He slept fitfully, half-waking from time to time. Lot was a difficult man to sleep with, for he was either mumbling or snoring most of the night. Tom had just dropped off into a light slumber when he was awakened with a start. Something was scratching at the walls of their makeshift tent. Fishing beside his bedroll for his glasses, Tom reached out with his other hand to grasp the pistol he kept handy in the roll over his head.
“Tom! Tom!”
He sat up and promptly smacked his head on the underside of the wagon. Rubbing the sore spot, he looked over to see that Lot was still sound asleep. Recognizing the voice, he replaced the pistol, pulled his boots on, and moved the draw cover of the shelter aside. Rebekah stood in a drizzling rain holding a lantern, her face blurred in the darkness. “What’s wrong?” he whispered loudly, crawling from under the wagon.
“Mary’s worse.” Rebekah’s voice was tense with panic. “I can’t stop her from coughing.”
“Let me get my bag.” He went around to the back of the wagon and picked up his medical kit, then followed her across the muddy ground to her wagon. He could hear the baby’s racking cough even before he got there; he crawled inside the wagon and Rebekah followed. The baby was lying in a crib made of smooth saplings on top of some boxes. Sitting down on the bed beside the crib, he said to Rebekah, “Hold the lantern closer.”
He examined Mary as carefully as he could by the dim light. Intently he listened to the child’s chest, which heaved with the effort of breathing, hearing a rattle in the lungs he didn’t like.
“Is it bad, Tom?”
“Well, I wish we could help her breathe. Let’s water down some of this cough syrup and see if that will help.”
Working together, they managed to get some of the cough mixture down the baby’s throat. That accomplished, he said, “I’ll just sit with you for a while.”
It was well he did, for the child’s temperature rose half an hour later, and the two of them worked tirelessly at getting it down by applying cool, damp cloths to the skin.
Tom was well aware that if the baby’s temperature went too high, convulsions would follow—which could be fatal—so time passed unheeded. Finally he leaned back and exhaled a sigh of relief. “I think she’s all right, Rebekah. Why don’t you get Karen or one of the other women to watch her while you get some sleep?”
“I couldn’t sleep, Tom. It must be nearly dawn anyhow.”
“Well, I’ll try to get a few winks. If she gets worse, come and get me.”
“Tom—thank you.” She clasped her hands together and smiled tremulously. Her hair down, she looked not only vulnerable but very beautiful in the pale light of the lantern. “If you hadn’t been here . . . !”
“Get some sleep, Rebekah,” he said quickly, then pulled the flap of the tent aside and stepped down out of the wagon. The ground was soft under his feet, and the cold rain was still falling, but the thin gray light of dawn outlined the forms of the other wagons. Wearily, he turned to go.
“Hold it right there.”
The challenge took Lake off guard, but he peered intently at the man who had stepped out of the gray light. “Oh, Sky—it’s you!” The thrill of fear that had touched him turned to relief. Winslow often kept a close watch during the early hours. “It’s okay, Sky. Just me.”
“So I see. Stay right where you are.”
Lake was bewildered. “What’s wrong, Sky? Some kind of trouble?”
“You’re the trouble.” The hard edge on Sky’s voice shocked Lake, as did the raw anger that flared out of the light blue eyes as he moved closer. “You know the rule about being alone with a woman, Lake.”
For one moment, Tom couldn’t imagine what Sky was talking about, and then the implication hit him. “Oh, I can explain that, Sky. Rebekah came to get me—”
“You’re not going to blame this on her.”
Sky hadn’t lowered his voice, and from the other wagons came the sound of people moving, coming to see what the trouble was. “Sky, don’t make an issue of this. The baby was sick. I went to see how she was.”
“Don’t give me that!” Sky snarled. “You’ve been in that wagon for nearly two hours. It doesn’t take that long to doctor a sick child.”
“What’s up, Sky?” Dave Lloyd was standing beside the two men, his unshaven face rough. Behind him, others formed a circle a short distance away, watching intently.
Winslow said, “I caught Lake with Rebekah.”
The tent flap opened behind Lake and Rebekah came down out of the wagon. “It’s all right, Sky. Mary had a fever and I went to get Tom.”
The set look of anger on Winslow’s face did not change with Rebekah’s explanation. He had risen in the middle of the night, which was not unusual for him, and told Mack Malone, who was on late guard, to go to bed. About an hour later he’d heard the noise as Rebekah and Lake had climbed up into her wagon, but had not been able to see who it was. Because he had no way of knowing what had happened, he thought at first it might simply have been Rebekah getting water for the baby, or some other necessary errand. But his caution prompted him to stay within range of her wagon.
When Lake had stepped down, Winslow was filled with an irrational, blinding rage. He did not stop to consider that as a doctor, Lake might have had a plausible reason for being in Rebekah’s tent, nor would any other excuse have dimmed his fury. For in that moment, the memory of his wife’s last infidelity swept across his mind in living color.
He had taken her and Joe, along with one of his partners, on a trapping venture on the upper Missouri. One night he had been delayed on one of the lines, and came back long after dark—and caught the man coming out of his wagon. After beating him senseless, Sky made up his mind to take Irene and Joe to Oregon in a futile attempt to change his wife’s adulterous ways.
The memory of that moment had seized his mind so powerfully that he’d almost shot Lake as he climbed out of the wagon. Even now, he was not thinking clearly, and was unconscious of the others who had gathered around. Lake’s excuses seemed weak, and the fact that Rebekah confirmed his story made no difference. In times like this, Winslow was a man of impulse more than conscious thought. That fact had always protected him before, and now it caused him to act immediately.
“Take a horse and what you need, Lake,” he said evenly. “You can make it to Oregon City by yourself.”
Lake stood still, not believing what was happening. “Sky, that’s ridiculous! We’ve told you what happened. The baby had a fever, and we had to get it down.”
Winslow didn’t seem to hear. “Get out of camp, or I’ll shoot you, Lake. That’s what any man deserves that takes advantage of a woman on my train. But I’m giving you a break. Take it—or take a bullet.”
“He means it, Tom!” Edith came to stand beside Lake, her eyes wide. “Take a horse and get out of here.”
An angry mutter rose as the crowd grew larger, but no one had the nerve to stand up to Sky. Lot Penny had arrived at the scene just long enough to hear Sky’s threat. “The lady’s right, Lake. Right or wrong, you got to leave.”
Tom Lake stared incredulously at Sky. The admiration and respect he’d felt for Winslow was dashed, and yet he knew that he had no show against the deadly westerner in any sort of fight. Adjusting his spectacles, he settled back on his heels and said, “If I go, it’d be the same as saying that Rebekah’s a bad woman. She’s not—and I won’t be a party to your crazy jealousy!”
Sky had not moved, and there was something ominous in the stillness of his posture. Every soul on the train knew he was a deadly man with any sort of weapon, and they all were nervously eyeing the gun he had at his side. None of the others were armed, but even if they had been, no man would have had a chance against him.
“All right, Lake,” Sky said through clenched teeth. “I tried to give you a break, but you wouldn’t have it.”
“Just a minute, Sky.” Dave Lloyd moved to stand between the two men. He let his arms hang loosely at his sides with his usual air of lazy ease, but his e
yes were bright with barely controlled emotion. “Sky, I guess I got as much respect for you as any man I know,” he said quietly, “but you’re wrong this time. Now let’s just get this train down the river.”
“Get out of the way, Dave.”
Lloyd didn’t budge. The rain had matted his coarse black hair to his skull, and molded his shirt to his huge shoulders and long arms. “Won’t anything make you change your mind, Sky?”
“No. Get out of the way, Dave.”
Lloyd sighed. “I’ll have to take your gun away from you, Sky.”
That cut Winslow like a blow. “You heard me, Dave! Stand aside! No man’s taking my gun—and I’m not warning you again.”
Lloyd said, “I don’t have a gun, Sky, and wrong as you are about this—I don’t reckon you’d shoot one of your friends cold turkey. C’mon—give me the gun.”
He stepped forward and like a flash Winslow drew his gun and fired. The report shattered the morning air, and Lloyd felt the breath of the slug on his cheek, but did not even pause. He ignored the second shot as well, which grazed his shoulder. Quickly he reached out and slapped Sky’s gun from his hand. It landed in the mud, and Sky made no attempt to get it.
“Okay, Sky.” Dave said soothingly, his hands outstretched. “C’mon. Let’s forget this and get to work. You’re the leader of this train, and it looks like it’s going to rain buckets. None of us can do this without you, so I’m your man all the way.”
Sky still had not moved all this time, but stood there, his face pale. Then a ripple ran through his frame; he stared at Dave in unbelief, and covered his face.
“Sky?”
With an anguished moan, Sky turned from the group and stalked from the camp.
Rebekah retreated back into her wagon, sickened by the ugly scene and angry at Winslow’s irrational and violent reaction. She covered her eyes and as she did so, she heard a voice say, “Sister, try not to hate Winslow too much.”
She whirled to find Lot Penny peering inside the wagon flap in front of her. “He’s a real mixed-up man. It was wrong, what he said—but if you knew how badly he’s been hurt, you might see things a little different.”
Rebekah turned away blindly, then whispered, “I’ll be glad when I never have to look at him again!” At a loss for words, Penny silently drew the flap back over the opening and walked away.
Sky returned in an hour. During his absence his anger had subsided and he could think clearly. Why were his actions so volatile and unbending? Was it the pressure of his responsibility? Was it just because the rule had been broken—or because Rebekah was involved? Everything seemed so confusing to him. He resolved to change—but not now.
As he entered the camp, he saw Lake about ready to ride out, with Dave and the others gathered around him. Sky walked over and the rest stepped back. Coming directly to the point, he said, “Lake, Dave, I misjudged you. I want you to stay, Lake.”
Sky Winslow faced the crowd unflinchingly. Only Rebekah had left, and the rest of them waited for his next move. Sky simply announced, “Let’s get the rafts built.”
Winslow turned without a word and walked toward the logs, followed by most of the other men. When he was out of hearing, Karen came up to Dave and said, “That man! He never does what you’d think, does he, Dave?” She hesitated, noticing his lack of response. “You mustn’t feel bad about what happened this morning, Dave. Tom could have been killed—and you couldn’t have done anything else to stop it. He won’t hold it against you when he’s thinking more clearly.” She touched his cheek and said, “I was very proud of you, Dave!”
He watched her as she turned and walked away, and all day as he worked on the rafts, he thought about her praise with a warmth that almost made him forget about his encounter with Sky. He kept his eye on him, but said nothing. Penny uttered once under his breath, “I think more of Sky Winslow for this than anything else. It must be eating him alive—and for him to stay and help—why, that’s a miracle, Dave!”
Lloyd thought so too, but it grieved him when Sky saddled his horse and rode off when they stopped work. He lay awake for a long time thinking of what Winslow must be feeling. As the night wore on, he heard him ride in some time after two.
They finished the rafts the next day, and the rest of the trip was anticlimactic. Under Winslow’s direction, the wagons started on the portage. The rains stopped, but the river was high, so he told Lloyd, “Give us the rest of the morning, then push the rafts off at noon. Leave about ten minutes before you launch the next one.”
It had gone perfectly. The rafts came floating down into the calmer water, and the crew pulled them to the bank and loaded the wagons. It took most of the day to tie them down; then Sky took four men ahead with him.
“Start the first wagon at eight tomorrow morning. Thirty minutes later, the next one. That’ll give us plenty of time.”
“The river’s not so bad is it, Sky?” Dave said, hoping to see a break in the hardness of Winslow’s face.
“It could be a lot worse,” Sky answered blankly. He rode out with the others, and Lloyd turned away heavily.
The last leg of the Sandy River went as well as the portage. The rafts rode high and the only incident was when one of them got hung up on some driftwood, but two of the men quickly pulled it off.
It was nearly dark before they got all the wagons off, but the next day they left for Oregon City, and spent two uneventful days on the trail.
Now they had come into the place they’d risked their lives to reach.
It wasn’t much of a town, Rita thought, taking in the muddy streets and the string of frame buildings that lined the main street, but the welcome they got made up for it. Men poured out of every doorway, and there was a high-pitched yelling as the crowd gathered around the wagons, pulling at the horses and waving their hats at the women.
As the procession stopped, Rita laughed, “They’re a pretty rough bunch, aren’t they? You find one who looks good to you, Rebekah?” She got no answer, and glanced at the other woman. Rebekah was staring at a young boy who had run out of a store and grabbed Sky Winslow around the middle. The two stood there, holding on to each other, oblivious of the crowd, and then Sky swung the boy around and saw Rebekah staring at him.
He stopped in his tracks, and his expression changed in a way she could not explain. He held her gaze for one long moment before the boy pulled at him, and he looked down. When he answered the boy and looked back, a tall young man had come up to Rebekah, sweeping off his hat and introducing himself, unknowingly blocking Sky’s view of her.
Her last sight of him was of the two of them mounting his horse and his spurring it down the muddy street, going at a fast run until she could not see him anymore.
Rita was being pulled toward a large building by anxious hands, but she resisted them long enough to draw close and say, “Forget him, Rebekah! Who needs a reluctant bridegroom when there’s men for the asking all over the place! Welcome to Oregon!”
Rebekah suddenly felt more lonely in the midst of the shouting throng than she had in all the emptiness of the great plains. She shook her head at the tall fellow who was urging her to let him escort her to the hotel, and went to find a place of quiet in the wagon. “I don’t want to go with them, Lot,” she said and got under the canvas. She picked Mary up and cuddled her close, and allowed the tears to flow.
“Welcome to Oregon!” she whispered—and wished that she were anywhere else in all the world.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SKY MAKES UP HIS MIND
The snowstorm caught up with Sky and Joe at the end of the first week of their trip north. When the sun shrank to a small, gray disk in the iron sky and the temperature plummeted, Sky said, “We’re in for it now, Joe. Got to make for McKenzie’s old place over by Sixpoint River.”
By the time they reached the deserted shack, heavy flakes had padded the earth with three or four inches of snow. “You take care of the horses, Joe, and I’ll get a fire going and fix some grub,” Sky said.
“Come in and warm up, Joe.” The warmth of the flickering fire was a welcome sight, and the smell of the sizzling steaks in the frying pan that Sky held stirred the boy’s juices. He stomped the snow from his feet, shut the door behind him, and sat beside the huge fireplace. “Glad we left that kindling and wood here last year, Son. Don’t reckon there’s been a soul here since we left. You get the horses fed?”
“Sure.”
Sky was amused at the taciturn answer; he had noticed that Joe was out to prove himself grown up: avoiding boyish chatter and speaking briefly in as deep a voice as possible. There were times when he forgot—like when he’d brought down the six-point buck early that morning. Sky had put him where the boy would get the first shot; and if he lived to be a hundred, Sky would never forget Joe’s wide-eyed excitement as he’d stood over the fallen animal, dancing and chattering loudly.
“Glad you got this fellow, Joe,” Sky said idly, turning the steaks. “We’d be chewing hardtack if you’d missed.” He cocked his head and allowed admiration to shade his tone: “That was a good shot.”
Joe flushed with pleasure. “Wasn’t much.” Then he forgot his resolution to keep his words to a minimum, and began to talk with animation of the hunt. His flow of words was slowed only slightly by the steak that Sky put before him.
Boy’s been dying for someone to talk to—never should have gone on that fool trip! Sky thought. During his brief talk with Sam Birdwell, he’d learned that Joe had not been happy. “He missed you a lot, Sky,” Birdwell had said. “I tried to find things to do with him, but I’m a town man and he just naturally wanted to be outside, hunting and trapping. We’re both glad you’re back, Sky. Boy needs you.”
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 20
