by Barbara Goss
"When your escort comes, you'll know it!”
"I will?"
"Certainly. He won't be driving cattle alone. Cattlemen usually travel with numerous cowhands, and sometimes several neighboring ranchers band together to bring their cattle in to be railed. The town will shake from end to end when they arrive, I assure you." Simon patted his mouth with his napkin in a rather feminine way. "You'll know."
"They must have arrived last night then. The noise was unbelievable," Sarah added with a touch of disgust.
"Oh, no. Last night was a normal Friday in Dodge City. You'll know when the cattlemen arrive!" Simon warned. He then chattered about his new job for the rest of the meal.
Sarah finished eating in silence, hardly listening to Simon Letchworth's conversation. She wondered how could the cattlemen be any louder than last night's ruckus?
They came that very night, shortly before dark. To Sarah, at first the uproar sounded like thunder. Then as the hotel began to vibrate, she thought of an earthquake. When she peered out her window and saw an immense cloud of dust moving rapidly toward town, she knew. The cattlemen!
She had mixed feelings. While anxious to meet Mr. Storm and be on their way, she dreaded being in the same town with those overzealous cowboys Simon Letchworth had warned about.
"What is it, Sarah?" her aunt asked impatiently
"It's the cattlemen," she answered flatly.
"They certainly know how to make an entrance," Emily said, coming to peek out the window. "Goodness, those cattle have such big horns—ornery looking too."
Later the women wisely stayed away from the window. When the celebration began, men raced their horses through town, shooting their guns at random, whooping and hooting wildly. Until the wee hours of Sunday, the noise of the cattlemen's revelry had to be tolerated.
Sarah could only imagine the activity behind the closed swinging doors of the saloons. Women screamed. Glass shattered. Men shouted and laughed. But the gay piano music stopped only when a fight broke out, and then Sarah could hear cursing, furniture breaking, and gunshots. Then the music would resume in the same lively, carefree manner.
Sleep, for Sarah, came with the sunrise and its accompanying peace. But after only a few hours' slumber someone pounded insistently on her door. Because she wasn't dressed, she called out groggily, "Who's there?"
"Billy O'Hearn, desk clerk. There's a person to see Miss Sarah Clarke."
"A person?" she asked.
"He's waitin' outside the hotel. You want I should tell him you'll be down?" the voice asked in an irritated manner.
Sarah decided it best to comply rather than question him further. As she dressed and made a hasty toilet, she wondered at the odd ways of these Kansas people. In the civilized city of Chicago, a caller was always identified as a "lady" or a "gentleman"—never a "person." Unless, of course, she reminded herself, it was a person of low standing, which seldom applied to her family's callers.
After leaving a note for Aunt Emily—who amazed Sarah by sleeping through the pounding on the door—she made her way downstairs. She wondered why the caller didn't meet her in the lobby, as was proper protocol.
Clad in a mauve, bustled dress, matching feathered hat, and carrying a white ruffled parasol, Sarah stepped out of the hotel into blinding, midmorning sunlight. Shielding her eyes, she glanced up and down the street, unable to discern anyone looking as if he were waiting for her.
A heavily bearded man loaded a wagon in front of the dry-goods store, but he didn't look her way. Two women chatted near the gunsmith shop, but the clerk had identified her caller as "he." The only other person in sight was a man leaning against the hotel hitching post, with his back to her.
Bewildered, she sighed.
About the time she noticed that the man leaning on the post had unusually long hair, he turned and smiled brightly. An Indian! Sarah turned to flee, frightened to her core that he might want to fondle her hair—or worse!
"Miss Clarke?" The voice was smooth, gentlemanly.
Sarah froze in her tracks. She spun around to see if it had indeed been the savage who had addressed her!
Hat in hand, the man stood proudly. Only his eyes pleaded for her attention.
"You wanted to see me?" she gasped, too stunned to hide the disgust from her face or tone.
His smile vanished, and he stared blankly.
"My apologies for bothering you," he said, not sounding sorry. "My name is Storm, and Sam Lewis said—"
"You are Mr. Storm?" she broke in. "We're supposed to travel safely to the ranch with you?" Sarah, surprised with her own rudeness, later excused herself by blaming her behavior on sudden fear and disappointment.
"I'm leaving Friday for Arrow C. If you'd like my escort, be here at dawn," he said, pointing to the wooden walk where they stood.
Sarah spoke politely, already regretting her insolence. "I'm sorry, Mr. Storm, but I cannot accompany you." She avoided looking at him, despite the fact that he wasn't as fearful looking as the Indians who'd stopped their stage. In fact, when she thought about him later, she admitted he was rather handsome—for an Indian!
"You can't accompany me, or you won't?" he asked, mockingly.
She struggled inwardly then blurted, "Really, Mr. Storm! You—you're an —an—Indian!"
"How observant. I assume you have another way of getting to the ranch?" He leaned arrogantly against the post as she faltered for an answer.
Instead of wearing old cast-off clothes as the Indians on the trail had, this man was neatly dressed in dark pants with a blue shirt and leather vest. Only his shoulder-length hair— with a red bandana around his forehead—had alarmed Sarah, identifying him as an Indian.
Sneaking a quick glance at him now, she noted that while he had a dark complexion and high cheekbones, his sensitive eyes were a warm, smoky gray. Had his hair been cut short, she'd not have guessed he was an Indian so quickly. He rather resembled Joe, their Italian iceman from Chicago, except the man before her was more rugged looking.
"Perhaps I'll hire someone or take a stage," she suggested feebly.
"Good luck." He smoothed his hat as he spoke. "If you change your mind, I can be reached through Reverend Thatcher, whose place is behind the blacksmith shop. Good day." The man donned his wide-brimmed hat and walked away without looking back.
Sarah's fear of the man had vanished. His impeccable speech indicated his education and apparent state of being quite civilized. Could she have been too hasty in refusing his escort?
Oh, dear! How would they get to the ranch now?
~ C H A P T E R 2 ~
“The only good Indian is a dead Indian. You see, Miss Ruggles," Simon Letchworth smiled at Emily, "I can quote sayings, too!"
"Well then," she said saucily, "how about, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged'?"
"Who said that?" asked Simon. "Not Shakespeare?"
"God said that," Aunt Emily snapped with finality.
"It's from the Bible, Mr. Letchworth," Sarah said, though she felt like clapping and yelling "Bravo," for Aunt Emily had bested him. She quickly changed the subject.
"Actually, Mr. Storm did seem civilized, and I doubt he's a full-blooded Indian. His eyes are gray, not black like the Indians we met on the trail, and his hair is lighter and—"
"He still can't come into the hotel," Simon cut in. "Indians aren't allowed. Most places in town are barred to even half-breeds. Don't underestimate a half Indian. Quanah Parker, the Comanche chief, is a half-breed and led a raid against white buffalo hunters in Texas a few years ago."
"Many an Englishman killed other Englishmen during the Revolutionary War. American killed American during the Civil War, too," Aunt Emily retorted.
Simon glared at Emily, "A colonel, Chivington I believe, said before going into an Indian battle, 'Kill and scalp all, big and small. Nits make lice!' "
Both women gasped.
Sarah filled their teacups with a shaking hand. "I find that distasteful. While I wouldn't entertain an Indian, I'd not wa
nt to see one harmed, especially a child. Surely this colonel joked."
"On the contrary," Simon pushed his empty plate away and reached for his tea. "He was quite serious and proved it during the battle. I'd tell the details, but since you are ladies and dining—"
"Thank you, Mr. Letchworth," Emily interrupted sharply, "for sparing us the gory details. Sarah and I both lost our fathers at the hands of Indians. I believe you are upsetting Sarah with this talk. I had the fortune to live among the Indians in Pennsylvania, after they became peaceful. Sarah has not."
"But Miss Ruggles, it's the truth." Simon peered over his glasses at her. "Indians are brutal savages who kill people by sneaking up on them. You've never seen the remains of a settler's home after an attack. I have. A bloody—"
"Mr. Letchworth," Emily interrupted, "would you like more tea?" When he motioned that he did not, she continued. "The problem is how do we get to the ranch?"
"We haven't a notion where it is," Sarah said, "except somewhere in northern Texas. Naturally we want to get there as soon as possible – yet-- Sarah played with her napkin nervously. "Surely this Mr. Storm is a trustworthy escort. He was recommended by our attorney."
Simon raised his eyebrows dramatically and asked, "But would you sleep at night?"
"Meaning?" Sarah's blue eyes widened.
"Are you sure the half-breed won't attack while you sleep?" Simon sipped his tea daintily. "That's how they operate." His eyes, already magnified by the eyeglasses, grew even larger as he emphasized, "They creep, they sneak, and they capture—when it's least expected. Gives them the advantage. No. Better contact your attorney and have him send someone else to escort you."
"Thank you for your concern, but Sarah and I will make the decision." Emily Ruggles scowled and rose from the table. "One must never look a gift horse in the mouth, you know. Come, Sarah, we've a lot to talk over."
Once safely locked in their room, Aunt Emily suggested they reread the letter from Mr. Lewis.
Sarah read Mr. Lewis's words aloud. "Well, what do you think, Aunt Emily?"
Carefully searching the trunk for their nightclothes, Emily asked, "Where did Mr. Storm say he could be reached?"
"At Reverend Thatcher's, behind the blacksmith shop. Why?"
"I'm thinking we should send word that we'd be pleased to have him escort us to the ranch on Friday. After all, Mr. Lewis claims an acquaintance with this Mr. Storm and endorses him as trustworthy. If you can't trust your lawyer, whom can you trust?"
"I agree. I feel less safe here." Sarah shivered.
Pulling Sarah's favorite blue nightgown from the trunk, Aunt Emily tossed it to her. "Do put out the lamp, Sarah, so we can undress without all Dodge City watching us."
Sarah snuffed out the kerosene lamp. "There's something about Mr. Storm I trust; I'm not sure what. ... But fear overwhelmed that instinct when I met him today."
"You've always been a good judge of people," Emily said, climbing into the rickety double bed.
Sarah began her vigorous nightly hair brushing. "Why should we worry? There are two of us and only one of him."
"He should be worrying!" Aunt Emily quipped. "Remember, Sarah, what the pioneer woman in Lawrence said? 'If you want to survive in this untamed land, you have to be courageous and determined.' I've two qualities of my own to add: spirit and grit. And we, my dear, have them all, don't we?"
"I'd like to think so."
Emily propped herself up on an elbow, "Another thing, Sarah. We always go to church, though we aren't as close to God as we should be. We'll add God to our survival list. Now put that brush down, or you won't have any corn-topped hair left for the Indians to touch!"
Laughing, Sarah crawled into bed beside her aunt. "You're right about God, which reminds me of something else. A man, Indian or otherwise, who is staying with a reverend, can't be all bad." ‘
"Hm-m-m . . . depends on what kind of reverend he is. Don't forget to say your prayers, dear." Moments later Sarah heard her aunt's familiar snoring.
Despite the street noises, Sarah fell asleep soon after but awoke abruptly long before daylight. A horrid nightmare held her clammy and breathless. The leather-skinned Indian from the trail fondled her hair, then her neck. Squeezing her throat brutally, he laughed in that horrid way he had on the trail. Then his face changed, and he became Mr. Storm. With his hands gripping her neck, he asked mockingly, "You can't accompany me or you won't?”
She rubbed her throat and reviewed the dream in her mind. One part struck her as odd. When the man strangling her had changed from the trail Indian to Mr. Storm, she had felt relief and a loosening of the hands around her neck. A sign that Mr. Storm could be trusted? Certainly her dream implied Mr. Storm was the lesser of the two evils. While not completely reassuring her, the thought that Mr. Storm might be trustworthy calmed her.
The next day they sent the message to Mr. Storm. His only reply was a terse note repeating the order to be ready Friday at dawn and a list of supplies they would need.
Sarah and Aunt Emily bought bedrolls, sturdy shoes, sunbonnets, and practical dresses. In his note Mr. Storm had emphasized "no bustles or lace." He also underlined “comfortable shoes.”
Friday, in the chill of predawn darkness, they dressed excitedly for their adventure. Sarah, still fashion minded, chose a light-blue homespun with high neck and long, cuffed sleeves. Aunt Emily carefully brushed Sarah's thick, golden hair, arranging it beneath her sunbonnet so that the curls peeked out smartly in just the right places.
Studying herself in the small bureau mirror, Sarah adjusted her white bonnet and giggled.
"Aunt Emily! What would Clarence Van Meter think if he could see me now? Or Charles Southwick? Wouldn't Minerva Farnsworth love to see me at one of her teas, wearing this?"
Adjusting Sarah's bonnet, Aunt Emily said, "You look lovely. Those Chicago men would see your beauty shining through even this plain outfit. It's your smooth, rosy complexion and bright-blue eyes, always wide with excitement that make you attractive, not bustles and silks. Beauty is only skin deep you know! Besides, your sparkling vitality and warmth keep the bees at the nest, once they're attracted by the honey."
Sarah laughed.
"Thank you, Aunt Emily, nothing could boost my morale more. But will we ever get to wear our city clothes again?"
Emily pinched Sarah's cheek playfully. "Once we get to your ranch, I imagine we can dress any way we please."
Pink slivers of light had barely sliced into the dark eastern sky when Mr. Storm drew up at the hotel in a buckboard pulled by two stout oxen.
After easing their heavy trunk onto the back of the wagon, he helped the ladies up onto the driver's bench, placing Sarah between himself and Aunt Emily. Silently they rode down the quiet, deserted street.
As they traveled, the sun rose steadily, giving Sarah a better view of Mr. Storm. He'd gotten a haircut! While shorter, his dark hair still covered most of his ears. If he had it cut on her account, to lessen her fright, he'd succeeded. He didn't look quite so "Indian" with the new cropped hair.
Caught in the act of scrutinizing him, she asked quickly, "Why have we oxen pulling the wagon, instead of horses?"
With tightened lips, he replied almost reluctantly, "The wagon's carrying a heavy load, and it's a long way to Texas." He glanced at her briefly before continuing, with a bit more enthusiasm, "Oxen are the best choice for this type of journey. They make the numerous river crossings better and aren't skittish. They don't tire as easily as horses either."
"If something happened to one of them, could the other pull alone?" she asked.
"We have extra oxen, just in case. Cattlemen never travel without extra mounts and teams."
"Where are they?" she asked, turning to look behind them.
"Up ahead. My outfit is waiting for us south of the city." He looked at her intently, and then laughed. "Surely you didn't think we were on our way with just us and this wagon?"
Sarah didn't answer. Confused at his words and annoyed by his laughter, her f
ace flushed. With trembling lips she fought to control her emotions.
They turned onto a narrow dirt road leading south, and he pointed ahead. "There's our crew!"
Sarah gasped, unable to believe her eyes.
Halting the team, he looked at her oddly. "Is there a problem?"
"B-but they're all Indians," she stammered, grabbing Aunt Emily's arm for support. She couldn't believe they would be traveling with not one, but almost a dozen Indians! She turned to Mr. Storm for reassurance but saw only amusement on his face. He seemed to be enjoying her discomfort.
Aunt Emily squeezed her hand and whispered softly, "Remember, dear, courage, determination, spirit, grit, and God."
Sarah raised her chin proudly and straightened her back. She would not give Mr. Storm the satisfaction of knowing how frightened or uncomfortable the situation made her. She'd prove she possessed the qualities needed to succeed in Texas.
"Actually," Mr. Storm said, as if finally feeling some sympathy for her, "they aren't all Indians."
"No?" Sarah asked quickly.
"Certainly not. Emmanuel, our head cook, is Mexican. We call him Manny. That's him leaning against the chuck wagon."
Sarah followed his pointed finger to a graying, mustached man lounging against a covered wagon. As they gazed Manny nodded and tipped his large-brimmed hat respectfully.
"See the man checking the ox halter?" Storm pointed again. "That's Leo. As you can see he's a Negro. Does your prejudice include Mexicans and Negroes, Miss Clarke? No, I can see not, just Indians."
Sarah, too stunned to comment, stared at him in disbelief.
"I suppose you're anxious to begin. I'll find you a driver," he said jumping from the wagon.
"Find a driver? Wait. . . , Mr. Storm!" she cried, already forgetting her brave resolution.
He swung around angrily, yet spoke softly, "One favor, Miss Clarke, don't call me 'Mister'; my men will find that too amusing. At least around them—it's Storm, just Storm."
"All right then, er, Storm. Aren't you going to drive our wagon?"
"Can't. I'm trail boss and must ride ahead. I'll be back now and then to check on you, but I have a job to do."
