House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman

by Gilbert, Morris

  He raised himself up to a sitting position, and saw a flickering light. His mind moved slowly, and all he could do was mutter, “Sure—” He scooted himself to the rear of the wagon, gritted his teeth, and rolled over on his stomach. She helped him lower himself to the ground, minimizing the jolt to his wounded leg. “Lean on me,” she commanded, and he limped across, once again forced to throw most of his weight on her. He was able to notice that they were entering some sort of a cave, or at least a crevice cut deeply into the earth, with an overhang that blotted out the faint stars.

  “Sit down here, Dan,” Hope said, and he lowered himself onto the blankets she had arranged next to the bank that formed the back of the crevice. He gave a long, gusty breath as he settled down, putting his legs out straight with relief. Looking around, he took in the fire burning in the center of the crevice, then managed a grin. “All the comforts of home.”

  She looked at him carefully and came over to kneel beside him. Putting her hand on his cheek, she paused, then nodded. “Your fever’s not so high. I’ve got to look at your leg.” She took a pocketknife from her pocket, opened it, and cut his pants leg off a few inches above the wound. She started to close the knife, but he reached out and took it from her. He looked at it closely, then turned his eyes on her. “Where’d you get this knife, Hope?”

  “Why, from Zane. He bought it from one of the Littleton brothers, the big one. Why do you ask?”

  When she looked puzzled, he said, “This knife belonged to my partner, Logan Mann. He got it from his father, James.” Dan touched the knife with his free hand. “Look at the silver initials—JM.” He turned the knife over in his hands, his eyes gone hard. “This means that Logan is dead. He’d never sell this knife; it was the only personal thing he had from his dad.”

  “Oh, Dan, I’m so sorry!”

  He gave her back the knife, a sadness in his face, but said no more. She took a look at the leg and glanced at him with relief in her eyes. “No infection, but I’m going to clean it and put a bandage on it.”

  She did so, washing both the entry and exit wounds with strong soap, then tearing into strips some sort of cotton garment, which she used to cover the wound. Then she put the blankets over him, saying, “Now—you need something to eat. Don’t go to sleep.”

  “You’ve gotten pretty bossy—” Winslow said, but she was gone. He lay there soaking up the heat of the fire, which seemed to go to his bones, and was assaulted again by weariness. But he fought off the desire to sleep, and she returned soon with a large box, which she put down close to the fire and began unloading. He watched with interest as she drew out a skillet, a sauce pan, a coffee pot, and a canteen, placing them on the ground. She put the coffee pot on the hot coals, poured water into it from the canteen, then searched through the box until she found a small can. Opening it, she poured coffee into the pot. She rummaged through the box and came out with a large piece of bacon wrapped in a cloth. Using the pocketknife, she sliced the bacon into strips, threw them into the skillet, and made a place for it over the fire. Winslow watched her as she worked, filled with wonder at what she had done. The flickering light of the fire threw her features into relief, but he made out the roundness of her cheeks, the firm set of her full lips, and her deep-set eyes hidden by the shadows. She worked efficiently, as though she were in her own kitchen preparing a meal for her family, not hidden in a cave with a wounded man and in danger from desperate men.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked as the aroma of the meat began to come to him, stirring his hunger.

  “You dropped the note that man gave you at the cabin raising,” she replied. “When you didn’t come home, I got worried.”

  “Now, that’s an odd one,” Winslow mused after a long silence. “If I hadn’t dropped that note, I’d still be in that creek.”

  The bacon was soon sizzling, popping in the frying pan with a cheerful noise. Hope used the knife, stabbing the pieces and putting them on a tin plate. She handed Dan the plate, warning, “Don’t burn your mouth!”

  He took the plate, picked up a piece of bacon, and juggled it until it cooled. As soon as he put it into his mouth, hunger rose in him, and he chewed and swallowed so eagerly that Hope said, “Don’t strangle yourself, Dan! You’ve got plenty of time.” She filled a large mug with coffee and handed it to him. He raised it to his lips, savoring the steamy warmth. It was the best thing he’d ever put into his mouth. The bitter brew almost scalded his lips, but at once it warmed his stomach in a most satisfying way. He ate several pieces of bacon, then she put her hand out to stop him as he reached for another piece. “Wait a while. I don’t want it to make you sick. Just finish your coffee.”

  He leaned back and drank the coffee, savoring every drop, then handed the cup back. “Mighty fine,” he murmured. “I want to tell you—”

  “Lie down and sleep,” she said. Putting the cup down, she moved to his side and helped him down onto the blankets. When he was comfortable, she tucked the blankets around him, saying, “You need to get some rest now—”

  He wanted to speak to her, but his eyelids closed as though weighed down, and without preamble, he dropped off into a sound sleep.

  ****

  When he awoke, there was a sharpness in his mind, and he realized that his fever was almost gone. He sat up, aware of the sharp bite of hunger, but ignored it. Rain was falling and the sky was a dull gray. He noted with satisfaction that the pain in his leg was now bearable. The fire had burned down to embers, but he saw several chunks of dead limbs stacked against the wall. Throwing back the blankets, he moved carefully, pulling some of the smaller sticks onto the coals. He nursed them until they began to blaze, then built the fire up with larger pieces. The box she had brought was pulled back away from the fire, and he managed to get to it, finding not only bacon but some cans of food. The canteen was filled, which told him that she had replenished it, and he drank deeply then began to fix a meal. He kept looking for her to return, but by the time the food was cooked, she still had not appeared.

  He ate slowly, relishing the meal, then sat back and drank coffee from the mug. It was, as far as he could tell, somewhat past midday, but with the rain blotting out the sun, he could not be certain. “Where could she have gotten off to?” he spoke aloud, and when she still had not returned two hours later, his concern grew acute. “She took the wagon, but where to?” Uncertainty gnawed at him. What if she ran into some of Littleton’s men and they took a shot at her? His thoughts tormented him, and he pulled himself to the brink of the overhang where rain dripped like a screen, but could see no sign of the wagon.

  Winslow was not a man who could endure an enforced time of passivity easily, for there was a restlessness in him that craved action and activity. Now, again—as when he was trapped under the log—he could do nothing but wait, and by the time dusk began closing in, he was almost out of his mind.

  Then he heard the muted sound of something approaching, and in his eagerness, pulled himself to his feet and watched. He hadn’t considered that it might be Arrow closing in. Then he saw the wagon appear from the timber and a great weakness washed over him, a relief that left him almost faint.

  Hope leaped from the wagon and entered the cave. He grabbed her arms, his voice ragged with worry. “Hope—where have you been?”

  Hope was taken off guard, and her lips parted with surprise at his greeting. “Why—I had to get word to Pa that I was all right—” she began, but to her shock, he suddenly pulled her close and held her so tightly that she couldn’t breathe. His embrace stirred a small spark of fear, but at the same time, she felt strangely safe in his arms.

  He drew back, his face drawn tense, and shook his head. “Don’t do that again, Hope! I nearly went out of my mind!”

  “I—I’m sorry, Dan,” Hope whispered. She was confused by his obvious fright—and aware that she had some of the same feelings, for she had been apprehensive that he might have gotten worse. Now, however, she saw that he was better. “I had to get word to Pa. Now, you
sit down.” He put his arm around her to brace himself for the short journey to the blankets. “You’re better,” she said, noting how much easier he could put his weight on his bad leg.

  “Yeah, guess so.” Dan lowered himself to his side, then asked, “How’d you get word to your father?”

  She picked up the coffee pot, poured some into the mug, and took a long draught before she answered. “I went to the Shultz place. Nobody was home, so I left a note.” Worry touched her eyes, and she shook her head. “I couldn’t be sure Arrow men wouldn’t find it, so I just asked them to tell Pa I’d be gone for a few days. Maybe I can go back tomorrow and leave word that I’m with you. Pa’s worried about you.”

  Suddenly Dan realized that Hope was exhausted. She’d been up all night, struggling with him, and now had made a hard trip. There was, he saw, a vulnerable expression on her face, and he said, “Here now, you’ve got to rest.”

  “I’m all right—” she protested, but he ignored her, and she finally smiled wanly. “All right, Dan. I’ll take a nap.” She spread out some more blankets, pulled her boots off, and stretched out. She put her head back, sighed deeply, and almost at once was sound asleep. If she had been able to think clearly or to reason, Hope would have been shocked at what she had done. To be alone with a strange man far away from everyone—that in itself would have been enough to put her on her guard. But to lie down and sleep with a sense of perfect safety with a man not five feet away?

  Dan Winslow watched as the lines on her face began to disappear then smooth out until they were gone entirely. Her hands had been clasped together tightly over her chest—but slowly they relaxed, falling open. Dan crawled over to her, put her arms at her side, and covered her with a blanket. Then he put out a rough hand and touched her hair so lightly that she never stirred. He lay back on his blanket and watched her as she slept.

  ****

  “We’ll pull out of here in the morning, Hope.”

  Dan had been sitting in front of the fire as Hope cleaned the skillet, scouring it with sand brought from a nearby creek. “We’ve been here three days, and I’m fine now.” He grinned at her, his eyes bright with humor. “Shows what a good nurse I’ve got.”

  Hope smiled back, saying, “You’re a terrible patient. I think you’d have tried to leave that first morning if I hadn’t sat on you.”

  Winslow nodded. “You were right. We wouldn’t have gotten far.” He peered out into the darkness. “I think they’ve given up on me.”

  They had remained hidden while his wound healed, and more than once they had heard gunshots—obviously signals. His fever had not come back, and except for soreness, his wound had not given any serious problems. Now they sat at the fire, and he said, “The rain saved us, I reckon. Washed out the wagon tracks.”

  “God is good,” she replied.

  He glanced at her sharply, then said, “Yes, He is.” He poked at the fire, his thoughts sober and long. “The food and blankets you were taking to the Amboys—if you hadn’t had them, we’d have been in poor shape.” He glanced up at her suddenly. “Makes you think God’s in control more than we think, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ve always thought He cared—but sometimes it doesn’t look like it to our eyes.”

  “That’s just what my mother always said.” He tossed the stick into the fire. “I want to tell you something, Hope—” He began to speak of how he had called on God when he was pinned down and thought he was going to die. He spoke slowly, halting at times to think more clearly, and as he told the story her eyes grew warm.

  “ . . . so I didn’t ask God to get me out of the mess I was in,” he said, his voice soft and tinged with a sort of wonder. “I’d given up on that—thought it was all over. And that part wasn’t so bad, Hope. I gave up on myself so many times during the war when better fellows than me died and I lived—well, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it.” Then he looked up at her, and his blue eyes were wide with an emotion she’d never seen in him. “But what I did ask God for was—to forgive my past.”

  He paused then, thinking of that moment, and Hope asked gently, “What happened, Dan?”

  “I can’t say what it was like,” Winslow said slowly, but then he smiled and shook his head. “But whatever it was—it’s still working! I got rid of some kind of heavy load, Hope. I can’t ever go back to being the way I was.” He shook his head regretfully, “Can’t go back and undo the things I’ve done—but I know God’s forgotten them.”

  “That’s wonderful, Dan!” Hope said. She had drawn her knees up and placed her arms around them, with her chin resting on her forearms. “Your people will be so glad to hear you’ve been saved.”

  “Yes, they will.” He smiled again. “Wish you could be there when I tell them. If it weren’t for you, they’d be out one prodigal son.”

  His words made her uncomfortable, and she rose to her feet, saying, “Oh, that’s not true.”

  He got up stiffly, went to the overhang, and looked out. Then he came back to stand beside her. “We’ll be leaving here tomorrow. Might be I may not get as good a chance as this to tell you what it meant—your coming to get me.”

  “Oh, Dan, I don’t—!”

  He put one hand on her shoulder, and with his other hand closed her lips. “Hush now,” he smiled. “Never interrupt a man when he’s trying to say thank you.” Then he dropped that hand to her other shoulder and stood looking down at her. She felt very small as she looked up at him, and the gentle pressure of his hands on her shoulders made her feel somehow very shy and uncertain. While he had been sick, she had had none of those feelings, for he had been almost like a child.

  Now he seemed very big, and the lean masculine strength of his features held her fast as he went on speaking. She felt, somehow, very young, very vulnerable, much as she had felt at times when she was growing up through that stage that marks the borderline between childhood and womanhood. She remembered suddenly how it had been, that time when she still moved with the aura of innocence about her and in her. Everything had been touched with wonder—the world around her of trees and streams and clouds—and the world that lay before her. She thought of the nights when she had gone to sleep dreaming of marriage, of a man, of a home, and even of babies to hold and nourish. That had been the wonder time of her life, and now as she stood in front of Dan Winslow, some of that came back to her.

  “Hope, I’m not sure I would ever have come out of it,” Dan was saying. “It was like—like slipping away from the world. And then when I heard your voice and felt your hands, it was like coming back to life! I’ll never forget that moment!” His smile was gentle, and he nodded slightly. “I still can’t believe it, Hope,” he went on, his eyes fixed on her. “That you came for me—and when you found me just about gone, you got me out of there and brought me here. No other woman in the world could have done it!”

  The cave had been a haven of safety for them, shielding them from the dangers of the world outside. The hours that they had passed there had drawn them together—more than either of them knew. For Dan, coming after his experience with God, it had been a time of growth, for he had discovered the reality of prayer, and the miracle of the presence of God had been beyond anything he had experienced. For Hope, the days had brought a sense of release. She had been tense in the beginning, her old fear of men rising as a threat. But perhaps because of Dan’s weakness—his helplessness—she had discovered a sense of ease that she had never known with any man.

  Now as they stood there, the silence of the cave was broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain falling on the soaked ground. He had been smiling, but now the smile faded, and he became aware of Hope in a different way. She had been his protector, his nurse—but she was more than that, and he was aware of the simple beauty of her face and form.

  Hope saw something come to Dan’s eyes, and when he pulled her close, the old fear came. But there was a gentleness in his touch, almost a reverence—such as she had never known to be in any man. He drew her close with his lef
t hand, lifted his right and cupped her face gently. Then as she looked up at him, he said huskily, “I didn’t know a woman could be like you, Hope.”

  For some reason, tears came to Hope’s eyes. They over-flowed and ran down her cheeks, and with them she shed some of the pain that she had known. A strange and wonderful thing was happening inside her, so unexpected that she could not move. Her spirit was like a frozen river, hard and fixed, made so by the ill treatment she had known at the hands of the two men she had tried to love. But the gentle pressure of Dan’s hand on her cheek and the kindness in his eyes seemed to bring a thaw to her spirit. Emotions she had long forgotten began to stir, and as he held her lightly, making no move to do more than that, she began to feel free. The coldness and the hardness that she had allowed to build up began to fade away, and she understood then that there were men who were not brutal and demanding.

  What happened then was a miracle, and later she could not believe that she had done such a thing. Slowly she reached up and put her hands around his neck, hardly conscious that she was doing so. She pulled his head down and kissed him on the lips, softly at first, then with a firmer pressure.

  Dan Winslow was shaken by her sudden caress, but even as the softness of her lips sent riotous emotions along his nerves, he knew how fragile this woman was. He tightened his hold on her, pressing her close, but as soon as she drew back he released her.

  “Dan—!” Hope whispered, unable to say what was happening to her. She placed her hand on his chest, and he covered it. “I don’t know why I did that,” she said, wonder in her eyes.

  Dan took her hand, held it between his own, marveling at the firmness of it. He let the moment run on, thinking of Hope’s past. Then he said quietly, “I guess we’ll always be close, won’t we, Hope?”

  “Yes!”

  They stood there, but there was nothing tense about the way they looked at each other. Hope knew that if he had pressed his advantage—as most men would have done—she would have been rigid with fear. But now Dan did something he’d never done in his life. It was just not done by the men of his family. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. Then he said, “You’re like no other woman, Hope!”