Blood Trail
Page 9
Her father, and the others, were unfortunately in the way. If Clint did not come to her wagon, she was going to have to try to get him away from camp. He might think her a child, but once she showed him her body—she touched herself as she thought of him—his attitude toward her would change. She was easily as beautiful as her mother had been, maybe even more so. Men in her country were always after her, and the men of America—and the American West—even more. But she had not yet found an American man she would give herself to—until now.
She became drowsy. Perhaps she’d sleep, and he would come and wake her with kisses. Yes, that was what she would do. Sleep . . .
And let her love awaken her.
She reclined, pulled blanket over her, and was fast asleep in seconds.
THIRTY-FOUR
In the morning Clint rolled out from underneath Talbot’s wagon, instantly ready.
He looked back and forth, and everything in the camp seemed quiet. Each fire had several women at it, preparing breakfast. The smell of coffee filled the air and made his mouth water.
He walked to one of the fires, and a woman there smiled and handed him a cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded and went back to her cooking.
Clint walked around the camp, nodding to the people as they came out of their wagons. He also exchanged nods with the four men who had been on watch the last part of the night.
“Anything during the night?” he asked one of them.
“It was all quiet, thank God,” one of them said in a German accent.
“Good,” Clint said. “Glad to hear it.”
He saw Gerhardt stepping down from his wagon, looking not rested at all. He approached the man.
“Gerhardt.”
“Mr. Adams,” Gerhardt said. “Good morning.”
“Are you all right?” Clint asked.
“I did not sleep very well, I am afraid,” the German said. “I feel so badly about poor Mueller.”
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“Really? Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I cannot help feeling guilty.”
“I understand,” Clint said.
“Will you and Talbot be going out this morning?”
“Yes,” Clint said. “Just for a quick look. We want to see if we can find any sign that one of us might have wounded . . . it.”
“Then we will not pull out until you come back.”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “We’ll come back and roll out with you.”
“That is good,” Gerhardt said.
“Get yourself some coffee and breakfast,” Clint said. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”
“I doubt it,” Gerhardt said, walking away.
Clint turned, walked the other way, and saw Talbot coming toward him, rifle and bag ready.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“You want some coffee first?”
“No,” Talbot said. “Perhaps when we come back. I want to get started.”
“Okay.” Clint set his cup aside, figuring to pick it up when he returned. “Let’s go.”
* * *
They moved much more quickly through the brush in the daylight. Talbot seemed to know just where they had been the night before.
“I was here when I encountered him,” he said, looking around. Clint did the same, and it was actually he who found the blood.
“Here,” he said.
Talbot came over, saw the drops of blood Clint had found on a leaf.
“I hit him,” Talbot said.
“With your silver bullet.”
“Yes.”
“All right,” Clint said, “I was over here . . .”
* * *
It took them a little longer to find the place where Clint had been when he encountered his wolf. And that was what he was thinking of it as, a wolf, no matter how big.
“Here,” he said, “this looks familiar. There, see, he broke through that brush.”
The branches were bent and torn. They moved in and inspected them.
“Blood,” Talbot said, sounding confused.
“And no silver bullets,” Clint pointed out.
“I don’t understand,” Talbot said, “but there’s no denying that you hit it.”
“We both did.”
Talbot touched the blood, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.
“We better get back,” Clint said.
“Yes,” Talbot said, obviously perturbed by this turn of events.
They headed back to camp.
* * *
The horses were all hitched up, the campfires extinguished, and the wagons ready. Gerhardt and some of the other men were gathered together, all holding rifles. They looked around when Clint and Talbot reappeared.
“Did you find anything?” Gerhardt asked.
“Blood,” Talbot said.
“You hit it?” the German asked.
“Apparently,” Clint said, “we both did.”
“Then with that many wounds, perhaps it will crawl off and die,” Gerhardt said hopefully.
“Perhaps,” Talbot said, exchanging a look with Clint. In unspoken agreement, they decided to let the people have hope.
“I’ll get my horse,” Clint said.
They started walking to Talbot’s wagon together. Sarah met them along the way.
“Papa, I don’t think Clint should ride with that wound,” she said. “I think he should ride in our wagon.”
“You are probably right,” Talbot said.
“I’m fine,” Clint insisted.
“You can still take the lead in the wagon,” Talbot said. “Your wound needs to heal.”
“Come,” Sarah said, grabbing Clint’s right arm. “You can still drive the wagon.”
Reluctantly, he agreed.
* * *
The other wagons waited while Clint drove the Talbot wagon to the front of the column. Talbot mounted his mare.
“I can ride up ahead,” he offered.
“Not too far,” Clint said. “Just go where I tell you to go. Okay?”
“Agreed.”
“Wagons ho!” Clint shouted, and they got under way.
THIRTY-FIVE
Clint wondered if the killer or killers would follow them wherever they went. What if they stayed behind when the train left the state? Whose responsibility would they become then?
He was jostled from his reverie when Sarah put her hands on him from behind.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice close to his ear. “How is your shoulder?”
“It’s fine,” he said, aware of her hands on his neck, his back, then gently touching his shoulder.
“I’ll take a look at it again when we stop,” she promised him.
“Sarah,” Clint said, “I think we should talk.”
“Wait.”
She climbed out from the back of the wagon to sit next to him on the bench. Sitting that way, they were pressed tightly together, hip to hip.
“All right,” she said, “what do you want to talk about?”
“You.”
“What about me?” she asked. “Do you like me?”
“Well, of course I like you,” he said. “I think you’re a lovely girl.”
“Thank you.”
“But I think you might have the wrong idea about . . .”
“About what?”
“Well . . . us.”
“Is there an us?” she asked.
“That’s just it,” he said. “There can’t be.”
“Because of my father?”
“Well, that’s one good reason,” Clint said, “but more than that is your age.”
“I am seventeen,” she said, “soon to be eighteen.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I have a woman’s needs.”
“Well, that might be true,” he said, “but I’m not the person to see to them.”
“I disagree,” she said, closing her hand on his left thigh. “I think you are. I think we are meant to be lovers.”
“Sarah—”
“I am sorry,” she said, “but that’s how I feel.”
“No, I mean, here comes your father.”
She jerked her hand away from his leg as her father rode up on them.
“It looks clear ahead,” Talbot announced.
“Good,” Clint said. “We’ll take a break in a short while.”
“There’s a clearing about a mile up ahead, near a water hole.”
“Sounds perfect,” Clint said. “Lead the way, Frederick.”
* * *
When they reached the clearing, Clint reined in the team and waved at the others to do the same. He stepped down, mounted Eclipse, and rode back to tell each of the wagons, “We’re going to take a break and water the horses. Any of you who want water can step down and get it.”
Since quite a few of them took advantage of the stop, they stayed longer than expected.
Clint rode Eclipse to the back of the column and stared out over the expanse of ground they’d left behind. They’d be crossing the border into Iowa soon, their next goal being Council Bluffs. There they’d have to cross the Missouri River in order to continue. In the old days it took wagon trains many days to cross. In many cases they had to remove the wheels and float the wagons across. There was a lot of personal property at the bottom of the river, along with some bodies. It would not take this train very long, but everyone would have to do what they were told so that they could make it across safely.
But safety had to do with a lot more than just crossing the river. Was there a killer or killers behind them, either following or pursuing?
Clint heard a horse, turned, and saw Talbot ride up alongside him.
“Everyone is filling their barrels,” he said. “They want to know if we will be stopping here for the night.”
“That’ll take some time,” Clint said, looking at the sky. “But we still have plenty of daylight. We can travel for another few hours.”
“They are worried—you know—about . . .”
“Yes, I know,” Clint said. “We’ll find a place to camp in the open, so nothing can sneak up on us. That should give everyone the chance to get a good night’s sleep.”
“And us?”
“What about us?”
“Should we ride back and search?”
“Not in the dark, Frederick,” Clint said. “I know you can get around in the dark, but I don’t think last night was a huge success, do you?”
“No,” Talbot said, “you are probably right.”
“We need time to lick our wounds,” Clint said, “and I’m not talking about physical wounds.”
“I understand,” Talbot said. “I will tell them we will be moving on.”
“Okay.”
Talbot turned and rode away. Clint continued to look behind them.
THIRTY-SIX
They drove for three more hours and then Clint called the column to a halt. They camped as he had said, in the open, picketed their horses, and built their fires. Everyone seemed at ease while they were able to see around them, but as darkness fell, nervousness kicked in. Many felt they might as well have been in the center of a forest for all they could see.
“Let’s set the watches by fours again,” Clint said. “We’ll keep that up all the way.”
“All right,” Talbot said.
When supper was ready, Clint sat at a fire with Talbot and Sarah. There were two other fires, but he could see that the remaining members of the train had decided to avoid him and the Talbots—or just him. Either they were afraid to be near them, or they were simply putting distance between themselves and his newfound authority.
“Let me ask you something,” Clint said to Talbot. He decided to discuss their situation in front of Sarah. She had a right to know what was going on.
“Yes?” Talbot asked.
“I know what a wolf would do,” Clint said. “It would follow us as long as we were the only source of food. If, somewhere along the way, he came across another source—maybe easier prey—he’d take it. So I would not expect a wolf to follow us all the way to Council Bluffs. And if it did, we would probably leave it behind when we crossed the river.”
“I understand.”
“Now tell me about the animals you hunt,” Clint said. “Is any of that true?”
Talbot tossed a look Sarah’s way.
“Tell him, Papa,” she said.
“Yes,” Talbot agreed. “In my country this creature would not be pursuing us as a source of nourishment. It would have something else in mind.”
“Like what?”
“Either vengeance,” Talbot said, “or simple blood lust.”
“Vengeance?”
“Against those who hunt their kind,” Talbot said.
“And the blood lust?”
Talbot shrugged.
“They simply crave it, from the very first time they taste it.”
“Well,” Clint said, “we do have animals who, once they’ve tasted human flesh, can’t get enough.”
“So if you are asking me if it—they—will follow us to Council Bluffs and beyond, I would say . . . yes.”
“That’s what I was asking you,” Clint said. “Thank you for answering me truthfully.”
They ate the rest of their meal in solemn silence.
* * *
Clint and Talbot took the first watch along with two of the other men. They saved Gerhardt for the second watch.
Clint took the tail end of the column, while Talbot took the front, near his own wagon. Clint felt safer from Sarah’s advances that way. She was a beautiful, healthy young woman and he didn’t know how long he’d be able to resist her. He was, after all, only human, and he loved women of all ages, sizes, and colors. But he’d never be able to explain that to her father. So he decided to keep his distance. In the morning he’d tell Talbot to switch places with him and drive his own wagon. Clint was going to be back on horseback, leading the column.
But his secure feeling quickly vanished as Sarah came walking up to him, carrying a cup of coffee. Her hair was down and long, hanging past her shoulders, and her skin was impossibly smooth and pale. In spite of a day of traveling, she smelled fresh.
“I thought you could use this,” she said.
“Thank you.”
He accepted the cup from her. She folded her arms and stood next to him.
“It’s very dark,” she said.
“Yes, we could use some moonlight.”
She looked up at the sky.
“There are a lot of stars, though.”
“Sarah.”
“Yes?”
“I seem to remember reading something about werewolves and the full moon. But we haven’t had a full moon for a while.”
“You would have to ask my father,” she said. “I try not to think of those things. But there are other creatures than just werewolves.”
“Vampires, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Yes, but aren’t they also only supposed to come out at night?” Clint was trying to remember what he had read specifically. And was it fiction, or fact?
Sarah rubbed her arms, as if cold even though it was a mild night.
“I don’t want to talk about this.” She turned and walked away.
Clint decided to address these matters with Talbot in the morning.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Thankfully, the night went by uneventfully. Clint had a good night’
s sleep—well, half a night—and rolled out from beneath the wagon feeling hungry. He could smell both coffee and bacon.
He approached one of the fires, where a fine-looking woman in her forties was cooking.
“Good morning,” he said.
She turned and looked at him, startled. She had a pretty face, only lightly lined by the years.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I am being silly,” she said. “Good morning, Mr. Adams.”
“You have me at a disadvantage.”
She stared at him, not comprehending what he meant.
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Oh,” she said, “I am Bella.”
“Bella. Are you traveling with your husband?”
“I was,” she said, “but he died soon after the trip started. Fever.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged and said, “It was many months ago. And it was just like him to force me into this trip, and then to leave me soon after it started.”
“You didn’t want to come west?”
“I was happy with the life we had,” she said, “but he . . . oh, I should not be speaking ill of the dead. Here.” She handed him a cup of coffee.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting it gratefully. “Are you traveling alone now?”
“I have my son,” she said. “He is ten years old. Yes, I know, I look too old to have a ten-year-old. We married late, and had only the one child.”
“I would never have said you look too old to have a ten-year-old.”
“You are kind. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“Thanks.”
She turned her attention back to her task and he turned as Gerhardt, who had been on watch, came walking up to him.
“Quiet?” he asked.
“Too quiet,” Gerhardt said. “I admit I jumped at even the smallest sound.”
“At least you were alert.”
“Yes,” Gerhardt said, “perhaps too alert.”
“You can never be too alert,” Clint told him.
“I suppose not,” Gerhardt said. “How long will it take to get to Council Bluffs?”