A Westward Love

by V. J. Banis

  They had ridden only a short distance when they heard an uproar behind them as the Pawnee discovered the empty camp.

  Summers, glancing over his shoulder, frowned. “Not like them to come back so soon,” he said. “They must have been pretty sore.”

  They urged their horses on, fearful that the Indians might attempt pursuit. It was nearly dawn when Summers suggested they stop for a rest. While Morton and Claire set up camp, Summers climbed an outcropping of rock to peer in the direction from which they had come. There was no sign they were being followed. He put his ear to the ground as the Indians did. On the hard, flat surface of the plains, a single horse’s hooves could reverberate for miles.

  Finally satisfied, he joined the others. After a hastily contrived meal, they took to their blankets and slept.

  The sky was already gray with the approaching day when Claire was awakened by the thud of something being thrown into the middle of their camp. A moment later there was an abrupt clattering of hooves, swiftly diminishing into the distance.

  She bolted upright, instinctively reaching for the gun Summers had insisted she keep by her bed. He was already up, gun in hand. He ran at a crouch in the direction of the rock outcropping, from beyond which came the fading sound of riders.

  “Pawnee,” he said, staring after them. “Hightailing it out of here.”

  “Here’s why,” Morton quietly added. He had the object that had been thrown into the camp and held it aloft. It appeared to Claire to be no more than a handful of hair tied to a rock.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It was Leblanc’s scalp,” Morton said. With a gesture of disgust he threw it aside. Claire, horrified, buried her face in her hands.

  “It’s unlike the Pawnee to be so vengeful,” Summers said. “They must have been plenty angry over that trap we sprang on them.”

  “Then why didn’t they attack and kill us?” Claire asked. “If they’d gone to the trouble to follow us this far?”

  “Probably afraid of another surprise like the last one. And it’s getting light. We’re lucky they didn’t take our horses too.”

  “Will they be back?” she asked, trying to avoid looking in the direction of the Pawnee’s grisly trophy.

  “I doubt it,” Summers said, “but I don’t think we ought to hang around, just in case.”

  It was a subdued trio who pushed on to the west a short time later. They had been uncertain what to do with Leblanc’s scalp. Claire felt that out of decency they ought to bury it, but Summers pointed out that it was a man’s body that got buried. In the end Morton decided the matter by announcing that he would carry the scalp with him. Wrapping it in a piece of burlap, he added it to his back.

  “He had a wife somewhere up in Canada,” he explained. “And this is the only proof the man’s dead.”

  A day passed, then another, and they concluded that they were no longer in any danger of pursuit by the Pawnee.

  “This is Cheyenne country now,” Summers said, “and they’re no friends of the Pawnee.”

  They had a new concern now, though. Having left behind the flat banks of the Platte River, they had been climbing steadily. Mountains had begun to appear on the horizon, and here and there were low mesas and buttes. It was now September, and in the mountains it was already autumn. Though the days had remained balmy, the nights were turning noticeably cool.

  “We’ll never get over them mountains in the winter,” Morton said, eyeing the jagged peaks no bigger than anthills on the horizon.

  “I’ve heard there’s no end to them,” Summers said. “And they get worse the farther you go.”

  “Can’t we go around them?” Claire asked.

  Summers shrugged. “Near as I’ve found out, they reach all the way to Mexico. Like a wall, protecting the far west from outsiders.”

  “But if we can’t get over them, and we can’t get around them, what are we going to do?” Claire asked. “We can’t just sit around and wait for spring.”

  “No, but we can go looking for it,” Summers said. They gave him uncomprehending looks. “Look,” he explained, taking up a stick and beginning to scratch in the dust, “if these are the mountains I think they are, they cut about straight south and north. Like I said, a wall, damn near impossible to get across in the winter. But there is a place where winter doesn’t get.” He marked an X with the stick. “Somewhere down here is another river, the Colorado. Cuts right through these mountains, down to the south, which is where California is, best I can tell.”

  “But won’t this river be frozen by the time we reach it?” Claire asked.

  “It would, only there’s a canyon, a canyon the likes of which man never dreamed of. The walls must be a mile, maybe two miles deep.”

  “I never heard of such a place.” Morton scoffed.

  “I saw it. It plain takes a man’s breath away. It’s like someone had painted those walls, all red and blue and brown. And there’s rocks like cathedrals.”

  “Okay,” Morton said, still sounding unconvinced, “let’s say it exists. Let’s even say we could find it, which I’m not convinced of, in those mountains. What then? You going to tell me that it’s a magical river, stays summer all year round, something like that?”

  “Exactly,” Summers said, grinning.

  “Ah, now just a minute.” Morton looked disgusted.

  “Look. Here, past the mountains, that’s the great desert I talked about before, with the mountains sitting on top of it.” He went back to the canyon he’d sketched alongside his river. “But here, the river’s cut right down through the mountains, right down to the desert below. So even when it’s winter up here, it’s still summer down there, on the desert floor. If we can find this river, and you’re right, that’s a damned big if, all we got to do is follow it through this canyon, right on out to the desert, and California.”

  The last word seemed to cast a spell. The three sat in silence for a long moment, each staring wistfully into the fire.

  “Do you suppose there’s really cities of gold there?” Morton asked, breaking the spell.

  “Peter thought so,” Claire said. “I thought he was a fool, but now....” She shrugged.

  “Don’t tell me you’re starting to believe it too?” Summers asked.

  “I didn’t, but it’s easier to be a skeptic back there.” She nodded her head in the general direction of the States. “Out here, well, I don’t know. There’s something so unreal, so mystical, about this land. The plains, the rivers, those mountains; it is like another world. We haven’t seen another white man in months, not even an Indian since we left the Pawnee. Not a house, not a carriage—one could almost believe that all that had vanished, like a dream with the dawn. Perhaps there are cities of gold in California.”

  Summers smiled and shook his head. “My guess is there’s just more towns and houses and people. Maybe a fresh cooked meal....”

  “I’ll settle for that.” Morton chuckled. “And lots of them señoritas. And music! Old Leblanc dearly loved it when I used to play the harmonica.”

  The mention of the French Canadian cast a shadow over their mood. Each was reminded of the tenuousness of their present position.

  Claire found herself thinking of what she had left behind. Not so much, really. Aunt Tess in England, but they’d hardly been the close-knit sort of family that would cry her homeward. England, of course. There was much to miss of England itself, though truth to tell she’d spent most of her life being bored and restless. Richard hated her. Peter was gone. Virginia had never been home to her.

  In a flash of rare insight she saw for the first time in her life that all she really had, all she could lay claim to, was now. Not the past or the future, but this present moment, here on a high plateau somewhere in the land known as the American west.

  “Won’t you play for us, Mister Morton?” she asked on impulse.

  He looked flustered but pleased. With loud disclaimers regarding his ability, he fetched the harmonica from his pack, and placing
it to his lips, began to play. If it was not fine music, nor particularly sure of pitch, it was nonetheless welcome in the vast darkness of the night, and after a tentative line or two of melody, he began to play a jig, accompanying himself as he danced clumsily but spiritedly about the fire.

  It was such a spontaneous expression of good cheer that Claire laughed with delight and began to clap her hands in time to his dancing. Even Summers managed a smile for the trapper’s antics.

  Suddenly Morton stopped before her, and making a little bow from the waist, said, “I’d be honored if you’d go around this one with me, Miss English lady.”

  “I’d be delighted,” she said. She rose and Morton crooked an elbow through hers and began to dance her around, gracelessly but energetically. He caught her about the waist, swinging her so hard that her feet left the ground and she had to cling to his burly shoulders for support. She had recently begun to let her hair hang loose and now it swung gleaming and golden in the firelight, framing her face and making her look girlish and innocent.

  She was only gradually aware of the change of atmosphere, of the way his arm had tightened about her waist, and the new light that had begun to glint in Morton’s eyes.

  Gasping for breath, she put a steadying hand against his chest. “You’ve stopped playing,” she said, trying to keep the tone light.

  He leaned his face close to hers. “There’s more than one way of making music,” he said in a coarse whisper.

  “Please,” she gasped, trying to free herself from his embrace.

  “Mind if I cut in?” Summers asked. He had been so silent, had risen so quietly, that both Claire and Morton were surprised to discover him there at their elbows.

  “The lady and I are talking,” Morton said in a chilling voice.

  “I expect the lady’d rather dance than talk,” Summers said.

  “Yes,” Claire said too quickly, “yes, I would rather.”

  There was an ugly pause in which the two men stared at one another. Morton’s eyes flashed angrily; Summers’ were calm and cold.

  Morton gave way first, thrusting Claire roughly away from him. “To hell with it,” he said. He spat noisily on the ground and strode off into the darkness.

  “I’m afraid we’ve made Mister Morton angry,” she said, glancing after him.

  “He’ll get over it.”

  She looked up into Summers’ face and for the first time saw it in a new light. There was still the long jagged scar from cheekbone to chin, the swarthy complexion, and the cruelly sensual cut of his mouth, but Claire now saw Summers as strong and rugged, even handsome, although certainly not handsome as Peter had been. It was like the difference between a beautiful piece of architecture—ordered, balanced, perfect, and those mountains toward which they rode each day—raw, imperfect, yet thrilling in a way that stirred something deep within.

  “You yourself reminded me, he’s a dangerous man,” she said aloud, partly to mask the confusion of her inner thoughts.

  “Not as dangerous as I am. I thought we were supposed to be dancing.”

  She was surprised, having thought his interruption was only an excuse to rescue her from Morton.

  “If you like,” she said.

  He took her into his arms, not roughly as Morton had done, but easily, naturally, and began to waltz her around the campsite. To her surprise he was very good.

  “You waltz very well,” she said, not even concealing her amazement.

  “My father taught me. Said a man who wasn’t light enough on his feet to dance a waltz would never last in Indian territory. Can’t you sing something? We could use a little music.”

  She thought for a moment, then began one of the tunes that had been popular in London, making la-la-la do for the words. Together they swayed and circled about the fire, his hand firm in hers, his step sure and light. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, letting the song trail away. They didn’t need it. Their music was the rustle of the trees in the night wind, a distant murmur of water, a sudden brief call of a coyote somewhere far in the distance.

  Summers stared down at the upturned face, realizing for the first time how pretty she really was and realizing too, in a flash of insight, something else. Perhaps it was her hair; he liked the way she’d taken to letting it hang loose. Or it may have been the way she rode, straight and confident in the saddle, never lagging behind, never complaining of the long hours or the distance covered. Partly it was that easy, ground-covering stride she’d developed when they’d been hiking. Partly the way she’d learned and remembered the things he told her. She’d always remember the name of a bird the second time, or know its call once he’d identified it for her. It was the way her once ivory skin had reddened under the sun to turn golden tawny.

  Maybe most of all it was the way she could waltz around a mountain campfire in boots and an elk skin skirt, as if she hadn’t even noticed the orchestra was missing. She was a woman born to this land, to the west, to the mountains and the freedom and the sweet, unsullied air.

  The insight scared the dickens out of him. He realized that he’d been looking for her all his life.

  He stopped dancing so suddenly that she tripped over one of his feet and nearly fell. “Time to turn in,” he said, and with that he turned and strode away from her, leaving her to stare in astonishment after him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There was now snow on the high peaks of the mountains, warning them of what lay in store. They traveled steadily south and west, staying close to the low fringes of the mountains to be less conspicuous.

  “No telling just what Indians we might meet up with,” Summers warned, “Arapahoe, Ute, and I’ve heard of Apaches traveling this far north, though it isn’t their usual terrain.”

  “You seem to know so much,” Claire said, curious about this man with whom she’d lived for several months. “Have you traveled this entire land?”

  Summers chuckled. “No man could travel this entire land, not in a dozen lifetimes. But I’ve seen my fair share of it, bad and good.”

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Claire said, “so unspoiled.”

  “Unspoiled for now, maybe,” Summers said. “An Indian friend of mine used to sing one of their songs:

  ‘When the eagle is gone,

  Who then will we see soar

  From high mountain aeries,

  Over the blue sky?

  When the eagle is gone,

  Who will climb the skies?’”

  “It’s very sad,” Claire said. “But why should the eagle go at all?”

  “He’ll go,” Morton said and for once the two men were in agreement.

  “As the men come, the eagle goes.” Summers nodded.

  “But what men would come here to this wilderness?” Claire asked.

  “Men following other men, just as we’re doing. Men following us. Same as they’ve pushed their way across the old west. Ohio, Kentucky, the Limberlost—they were empty and unspoiled once too, and the men came, looking, always looking, if not for cities of gold, then for other treasures, land, for one. Sometimes just looking for the very thing their presence destroys—unspoiled beauty.”

  “But if only a few came,” she said, “if they treasured what they found, if they left it untouched....”

  “Can they?” he asked. “Wherever we’ve gone we’ve left our mark of dead men and dead animals, cut trees and trampled flowers. And we are only three.”

  “Watch it,” Morton said unexpectedly, reining in his horse. Claire’s mount had flared her nostrils uneasily, warning of some approaching danger. From the underbrush along the trail came a crashing sound. A moment later an immense bear waddled into the path several yards ahead of them followed closely by two cubs.

  The bear turned toward them, snorting threateningly. She rose up on her hind legs, towering eight feet in the air.

  “She’s only protecting her young,” Summers said, calming his frightened horse. “Just let them get past. Jesus! Don’t!”

  Morton had rai
sed his gun to aim at the grizzly in the path. Summers leaned out from his saddle, attempting to deflect the other man’s shot. Morton fired just as his aim was knocked awry; the bear gave a startled grunt as the bullet struck her shoulder. Then with a terrifying roar, the bear charged straight at them, her cubs disappearing into the thickets.

  There was no time for Morton to load and fire again. He attempted to wheel his mount out of the way of the charging beast, but the bear came with a speed that belied her massive size.

  The horse reared, terrified, to kick out with its front hooves, but the bear charged straight in, catching its underbelly. With a rippling slash of one giant paw it sent the horse toppling to the ground.

  There was no doubt that the horse saved Morton’s life, for the bear went for the helpless animal first, ignoring the trapper scrambling to free himself from beneath his fallen mount. It was only a matter of seconds before the powerful paws would have torn him open as well, but those seconds gave Summers the time to steady his own horse and, bringing his rifle up, fire almost point blank into the brain of the enraged grizzly.

  The confused beast looked backward at him, looking more frightened than angry. She attempted to wheel about, to confront this new attacker, but her legs gave out and she lumbered sideways a few steps before sinking to the ground, where she thrashed about for a moment before falling still.

  “Goddamn you!” Morton shouted, managing to free the leg that had been pinned beneath his horse. He got unsteadily to his feet. “You almost got me killed. I’d have gotten her with that first shot if you hadn’t interfered.”

  “You’d no need to kill her at all,” Summers replied, equally angry. “And you’ve left her two young’uns without any protection. I ought to have let her kill you. Serve you right.”

  “I ought to put the next bullet right in your head!” Morton shouted, shaking his fist.

  “Please!” Claire cried, jumping from her own horse and putting herself between the two men. “Please, it’s over and done. And Mister Morton’s horse, it’s hurt badly.”