by John Legg
The girl stepped back, her breathing heavy.
He turned to walk back toward camp, his head spinning. He was flushed, and rock hard. Her voice stopped him. “Abner ...”
When he spun to face her, she walked up and stared into his eyes. He thought he saw desire there, but he was not sure of anything now. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “It was both our faults.”
He was more confused than ever. “What’s your name?” he asked lamely. “Not Hank, I’m sure.”
“Hannah.”
“That’s a pretty name,” he said, desire still raging in him.
“Thanks.” She almost blushed.
“What’re ya doin’ out here playin’ like you’re a man? It ain’t right, ya know. How’d ya get here anyway?”
“Ridin’ a horse, same as you,” she snapped, eyes flashing, slim shoulders squared, defiant. Her rampant lust was turning to anger.
“But why?” Now that they were talking almost normally, he started to relax minutely.
Her shoulders slumped as she sat on a fallen log. All signs of desire were gone, as she gazed beyond the pond, into the dusk. When Train sat down beside her, she looked at him with sad eyes.
“An Injun war party attacked our place this past spring. Everybody was killed—’cept me—though some not right off.”
Train gulped as he caught her meaning. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“You got no call to be sorry. Wasn’t anything could be done about it, I reckon. I hid in the woods so the Injuns—mostly Potawatomis—couldn’t find me. When they were gone, I decided there was nothin’ for me to do but leave there for good. I figured everyone else would reckon I was taken prisoner by the Injuns . . . ’’ Her face had taken on a hard, bitter look, and Train ached to be able to ease her pain.
“Didn’t ya have no other family?”
Her eyes grew misty, but her voice never wavered. “I had an aunt back in Ohio, but I didn’t like her much. ” It was said simply, without shame. It was a fact, that was all, and that’s how she relayed it.
“Didn’t ya have friends where ya could stay? Or a special feller ya could’ve married?” He held his breath, needing to know the answer, but not sure he wanted to.
“I’m only fifteen. Old enough to marry—if I was of a mind to. Which I wasn’t. And I didn’t want to be a burden to any of the families I knew. Most of ’em was gone anyway. I figured it was better to let them all think I was carried off and was forced into bein’ some buck’s woman.”
She picked up a pebble and threw it into the water and watched as the ripples grew and then faded. She shrugged. “I was real close to my four older brothers, especially Lute. He was the oldest. They let me tag along most times when they hunted or fished or trapped near our little farm in Illinois. So I grew up different—tougher, really—than most girls.
“After I was sure the Injuns was gone, I went back to the house—which those bastards had burned down—and found Pa’s rifle and a pistol and some other things. I hacked off my hair short and dressed up in boy’s clothes. Lute had given me this old cap,” she touched the broad bill and took a deep, ragged breath as she fought back tears, “some time before, so I figured I could pass for a boy. I packed up what few supplies I could find and headed into the woods.”
“Where’d ya go?”
“Here and about.” She explained her summer. “One day I found myself in St. Louis. Mr. Strapp saw me, and asked if I wanted to sign on for this trip. So I did.”
Train sat quietly, letting it all sink in, wondering what he should do. It was Hannah who broke the silence. “You gonna tell them, Abner?”
“It’d be the proper thing, Hannah,” he said, feeling a bit strange calling her that. “It ain’t right that a girl should be out here. ”
“I’ve done my share, ain’t I? If you hadn’t of found out, everybody’d just go on thinkin’ I was strange little Hank Carpenter.”
“I reckon that’s true. But it ain’t right, somehow, knowin’ you’re a girl.”
“Then go on and tell them,” she pouted. “But it’ll just cause a heap of trouble. What would Colonel Melton and Mr. Squire do with me? They can’t afford to send me back to St. Louis by myself, and they can’t afford to send anyone back with me to make sure I had a safe journey.”
“But you’d be better off in St. Louis.”
“Sure, I would. Just get myself packed off to some upstandin’, pious family full of good intent. They’d just try’n tame me so they could marry me off soon’s possible.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” His heart was in his mouth as he waited for her answer.
“I want to pick my own husband when the time comes,” she said, looking straight at him. There was no doubt in her eyes, and he felt a surge of relief. “I don’t want nobody doing the pickin’ for me. I’d probably just run off again first chance I got.”
Train looked into her sad green eyes and felt her pain—and something else, too. He lightly touched her cheek with his finger. “I’d be plumb sorry to see ya go, Hannah,” he croaked. “I . . . I . . .” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.
“I’d miss you, too, Abner,” Hannah said eagerly. “I never thought I’d be sayin’ that to any man, but it’s true. I’ve been watchin’ you for a spell now, and I”—she hesitated, and then threw caution to the wind; there was little harm it could do her now—“love you, Abner Train. I do. I’ve known it for a while, but I could never say nothin’. It feels good to get it out in the open. ” She trembled slightly as fear crept into her. Would he reject her now? Would he still tell the others, and have her being made fun of?
Train grabbed her and hugged her so tightly she thought she might be crushed right to death. But she accepted it willingly, as he whispered in her ear, “I love you, too, Hannah.” He finally released her and looked at her seriously. “If’n I promise not to say anythin’ to the others, will ya promise to stick close to me most of the time? I’d be wantin’ to keep near ya.”
“The others’ll talk.”
“Naw they won’t. I don’t mean ya got to be right next to me every minute.” Actually, he did mean that, but he still possessed enough sense to know the trouble that would cause. “Just don’t go ridin’ off by yourself. You can go out on the hunts with me’n the others, if’n ya want to.”
“I’d like that, Abner,” she said, brightening.
He looked down at the ground, embarrassed. “Ah, you’re just sayin’ that so’s I won’t go and tell on ya.”
He felt her small hand softly touch his prickly chin, and he let his face be lifted. Then her lips were against his, warm and soft, moving slightly. Once again he felt lightning run through him.
“You still think that?” she asked him when the kiss was over. She stared at him, excited and fearful.
“Naw,” he grinned sheepishly. He stood and helped her up. “Just keep to mind,” she said quietly, “that you must always call me Hank. Make one slip and ...”
He grunted acknowledgment. Together they filled the water sacks, but they went back into camp separately.
“So ya see, Nathaniel,” Train concluded, “I promised Hannah I wouldn’t tell anybody about this.”
Squire sat stroking his beard, thoughts crashing against each other. Merde, he thought, before saying, “These here doin’s be damp powder, lad, and there be no place to dry it. No denyin’ it. We have enough us hard times without this, too.” He sat shaking his head. Would there be no end to his troubles? he wondered. Even the sky had turned sullen, filled with thick chunks of black clouds. Lightning crackled not far away.
Then he got to thinking about the sight of poor Train, his blood boiling through his young, strong body, his manhood rising to glorious stature as he stood there gawking at his naked goddess. It brought back to mind the time when Squire was but fourteen and there had been that girl in the barn back in . . .
Suddenly he broke into a big, full-bellied laugh. “I’ll be damned,” he gasped around the g
uffaws. “She sure got some grit, don’t she, lad?”
“Ya gonna send her back?” Train asked, face creased with worry. His first thought was to say yes, that it was no place for a white woman—girl, rather—out here. But, hell, she had shown she could keep up. Indeed, she had more stamina and sense than half the men.
His only real concern was that someone else would find out. That would create no end of troubles if they had half the men in camp fighting the other half over a white girl in their midst.
But the troubles that would result from sending her back—with an escort—far outweighed the possibility that someone would learn of her secret and take advantage of her. The few men he could trust to get Hannah back to civilization safely—and untouched—were the same that were most needed here.
Besides that, Squire was beginning to plain like the youngster, whether she was Hank or Hannah. His thinking might have been colored by the courage he knew it took for the young woman to do what she had done—surviving a deadly attack against her family; seeing, or at least knowing, that some of her loved ones had been tortured by Indians; living by herself, off the land, for some months; signing on with a bunch of men to trap the Rockies. Aye, Squire thought, This was a woman worthy of these mountains. A woman much like . . .
He clamped down on that thought and said to Train, “I reckon not, lad. It’d be causin’ too much trouble for e’erybody.”
Train breathed a sigh of relief. He did not see a dark, hunched-over figure slip off into the darkness. Squire had not really seen it either, but he knew someone had been there. He filed the information away and would check for sign later to find out who had been listening to them.
There was a grumble of thunder, and he thought, If I’m gonna be checkin’ some sign, it’d better be soon.
“I was certain you was gonna send her back to St. Louis, Nathaniel,” Train said. “Me, too, maybe.”
“Nay, lad. I can’t say I much like the idea of havin’ a girl along to do a man’s job. But, hell, she’s showed she can do as well as the others. And a hell of a lot better than some. You’ll be findin’ in life that some women ain’t quite so soft and helpless as ye might’ve been thinkin’. Shit, ye ought to see a Sioux or Blackfoot squaw fight when her young ’uns be in danger. Worse’n a goddamn wounded griz, by Christ.”
Train grinned. “That sure takes a heap off my mind, Nathaniel.”
“Aye, lad, I thought it would. But ye’d best not be gettin’ too cozy with your little Hannah, less’n the others commence to talkin’ about ye two,” he said with deadly seriousness.
“I’ll be careful.”
“Ye’d best be, lad. Seems like ye didn’t pay her much heed when she talked to ye.”
“Huh?”
“Ye’ve called her Hannah more’n once since we been talkin’. Seems like ye said she warned ye to always call her Hank. ”
A chilling rain began, and within moments it was a raging downpour.
“I’ll be more mindful, Nathaniel,” Train said as he bundled himself up against the storm. “I’ve done all right since I found out—till just now, tellin’ you.”
Squire nodded as the young man walked away. There was a spring in his step despite the cold rain that pounded over them. Squire went into the brush, looking for sign but figuring it would do little good. He was right. Whatever sign had been there was wiped out already.
“Merde,” Squire muttered. Now there was a fourth person in camp that knew the girl’s secret. Squire hoped that whoever it was would show himself soon so Squire could clamp down on him, or that the intruder had enough sense and gentlemanly decency to keep his mouth shut. Neither seemed likely.
Chapter Sixteen
SQUIRE’S burdens seemed to grow with each day. He had to set the day’s pace, keep a wary eye out for Indians, search for water, which during some stretches was mighty scarce, keep the men in line, supervise the hunting and the making of meat, the tanning of hides, and find a suitable place to camp each day.
But the most important job was trying to teach these raw young men the things they would need to know to survive. Squire had learned the skills so early in life—and had been practicing them so long—that he rarely thought of them. Now he had to make it a conscious thing to tell the others what he was seeing, smelling, hearing, for only by sharing what he knew could he begin to really teach the men.
It was not an easy task he had undertaken. How could he explain how he became alerted because a flock of birds took off one way instead of another? How could he explain the difference between a twig broken from a bush by a bear and one broken off by an Indian—and how he knew whether that Indian was potentially hostile? How could he teach these young men to find water, when he did it seemingly by instinct? How could he teach them how to make their way safely, surely across the plains that had few—or no—landmarks with which to guide them?
None of the men—except Bellows, Squire was certain now— had ever seen the wide, buffalo-covered, rattlesnake-infested expanse of the Great Plains. The prairie awed the men with its sheer emptiness, making them feel small and inconsequential.
And Squire knew the youths would be even more awed—and perhaps cowed as well—when they reached the silent, deadly sentinels of the Rocky Mountains, with their snow-clogged, foreboding passes, howling winds and churning, boiling rivers. And, of course, there were the Indians to face.
Some of the boys mastered their lessons easily—ones like Train and Benji. Li’l Jim had quickly proven himself to be the surest shot of them all—except for Squire himself. The ill-tempered Willis was one of the best, and Squire began to suspect that he, too, had been out this way before.
Others, like Cletus Ransom, had a hard time reading sign but were gifted in handling animals. But on some, the lessons were lost, and Squire wondered often if they would ever absorb enough to get them through the winter.
The group did, for the most part, become more closely knit as the days and the miles passed. The men had to do that. It did not mean that things were perfect among them. There had been scuffles, mostly over dividing the chores, and a few times over card games. Squire and Melton stayed out of the altercations, letting the men settle them.
When they faced danger, though, the men really united. Besides the illnesses they had suffered, they had been through several bad storms and had lost two more horses, in addition to the runaway pack animal. But those were minor things, and Squire knew it was only a matter of time before some real troubles would besiege them.
Just before reaching the Platte River, past that stretch beyond the end of the West Fork of the Blue River, where there was no water, Squire rode off with Train, Carpenter, Li’l Jim and Whitaker.
They had killed six antelope, two wolves, an old buffalo and a deer. Squire and Train were loading the meat on their pack horses when Squire heard a scream. He whirled and saw Whitaker running toward him and the others. Close behind Whitaker—and gaining fast—was a grizzly.
Squire grabbed his Hawken and raced toward Whitaker and the bear. When the fast-moving bruin was less than ten feet behind Whitaker, Squire slammed to a halt and brought his rifle to aim. It was a long shot, and the bear had a full head of steam on.
The rifle cracked and Old Ephraim slowed for a moment before resuming his headlong charge.
“Merde,” Squire snapped as Train ran up alongside him.
“Did ya miss?”
“No. Gimme your rifle. Now!”
The bear lunged at Whitaker, raking a huge paw across the back of the young man’s head. “Oh, God, no!” Whitaker screamed.
Squire fired again just as the grizzly reared up over Whitaker.
The rifle ball plowed into the bear’s chest. The impact knocked the huge animal back on its haunches.
Whitaker clutched at his bloody head and scrambled away. He managed to stand and then run away, wobbling.
With a raging roar, the crazed animal surged up and wheeled off toward Whitaker again, even more ferocious with its pain and anger. With
in moments, the bear had closed the gap and was on Whitaker with another fearsome bellow.
Whitaker shrieked as the bear raked his back with long claws. Squire fired again with his own rifle, which Train had hurriedly loaded. He could see the dust fly as the bullet plowed into the bear’s side. The animal roared and clamped its jaws into the flesh of Whitaker’s shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound, staining the linsey-woolsey shirt.
Squire ran, empty Hawken in hand. Train was right behind him.
The bear mauled Whitaker with its paws, and slashed at the young man’s flesh with giant teeth.
Squire dropped his rifle and closed in on the enraged beast. He smashed into the grizzly with all the power of his mighty frame. It was enough to knock the bear off balance and away from Whitaker.
“Move him!” Squire roared.
With heart pounding, Train rushed in, grabbed up the wounded Whitaker, and bolted for safety.
The furious bear loomed over Squire, who ripped out his pistol and fired point-blank at the bruin’s heart. The ball slammed into the animal’s chest, spraying Squire with blood and fur. But the grizzly’s momentum did not slacken.
Squire ducked the bear’s humongous paw and, with all the strength he had, rammed both fists into the underside of the rearing bear’s jaw. The sheer force of the blow staggered the bear and kept the bloody fangs from Squire’s head.
The mountain man pounded his huge, locked-together fists into the bear’s chest, hoping to tear open the wounded heart. Once more he managed to avoid the giant fangs and then the wild swipe of a bloody paw.
Then the claws slashed three shallow furrows across Squire’s forehead, barely missing his right eye. The blow sent Squire sprawling backward and to the side, away from the slavering animal.
Two guns blasted simultaneously. The impact of the balls stopped the grizzly in its tracks. The wounded animal staggered a few steps, then thudded to the grass.
