“There’s no justice in this at all,” her father said. “The man was protecting my daughter!”
Whiley pulled up in front of the San Luis Valley Bank. An old wagon loaded with shovels, pickaxes, and all kinds of miscellany sat parked in front with a pair of lathered horses hitched to the rig. “Stay put. When I come out of there I should have the proof we need to verify your story, Miss Van Horn.”
“Then will they let Mr. Wilcox go?”
“That remains to be seen.” Trask Whiley jumped off his buckboard and marched into the bank.
Eliana tapped her foot against the wagon floor. Mr. Whiley told them that Yiska Wilcox was one of his best employees. Mr. Wilcox worked as a guide all around the Colorado Territory’s southwest. As a Navajo he had great instincts, and as a white, he was more trusted. Obviously that didn’t always hold true.
Two men hauled Yiska in the direction of Thatcher’s Sawmill, home to the town’s temporary jail. His hands were tied behind his back with a rough cord. As they passed a huge saw blade, one of the men slammed Yiska down on the table, putting his head within inches of the moving guillotine—a mock execution. The buzzing noise was deafening, but his heart thundered louder still.
“Get that man off of there!” yelled Ed Thatcher.
The hooligan pulled Yiska to his feet. “You have yerself a prisoner, Thatcher.”
“This Injun tried to kill a gal downtown,” the other fellow said.
Yiska stood up straight, his face set like flint.
“Is that true?” Thatcher booted Yiska in the shin. “Is that true, I said!”
Yiska gritted his teeth, not giving way to the pain.
One of the other men yanked Yiska back by the hair.
“She was about to get run over, so I pushed her out of the way.”
“I see. A real hero, are we?”
“I ain’t never seen an Injun who was a hero before.” The man tightened his hold, straining Yiska’s shoulders back.
“He ain’t no real Injun. He’s a half blood. Them’s worse,” the other man said.
“What, did your Injun papa have his way with a white woman? The way I see it, you’re following in his savage ways,” the one holding him taunted.
The muscles in Yiska’s jaw tightened, his eyes an icy glare.
“Here’s his tomahawk.” His captor handed it to Ed Thatcher. “I wanted to keep it fer myself, but it’s evidence. Thought there’d be some feathers and stuff on it. It’s pretty ordinary if ya ask me.”
“It’s a hatchet, you imbecile. He used this on the woman?” Thatcher asked.
“Some were sayin’.”
“Take him back to the pit!”
The so-called jail was an old storage room filled with grimy buckets and sacks of grain for the mill’s pack animals. As the men dragged Yiska into the cell, a rat scurried off. The brutes held him down while Thatcher secured shackles to Yiska’s ankles.
“You can’t keep me here. I broke no law,” Yiska managed through his clenched teeth.
“We’ll let the marshal in Colorado Springs decide about that. He oughtta be coming by a few months down the road. After we notify him, of course.”
“If’n we notify ’im,” one of them scoffed.
Yiska scrambled back as the ruffians came at him with hardwood planks.
“Go on! You’ve done your job!” Thatcher threw his hand up and halted them, but not before one of them hit Yiska in the side.
Thatcher closed the door to the pen, locked it, and left Yiska in misery.
Bewildered, Yiksa tried to focus in the dim cell. He rustled his boots in the dirty sawdust, a foul odor assailing him. How’d he end up in this lousy mess? After he rode into town on that ornery loaned mount, he’d learned that Mr. Whiley was down at the saloon, probably frivoling away Yiska’s month’s wages—buying a little time until he came in from the range. Whiley always promised he’d take good care of Yiska. Said when he gambled Yiska’s wages, it was an investment on his behalf—truth being that Whiley didn’t always come out ahead. His boss had a lot of sense, except when it came to cards and women. But unlike Whiley, Yiska wasn’t one to take a risk.
Of course when he entered the Silver Eagle, he’d got tossed out again on his backside. Didn’t it figure that Miss Van Horn—Eliana—had to witness the whole thing? The pretty lady and her father seemed like fine people, not prejudiced like others—a rare thing in these parts. Why couldn’t folks see that he was no different from anyone else? He loved the Colorado wilderness, he worked hard, and he appreciated the beauty of a lovely woman like Eliana Van Horn. What was he thinking? He’d never stand a chance with someone like her. Nor did his lifestyle as a wilderness guide give him an opportunity to ever be with anyone. Period. The path he took was a lonely one.
Yiska sighed. But wasn’t she somethin’? That Eliana Van Horn looked like an angel that dropped right out of heaven, plumb into the Colorado Territory! She was all sunlight on this cloudy Colorado morning. She looked all fancy and feminine in her bustled dress and matching hat, but he reckoned there was more about her than met the eye. Something radiated from her like a jolt of lightning, striking a connection between them.
Yiska sat on the floor and rested his head against his knees. A few streaks of light made their way through the crevices of the outside wall and fell upon his shoulders. Should he pray to the Great Spirit in his distress, or the Christian God? Whoever would listen.
“I could use a little help here. Please set me free,” he whispered. If the gods chose to answer his prayer, he had no doubt in his heart that Miss Eliana Van Horn, her father, and Trask Whiley would be along soon. He wanted to believe that Miss Van Horn was different. She wouldn’t lie about what had happened, would she?
“He’s taking a long time, Eliana. I’m going in to see what’s holding them up.” Eliana’s father jumped down from the buckboard. “Will you be all right here for a moment?”
“Yes, Papa, I’ll be fine.” Eliana shaded her eyes with her hand and returned a wave to a woman sweeping the boardwalk in the distance. “If anyone bothers me again, I’m sure Mrs. Sanborn will notice and send some help.”
Her father chuckled. “You’re right about that.” Mrs. Sanborn never missed a thing. She probably knew all about this afternoon’s incident near the saloon and certainly helped usher the news all over town by sharing it with the patrons of her café.
“Please make haste, Papa. Mr. Wilcox’s life may be at stake.” As her father walked up the steps of the bank, Eliana heard a hawk scream. “Four screams of a hawk.” Oh, Yiska. Before it screamed again she climbed down from the wagon and scooted into the bank after Papa.
They approached the assayer’s barred window, where Mr. Whiley hovered over an old man—the miner—who could clear this matter up.
Mr. Whiley thumped his fingers on the counter and looked up at them. “He refused to leave until his gold was counted.” So, the man had found gold.
“And I promised him a photograph,” Whiley added.
“Now?” Eliana and Papa said in unison.
“No. At his claim, after all this is settled.”
The miner looked their way with a toothless grin stretching from ear to ear.
“That was the only way I could get him to hurry it up and come with us.”
“Very well,” Papa said. “If he cooperates I’ll even frame the photograph. Where’s your claim, mister?”
“I cain’t go telling you that until it’s registered,” the miner said.
Papa shook his head. For years he’d been photographing Colorado mining activities for the U.S. General Land Office. Thousands of ravenous miners and prospectors flooded the mountains and rivers. At one point Papa had even talked to Eliana about staking a claim himself. He wanted to have enough money to send her back East to Ohio to attend finishing school.
“Papa, you have a treasure trove already right there in your camera,” she’d said. “And everything I want to know comes from you.” He’d always been a good provider, a
nd she wanted to learn all she could from him about photography.
At last the claim was filed. The old miner checked on his horses, paid a boy to bring his rig to the livery, and climbed aboard Mr. Whiley’s buckboard. He wore a threadbare shirt and a pair of grimy overalls patched up with old flour sacks. Eliana couldn’t help but notice the one that covered his rear with the company’s stamp, XXXX. She flattened her lips to stifle a nervous giggle.
Trask Whiley snapped the reins and raced for the mill at the end of town. Eliana covered her face with her hands to keep the dust out of her mouth.
“Howdy, miss.” The miner peered at her with a wrinkled grin. “I understand an apology’s in order. Didn’t see anyone in the road when I came ’round the corner of Main Street. Course, I was going so fast, if I’d blinked I’d missed ya anyway.” The unkempt man reeked. Like many others, he’d probably not bathed in at least six months.
Had he just apologized? Eliana thought not.
“Well, Mr….” The wagon hit a bump and jostled her closer to him.
“Cornelius Crawford’s the name.”
“Mr. Crawford, thank you for agreeing to set matters straight. It would be a shame to have an innocent man pay for a crime he did not commit.”
“Wouldn’t want anybody to suffer unnecessarily.” The corners of the man’s weather-beaten face turned downward, making him resemble an old mule. They rode on in silence. A moment later Crawford leaned close to Eliana with a big grin. “Did ya know I’m rich? I’m rich! Now I can find me a wife.”
Eliana jumped back. She couldn’t get to the sawmill fast enough.
“Whoa!” Mr. Whiley brought his team to a halt.
Eliana, her father, Mr. Whiley, and Mr. Crawford all hustled past the piles of lumber and buzzing saw blades, the scent of fresh-cut aspen filling the air. When they got to the overseer’s office, Mr. Thatcher greeted them. “Something I can do for you folks?”
“Where is he?” Whiley demanded.
“I take it you mean the prisoner,” Thatcher said. “Don’t worry, he’s all tied up. Can’t hurt anyone where he is.”
“Tied up?” Eliana cried. Her father placed his arm around her. She glanced about. In what sort of makeshift jail were they keeping him?
Whiley leaned close to Thatcher’s face. “Let me see him. He’s my employee—I have a right. And these folks are coming, too.”
“Very well. I’m just holding him here until I get the say so.”
“Say so?” What did he mean by that? Eliana blinked back the tears forming in her eyes.
They entered a small caged room at the rear of the large building. Mr. Wilcox sat on the floor in the corner, leaning back against the wall, head hung low. His ankles were chained together and attached to a large iron ring on the wall. Heavy ropes bound his wrists.
“Yiska!” Whiley called to him.
Yiska looked up with a great measure of relief and climbed to his feet.
“We got here as soon as we could,” Papa said.
Crawford took a step closer and squinted. “I thought you said he was innocent. Why, he’s an Injun! Let him rot in there.” He turned and started to leave.
Eliana went after him, hands on her hips. “Mr. Crawford! You can’t mean that!”
“Ev-er-y word. I’ve got my principles.”
“Please…You must tell the truth—that you came around the corner in your wagon.”
“Already told you, I didn’t see anyone.”
Eliana’s father stepped forward. “But you did drive your wagon in haste down Main Street.”
“Mr. Crawford, you tell the truth now, or I’ll…” Oh, how tempting it would be to grab that piece of lumber over there and whack him right across the Xs! Eliana let out a deep breath and softened her voice. “Since you are such a dear, hard-working, and honorable man, I know that you would never want harm to come to anyone. Please tell Mr. Thatcher the truth and let this matter be done. Then you can go back to your gold claim.”
Whiley pressed in, glowering at him.
“All right!” Crawford threw his hands in the air. “Yes, I drove my wagon down Main Street on the way to the bank.” He looked at Thatcher. “The girl said I near plowed her down. Didn’t see her.”
“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Crawford.” She feigned a smile. Papa winked at her, nodding for her to continue. “Mr. Thatcher, Mr. Wilcox saw that wagon coming and was brave enough to push me out of harm’s way. When some bystanders saw that we had fallen to the ground, they made a very wrong assumption about Mr. Wilcox. I owe him my life, and he does not deserve to be punished. Now, if you would be so kind as to release this man…”
“Yes, ma’am. Grover, get me those keys.” Eliana recognized the other man as one who had brought Mr. Wilcox here. Thatcher took the keys and freed Mr. Wilcox from his bonds.
Yiska rubbed his wrists as he stepped out of the crude prison. He met everyone’s gazes and rested his eyes on the prettiest of all. “Thank you.” If he could, he would devote his life to protect them—protect her—from any danger. Until then, words alone would have to convey his gratitude. Yiska raked a hand through his hair and exhaled. He clamped his mouth shut as pain shot through his side. They’d confiscated his hatchet and exchanged it for what felt like a broken rib.
“It is I who should thank you. You protected my daughter, and that means everything to me.” Mr. Van Horn offered Yiska a firm handshake.
“Well done, Yiska,” his boss said.
Mr. Van Horn reached into his pocket. “That reminds me, I have your wages.” He handed him some paper notes and several coins. “I put a little extra in there for you.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Van Horn.” Yiska glanced at Miss Van Horn. He would do it all again if he had to.
“Please take it. This has caused you a lot of trouble.”
Thatcher handed Yiska his hatchet. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Yiska walked through the door without turning back.
Outside Whiley placed his hand on Yiska’s shoulder. “How about we all go get something to eat?”
“Me, too?” Crawford asked.
“We’re just going to Sanborn’s Café for a quick bite,” Whiley said. “Since you’re a rich man now, you ought to go clean up and take yourself out to a proper restaurant. We’ll drop you off at the livery, and you can be on your way.”
Cornelius Crawford straightened his shoulders. “I think I will.” He turned to Miss Van Horn and wiggled his eyebrows. “Care to join me?”
Chapter 3
Relief washed over Yiska when they finally dropped Crawford off at the livery. Although he was grateful that the man had finally fessed up, Yiska didn’t like the way he ogled Miss Van Horn and bragged about his new-found wealth.
As they drove away, the old miner waved his floppy hat in the air and hollered, “What about my daguerreotype? You promised!” Eliana, her father, and Mr. Whiley burst into laughter. Yiska shrugged his shoulders and enjoyed Miss Van Horn’s wide smile and dancing eyes.
Whiley parked his rig near Sanborn’s Café. Yiska reached up and took Miss Van Horn by the waist to help her down. Her eyes stayed hitched on his while he lowered her to the ground. He winced in pain, but with her looking at him, he soon forgot about it. As he set her down, he hesitated before he let her go.
“Oh, Mr. Wilcox.” Her hands remained steadied against his arms, her voice barely above a whisper. “I feel so responsible. Can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Miss Van Horn.”
“Are you injured?” She took a step back, looking him over, and her cheeks colored.
He hooked his thumbs in his pants pockets. “Only my pride.” He held his gaze but wanted to take in all of her, from the tousled honey locks peeking out from her hat to her tiny laced boots.
Miss Van Horn glanced at the ground then looked at him beneath dark lashes. In the silence of the moment somehow their hearts spoke, yet there remained a quiet resistance.
“Injun, Injun
, stinking Injun!” some mischievous boys shouted out. The rascals disappeared between some buildings.
Eliana shrank back, the spell broken. Her eyes shot to Yiska’s hatchet. She said nothing.
“Mr. Wilcox,” her father called. He tossed Yiska his hat.
Yiska caught it with both hands.
“Hey, you found it! Mighty obliged, Mr. Van Horn.” He dipped his head and put the hat in its rightful place.
As they approached Sanborn’s Café, Mr. Whiley held open the door, allowing Miss Van Horn to enter, and then slipped in behind her. He handed off the door to Yiska with a triumphant grin. What was Whiley up to now?
As the troupe entered the café, customers murmured and gave them odd looks. Mrs. Sanborn scurried over and greeted them with all measure of curiosity. “Eliana, dear. I’m glad to see you’re doing well. I heard you had quite a time of it today. Almost got run over by a herd of wild horses, and then attacked by an Indian.” Mrs. Sanborn eyed Yiska. It was obvious she wondered where he fit in to all of this.
Eliana laughed. “I was almost run over by a wagon, but this gentleman saved my life.” She hoped that would set things straight. What was it like to have to live under a veil of judgement?
Mrs. Sanborn looked at Yiska with astonishment. “Is that so?” Not waiting for a response, she rattled off the day’s menu and took their orders.
The pleasing aroma of Mrs. Sanborn’s famous pot roast and strawberry rhubarb pie filled the air. She brought their meals to the table herself, serving Yiska last.
“We’ve much to be thankful for this day,” Eliana’s father declared. He reached for her hand and lowered his head in silent prayer. Eliana bowed but dared not close her eyes for fear that her emotions of the day would catch up with her. When she peeked up she saw Mr. Whiley busy cutting his meat, but Yiska remained still until her father was done and had tucked his napkin into his vest.
“Do you think we’ll see more of Cornelius Crawford?” Mr. Whiley asked with a chortle.
“I believe I’ll have to. I’ve an appointment to keep with him,” Papa answered.
Love's Compass Page 2
