zach never was much for letter writing. Why, I reckon I’ve only received a handful of letters from him in these past four years.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I tried to encourage him to write—”
“No need to apologize, Captain. I know my boy. With the War over now, he should be coming home, don’t you think?”
“Beg pardon, sir?” As far as Steve knew, Sharps had left to return home almost a year ago.
“The last time he wrote was to tell me he’d taken a position with a former officer and was doing odd jobs for the man. He didn’t inform you?”
“No.” Why hadn’t he told Steve? Or had he changed his mind while he’d been on the way home?
“Oh, my.”
Steve wanted to give himself a boot to the ass. Mr. Browne seemed concerned. “However, I imagine he will when he gets around to it,” he hurried to assure the older man.
Mr. Browne chuckled and shook his head. “Of course.”
“I have something for him that I’d like to leave with you, if it wouldn’t be a burden.” Damn, why hadn’t he even considered that? Keeping a horse could be expensive.
“Thank you. I know Zach will be grateful when he returns home.”
“She’s just here.” Steve pointed toward where he’d tethered Bella and Salida. “The buckskin mare.”
“Oh. She’s beautiful.” Mr. Browne hobbled down the walk to the horses and stroked Salida’s shiny coat.
“Her name is Otra Salida del Sol. It means another sunrise. The…the young man I bought her from called her Salida. She’s been very well trained.”
The mare turned her head at the sound of her name and stretched out her muzzle to brush against Steve’s shoulder.
“I have space for a paddock out back, and there’s a shed I can have converted to a stable.”
“I can offer some assistance in her upkeep.”
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary, Captain. My business has been doing well. So many men are heading west. They need good weapons for the journey. I’ve even had some government officials come by to see if I’ll create weapons for the cavalry. I understand they’ll be heading west to protect settlers.”
That was a relief. Steve had cash money to help out, but he hadn’t wanted to offend the man. “I’ll be heading west myself,” he murmured. “But I can stay until you have the space set up for Salida.”
“You’re more than welcome to stay here—”
“I apologize, sir. I didn’t mean to insinuate you should put me up.”
“Nonsense. I’d appreciate the company.” The old man smiled at Steve. “You can have Zach’s room. The bed is a little short for a man of your height, but if you don’t mind your legs hanging over the end…”
“I’ve had worse beds. Thank you.”
“Now. My neighbor has a few stalls she rents out. Why not get the horses settled there for the time being, and then join me for supper. My shop is in the front of the house, but come around to the back, to the kitchen. You can let me know what that scamp of a son of mine was up to all these years.”
Steve thought of the men who’d nearly assaulted Sharps, of the Rebel colonel Sharps had shot the day he’d earned that nickname, and of the evening he’d spent with a whore, and Steve decided it would be best to avoid those topics. But there were other things he could talk about. He looped the mares’ reins over his arm and led them to the stable a short way down the road from Mr. Browne’s neat house.
And perhaps—while he passed the time helping Mr. Browne fence in the paddock and refurbish the shed—perhaps Sharps might return home while he was still there.
* * * *
The meal Mr. Browne put together was tasty, but it had been a long week, and Steve found his eyelids growing heavy.
“Sorry, sir.”
“No need to apologize.” Mr. Browne rose, grabbed a crutch, and hobbled around the table. He patted Steve’s shoulder. “Go on to bed, Captain. Tomorrow will be here soon enough, and we’ll get started on the shed first. Then you’ll be able to bring Bella and Salida home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Browne. You’re very kind.”
“You were my son’s officer. He’s held you in the highest regard since the first time you rode past our house and tossed him a salute.”
“Did he really?” That knowledge gave Steve a warm feeling.
“Yes. And…you kept him alive.”
“That was just doing my duty.”
“Nevertheless, it means more than I can tell that my boy is uninjured. He may not be here at home, but he’s out there somewhere, in one piece.” Browne’s staunch attitude told Steve he wasn’t going to win this one, so he smiled and pushed back from the table.
“In that case, I’ll just say good night, sir.”
“Good night, Captain.”
Sharps’s bedroom was actually up in the loft, and Steve hauled himself wearily up the stairs. He stood there, looking into the space. It was a tiny room, the bed even more so, and he wondered if he might be more comfortable sleeping on the floor in his bed roll. But the lure of lying in Sharps’s bed—in any soft bed, he assured himself—proved to be too much.
Sharps had always struck Steve as a mature lad—an old soul one might say—especially when he’d volunteered for service at the age of eleven. The last few weeks before they’d been mustered out of the 14th Brooklyn had seen Steve disturbed. He’d been unable to tear his gaze from the young man, and he’d loathed himself for the emotions that would sneak up on him. That was one of the reasons he’d been relieved Sharps had changed his mind and decided to go home.
Only he wasn’t here at home, and Steve fell asleep wondering what odd jobs the boy had found to do this past year.
* * * *
The next day the country woke to the news President Lincoln hadn’t survived an assassination attempt, and thoughts of Sharps and where he was went by the wayside as Steve and Mr. Browne, along with the rest of the country, grieved the Great Emancipator.
* * * *
About a week or so later, while the country still mourned the loss of the president, a letter arrived from Sharps. Mr. Browne was kind enough to read it to Steve.
“Dear Pa,
“I hope this letter finds you well. I’m hale and whole, and I don’t want you to worry about me. The man I’ve been doing odd jobs for has asked me to continue on with him, so I will. I know with the War over, many men—a good many of them lacking limbs—will be looking for work back home, so this will take some of the pressure of finding a job off them.
“I’m sorrowed beyond telling at the loss of our beloved president, who I had occasion to see and drum for, but it hurts too much to write about, so I’ll say nothing more about it.
“I will try to write more frequently.
“Your loving son,
“Zachary Taylor Browne.”
Mr. Browne’s smile was watery. “He’ll try.” The man looked lost.
“Yes, he will.” Steve had no choice but to wrap him in a hug and give what he hoped was a comforting pat on the back. “And remember, sir. He’s alive.”
“He is. Chea Sequah foresaw good things for my son.” Mr. Browne dashed a hand over his eyes.
“Chea Sequah?”
“He was the shaman of my wife’s tribe. Zach’s ma was Cherokee.” Mr. Browne took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Best woman I ever knew.”
“He never said.” The news floored Steve. But now that he thought about it, it did explain the warm copper tone of the boy’s skin.
“I warned him not to. People can be downright mean when it comes to a man following his heart.”
“But you told me.”
“You’re a good man, and I trust you not to hurt my boy.” Mr. Browne stepped back and said, “Work here is done. Get washed up, Captain. I’ll have supper ready by the time you come to the house.”
* * * *
As Mr. Browne had said, the work was done. All the same, Steve lingered a few days more, hoping either a letter from Sharps would arrive or the boy himself would turn up. When he didn’t by the end of the week, Steve had no choice but to leave. He had resigned his commission before he’d left to bring Tom Pettigrew’s body home, and without Sharps here, nothing held him in Brooklyn.
Steve would head west, where there was land for the taking and people desperate to take it. He’d always been good with leading his men safely through unknown territory, and with all his experience in the army, he had no doubt he’d do a good job as wagon master.
Chapter 11
The next two years were spent journeying to the west coast and back to Independence or St. Joe, leading the tide of people who sought a new beginning for themselves and their families. Steve wrote long letters to Mr. Browne, describing the land and the people, and ended each one asking if Sharps was safely home. Mr. Browne wrote back in return, telling him what was going on in Brooklyn. Each letter included a short tale about the mischief Sharps had gotten into as a young boy, when they traveled from the Indian Territory, up and down the East Coast, to finally arrive in Brooklyn. They made Steve laugh and raised his spirits.
But…The one thing Steve hoped most to hear he never did, because when Mr. Browne concluded each letter, it was by writing his son still wasn’t home.
* * * *
Steve knew leading wagon trains westward wouldn’t continue for much longer, and by the winter of 1868, he had come to the decision that in another year or so he’d stop. The railroad would soon be available, taking people west much faster than wagons drawn by mules or oxen ever could, and there would be no need of a wagon master.
He remembered Tom Pettigrew talking of his ranch in the Dakotas, and it had sounded like a place where he’d be happy to settle down. Steve would find some land of his own.
And maybe he’d finally get a letter from Mr. Browne telling him Sharps had returned at last.
* * * *
When Steve arrived back in Independence, he learned no wagon trains were scheduled to head out, so what better time to take a break? He didn’t need much in the way of material things. He had a sound horse, a good mule, dependable weapons, and enough changes of clothes that he didn’t have to spend money on getting them washed too frequently, so he had a decent cache saved up. He also knew he could find some work with the sheriff.
He’d already groomed Bella and was picking the hooves of Shotgun, his pack mule, when a boy ran up to him.
“Cap’n Marriott, Boss sent me to find you. A wire arrived for you a while back.” The boy held out the telegram.
“Thank you, Billy.” Having travelled out of Independence quite frequently, as well as working occasionally as the sheriff’s deputy, Steve was known there. He took the telegram, reached into his vest pocket for a coin, and gave it to the boy.
Billy’s eyes widened. “Thank you, Cap’n!”
“You’re welcome.” Steve began to read the telegram. Well, I’ll be. It was from George Pettigrew. He and his family were in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and he asked for Steve’s help in getting to the Dakota Territory. Steve had promised Tom’s family if they ever needed him, he’d do whatever he could for them. Not that he’d expected to hear from Mrs. Pettigrew or George, since they’d both seemed like capable people, but he’d liked Tom, and he’d do his damnedest for them.
Billy began tugging on his sleeve, and Steve gazed down at him.
“Yes?”
“Boss wants to know if there’ll be a reply.”
“Do you have a form?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy dug out the piece of paper, looking proud, but then his face fell. “I forgot a pencil.”
“That’s all right.” Steve ruffled his hair. “I’ve got one.” He pulled the stub of a pencil from his pocket, licked the tip, and began scrawling his reply, letting young Pettigrew know he’d meet them in St. Joe. He handed the form to Billy, along with a few coins. “This should cover the cost. Get this to your boss.”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n.” Billy took off running.
Steve smiled after the boy. The Pettigrews were travelling by mule-drawn wagon, and knowing George Pettigrew, he would never push his team. It would take them at least a couple of months to reach St. Joe. Steve would use that time to relax and enjoy what Independence had to offer before he headed out to St. Joe himself.
Meanwhile, he had a hot bath, a meal he hadn’t cooked himself, and an undisturbed night’s sleep in a soft bed to look forward to.
Nodding in satisfaction, he returned to picking out the mule’s hooves.
Chapter 12
The two months passed more quickly than Steve had anticipated. He’d assisted the sheriff when the man had asked for his help, earned a good deal of cash money playing cards, and caught up on his sleep. And if someone had caught his eye, he would have found some companionship. However, no one had caught his eye. He steadfastly avoided thinking of the young man he hadn’t seen in five years, and whose father still hadn’t written he’d come home. Come to think of it, he hoped Mr. Browne was all right. He hadn’t responded to Steve’s last letter.
Now, however, the time had come for him to get himself organized. He went to the stable, took down Shotgun’s pack frame, and began to check the cinches, whistling a favorite song of Sharps’s as he worked.
“I beg your pardon.” The voice was quiet and cultured, and Steve turned and raised an eyebrow. A couple approached him. By their dress, they were Easterners. “Are you Captain Marriott?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Albert Fox. This is my wife.”
Steve set down the frame and tipped his hat to Fox’s wife. “Mrs. Fox.”
She gave a brief curtsy. She was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, with her russet hair piled high under the confection of netting and lace she wore on her head. Her eyes were green, made even more vibrant by the dress that draped her figure. If he’d been predisposed toward the opposite sex, he’d have envied Albert Fox having this woman as his wife.
Steve turned his attention to Fox, whose looks were nothing out of the ordinary—thinning, light brown hair, narrow chest and shoulders. The only thing remarkable about him were his blue eyes.
Steve wiped his hand on his thigh before he offered it to the Easterner. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand you’re one of the best wagon masters around. I’d like to hire you to take us to the Dakota Territory.”
“Who’s us?”
“My family.”
“How many wagons?”
“Just one. Me, my wife, and children.”
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Steve raised an eyebrow—the fewest wagons he’d ever taken out had been a dozen, but that had been across the Great Plains. By the time that wagon train had arrived in California, sickness, floods, and an attack by hostiles had reduced the number to eight. Taking only a single wagon—
“Please.” Fox must have seen Steve was about to refuse. “We have to get to the Black Hills. I…I hope to farm there.” He looked away, fidgeting.
Steve could tell there was something more to the matter than arriving to take possession of a parcel of land, and he waited patiently for Fox to continue.
“My…uh…my wife is…we’re expecting a blessed event.”
“When?” Steve cast a quick, discreet glance over the woman. She didn’t look pregnant, but sometimes the fashion of the day could make it difficult to tell for certain.
Abruptly she turned almost as green as her dress. “P-pardon me. I need some air.” She pressed a dainty, lace-edged handkerchief to her mouth and rushed out of the stable.
“Please excuse me.” Fox hurried after her, and Steve walked to the wide doors of the stable in time to see the pair almost race to the covered wagon that was waiting down the street.
Well, that problem seemed to be solved. Steve was a sucker for a hard luck story, but he really needed to be heading for St. Joe.
* * * *
He was just finishing checking Bella’s shoes—although he always carried spare shoes, the last thing he needed was for her to throw one while they were on the road—when he heard someone clear his throat. He looked up to see Fox standing there again.
“I beg your pardon for leaving so abruptly.”
“Not at all. I hope Mrs. Fox is all right?”
“She’s lying down just now. The children are with her.” Fox sighed. “It’s early days yet, but she can’t keep anything down. As I was saying earlier, we need to get to our destination as soon as we can.”
