If not a full-fledged laugh for his awkward attempt at humor, or a chuckle, at least it drew a small smile.
After settling Janetta in the rocker, he piled another blanket around her and tucked in all the edges, built up the fire, and grabbed a cup of coffee while explaining briefly to Oliver what had happened. Then, leaving the girl to her father’s tender mercies, Cole retrieved a shovel from the wagon’s pack equipment and set off in a return to the grisly scene he had left behind.
Burial detail.
VIII
Two days of travel brought the McCain schooner to Fort Laramie, where the Laramie and North Platte River joined forces. A former fur trading outpost, the fort had been purchased in 1848 by the U.S. Army, in order to offer protection to the westward ho! travelers. At this last small bastion of civilization between the far eastern border of what would become the state of Wyoming, and the far-flung reaches of the coast, wagon trains and small groups alike stopped to rest, to purchase necessary supplies, to repair or replace equipment, to trade and barter whatever preferred goods, and to enjoy some sociality with a different set of people.
The land over which they passed had become less wooded, more semi-arid, with the ever-present mountains standing off in the distance to beckon them on.
By the time Cole had selected a suitable camping area outside the gates, far enough away from other schooners to offer privacy, the sun had shifted halfway to the western horizon, and it was obvious by the number of fires that supper preparations were being made.
“Don’t go t’ a lotta bother with fixin’ a meal,” he suggested to Janetta.
She had recovered enough from the nightmare encounter with Kyle Corcoran to resume her position in their little band, cooking, washing out essentials wherever streams were available, watching over her father who was watching over her.
But she had regained neither spirit nor color; and, with the expectation of being once again thrown into the company of others, the girl’s outgoing personality had turned almost reclusive. To the point of remaining attached to the wagon, as if by tether, and clinging to the only two with whom she felt safe. No visiting about for her, even with other women. Not now. Not yet.
Her arched eyebrow asked the question.
“You shouldn’t be doin’ so much physical stuff,” Cole pointed out. “If you can just put t’gether enough t’ get us by t’night, that’ll be fine. I need t’ go see—gotta go talk t’ whoever’s in charge here.”
About the man he had killed in her defense. Janetta froze. He, too, had retreated into himself after the incident, mulling over what had been done, what else might have been done, what else should have been done. That he had been bothered, and was, still, could be seen in his lack of spontaneous good humor, in the bleak expression in his dark eyes, in the unusual tight set of his mouth.
One more piece of blame that could be laid at her door.
Once the meal was finished, she watched with a heavy heart as he saddled the big black stallion and climbed aboard.
“Don’t look like that,” he gently told her. “Just gonna go report in. You take care of yourself, y’ hear? Sit down and put your feet up, rest a bit. You and your paw, both.”
She watched him ride away. From his pallet, Oliver did his best to show interest. Even concern. But Oliver, with his illness swiftly overtaking him, and his stamina almost completely gone, was virtually past either. Barricaded behind a red neckerchief designed to show little of the blood being coughed into its wadded folds, heating up with fever that had begun to ravage his bones, Oliver was doing very poorly. And all three of them knew it.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“The Butler wagon train? Yes, indeed, that group did pass through here a week or so ago.”
After arriving on post, Cole had been ushered into the less-than-palatial office of Major General Christopher Augur, cordially invited to take a seat, and offered a cup of coffee from the Major’s own private stock. Fine stuff, the guide decided, after a sip, though not as tasty as Janetta’s.
“Doin’ okay, were they?”
The Major frowned. The possessor of a fearsome set of mustaches that blended with an equally fearsome set of sideburns, he had been born in New York, graduated from West Point, and served honorably during the Civil War. Now he was commanding the departments of the Platte, here at Fort Laramie.
“Unfortunately, the train fell victim to an outbreak of cholera. Quite mild, especially compared to the epidemics of some fifteen years or so ago, but they sustained a few losses.”
“Damn,” muttered Cole. “Anybody’s name you can remember? Was Jordy all right?”
“Jordan Butler? Oh, yes, he’s fine. Got a good head on his shoulders, that one. He warned all the travelers what to avoid, and what to look out for. No, as I recall, he and the doctor did quite well at keeping the infection contained.”
“That musta been a relief for all of them, as well as you here at the Fort.”
“It was, of course, although a tragedy for those who lost loved ones. A couple of children, I do believe; and a young man traveling on his own. We buried them in our own cemetery here, of course. Oh—and the minister.”
“The minister!” Cole choked. “Y’ mean Reverend Ross?”
Augur nodded. “Yes, that was the name.” He cleared his throat. “A bit of a—um—a radical, I understand. Took no precautions, and insisted that God would take care of him.”
“Huh. I reckon maybe God did just that.”
For a few minutes they chatted amicably, about the damage done in the South by the War Between the States, and the subsequent westward expansion of those left homeless and destitute. Briefly Cole touched upon his own family circumstances, and brother Ben’s recent sojourn across this very route.
“Ben? Benton Yancey?” The Major’s dark eyes lit up, and he leaned forward with a smile. “My predecessor, Brigadier General Philip Cooke, spoke very highly of him.”
“Stuck around here for a while, did he?”
“Well, yes, to help out. The General made special mention of the fact that several cases of typhoid had erupted, spreading amongst the men—probably carried by some of the travelers passing through—and Dr. Yancey rolled up his sleeves and went right to work. No doubt saved a few lives, in the process.”
Once again laudable older brother Ben had paved the way for his younger sibling. Leave it to that modest man to keep the story of such heroics to himself.
With a nod, Cole set aside his empty cup. Time to get down to the reason for his visit.
“Dunno if you’ve ever heard the name Kyle Corcoran?” he broached it carefully.
“Corcoran…Corcoran…” Augur mused over that for a moment, fine fingers stroking the curve of his magnificent mustache. “It sounds familiar, Mr. Yancey. One moment, please.”
He rose and went to the door, conferred with his aide in the adjoining room, then returned with a sheaf of papers. Reseated, he began shuffling through the stack while Cole waited, apparently calm and unperturbed.
“Ah, here we are. Yes, Kyle Corcoran.” Another frown, as he smoothed the rather wrinkled page to read aloud. “A drawing, I see. Well, well. Mr. Corcoran is wanted in connection with a bank robbery in St. Louis…h’mmm…assault on a farm woman outside of Kansas City, and the murder of her husband. Another bank robbery… My, my, this was one busy individual.”
“Used t’ be. He’s dead now.”
Bushy eyebrows lifted, steady eyes connected. “And how do you know that?”
“B’cause I killed him.”
The Major’s chair creaked as he leaned back, still studying his visitor. “Very well, Mr. Yancey. I think you’d better tell me what happened.”
The story could be encapsulated into a few pithy sentences, beginning back in late January’s southern Illinois, and a barn during the winter snowstorm, and continuing up to the recent past, just two days’ ride away.
“So this Corcoran was up to his old tricks, you say, attacking and abusing your ward, a Miss—
uh—” Augur consulted his notes, “—McCain. In the process of rescuing her, Corcoran was killed by a blow to the head. From the club you were wielding.”
“Yessir.”
“And this is the man you’re accusing?” The Wanted poster slid across the desk, face up, so that Cole could peer down at its drawing.
“Yessir.”
“And you took care of the burial?”
“Yessir,” said Cole, for the third time, from a dry throat. Should have kept back a little of that coffee, just for this uneasy moment. “Put up a marker of sorts, and carved the man’s name across it with my knife. Even said a prayer.” For whatever good that might do.
Another steady, disconcerting glance from under the bushy brows. Given his commanding presence, Major Augur must be one hell of a leader at this post.
“Well, Mr. Yancey, all things considered, I think we can wipe the slate clean on this one.”
With a small, almost inaudible whoosh, Cole let loose of the breath he had been holding, and relaxed his rigid posture.
Augur reached for the poster, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if he found its touch distasteful. “A man being sought for various crimes, all of them quite grievous, is killed in the act of committing one more crime. Some would consider that justice, Mr. Yancey. As would I. And this placard does specify Dead or Alive.”
“You’re relievin’ my mind a good bit, Major. Didn’t know but what I might be hauled b’fore a magistrate, and then locked away b’hind bars.”
“I don’t condone vigilante work, Mr. Yancey. But, in this case, I believe the circumstances warrant your action. Not to mention the fact that your family history precedes you.”
Thank you, oh mighty and benevolent Benton!
“So, no; there’ll be no repercussions. You’re free to go—not that there would have been any reason to hold you here, anyway. I appreciate your taking the time and effort to let me know what happened. Many would not have.”
With the burden of an uncertain future lifted off his shoulders, Cole could relax and offer his crooked grin. “Maybe not, sir. Those without the upbringin’ by my mama.”
Those wonderful mustaches lifted with humor. “I completely understand, Mr. Yancey. I had a mother like that, myself. Well, now. Anything else we can do for you while you’re here?”
“Yessir.” Cole picked up his hat from the chair beside him and rose lithely to his feet. “Got me a real sick man, out in the wagon. I’m hopin’ you might have ready the services of a preacher.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a lingering death, that took place over the next full week, with plenty of time for heartsick goodbyes and last-minute instructions and an outpouring of love and regrets. No matter how inevitable the ultimate farewell, no one is ever completely prepared for that moment when the final breath is drawn and the body lies still forever. In point of fact, ultimate farewells are always inevitable, because death must come to us all; only the timing is left in question.
“He’s in good company here,” Cole offered quietly, glancing around at the neat and well-tended cemetery.
Wooden crosses abounded, as did plain square stones. Too many, for its brief history, due to accident, illness, and the most recent Red Cloud’s War. The simple service had ended, and the few mourners, attending out of respect, had returned to duty. So, after a firm handshake, had both Reverend Winters and the Major General.
Janetta’s eyes were too swollen and blinded by tears to take much notice. Under a lowering sky, gray with approaching storm clouds, Cole had slipped a supportive arm around her shoulders, tucking her close to his breast in the rising winds.
“He—I know he was—a little worried…” She faltered, swallowed a lump the size of Missouri, and stumbled on. “…about where his—his final resting place might be. The prairie…he said he’d get lost—in the prairie. At least now he—he isn’t alone…” A sob halted her mid-sentence.
One hand under her chin forced the girl’s head up, to meet his own sorrowing gaze. “You can always remember him bein’ at Fort Laramie. He was ready t’ go, Janie. Nothin’ left in that poor skinny body of his t’ keep on fightin’, and headin’ west. He gave that over t’ you.”
“I know. I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier!” she wailed, hiding her face against the warm Cole-scented side of his shirt.
The dog, Oliver’s constant companion, brushed against Janetta’s flowing skirts with a whimper, just as a few cold drops of rain began to fall.
“C’mon, you two, clouds are openin’ up. Let’s get back t’ the wagon.” Time to be moving on, he almost added, but bit his tongue. Too much of a hurry to leave her father’s grave behind would be far too cruel for her grieving heart to bear.
Through the Major General’s good offices, they had shared in a substantial meal at his private mess, although neither had been able to choke down much in the way of nourishment. Understanding, Augur had had his chef pack up leftovers to take along, and then sent them on their way with good wishes.
It made for an interesting caravan, with both horses tied up behind and Cole doing his best to keep the oxen on trail. At his insistence, Janetta forced her thin, bone-weary body onto her mattress in the back of the schooner. Eventually, between her own muffled weeping, the soft patter of rain drops on the canvas top, the inevitable rocking back and forth with every turn of the wheels, and the silent Barney squeezed tightly to her side, she fell asleep.
The skies had cleared by the time she woke, feeling stiff and headachy.
“Ah, there you are,” Cole greeted her with gladness as she carefully settled herself on the seat next to him. The dog, released, sprang down onto the ground and trotted off on his own pursuits. “How’re you doin’?”
“I’m not sure. Like—like someone has beaten me all over, with big sticks.”
“Ahuh. Well, just take it easy, okay? You’ve been through a helluva lot in the last coupla weeks. We’ll get us a fire goin’ when we stop, pretty soon, but we can eat up what the Major gave us. No need for any cookin’ t’night.”
He was as good as his word. After choosing a campsite, and unhitching the tired oxen and the horses, the fire he built gave them just the sort of cozy psychological warmth both were craving.
For a while, they simply basked in the softness and the silence. Like healing balm used to spread over an open wound, everything worked together to soothe jangled nerves and quiet racing thoughts. The sky turning to twilight around them, the low munching of stock at the prairie grass, the trickle and flow of water through one of the area’s many creeks, the occasional singing of crickets up and down surrounding knolls—sound and scent provided exactly the needed atmosphere.
After their light meal, Janetta had taken her accustomed seat in the rocker, with Barney curled up at her feet, and Cole on the stool with knife in hand, whittling to create some other treasure. In the firelight, they spoke of Oliver, his attributes, his legacy, how much he would be missed. Janetta brought up childhood memories, bittersweet, heartbreaking, heartwarming. As balance, Cole spoke of his own boyhood, growing up on a plantation outside of Charleston, and shared stories of the trouble he and Jordan had gotten into.
Janetta was used to being busy and productive. Deprived of the effort she would normally have taken to plan and concoct a special supper, she was working with a bundle of yarn and knitting needles that flashed with every movement.
“Whatcha makin’, Janie?” Cole finally asked with interest.
“Oh. A baby blanket.” Color rose in her cheeks. Acknowledging her unwanted pregnancy to this man still felt unseemly, but the bonds on her tongue were, with time and comfort, beginning to loosen. “Mixed colors, see? Soft and fuzzy.”
“I see. Reckon that’ll be a good thing t’ have.” As he paused, considering, the curls of yellow wood spun away to the ground. “This is nice, Janie. I like—I like bein’ here with you, watchin’ what you’re doin’. Kinda—homey.”
She managed a small smile
, devoid of humor, yet poignant. “Me, too, Cole. You’ve been such a—a friend, though all this. Without Pa, I would have been lost…without you.”
Another pause. Then: “Janie. I hope you know—well, I’m plannin’ to honor your paw’s wishes. We’ll go on t’ California, all the way, just like he wanted. But I won’t—I ain’t about t’—”
Janetta’s color darkened and deepened. “Yes, Cole, I do know. And I—well, after what happened, I—I haven’t been able to trust many men. Pretty obvious, I guess. But I trust you.”
His throat clogged up a little. “And I’ll do my best t’ honor that trust, Janie, girl. Always.”
IX
What with this delay and that, it was already late September, and the McCain/Yancey duo needed to make up for lost time. Even so early in autumn, mountain weather could become treacherous, with blizzards and ice storms sweeping in out of nowhere to clog passes, hinder travel, and cause problems all around. Cole hoped to be on the far side of the Rockies before wintry elements set in.
He had already witnessed the capability and competence with which his traveling companion had taken to life on the trail. Usually even-tempered, she walked along beside as often as she rode atop the schooner’s seat, with Barney keeping her company or scouting ahead.
In this, her eighth month, she seemed burdened as no woman should be burdened, laden down with pregnancy and grief. He sometimes saw her, gazing off into the distance, with tears glittering on her lashes, unaware; and she wore the moccasins he had bought her, as being more comfortable than her leather button-up boots.
But she did not complain. A very large statement, for a very large-natured and generous girl.
And, Jesus—how he wanted her! Sometimes his gut actually twisted with pure lust. That long bronzy-colored hair, that he could imagine loose upon his bed pillow; those Irish green eyes, that he could imagine half-closed in shared desire; that luscious mouth, that he could imagine kissing into sighs and moans of pleasure; that slim body, that he—
A Western Romance: Cole Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking The High Road Series Book 9) Page 11
