Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West)

by Shirley Kennedy

  “Give her a kiss, Josiah,” one of the men shouted.

  Oh, no! This loathsome man was going to hurt her. She bolted, began to run, but the bearded man ran after her and grabbed her arm. She tried to yank her arm back, but his grip was as strong as iron. “You let me go!”

  His grip tightened. He pulled her toward him. Oh, God, she’d rather die than feel those slobbery lips on her mouth.

  A deafening crack filled the air. The man let out a scream of pain and let go his grip. He uttered a cuss word and clutched his arm, now encircled several times by a whip’s thin leather thong. “God almighty, Jack!” The man named Josiah glowered at a tall man in a wide-brimmed black hat who’d just ridden up. “Hell, I was just playin’ around.” He unwound the thin leather strip that had cut into his arm. “You didn’t have to use that whip.”

  “Looks like I did.” The man named Jack pulled back the thong and wrapped it around the handle. Whip in hand, he slid off his horse and addressed Sarah. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

  “I…” Her voice shook and her heart pounded in her chest. The man with the scraggly beard was bad enough, but with his hard, dark eyes and unfriendly voice, this man with the whip was just as frightening. But she mustn’t show fear. She gulped and steadied herself. “I’m looking for my sister.”

  “Out here?” His gaze swept the tall pine trees. “In the middle of nowhere?”

  She looked up at him. He was tall and lean, somewhere in his thirties, she’d guess, with brown hair hanging nearly to his shoulders. At least he didn’t have an unkempt beard like the others. His deeply tanned face was all rugged angles, sharp planes, and high cheekbones. It would be a handsome face if he didn’t look so grim. “My sister disappeared from our wagon train two days ago…”

  She explained how her mother would not give up, how the rest of the train went ahead and left them behind to continue searching.

  When she finished, he shook his head and said sternly, “This is dangerous territory. You should never have stayed behind.”

  Did he have to sound so hostile? “My sister is missing. What were we supposed to do?” She’d defend her mother against this stranger, even though she, too, thought Ma was wrong to stay behind. “I want to thank you for saving me from…” The image that presented itself to her mind was so horrifying she couldn’t find words. “From these men,” she ended lamely.

  “Any time.” Hastily he turned to address his fellow riders who were still gawking at the scene. “That’s all there is to see. Get going. You’ve still got a lot of miles to travel yet today.” He gestured at the bearded man who by now was back on his horse, holding his arm in pain. “That means you, Josiah.”

  The man sneered. “I don’t take orders from you.”

  In a velvet soft voice, the man in the black hat replied, “No, you don’t, but you’ll take orders from this.” He raised the whip he was carrying.

  Hatred blazed in Josiah’s eyes. Sarah held her breath while she waited to see what he’d do. After a long moment, he grasped the reins and turned his horse. “Let’s go, boys.”

  Except for an older man with salt-and-pepper whiskers, the men turned their horses and headed up the trail. The older man watched them go, then looked down at his companion, his expression holding both amusement and amazement. “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, Jack! What are you doin’ tangling with the likes of Josiah Peterson? He’s killed two men that I know of and probably more.”

  “He didn’t kill me, did he?” The man with the whip looked at Sarah. “Get your horse. We’ll take you back to your parents.”

  She commanded her voice to come out strong and pulled back her shoulders. “And you are?”

  “I’m Jack McCoy.”

  Where had she heard that name before? She held out her hand. “I’m Sarah Gregg, and I’m pleased to—” Albert Morehead’s words popped into her head. Lost all their money thanks to that card shark. Goes by the name of Jack McCoy. A scoundrel and ne’er-do-well if ever there was one. “Oh, it’s you!” The words popped out before she could stop them.

  He looked puzzled. “Do I know you from some place?”

  She so wished she’d kept her mouth shut. “No, but I’ve heard of you.”

  “Good or bad?”

  She disliked lying and wouldn’t lie now. “Bad. I heard you were a card shark and a scoundrel.”

  The faintest glint of humor flickered through his eyes. “So what do you think?”

  “I think where there’s smoke there’s fire.” She didn’t care for the way her words came out sounding prim and proper. She’d said them, though. Too late to take them back. “I don’t need an escort, Mr. McCoy. You needn’t bother.”

  “No bother, Miss Gregg. Get your horse.”

  “It’s Mrs. Gregg. I don’t like gamblers, Mr. McCoy.”

  “I’m not going to leave you in the wilderness, Mrs. Gregg. Get your horse.”

  The cold firmness in his voice told her he wouldn’t accept no for an answer. Well, she’d ride back with him and his friend if that’s what he wanted. Maybe she should. She didn’t want to be alone while Josiah Peterson was still in the area. “All right, then.”

  After she untied Rosie and mounted, she watched as he got on his own horse. How graceful, the way he swung his lean, sinewy body into the saddle. He held a commanding air of self confidence about him, as if he would never hesitate and blunder around like Pa did sometimes. As if she could always count on his strength, and he’d never let her down. Her pulse quickened, ever so slightly, but what was she thinking? She didn’t want a man, especially one like Jack McCoy. Once they got back to camp, she’d have nothing to do with such a scoundrel and he could be on his way.

  * * * *

  Jack got a fast glimpse of bare leg when the girl got on her horse and her skirt billowed. Women were crazy not to wear pants. At least she wasn’t using one of those nonsensical sidesaddles the ladies doted on. When they started out, she rode ahead as though she didn’t want to talk, and that was fine with him.

  Riding beside him, Ben Longren chuckled. “Stuck up little thing, ain’t she? She ought to be more friendly, considering you saved her from the likes of Josiah. That could have been bad, Jack.”

  He threw his friend a look of disgust. “You think I care if she talks or not?”

  Ben stayed quiet for at least two seconds. “Did you notice how pretty she is?”

  “I noticed how stupid she is to be out in the wilderness by herself.”

  Ben remained silent. Good. He knew how to keep his mouth shut. His friend was right, though. Yes, he’d noticed how pretty Mrs. Gregg was with her long, auburn hair and warm brown eyes. She was dressed like most women on the trail—faded homespun dress, white apron, and sturdy boots. Those plain clothes couldn’t hide her tall, slim figure, though. Full breasts, tiny waist. Riding behind her, he had a fine view of the pleasant curve of her hips and the easy way she rode without bouncing or slouching, as if she’d spent a lot of time on a horse. If he was looking for a woman…

  But, no, he wasn’t looking for a woman. Furthest thing from his mind. He turned to Ben. “After we take her back, we’ll catch up with the rest.”

  Ben didn’t answer right away. When he did, a troubled expression rested on his weathered face. “Don’t know as I want anything more to do with those jackasses. Why’d we join up with them in the first place?”

  “Don’t you remember? They were hell-bent for California with nothing to slow them down. Had a chuck wagon—”

  “Yeah, the grub’s been good, but I don’t much care for that Josiah Peterson. All he wants is to get to California and get his share of the gold. He don’t care who gets in his way.”

  “They’re all the same.” Never in his thirty-four years had Jack seen anything resembling the crazed rush for riches that had swept not only the country but the world. Thousands of men were headed for the goldfields to make their fortune, each a fool if he thought he’d get rich. He, too, was a
fool, but an eyes-wide-open fool.

  * * * *

  Sarah’s parents were sitting by their campfire when she and her two companions rode into the meadow. “Any luck?” Pa called.

  She wearily shook her head as she dismounted. “No, nothing.” She nodded toward Jack and Ben, who remained on their horses. They’d be riding on, so no need to introduce them. “These gentlemen were kind enough to escort me back. I…just happened to come across them.” Nothing would be gained by telling her parents how that man had attacked her. They had enough to worry about.

  Pa looked up at Jack. “Were those your friends who just rode through here?”

  “We’re riding with a group of gold seekers. Can’t say we’re friends.”

  “Is that so?” Pa eyed him suspiciously. “They were a rowdy bunch, had no manners. I suspect they’re the ne’er-do-wells our wagon master was talking about.”

  Ma rose to her feet. Back in Fort Wayne, she was known for her gracious hospitality. Despite her grief, she hadn’t changed. “Won’t you gentlemen stay and have something to eat? In fact, you’re welcome to spend the night by our campfire.”

  Oh, no. Sarah didn’t want them to stay. “I’m afraid they’re behind their schedule, Ma. They don’t have time to—”

  “Don’t mind if we do!” The old man with the whiskers dismounted and addressed her parents. “The name’s Ben Longren.”

  Pa stood and shook his hand. He looked toward the second rider. “And this is?”

  “This here’s my friend, Jack McCoy.”

  The fleeting raise of Pa’s eyebrows told Sarah he recognized Jack’s name and remembered the wagon master’s warning. But being that Pa was first and foremost a gentleman, Sarah expected he’d be polite.

  She was right. Pa managed a tight smile. “We’re having simple fare today, just beans and cured bacon, but you’re welcome to join us.”

  They said they would, and soon everyone had filled their plates and were sitting in a circle around the campfire. Sarah heartily wished they’d declined Pa’s invitation and gone on their way, but despite her unease that a notorious gambler was in their midst, she soon became engrossed in the conversation. At first, Ben Longren did most of the talking—all about the Gold Rush and how he and his fellow group of gold seekers could hardly wait till they got to California and staked their claims. Jack McCoy sat silent until Ben flicked a glance at him and remarked, “But not my friend here. You won’t find him with a pick in his hands. He’s got higher ambitions.”

  “And what might those be, Mr. McCoy?” Pa asked.

  The tall man in the black hat took his time answering. A thoughtful look came over his face. “My friend says I won’t touch a pick. That’s not so. I leave all options open. I have a lot of reasons for making this journey. One’s called manifest destiny.”

  “You’re absolutely right!” Pa practically leaped off his chair with delight. “I’m happy to find a person who sees that, Mr. McCoy.”

  “Of course I do. This country is bound to grow. Sounds crazy, but I want to be a part of it.”

  Soon Sarah sat fascinated as her father and Jack McCoy got into a lively discussion over manifest destiny and the reasons why the United States must spread across the continent to form one nation. From there, the conversation drifted to the reasons half the men in the country were rushing to California. “They want to get out of their dreary lives,” said Pa. “Imagine if you were a low-paid clerk spending twelve hours a day, six days a week, with a quill pen in your hand, copying wills, mortgages, whatever else, in duplicate and triplicate.”

  Jack nodded in agreement. “They can only dream of riches and adventure, a change of scenery. Then one day they hear if they head for California, they can make their fortune. It’s not just an empty dream.”

  Pa leveled a piercing gaze. “Aside from being a part of our manifest destiny, why are you headed west, Mr. McCoy? Why aren’t you dead set on finding those gold nuggets they say are yours for the taking?”

  Jack’s answering laughter held a dry, cynical sound. “I’m a wanderer, Mr. Bryan. Left home when I was twelve and haven’t put roots down since. I’ve run cattle in Texas, worked on steamboats on the Mississippi. I’ve already found gold, not in California but up in Wyoming Territory on the Sweetwater River. Found it, but couldn’t keep it. The Shoshones drove us away.”

  “My, my, you’ve had an interesting life,” Ma said. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Back east.” The abrupt manner of Jack’s answer clearly signaled he’d prefer a change of subject.

  Ma caught on fast. “Are you familiar with this area?”

  “Been through a few times. For a while, I ran cattle up north of here.”

  “Can you tell me about the Indians?”

  “The different tribes, you mean? You’ve got the Cherokees, Blackfoot, Chippewa, Shoshones—”

  “Just hope you don’t meet a Comanche,” Ben chimed in. “They butcher babies and roast their enemies alive. Why, down in Texas I hear there was a woman kidnapped—”

  “Ben!”

  The older man looked sheepish after Jack’s sharp warning. “Sorry, ma’am, hope I didn’t upset you.”

  Ma gasped and clutched at her throat. Sarah said quickly, “The Comanches are far away in Texas, aren’t they, Mr. McCoy? Not around here.”

  Jack looked at Ma. “Not within a thousand miles, Mrs. Bryan. I don’t know what happened to your daughter, but she wasn’t kidnapped by a Comanche.”

  Too late. Ma started to wheeze—that awful sound Sarah dreaded to hear. She went to her mother and clasped her shoulders. “Relax. Just breathe easy.”

  Ma stared at her with frantic eyes. She tried to speak but all that came out was, “Can’t…breathe.” Her face lost its color as she began fighting for breath. The wheezing got worse, gradually turning into a rasping, desperate struggle for air that sounded as if it was tearing her insides apart. Sarah called to her father, “It’s another asthma attack. Did we bring the eucalyptus oil?”

  Pa shrugged helplessly. “She hasn’t had an attack for quite a while. We couldn’t bring everything.”

  Jack McCoy sprang from his seat. He knelt by Ma’s side and said softly, “You’re going to be all right, Mrs. Bryan. Don’t panic. That only makes it worse.” He stood and gripped her arms. “You and I are going to walk, very slowly and very carefully, around the campfire. Moving should make your breathing easier. Have no fear. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

  He pulled Luzena to her feet. She slumped against him, continuing the desperate, deep wheezing. Her skin gleamed with perspiration as Jack, his arm securely around her waist, began to walk her slowly, one step at a time. “Good, you’re doing fine. No hurry…and we’re not going to panic.” After one circle of the campfire, her wheezing eased but didn’t stop.

  Sarah stood by, helplessly watching. One of her cousins had died of an asthma attack. It could happen again. Ma had these attacks before but none as bad as this one. “Is there something we can do?” she called to Jack. “Shouldn’t she lie down?”

  “No, that makes it worse. She’s going to need something more. Do you have any ginger?”

  “No.”

  “Mustard oil?”

  “No.” She hated saying no. Had they nothing that might help?

  “Honey?”

  “Yes!” Thank God. She hastened to the wagon and retrieved their jar of honey and a spoon. When she returned, Ma was still fighting for breath, and Jack was easing her back in her camp chair. He took the honey, poured a big spoonful and held it under her nose. “Breathe deep. This is going to help.”

  As her mother inhaled the fumes from the honey, Pa stood by, face strained with anxiety. “What does the honey do?”

  Jack didn’t look up. “It soothes the mucous membranes in her airways.”

  Minutes passed while Ma continued to inhale the vapor from the honey, Jack still holding the spoon directly under her nose. “Take your
time,” he kept repeating. After a while, she stopped struggling for breath. The wheezing lightened its intensity and finally ceased. Breathing normally again, she sat back in her chair and smiled. “I do believe I’m better now. Mercy, all that fuss. You can take that spoon away now, Mr. McCoy.”

  A cry of relief broke from Sarah’s lips. “You had us worried, Ma. Don’t do that again.”

  “I’d wager it’s all that worry over Florrie,” Pa said. “That’s it, Luzena. We shouldn’t be out here by ourselves. We should rejoin the train. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

  Ma folded her arms. “We’re not going until Florrie gets back.”

  Pa threw up his hands. “You’re not thinking clearly…”

  When Sarah’s parents started arguing, Jack McCoy turned away and headed for the nearby stream. She went after him. He had just saved her mother’s life. He might be a notorious gambler, but she had to thank him. He was bending over the stream, washing his hands when she found him. His shirt was off. A gold ring hung on a chain around his neck, a ring so small she doubted it would fit his little finger. It had to be a woman’s.

  When he saw her, he said, “Hello,” and leisurely pulled his shirt back on.

  “It seems I must thank you again, Mr. McCoy.”

  “Don’t bother. No trouble.”

  His clipped words told her she need say nothing further, but she couldn’t let it go. “How do you know so much about asthma?”

  He straightened, casually wiping his hands on his pants. “Someone I once knew had asthma.” A glint of some undefinable sadness appeared in the dark depths of his eyes. “It was a long time ago.” She started to answer, but he interrupted. “Let’s get back. Got to get some sleep.” One side of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “Your notorious gambler will be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  She thought of the ring she’d just seen on the chain around his neck. Where did he get it? There must be a story there, but something told her this wasn’t the right time to ask.