Glory

by Lori Copeland

  A beautiful young woman moved from behind a counter to wait on them. “Je t’aide?”

  Glory and Ruth smiled, moving on down the aisle. “What did she say?” Glory whispered.

  “I believe it’s French for ‘help.’ She wants to know if we need help.”

  “She’s so pretty.”

  Ruth nodded. “Like someone you’d see in a picture book.”

  Turning ever so slightly, Glory checked to see if Jackson was in the building. She was relieved to see that he was busy outside watering the animals. Her eyes traveled back to the beautiful girl wearing a beaded dress sewn from buckskin. That was the kind of woman Jackson deserved: large dark eyes; waist-length, raven black hair; a body slender and strong.

  When Jackson came into the post, the girls had browsed through most of the merchandise. Everything was so pretty Glory couldn’t decide what she liked the most. Lily and Patience made a game out it, going through the rings and bracelets like excited children. Mary chose a shiny bracelet made from red beads and an eagle feather. Lily decided on a copper bracelet that fit around her tiny wrist. Patience liked the beadwork and chose a necklace. Harper favored the woven blankets, sorting through the colorful patterns several times before deciding on a favorite. Ruth fell in love with the pottery: vases and containers painted the colors of the desert.

  Glory loved everything. Beads, bracelets, pottery, and blankets—it was impossible to choose a favorite, but she relished the game, thinking how wonderful it was to simply be in such a grand store.

  “Do you like it?”

  Glory jumped when she felt Jackson’s warm breath on her cheek. He stood looking over her shoulder, staring at the beaded mirror she was admiring.

  “It’s very pretty.” She’d never taken a close look at herself in a real mirror. The image had surprised her. She had freckles across her nose, and her eyes sparkled like dew on a frosty morning.

  “Then it’s yours.”

  “Oh no!” She whirled, thrusting the mirror at him. “I couldn’t spend money on that.”

  He grinned at her, his eyes softer than she’d seen them lately. “I’m buying it for you. A pretty girl should have a mirror to look at herself.” Turning to the other girls, he called, “Pick out one gift apiece, girls. My treat.”

  The male Indians winced as the girls’ squeals of delight filled the adobe.

  “Are you sure, Jackson?” Ruth asked. “This is so generous of you… .”

  “I have nothing better to spend my money on than beautiful women. Pick anything you want—just don’t break the bank.” He winked at Glory. “Especially you.”

  Glory felt a blush color her cheeks. She didn’t know how to take his teasing, but she liked it, liked it a lot. And he was doing it more often lately. The lovely clerk behind the counter smiled, coming over to help the girls make their selections.

  Glory had never had a more exciting time. Why, it felt like Christmas when Poppy would put an orange and a peppermint stick in her stocking hung by the stove! The clerk wrapped the gifts in soft cloth for the girls.

  When the wagon pulled away from the trading post half an hour later, Lily held her wrist aloft, admiring her new copper bracelet; Patience preened in her beaded necklace. Harper had a red-, blue-, and black-striped blanket on her lap while she ooohed over Mary’s shiny beaded bracelet with the eagle feather. Ruth happily sat on the seat beside Jackson, cradling a large pottery vase painted like the desert.

  Glory, too excited to sit still, walked behind the wagon, staring at herself in her new mirror.

  All in all, it had been the best day of the journey, maybe the best day in her whole life. Certainly one she wouldn’t soon forget.

  Days later, Mary’s condition took a turn for the worse; her deep, racking coughs echoed as the wagon lumbered between boulders. Her coughs were sometimes as painful to hear as they must have been to experience. Walking beside the wagon, Glory found herself wishing that she could accept Mary’s affliction for a few days so the poor girl would have a chance to rest and regain her strength.

  Jackson rode past Glory without looking at her as he headed to the rear of the wagon. She turned her head to watch him canter by. He’d been circling the wagon for the past few hours.

  “Whew,” Glory muttered, waving her hand in front of her face, “as if we don’t have enough dust flying, he keeps it stirred up. Mighty antsy today.” She wondered what was bothering him and then figured it must be his concern for Mary as the girl fell into another fit of shuddering coughs.

  Glory decided to spell Patience, who was caring for Mary today, and turned to walk to the back of the wagon. She was ready to climb inside when she spotted three riders down the road about a quarter mile. Surprised to see anyone out in the middle of nowhere, she raised her hand to shade her eyes and squinted through the dust. Three dark silhouettes loomed on the horizon.

  “Hey, no gawking,” Jackson warned as he brushed by her on his mare. “You’re falling behind. Get in the wagon.”

  “Look!” Glory pointed at the riders.

  “I know,” Jackson said gruffly. “Been following in plain sight for two hours. Get in that wagon. Now.”

  Glory reluctantly complied. Grabbing on, she swung over the tailgate. Once inside, she stared at the three figures who sat astride spotted horses. The horses walked steadily, keeping pace with the wagon.

  At first she wondered if one of them might be Amos. She dismissed that notion quickly. None of the figures was large enough to be Amos, and to her knowledge, Amos had never ridden this far in his whole life.

  As the prairie schooner topped a rise, Glory could see above the dust cloud and realized the figures were actually Indian braves. At that moment, she heard Jackson call to Ruth, his signal that it was time to pull off for the noon break.

  When Ruth reined the oxen team to a halt near a stand of towering pines, Jackson pulled his mare up behind the wagon. “Glory, change out the teams now. I want fresh mules harnessed and ready to go.”

  Usually Glory swapped the teams at the end of their break, not the beginning. Her gaze shifted to the riders, who had stopped for a moment on the rutted trail, watching them. Without his saying it, she figured Jackson wanted to be ready to make a run for it if necessary.

  “Who are they?” Glory asked as she dropped the tailgate and scrambled down.

  “Shh,” Jackson replied, shaking his head. “Ladies, we’re taking a shorter break than usual. Just get out the leftover biscuits and what’s left of the water.”

  Ruth joined Jackson at the back of the wagon. “I see them,” she said evenly, keeping her eye on the three figures on the road. “But we’re going to have to get Mary out of that stuffy wagon and into the shade for some fresh air, and we have to heat some water for her tea.”

  “Okay,” Jackson conceded, “let’s make it snappy.”

  He dismounted, tied his mare to the wagon, and pulled his rifle out of the scabbard. Handing the Winchester to Ruth without a word, he climbed into the wagon. “Okay, ladies, time for a short break.” He scooped Mary into his arms and carried her to a tall pine, where he gently settled her against the trunk.

  The girls climbed out, squinting in the noonday sun, moving to their chores. Lily had gathered an armload of firewood when she glanced up to see the visitors. The sticks tumbled from her arms. “Who’s that?” she cried in shocked dismay.

  “Indians,” Glory replied matter-of-factly, pausing with a towering red mule standing on either side of her.

  “Indians!” Lily exclaimed, her jaw slack. Even Harper looked worried.

  “Are they going to scalp us?” Patience whispered, her hands flying to the thick blonde bun coiled at the nape of her neck.

  “Calm down, girls.” Jackson took the rifle from Ruth’s grasp and tucked it under his arm. “Go about your business. Don’t stare. Act like they’re not there.”

  The girls tried to comply, but their movements seemed awkward and jumpy. After hitching the team, Glory knelt in the shade beside Mary. The
girl began to cough harder, her eyes wide with fright. “It’s okay,” Glory soothed. “Jackson won’t let anyone hurt us.”

  Glory rose to her feet and walked to the campfire to get the mug of tea that Lily was brewing for Mary, but Lily’s hands were shaking so badly that she nearly scalded herself trying to pour the boiling water. “I’ll get it,” Glory volunteered, bending to steady the cast-iron pot.

  When she straightened, her heart sprang to her throat. The Indians had now dismounted their horses and were walking straight toward them.

  “Jackson!”

  Jackson stepped into the middle of the road, lifting his right hand, palm in front of him, pushing it forward and back.

  The Indians stopped abruptly. Silence settled over the area.

  Jackson continued to signal with his hand. “I do not know you. Who are you?”

  The lead Indian flashed a succinct signal.

  Shaking his head, Jackson raised both hands and grasped them in the manner of shaking hands.

  The Indian responded in kind.

  Glory sidled up closer to Jackson. “Who are they?”

  Placing a hand on each side of his forehead with two fingers pointing to the front, one of the Indians fashioned the narrow, sharp ears of a wolf.

  “Pawnees.”

  “What do they want?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  The oldest Indian, a middle-aged man, stepped away from his two younger companions and moved closer. His eyes looked past Glory at Mary, who was bent double, coughing in spasms.

  Glory studied the look in his eyes. Until a few months ago, she had been unable to read or write; she had spoken with few people besides Poppy. Her communication skills had been largely nonverbal. Poppy had taught her to observe closely and trust her instincts. He’d warned her that men could twist their words to mislead, but if observed carefully, they would eventually give themselves away.

  “Trust your instincts,” Poppy had always said, like woodland animals that depend upon their intuition for survival. If a rabbit senses danger ahead, Poppy had said, it doesn’t say to itself, “Oh, well, it’s probably nothing,” and then proceed—not if it wants to live another day.

  Glory observed the Indian—his body language, his eyes, his facial expression—for clues to his intentions. She saw no hostile pose, no aggressive move; his eyes were filled with curiosity and … concern. She sensed no danger.

  The Indian slowly removed a leather pouch from his belt and extended it toward Glory.

  “Glory,” Jackson warned in a low timbre, “take the pouch.”

  Glory nodded, stepping closer to meet the Indian.

  “Easy,” Jackson said softly.

  “It’s okay, Jackson.” Glory accepted the leather pouch in both hands. “They mean us no harm.”

  Glory looked straight into the Indian’s eyes, and she saw wisdom and kindness there. With a roll of his hand, he gestured that the pouch was for Mary. Glory peered inside the bag and looked at the Indian with raised brows.

  In a lithe motion, the man moved to pick up an empty mug beside the fire. Gently, he took the pouch from Glory and shook out a small amount of the powder from the bag into the cup. He imitated the motion of adding water from the pot boiling over the fire. Glory carefully filled the mug from the pot as the Indian held it out to her.

  They moved slowly, carefully, as in a dance, trusting each other in small increments. He handed the mug to Glory. With a swirl of his fingers in the air, he communicated that Glory should stir the brew, which she did with a spoon. With a halting gesture of his palm, the Indian signaled that she should wait. She sniffed the concoction, figuring that the wait was to let it steep, like tea.

  The Indian pantomimed bringing a cup to his lips and drinking from it. Then he pointed to Mary.

  “Oh,” Glory said, for the first time unsure. “He wants Mary to drink this.”

  Jackson balked. “No one drinks anything until I know what it is.”

  The Indian seemed to understand the doubt apparent in their voices. He held up both hands, grasping them in a shaking manner, as Jackson had done earlier. Every eye rested on him. He pointed to Mary, then clutched his own throat and pretended to cough—harsh, racking coughs like the ones that had come from Mary all day. Then he pointed to the mug in Glory’s hands and then to Mary. He pretended to drink from the mug. Then he stroked his throat in a soothing manner and inhaled long, slow, audible breaths and exhaled them with ease.

  “It’s for Mary,” Glory announced, “to make her feel better.”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said cautiously, “but I still don’t know what’s in that powder. Maybe medicine, maybe not.”

  Glory looked at the Indian, pointed to the leather pouch, and shrugged, lifting her palm in the air, trying to ask him what it was.

  The Indian nodded and moved to one of his companion’s side. He opened a bag strung over his companion’s shoulder. Carefully, he removed a dried flower with its root still intact. He pointed to the root, imitated a grinding motion, and then to the pouch.

  “What is that flower?” Glory asked. “Looks like a daisy, only it has a bigger center.”

  “Coneflower,” Jackson said. “The Indians grind the root and use it to ward off illness, especially breathing ailments. They’ve used it for years, trading it from tribe to tribe. I’d forgotten about it.”

  “Then I think we should give it a try,” Glory said.

  “Not so fast.” Jackson restrained her. “Mary hasn’t had solid food for days. She’s weak and exhausted. What if this medicine gives her a bellyache or worse? I can’t risk that.”

  The women nodded their agreement at the wisdom in his caution.

  “We don’t know these men,” Ruth warned.

  “How do we know they really mean to help?” Harper seconded.

  Glory looked around, taking in their fixed expressions. She shrugged, figuring it was the least she could do for these folks who’d done so much for her. “You’re right,” she announced. “We should test it.” She raised the mug to her lips and took a long swallow.

  “Glory!” Jackson snapped, knocking the cup aside. “You are the most impulsive, stubborn—do you realize what you may have just done?”

  “I helped my friend,” Glory retorted defensively.

  “You should have asked me. There’s nothing I can do now. If something happens to you …”

  The women looked at him, startled. Ruth looking curiously from Jackson’s distraught expression to Glory and back again. “Seems if she wanted to put herself at risk, it’s her choice, Jackson,” Ruth whispered.

  “She should have asked me.” His gaze scanned the group. “We should have voted on it, at least. I’d be worried if any of you had decided to do a fool thing like that.”

  “Hmmm,” Ruth said, lifting a brow. “Do tell.”

  Uncomfortable with the tension rising around them, Glory blurted out, “Well, no harm done. I’m fine, feel better than ever. Seems like a safe medicine for Mary to try.”

  “I don’t know,” Jackson said.

  “I do,” Mary said in a small voice, beckoning the Indian to come to her.

  Glory met Jackson’s scowl with lifted brows. She didn’t want to lead the Indian to Mary and then to have Jackson shoot him. Jackson released his breath in a long, defeated-sounding sigh and nodded.

  Glory refilled the cup with the powder and water and let it steep for a couple of minutes. Motioning for the Indian to follow her, Glory led him to Mary and handed her the cup. Mary tipped the cup to drink, looking into the Indian’s eyes over the rim.

  When she finished, she set the cup aside and held out her wrist. With her other hand, she untied the rawhide that held the new bracelet with red beads and an eagle feather. She gestured toward the Indian’s arm in a request for him to extend it. He leaned down, bringing his arm close to her hand. With a small smile, she tied the bracelet around his wrist.

  The Indian’s eyes lit up. He touched the shiny beads with reverence, then
nodded to her.

  As the three men turned to leave, Ruth approached them, carrying a five-pound sack of sugar. She extended it to them with a murmur of appreciation. They nodded as they accepted the token from her.

  The ladies broke camp quickly, and when they returned to the trail, the Indians were nowhere in sight. And though no one mentioned it, Mary’s cough seemed to have subsided.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That evening the group camped on a small plateau. The air was windless, the sky full of stars, except for along the north, where a long bank of growing clouds glowered.

  “Storm’s brewing,” Jackson muttered. Scanning the valley below, his gaze pinpointed a narrow wisp of smoke rising from a campfire less than a mile away, and his heartbeat accelerated. Whoever had been trailing them was closing in. Many a morning before dawn, Jackson had doubled back to corner the culprit, but instead, he’d always discovered a doused fire and an empty campsite. He needed to take care of business now, before any storm hit and they became more vulnerable.

  Tonight he was going to ride under the cover of darkness and surprise the intruder. Was it Amos? He felt sure of it. He’d catch him off guard and get the drop on him. He knew he needed the advantage that darkness could provide. By day, his group was too cumbersome to flee, and there weren’t too many places ahead where he could avoid an outright ambush.

  The girls didn’t seem to notice him saddling his mare that evening. Some were busy fixing a late supper; others were beside the campfire, reading and mending. He slipped his rifle into his scabbard, checked his Colt pistol, and strapped on his holster. He’d had a bellyful of Glory’s uncle, and tonight he intended to finish this once and for all. He’d send Amos on his way and be done with it.

  Glory didn’t need the crazy old coot on her trail for the rest of her life. He’d leave camp and return before anyone missed him. Quietly he led his mare out of the camp, keeping to the far side of the wagon, so as not to be seen.

  “Where you headed at this hour? Storm’s a-brewing,” Glory reminded from not three feet behind him.

  Jackson jumped and spun around, his hand resting on the butt of his Colt. “Don’t go sneaking up on me like that!” His heart was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Hearing her voice right behind him scared a year off his life. He’d better be more adept at sneaking up on Amos than he’d been at slipping away from her.