Knight in a Black Hat

by Judith B. Glad

  Nellie's heart thrilled. She never tired of hearing of his adventures. Of dreaming of the day when she would have adventures of her own to relate. "Was that the place you named 'Hidden Valley'? " she said. "The one where you found the Dryas octopetala."

  "The Dryas? Why no..." He coughed. "No, I don't believe it was. We found that in another valley, at a much higher elevation, I believe. Yes, yes, I recall now. Hidden Valley was several miles away, in another drainage."

  "So you never reached the valley you sought," Mr. Bradley said. "That must have been disappointing."

  Uncle waved his hand in dismissal. "Yes, it was, but we scientists are used to disappointment, you know. One never achieves all one wishes."

  "Uncle always brings back many new plants," Nellie said, wishing to make certain that they understood the magnitude of his achievements. "He has described nearly a hundred new species, and extended the known range of many more."

  From the expressions on the men's faces, it was clear they did not understand the importance of botanical exploration.

  Mr. Creek said, "Species? I though that was gold?"

  "A species is a unique entity, incapable of breeding with any but its own kind." Uncle smiled tolerantly. "Many people do not know the difference between species--he emphasized the final ess--and specie, which is, I believe, the word for gold bullion."

  This pronouncement effectively ended the conversation. Soon the men drifted away, to check the livestock, according to Mr. Willard. Beckett followed, having developed a great fondness for his horse. Nellie retired soon thereafter, for morning would come early.

  * * * * *

  Malachi carried the milk over to where Murphy was just settling the grounds in the coffeepot. He set the bucket down, and reached for his cup.

  "Never thought I'd see Malachi Breedlove milkin' a cow."

  Malachi glanced around quickly to see if anyone had heard. "You still haven't. What you saw was Malcolm Bradley milking a cow."

  "Shit, Mal...colm, I keep forgettin'. What difference does it make anyhow? We're so far from anywhere here, nobody'll care who you are." He filled the cup Malachi held out.

  "I don't want to take a chance. Sure as shooting, there'd be somebody left in Idaho City wanting to show how big a man he is with a gun."

  "Who's a big man with a gun?" Tom Ernst said, as he came up behind Murphy.

  "Nobody," Malachi told him. "But there's always somebody who wants to be."

  "I hope we meet up with one," Tom said. "I've been practicing, and I'll bet I could outshoot Wild Bill Hickok hisself."

  "Not likely to meet a shootist in Idaho City," Murphy said, sounding bored. "Last I heard, the place was on its last legs."

  "We'll ride on through. The professor is in a hurry to get over the mountains." Malachi stood and tossed the dregs of his coffee onto the ground. "I'll roust out the others. You boys get your breakfasts and set to loading up."

  He'd seen the canvas of Miss Sanders' tent flutter and was sure she was moving about inside. Ordinarily he enjoyed seeing her when she poked her face out to say good morning. Today he simply called out, "Rise and shine, folks. The sun will be up in a bit." Quickly he hurried past, lest her smile remind him of dreams best forgotten.

  Both the professor and Miss Sanders seemed less saddle sore today, so Malachi stretched out the intervals between rest stops. The one who'd surprised him was Beckett, who'd taken to the trail like he'd been riding the high country for years. The skinny little manservant seemed to like working with the horses better than waiting on the professor. Malachi didn't blame him. He'd never been able to see why one man would be willing to wait on another.

  Or why any man would want someone to shave him and button his shirt and what-have-you.

  Willard led them through the valley where Idaho City sat, a devastated valley surrounded by barren, stump-covered hillsides, and littered with the debris left behind by ten years of placer mining. Few people were about, although rockers sat along the ruined creek and the deeply eroded hillsides were evidence of recent hydraulic mining. In a few weeks, when the weather warmed, this would be a typically frenzied gold camp, much like those where Malachi had spent the past few years.

  Once past the town, they traveled up a gradually narrowing valley, along the stream Willard said was called More's Creek. He answered most of Miss Sanders' questions with long, involved reminiscences of the years he'd brought freight into this basin. Malachi listened, more because it gave him an excuse to ride near her than because he was interested. His own experiences in mining towns were all the memories he needed.

  Along about midafternoon, Malachi sent Willard ahead to scout out a campsite. As the older man disappeared around a bend in the narrow trail, Miss Sanders said, "You sounded as if you were unfamiliar with this route, Mr. Bradley. Isn't this the way you followed when you went into the Sawtooths?"

  "I've never been in the Idaho Territory 'til now. Willard's the one who knows the country hereabouts."

  She gaped at him. "You are the man we hired to guide us. Are you telling me you have never, never been to where we are going?"

  Chapter Five

  "No, ma'am, I haven't. And you didn't hire me to guide you, you contracted with George Franklin for guide service. My job is to see you get to where you're going and back again without any problems."

  She stared at him, unbelieving. "Mr. Bradley, you should have informed me immediately that you were inexperienced. This is not the time to be doing so, when we are beyond any possibility of indemnification."

  His deep-set eyes stared back at her for a long moment, sending shivers along her spine. She had forgotten how dangerous he'd seemed at first. Now she was reminded.

  Then he looked away. Nellie chewed her lower lip, sorry she had angered him. For she had, she was sure. She had all but called him incompetent.

  The man who called himself Malcolm Bradley was about the least incompetent person she had ever met.

  Embarrassed, not quite certain how to undo the insult, she drew back on the reins, causing Sheba to drop behind the big red horse Mr. Bradley rode. She avoided his company for the rest of the afternoon, until he signaled a turn off the trail into a secluded glade surrounded by enormous pines.

  Mr. Bradley assisted her to dismount. To her great surprise, Nellie discovered that she was only slightly stiff and not at all saddle sore. "Have you any objection to my exploring the area while camp is being set up?" Perhaps if she pretended that they had not had words earlier, he would too.

  "As long as you stay in sight. I don't want you getting lost."

  As if anyone could get lost in these open forests! Not like the woods back home, where the underbrush is so thick that you can get turned around five feet from a path. "I'll not go far," she promised.

  This was the first time since they entered the forest that she hadn't hurt too badly to enjoy her surroundings. Nellie went to the nearest pine, laid both hands on its wide trunk. Warm, rough, cinnamon-red in color, the thick, plated bark was proof that she was touching one of the magnificent trees first described by Douglas long ago. "Pinus ponderosa," she whispered. "At last!" She wanted to throw her arms wide, embrace it in her joy.

  "Why not?" She laid her cheek against the bark, sighed in contentment, and hugged the tree.

  After a few moments, she stepped back and looked about. The open area where the men were setting up camp was perhaps fifty feet in diameter, with patches of light-colored soil showing among clumps of grass, a few scattered shrubs. Along the south edge, a cluster of young hemlocks provided perpetual shade where a lingering snowdrift gleamed white. It was colder here than at their last camp, and she was glad she had bathed there.

  Wandering along the perimeter of the clearing, she mourned the fact that most of the plants were still in winter dormancy. The bunchgrass she had been seeing for several days was here, but showed no sign of new growth. "That's different from the grass we saw in the desert," she mused. "Much finer textured. I wonder--"

  "Nellie, wh
ere is my tobacco pouch?"

  Sighing, she went toward the cluster of tents. "I believe it is in the satchel with the books, Uncle," she called, wishing that Uncle would trust Mr. Beckett to manage his possessions. The young manservant was frightfully efficient, but Uncle simply did not credit him with any intelligence.

  As she returned to her explorations, Mr. Bradley caught up with her. "Willard says there's a pretty little meadow about a quarter mile back down the trail. Too wet to camp in, but he thought he saw some flowers blooming there."

  "Oh! Would he have time to take me there?"

  "I'll show you," he said, "as soon as we get the stock fed and watered."

  Although she was still a trifle put out with him for not telling her that he was as much a stranger to their destination as she, Nellie recognized a peace offering. "Why thank you, Mr. Bradley. I'll look forward to it."

  She had time to sketch the clearing and make a careful drawing of the bunchgrass before he came to her tent.

  "Ready?"

  She set her journal and sketchbook aside. "Certainly. Just let me tell Uncle I'll be going."

  "I told him. Let's go. We haven't long until dark." He led her across the clearing and into the forest, following a narrow trail she hadn't even noticed.

  "Is this a game trail, or was it made by Indians?" she said, more thinking aloud than asking.

  "Game trail. Not many Indians hereabouts. If there ever were any, the miners have run them out."

  Reassured, she said, "Are we likely to encounter them where we are going?" Uncle had told her that no Indians frequented the valley where the Salmon River arose, but she was not certain she believed him. Not that she was frightened, of course. After all, the savage warriors depicted in the magazine stories she greatly enjoyed were purely products of the writers' imaginations.

  Weren't they?

  Apparently he had not heard her question, for Mr. Bradley didn't answer. Just as well. Not knowing was far better than receiving an answer she didn't want to hear.

  They ducked under the low branches of a hemlock. It doesn't look anything like the specimens of Tsuga I've seen. A narrow creek blocked their path. Mr. Bradley held out his hand to assist her, but Nellie ignored it and jumped nimbly across. The last thing in the world she wanted was for him to think her incapable of making her way through the woods without his assistance.

  Her plans for the summer did not involve a chaperone or a protector.

  A little ways farther along the game trail, they stepped out of the shelter of the tall pines. "Oh, my!" Nellie simply stood and gazed for a moment, enthralled. The small meadow was carpeted with low grasslike plants, already green despite the season. Among them, like minute dabs of sunlight, bright yellow flowers gleamed. "How lovely!"

  She stepped forward, felt the ground give slightly under her feet. Water oozed up around her boot, and she carefully placed her other foot on a clump of sedge, hoping it would support her weight. As wet as the meadow was, she could sink up to her knees at one careless step. Moving cautiously from one clump to the next, she made her way across the meadow, not stopping, mentally cataloguing what she saw. "Carex and Juncus. Just as I thought. Is that Pedicularis? Probably not, but it's certainly a Scroph. And look, there's Cicuta. Or is it? The leaves don't look quite right, and it's so very immature."

  Several times she lost her footing and fell to her knees, but she never sank above her boot tops. They were mud-coated and wet, and would be the very dickens to clean. Since she often spent her evenings doing just that, she wasn't overly concerned.

  After she had traversed the meadow twice, she returned to the end where they had entered, for a closer look at the first flower she had examined. A lily, small, nodding, with pointed, recurved petals. Forgetting the wet ground she knelt and touched the yellow blossom. Water soaked through her skirt, but she didn't care. "Erythronium," she breathed. "But the leaves are different."

  "Looks like a yellow flower to me," Mr. Bradley said. "You're getting wet."

  She leaned closer, ignoring him. Yes, the two long basal leaves were solid green, with not a hint of the mottling characteristic of Erythronium leaves she had seen. She had no doubt of the genus, but this was a new species--to her, at least. "Oh, how I wish I could collect it." Or at least get to the books they had brought, wherein she might discover if it had been described. There were so many. Perhaps it was common here, west of the Rocky Mountains.

  No, it couldn't be. Uncle had never collected it.

  Looking about, Nellie realized that not all the yellow flowers she saw were the same, nor were they all this bright, sunshine yellow. There was a different one, smaller, with several long, narrow leaves surrounding a stem bearing only one nodding blossom. Its petals were not recurved and their tips were rounded. Awkwardly, because the lower half of her skirt was, by now, completely soaked, she stood, moved about a yard to the nearest one, and knelt again.

  "Yes, this one is different," she said aloud. She tipped the flower up and looked inside. Definitely lily-like. Scattered across the meadow were many more like it, with petals ranging in color from bright yellow with just a hint of orange to dull red-orange. I've read about this. What is it? She stared across the open area at the dark forest surrounding it. If only I could remember.

  She could pick it, she supposed, but what good would it do her? The presses were inaccessible, and besides, Uncle would be angry. He had repeatedly told her that they would not collect anything on the journey into the Sawtooth Valley.

  "Miss Sanders, it's getting late."

  Nellie touched the delicate petals one last time and struggled to her feet. Now that her concentration was broken, she became aware that she wasn't just wet, she was cold. Treading carefully, because she didn't want to fall and get even wetter, she made her way back to join Mr. Bradley. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I completely lose track of time when I'm looking at an area for the first time." She failed to control a shiver. The breeze, although slight, was enough to mold her wet skirts to her legs.

  "Tuck up your skirts," he said, as he took off his sheepskin coat. Before she could respond, he was wrapping it around her shoulders.

  "What do you mean, tuck up my skirts?" Despite her better judgment, she clutched the coat around herself. It was warm from his body, and smelled of him--woodsmoke, horse, and fresh, clean air. Her teeth threatened to chatter, for now that the sun had sunk behind the hills, the air was distinctly wintry.

  "Get them off your legs. Otherwise you'll freeze to death." He caught her skirt and wrung it between his hands. Water dripped from it. "Better yet, take it off. Petticoats, too."

  "Mr. Bradley!"

  "Miss Sanders, I 'm responsible for your well-being. I failed just now because I let you get wet. I won't allow you to compound my failure by catching pneumonia. Now take off your skirts and petticoats. My coat will cover you to the knees."

  "I will not." This time her teeth did more than chatter, and a violent series of shivers vibrated through her.

  "Tarnation, woman, if you don't take off that skirt, I'll do it for you." He reached for her.

  Nellie stumbled backward, but could not escape him. "Wait! Please. I'll...I'll take it off. But you must turn your back."

  He did so without another word. Quickly she unfastened her skirt, let it drop. Then her petticoats, both the soft inner linen one and the outer wool one she wore for warmth. Her black wool stockings were wet too, as were her knee-length drawers. They clung to her thighs and dripped down her legs, but she refused to take them off. Even though the drawers were light, gauzy linen, she was covered. Just not decently so.

  She stepped back and bent over to pick up her wet clothing. The coat, far too big for her, gaped open. Damn! Immediately she bit her lip. If Uncle ever heard her resorting to profanity....

  She managed to pick up the skirt and petticoats, but found she could not hold them away from her body and still keep the coat decently closed. "Mr. Bradley, could you please help me?" she said, hating the necessity to ask.
<
br />   He seemed to see her predicament at once. "Of course." He took the wet garments from her, twisted them all together and wrung even more water from them. Then he rolled them into a bundle which he held in one hand. "Can you walk, or should I carry you?"

  "I can walk. It will warm me up." How her face could get any warmer she didn't know. He had glanced at her exposed calves when he turned around, then deliberately looked away. The niggling little alarm she'd felt at disrobing in his presence died. Mr. Bradley, for all he was a shootist and a dangerous man, was a true gentleman.

  Or did he simply not care to look at such an unattractive female?

  Malachi led the way through the woods, wishing he were not so weak of will. The one glimpse he'd had of Miss Sanders' legs had been enough to reveal that they were as long and as slim as any fancy dancer's he'd ever seen. The black stockings only made their graceful curves more evident. Too bad she wore those high, laced boots, for he'd bet anything her ankles were slender enough that he could circle them with thumb and forefinger.

  His fingers twitched as he imagined the silken heat of her skin. Libertine! She's a lady, not a whore you can gawk at like a kid at a sideshow.

  "Mr. Bradley, please! I can't walk so fast!"

  He slowed, not having been aware of how rapidly he'd been striding over the rough ground. "Sorry," he told her. "I was thinking."

  "Quite all right. But as dark as it's gotten, I was afraid I could miss the trail if we became separated."

  Immediately his mind showed him what could happen if they did get lost. He would find a bower under the skirts of one of the young, spreading firs, padded with soft needles and duff, hidden away from any prying eyes. He would hold her close, warm her with his body, taste her, smell her, touch her--