Glory

by Lori Copeland

  “Thought you might see it that way. Here’s the deal. You call off your boys, and we leave peaceably. Nobody gets hurt. I can tell investigators how cooperative you were.”

  Wyatt grunted, then sighed heavily, took a deep breath, and raised his voice to shout, “Boys, change of plans! Put down your weapons, and let these two men and the women leave.”

  “Huh? You sure, Pa?”

  “Do as I say,” Wyatt roared.

  Dylan motioned to Ruth. “Ladies, line up behind me and stay close. Jackson will follow behind.”

  Spreading her arms, Ruth quickly assembled the girls behind her. She stepped behind Dylan and took hold of his shirt. “We’re with you,” she murmured.

  “Let’s go.” He stepped through the doorway, pistol held aloft. Quietly the group filed out with Dylan in the lead and Jackson protecting their flank. He grabbed Wyatt’s lantern just before he slammed the door shut.

  “What the—” Wyatt roared.

  The group made a break for the nearest trees before Wyatt and his boys had a chance to change their minds.

  Hurrying deeper into the woods, they could hear the shrill voices of Wyatt’s boys. “Why you lettin’ them take the women, Pa?”

  “Because, you fools, there’s more where they came from. Besides, more lawmen are on their way. Time we took to higher ground.”

  “We coulda shot those men, Pa!”

  “If you lazy bums had rolled out of bed and come out here when I first called you,” Wyatt bellowed, “we’d all been inside the bunkhouse, and those boys wouldn’t have gotten the drop on me. But no, you don’t listen to your pa!”

  The ruckus faded as the small group scurried through the woods. They paused in an aspen grove, where Jackson bent to check two sets of footprints, one set large and one set small. He glanced up at Dylan. “Looks like this is where Amos left his horse.”

  Dylan nodded. “They can’t be far. I’ll go after them.”

  “You take the others and get them back to Denver City,” Jackson said. “The wagon and teams are waiting about a mile down the road. I’ll go after Glory, and we’ll meet up by morning.”

  “Be careful,” Dylan warned.

  “I will. See to the girls’ safety. The storm is about to break, and it’s going to be a bad one.” The two men shook hands and set off in different directions.

  Within minutes, Jackson located a set of prints in the snow. Fresh, not over an hour old. As the sprinkle of falling snow grew heavier, Jackson urged his mare into a gallop. It looked like Amos was angling back toward the road. He had to catch him before the snow covered his tracks. Kicking his horse, he rode faster.

  Rounding a bend half an hour later, Jackson spotted a light in the distance. He quickly dimmed his own lantern. Amos’s horse was lunging up a hillside, while Amos awkwardly held his lantern aloft. The snow, combined with the awkward weight of Amos and his passenger, made it hard for the animal to keep his balance.

  Jackson reined his mare to circle around, hoping to catch Amos by surprise.

  When Amos’s horse topped the next rise, Jackson put his heels to his mare, and she shot out of the trees in a blur of snow and wind. The wagon master turned his mare so she’d bump Amos’s horse, and then he reached out and grabbed its bridle. Amos’s lantern flew to the ground and smashed.

  “Jump, Glory!” Jackson shouted, but she was already sliding off the animal’s back.

  Jackson glanced over his shoulder to be sure she was clear. Amos struck out, hitting him in the jaw. Jackson reeled and dropped his lantern but managed to keep his hold on the bridle. The two horses leapt side by side, brushing between the nearby aspen trees.

  The trail narrowed; there was hardly enough room for one animal. Amos’s knee collided with a tree trunk, and he pitched backward, losing his balance and falling heavily to the ground.

  Jackson wheeled his horse around and galloped back. Dismounting, he kept an eye on Amos, who by now was raising one hand in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he hollered, bending forward to clutch his knee.

  “Look out, Jackson!” Glory cried. “He’s got a knife in his boot!”

  Amos sprang, slashing wildly. Jackson instinctively raised his right hand to protect himself. Amos ripped his palm and wrist, tearing open glove and flesh.

  Jackson swung his left fist and connected with Amos’s jaw and sent him sprawling. Awkwardly, he drew his pistol out of his holster with his left hand. Amos rolled to his knees and crawled a few feet.

  “Stop right there,” Jackson warned, leveling the Colt.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Amos snarled. He kept his eyes on the pistol in Jackson’s hand. After a pause, he backed up a few feet and slid down a tree trunk and sat there, glaring.

  Glory rushed to Jackson. He awkwardly put his left arm around her, pulling her close to his side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I knew you would come.” She paused. “What about the girls?”

  “Dylan has them. They’re on their way to Denver City. We’ll meet them by morning.” He glanced up at the swirling snow. “Round up the horses. The storm is getting worse.”

  “You got it.”

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment in the silence of the falling snow.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Amos snarled.

  “Well, it comes down to this, Amos.” Jackson leaned over to pick up the knife. His blood stained the mounting snow. “When we leave, we’re taking your horse. I’ll leave him tied about a mile down the road. Then you have a choice to make. You can give up the notion of taking the gold away from Glory, or you can continue to hunt her down and deal with me. In which case, you won’t have a second chance. So you come after Glory again, and there’ll be no mercy. Or you can walk to your horse, mount up, and ride on. You make the choice.”

  Amos glared up at him.

  Jackson mounted his mare and pulled Glory up behind him. He fixed Amos with a solid stare. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  Looping the reins of Amos’s horse around his saddle horn, Jackson set the horses into motion.

  Snow pelted their faces as Jackson galloped the horse back down the trail. Glory knew if the storm kept up, he wouldn’t be able to see the road in another fifteen minutes.

  “Will Amos come after us?” she shouted above the whistling wind.

  “That’s up to him!”

  She knew Jackson had been fair enough to give him a choice; other men likely wouldn’t have.

  The wind shifted, and snow flecks turned to cotton-ball-size flakes. They approached an overhanging rock, and Jackson veered off to the side of the trail. Slipping out of the saddle, he tied Amos’s horse to a low bush. He quickly remounted the mare, and they rode on.

  “What about your hand?” she called in a worried voice a short time later. “It’s bleeding!” It was a nasty wound. He was losing blood fast, and unless the gash was properly dressed, he could bleed to death. Jackson stopped the horse long enough for Glory to get down and scoop up a handful of snow and press it to his wound.

  Blinding snow swirled as the horse and its riders pushed on through the mounting drifts. Conversation was impossible now. Glory clung to Jackson’s waist, trying to summon faith like Ruth’s.

  God has his eyes on his children. Glory knew that accepting God’s Word meant she had to believe that, no matter what, but she wondered if even Ruth could hold on to her faith tonight.

  Clamping her eyes shut, she whispered between chattering teeth, I believe, Lord. I just hope you’re not off tending business elsewhere.

  Gradually, she felt changes taking place in Jackson’s body. At first, they were small, barely perceptible: a relaxing of his muscles, an inability to answer her shouted questions. Then the changes became more pronounced. He slumped, weakened from the loss of blood. Her fingers rested in warm blood pooling on the saddle. Through the faint light reflected off the snow-covered ground, she detected the gaping wrist wound, and it looked bad.

  “Jackson!�
�� Fear choked her. If he lost consciousness, he would be too heavy for her to lift. “Jackson! Answer me!”

  Stirring, he tightened his grip on the reins. “I’m all right.”

  But he wasn’t all right; he was still bleeding. Worsening weather rapidly deteriorated into blizzard conditions. Wind shrieked through the boulders, and snow piled up on pine branches.

  Reaching around his waist, she took the reins and pulled the horse to a stop.

  “I’m all right,” he protested. “Just got to find shelter before the storm gets any worse.”

  “You’re in no shape to do anything.” All the times she used to climb all over her mule, Molasses, gave her the courage to try a desperate move. She shifted her weight to one side, stood up in the stirrup, and swung out, easing her slight weight around his frame. Grunting, she climbed in front of him and landed just behind the saddle horn. She wrapped his arms around her waist and called over her shoulder, “Hang on.”

  Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled out a handkerchief. She twisted it into a rope and tied it around Jackson’s hand. Gathering the reins, she tapped the mare with her heels and set off again.

  Snow came down in heavy, wet sheets. Inching forward in the saddle, Glory strained to make out the road. She kept the mare to the far left and slowed her to a walk when they entered a narrow ledge. Don’t look down, she chanted under her breath as the mare picked her footing through the narrow, rutted trail. For heaven’s sake, don’t look down. She didn’t need a full moon to warn her of the two-hundred-foot drop-off on the right.

  Reaching back, she grasped hold of Jackson, who was slumped over her shoulder now. “Hold on. I’ll get us there.” Wherever that might be. She had no idea where she was going or how to get there.

  She couldn’t feel her face. Frigid wind whipped around her head, and her lips were numb. She had to find shelter—but where? This mountainous terrain was so different from Missouri’s gently rolling hills.

  The mare cleared the narrow pass and plodded into a valley. Here, the snow whirled across the exposed land, piling to frightening depths.

  Glory shook her head, trying to clear her vision. Jackson leaned on her shoulder, unconscious now. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ear. Everything began to blur; she was becoming disoriented.

  Dear God, help me.

  Reining the mare through another snowbank, she tried to think, but her mind was slow and unresponsive. Wind tore at her coat and seeped though her wool dress and leggings.

  The horse stumbled and nearly went down. Flanking it hard and lifting the reins, she sent it surging back to its feet. At the same time, she fought to keep hold of Jackson.

  We’re going to die.

  No! She wouldn’t let Jackson die. She had to keep moving.

  Ahead would be shelter somewhere: in a grove of aspens, or in a cave, maybe in an abandoned mine.

  She couldn’t see three feet in front of her. The mare thrashed about, trying to wade through the drifts, snorting with fear.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a faint light appeared in the distance.

  Bolting upright, Glory whispered to Jackson, “It’s all right. Somebody’s coming.” Relief flooded her as the light bobbed closer.

  Oh, thank you, God. Thank you for hearing my cries.

  The light stopped in front of her. The stranger lifted the lantern to reveal his face. It looked like Poppy standing before her, moving the lantern slowly back and forth.

  “Poppy?” she whispered. Grabbing hold of Jackson’s hand, she tried to squeeze it, but her hand wouldn’t close. “It’s Poppy,” she cried.

  “Go back!” The figure waved the lantern in warning. “Go back, Glory. You’re going to die if you don’t.”

  “Go back where?” She twisted to look back over her shoulder at the swirling void. “Poppy, I can’t go back!” Tears slipped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. The wetness froze in seconds. This couldn’t be Poppy; Poppy was dead. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She turned to look again.

  “Go back! Turn around!”

  She obeyed. She turned the mare around, and when she looked back at the figure, he and the light had disappeared.

  Leaning in the stirrups, she strained to locate him. “Poppy? Poppy!”

  A howling wind caught in her throat and choked off her pleas.

  Guiding the mare, she waded the animal back through the fresh tracks. She was losing her mind. Poppy was dead; Poppy wasn’t here in Colorado in a blinding blizzard, holding a lantern and warning her to turn back.

  The horse could barely clear the drifts. Snow swelled to the mare’s belly and dragged against the stirrups.

  The narrow ledge. She couldn’t make it back over the tight pass. The snow was getting too deep. She wouldn’t be able to keep far enough over, and they’d drop over the side.

  She suddenly turned the mare, veering to a sharp left. The path tapered, then widened to a small pine grove. Slowing, Glory listened to the wind shrieking through the boughs. The pungent scent of pine mingled with the awful cold. She was so frozen the scene felt surreal, and she wondered if she was imagining it like she’d imagined Poppy and the light.

  Holding tight to Jackson’s gloved hand, she closed her eyes, barely able to think. Are you going to let us die, Lord? I sure would appreciate it if you didn’t.

  “Jackson,” she whispered, tired now, so very tired. “This might not be a good time to tell you this, and I know you can’t hear me anyway, but it’s one of those things I’m fairly bursting to say. If I don’t say it right now, I might never have the chance again.”

  Swallowing, she gathered her strength and her nerve. It was possible that they wouldn’t make it through the night; that’s why she had to tell him now.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “I know you don’t want me to love you, but I love you anyway. I’ve loved you from the moment you found me sitting on the trail and offered me a ride. I loved you when you shouted and blustered at me; I loved you when you were kind, and I loved you when I couldn’t get a bad word out of you.”

  His heartbeat was faint against her back.

  “If I were as pretty as Lily or as smart as Ruth, I know that you would love me back. But I’m not. Don’t suppose my looks would scare a man, but I don’t have Patience’s grace and beauty. You don’t like my boyish ways, but Poppy raised me to take care of myself, and that’s what I have to do. There’s nothing wrong with a woman being able to take care of herself—you might even be grateful to me for saving our lives—if it turns out that I have.”

  Right now the prospect didn’t look so good.

  “What I’m trying to say is that someday, if we make it out of this, you will meet a woman you love as much as I love you right this moment, and I will envy her with all my heart. Hard as I’ve prayed about it, I’m still jealous when you pay attention to other women, not that you do that often, but sometimes you do. I’m sorry. I suspect we’d have to always deal with that … if you were to ever love me back.”

  A noise caught her attention. A soft, mewling sound. Opening her eyes, she looked around, trying to identify the source. Bear? Her heart accelerated, and her hand slowly searched for the rifle. What should she do? If she left the saddle, Jackson would slide off, and she wouldn’t be able to lift him again. That would mean death for both of them.

  Clucking softly, she eased the mare a step forward. If it was a bear, he had the advantage, but it couldn’t be a bear. Bears were in their dens this time of year. Her hand closed tighter around the rifle, shifting it to the saddle horn. If she had disturbed a bear’s winter sleep and he charged, she would shoot by sound and pray the bullet found its mark. She’d shot a black bear once, but it had been in broad daylight, and she’d had her wits about her. Unable to feel her fingers in her gloves, she wondered if she could squeeze the trigger.

  Kneeing the mare another step, she waited, ear cocked to the wind. There it was again, louder. A snort. Heavy breathing.

  Bring the rifle to your shoulder, Glory. />
  In slow motion she brought the Winchester into position. It was there—not twenty feet away on the right, in the bushes.

  Why didn’t it charge?

  If it wasn’t a bear, what was it?

  The mare took another step.

  Bushes rustled.

  You can do this, Glory. It’s either whatever is out there or us. Jackson can’t help. You have to get Jackson’s wound dressed … Maybe he’s already dead.

  No! He’s not dead; you can feel his breathing. He’s weak, awful weak, but he’s alive.

  Fresh blood—the bear—the animal, it smells fresh blood.

  Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

  It was so close now; she could feel its presence, hear its ragged breathing.

  The mare took yet another step.

  A thrashing in the bushes. There it was. Dead right.

  Straining to spot the enemy, Glory kneed the mare closer, positioning the rifle against her right shoulder. Jackson’s weight mashed her against the saddle horn. Her shoulders shook from the weight of the gun, and she strained to hold the barrel level.

  The bushes moved and against the ground’s pristine backdrop, she finally saw it. An elk, with a four-by-four rack, wounded and hurting, lying on its side in the snow. Pain-glazed eyes stared up at her.

  “Sorry, ole fella,” Glory whispered. The animal had probably tangled with a mountain cat and lost. “I gotta do us both a favor.” Taking careful aim, she willed a steady hand and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The explosion startled the horse. Rearing, it catapulted Glory, the rifle, and Jackson onto the ground. She landed with a thud in the softly packed snow. The Winchester went one way, and Jackson flew the other.

  Glory lay for a moment, too tired and too cold to care anymore. “Jackson,” she finally murmured after long moments, “I think the Lord is busy elsewhere.” She paused, biting her bottom lip. “I’m real sorry, but I think we’re going to die.”

  Searching the ground beside her with her right hand, she felt for him. “Jackson?”