Knight in a Black Hat

by Judith B. Glad

  What in tarnation is wrong with you, you randy buck? She's a lady. A real lady, who'd never give you the time of day, if you weren't working for her uncle.

  An enormous fallen log blocked their path. Without thinking, Malachi put a hand on it and vaulted over. Then he turned to help Miss Sanders.

  She clutched his coat around her with shaking hands as she looked at him across the log. There was no plea in her eyes, no give in the straight posture of her body. Even in the dim light, he could see that her lips were blue, yet she ignored the hand he held out to her, leaned forward and lay across the log and did her best to wriggle over.

  He got more than a glimpse of slender thighs scarcely covered by gauzy, knee-length britches before he lost patience. "You are the most contumacious female I've ever seen," he said, as he picked her up and lifted her across. Instead of setting her down, he held her close to his chest, one arm around her shoulders, one under her knees. "You're just like ice. Why didn't you say something?"

  "Put me down!" She pushed against his chest.

  The bundle of wet clothing in his left hand made him clumsy and he came close to dropping her. "Hold still!" He let go the sodden bundle and took a better hold, not an easy task for she was wiggling and pushing.

  "Mr. Bradley, if you don't release me this instant, I shall scream."

  "That does it!" Taking one step forward, Malachi let go.

  She fell maybe a foot, before landing on the log. For a moment he wondered if she'd fall back over it and was ready to grab her. Then she rolled, caught her balance and sprawled belly down, hands clutching the thick bark.

  The coat was twisted around her waist, leaving her bottom, barely concealed by damp, almost transparent fabric, in plain view. His hands itched to get the feel of those tempting mounds of soft flesh. Instead, he stepped back while she worked herself around into a sitting position on the log. "You can ride on my back, or you can let me carry you, but you're not walking another step, woman. I wouldn't bet on you making it back to camp, because I'd lose."

  A shudder took her, making her teeth clatter. "I'm p-p-perfectly all right."

  "You're half frozen." Bending over to pick up her clothing, he tried to avoid the view of her legs. "Here, you carry these." He plumped the bundle in her lap and she had to snap her knees together to keep it from rolling off.

  "Mr. Bradley--"

  "Look, Miss Sanders, you hired me to guide you, didn't you? To get you safely to the Sawtooths and back?"

  Her mouth pursed, and her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. After a short pause, she nodded.

  "Letting you freeze to death isn't keeping you safe, is it?"

  A hesitant shake of her head.

  "Then let me do my job, for God's sake--"

  "Don't swear!"

  "I'm not ordinarily a profane man, Miss Sanders, but you make me want to curse more than any person I ever met." Giving her no chance to object, he once more slid his arms under her knees and around her shoulders. "Now if you'll just hold still, I can carry you like this," he said, as he adjusted his grip, "but if you keep wiggling, I'll have to sling you over my shoulder."

  A quick motion in that direction stopped her wiggling like it had frozen her. The trouble was, it also pulled the coat open and now he had an unobstructed view of her body below the waist.

  Thank God it's getting dark. Malachi didn't think he could have borne seeing all that pale, thinly-veiled skin in full daylight.

  They made it back to the camp without mishap, and with no more argument. In fact, she said not one word until he lowered her at the doorway of her tent. Then all she said was, "Would you mind asking Mr. Beckett to hang my clothing to dry?" She sounded like a queen giving her servants orders.

  Not a thank you kindly for keeping me warm, not a I'm obliged for the carry.

  His first impression had been correct, Malachi decided as he walked to his bedroll. She thought herself too good for the likes of him.

  Nellie had just clothed herself in dry garments when Mr. Beckett cleared his throat outside her tent. "Miss Sanders, your uncle would like to speak to you," he said, without waiting for a reply.

  Rather than brushing out her badly mussed hair, she smoothed it and draped a shawl over her head. She was still cold, so it warmed her as she stepped outside. The slight breeze brought the odor of cooking meat to her nose and she wondered if Mr. Creek had shot a deer.

  "Yes, Uncle," she said as she entered his tent, "was there something you wanted?"

  Uncle was sitting in his folding chair, looking, as he often did, like a ruler on his throne. Nellie had often wondered what he would do if she or Mr. Beckett had bowed low to him. Probably take it as his due, she thought, then mentally chastised herself for the uncharitable thought. Uncle was a famous botanist. He deserved respect.

  "I saw you go into the woods with Bradley," Uncle said. "Was that wise?"

  "Wise? I don't see why not. He showed me a meadow filled with lilies in flower. One looked like the Erythronium at home, but I'm certain it was a different species from any we're familiar with."

  "Humph. I doubt that. Did you bring a specimen?"

  "Why no, not after you stressed that we were not to collect until we reached our destination."

  "Lord above, preserve me from fools!" Uncle shook his head. "Child, taking a specimen for identification is not the same as collecting for the herbarium. And now it's too dark for me to get to your meadow, and we may never know if you found something unusual."

  Biting her tongue, Nellie only nodded. Uncle hated to be caught in a contradiction.

  "If Bradley wasn't so particular about our starting before daylight, I might go there in the morning, but by the time it's light enough to see anything, we'll be miles away. He pampers those mules like they were favored pets. If he'd work them a little harder, we could be over the mountains and into the Sawtooth Valley by now."

  * * * * *

  "They're a'comin', Buttercup. Them folks I dreamt about. They're almost here."

  The big cat's tail twitched, but he gave no other sign he'd heard her. Gertie went to the door of her dugout and stared out into the softly drifting snow.

  She'd had that dream again. The one about her babe. Only this time the girl-child was a woman, with coal-black hair and big gentian eyes. The old pain came back in full force, filling her chest with an aching loneliness.

  If her man had lived, she wouldn't be all by herself in this god-forsaken valley, with only a cat for companion. And her babe would be alive, too, not buried in a rocky grave far, far from the hot, green land of her birth.

  Not for the first time, she cursed the gold-hunger that had lured her man along paths of greed and danger. And she cursed herself, for being foolish enough to follow him, while her babe was still so young.

  Chapter Six

  The ensuing days saw them climbing, ever climbing. The trail left the creek they had followed for days, struggled over a pass and down into another drainage, and then zigzagged up a higher hill, over the top, and down again. After a while they reached a wider valley through which flowed a wide, rocky river--Payette, Mr. Bradley named it. They crossed it and climbed again, along the valley of a tributary stream.

  Snow caught them as they crossed another divide, heavy wet snow that slowed their travel and left everyone damp and miserable. The mules plodded on, heads lowered, their shaggy coats dripping and steaming. At last they reached a level area where Mr. Bradley called a halt for the day. It was scarcely after noon. Nellie crawled into her small tent and napped, lulled by the steady drip-drip-drip of snowmelt from the branches.

  That night the air carried a cold bite and the next morning a hard glaze of ice covered everything. For two days they stayed in camp, sitting in dark tents, for walking about on the icy ground was hazardous. The men played endless games of cards, and Uncle fretted, keeping Nellie busy pacifying him. On the second day, a warm wind arose and quickly melted the snow. Nellie rejoiced at word that they would move on early the next morning, for she h
ad begun to wonder how much longer she would have kept her temper. Somehow Uncle's incessant carping grated on her patience far more than it had at home.

  The trail often wound high on the steep hillsides. Sometimes Nellie closed her eyes as they traversed ledges so narrow that the mules' packs scraped the rock wall on one side and hung over infinity on the other. Sheba had proven herself surefooted, so Nellie felt confident that she was entirely safe. She only hoped Uncle's mount was as trustworthy, for he was a nervous rider.

  After a while, she became convinced that they would never reach their destination, but would spend eternity winding along narrow paths through these mountainous forests. At night she watched the moon wax, then begin to wane. Counting back, she realized that they must be in the last week of April, even though spring had not yet touched this high country.

  Their path climbed ever higher into mountains where snow lay in every shaded vale. Fortunately the sky remained clear, but several times a day their route cut across a snowfield or a lingering drift. Sometimes the men had to clear the way, when the snow lay too deep for the mules to pick their way through.

  On the day they had to cut through a fallen log that lay across their path, Uncle lost his temper. "I have never seen such incompetence, Bradley! You're all slackers! Instead of seeking an easy route, you seem to be determined on slowing us as much as you can! Franklin will hear of this, I assure you. You will never work as a guide again."

  Mr. Bradley's jaw worked a moment. He said mildly, "As you will. I'm sure Franklin will be interested in your opinion." After a short, pregnant silence, he went on, "We crossed the last high divide today. From here on, it is generally downhill to the Salmon River." He walked away.

  Nellie wished she had the gumption to do that sometimes.

  "Benighted savage!" Uncle muttered that afternoon, when Mr. Creek told them that their camp would be dry. The nearest water was a half-mile away, and several hundred feet lower, at the bottom of an impossibly steep slope. Later, at supper, he insisted that Mr. Bradley should have brought them by a shorter route. Fortunately, the latter did not reply, which would have only added to Uncle's ire.

  "Can't you do anything with meat but half-burn it?" he demanded later, when Mr. Willard slid a thick, juicy elk steak onto his plate. The muleskinner ignored him. After supper, the men all found chores that needed doing, well away from the campfire circle. Nellie remained with Uncle for a while, but he was not inclined to conversation, so she soon retired.

  As she was braiding her hair, she heard him shouting at Mr. Beckett. The poor man. He tries so hard to please. She had given thought to warning Uncle that he was alienating the men on whom his life might depend, but she knew that to do so would only infuriate him.

  The moon was a few days past full the night they camped in a meadow just downstream from a tiny lake. Mr. Creek caught fish for supper, tender, succulent fish that he steamed in a wrapping of wet sedge leaves and mud. Uncle, for a change, was in a mellow, expansive mood.

  "After we came out of the mountains, we still had a week before our scheduled departure," Uncle said, as they sat around the campfire. "I had a mind to climb Pike's Peak."

  "I heard of that," young Mr. Ernst said. "Ain't it a whopping big mountain."

  "It is, indeed. More than fourteen thousand feet high. Not an easy climb, even for an experienced mountaineer such as I."

  Nellie heard a sound, suspiciously like a snort, from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder but saw nothing. Both Mr. Creek and Mr. Ernst were listening to Uncle, while Mr. Bradley sat with his back to the fire, staring into the dark woods.

  "So how'd you get across the gorge?" Mr. Ernst's tone held respect and wonder.

  "Why we traversed a steep talus slope, then crawled--literally crawled up a virtually sheer rock face. Eventually we reached..."

  She had heard this story several times before. In each recitation, the slopes grew steeper, the hardships greater. Smiling tolerantly, she drew her journal from her coat pocket and leafed through the last ten or twelve pages. Someday these notes would be all she had left of this exciting, difficult journey.

  Was she telling enough? In some far-off time, would anyone hang on her words as the men did on Uncle's, eager to hear about the first white woman to penetrate the rugged Sawtooth Mountains?

  Later that night she woke from a restless sleep. A sliver of moonlight had found its way through the imperfectly-closed tent flap and lay across her bedroll. She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, and listened to the night sounds. After a while she rose, slipped into her skirt and blouse. She pulled her wool stockings up to her knees and gartered them, laced her boots, and caught up a woolen shawl to wrap around her shoulders. She was restless, feeling a great need for solitude, yet not wanting to be confined inside the dark tent. She had had almost no time to herself since the evening she and Mr. Bradley had visited the lily meadow.

  Sheba greeted her with a soft whuff when she stopped to scratch the donkey's nose. All the livestock was staked in a cluster several yards away from the tents, with Sheba on the outer edge.

  "Asses, they hate panthers and coyotes," Mr. Willard had told her early in the journey, when she had wondered aloud if the donkey would be safe. "She'll set up a ruckus should one come a sniffin' around after the cow."

  "Don't go too far."

  Nellie jumped. "Oh, my! You scared me out of ten years' growth," she told Mr. Bradley, who stepped silently up to stand beside her. Her heart was pounding and her breath seemed to catch in her chest. "I thought..."

  "That I was a haunt? Or a panther? No, ma'am, I'm just a man."

  As if she weren't totally aware of his gender. Ignoring the warmth that seemed to grow in her middle every time she was near him, she said, "Did you hear the birdcall? It sounded so lonely."

  "Owl, I reckon. A big one, from the sound of it." His chin went up and he seemed to sniff the air. "The lake's not far. Do you want to go up and see it?"

  "Oh, yes, could we?"

  "Hold on a minute. I'll tell Willard."

  He was gone such a short time that she again started when he returned. This time he placed his hand lightly at the small of her back. "Walk carefully. There are gopher holes everywhere." In his other hand, he carried a rifle.

  Nellie shivered.

  "Cold?"

  "No. Not really." She pulled her shawl more tightly around her body, but it did nothing to lessen the heat radiating from his hand.

  There were patches of snow in the meadow, brightly reflecting the moonlight, but the hummocks and hollows were only darker shadows on the dark ground. Several times she tripped and would have fallen, had his strong arm not caught her. The third time this happened, he left his arm where it was.

  Nellie resisted the urge to lean into his embrace. Don't be nonsensical! He is only being protective. It is his job.

  Nonetheless, she cherished the sensation. She had never had a handsome man's arm about her waist before.

  The margin of the lake was boggy, and they were forced to halt some distance from the water. With the moon shining on the water, even the slight ripples caused by errant breezes were visible. Nellie gazed over the surface, not certain what she was looking for. Yet at last her search was rewarded. At first there was only a black splotch against the moonlit water, but gradually it took on shape until she could make out a broad muzzle emerging from a wide Vee of ripples. "There!" she breathed, pointing.

  "I see it," he said.

  They stood together, still and silent. Slowly the animal swam toward them. Afraid to move, afraid to blink, lest it should disappear or take fright, she watched. At last it drew close enough that she could see the gleam of its dark eyes, the water glistening on its fur.

  Suddenly there was a low report, like a rifle shot, and the animal disappeared under the water.

  "Oh, no!" Nellie cried. "Someone shot him!"

  "Nope," Mr. Bradley said. "They slap their tails to warn of danger. He must have seen us."

  "It was a beaver, th
en?"

  "It was. You're a lucky woman," Mr. Bradley said. "I've only seen a couple of them."

  "A colleague of Uncle's told me the beaver were all but extinct. And to think I saw one! How exciting! " She hugged herself, and was once again aware of the warmth and the strength of his arm at her waist. "Will we see it again?"

  "I doubt it, but we can watch for a while, if you want."

  "Oh, yes, please." She relaxed, allowed herself to lean infinitesimally closer to him.

  The beaver did not reappear, but a long time later they heard the owl again, this time between them and the camp. "Turn around," Mr. Bradley whispered in her ear, "real slow and careful."

  She did, holding her skirt with one hand so that it would not brush against the tall rushes among which they stood. His hand was pointing out across the meadow they had traversed.

  "There. Can you see it?"

  She stared, saw movement close to the ground. Then a pale shape swooped up, glided past them, not ten yards away. Its flight was totally silent. As she watched, its wings beat once, twice, and it rose and turned toward the trees near their camp. Once more Nellie was thrilled. Although she had heard owls at night back home, she had never seen one in flight. Botanists work in the daytime, and owls at night, so the likelihood of their paths crossing was slim.

  The owl disappeared among the treetops and the meadow was still. Moonlight turned the dry grasses to silver and reflected off the lingering snowdrifts. All around them the mountains loomed, their tops serrated with the narrow tips of trees she had just this afternoon identified as Pinus lasiocarpa and Abies englemanni.

  Stop that, Nellie Sanders! This night is too lovely to be a botanist. Just enjoy the beauty and leave the science for the daylight. As if in apology to the night, she said, "They are all pine trees. Mr. Willard said so." But she spoke quietly, for it would not do for anyone to hear such irreverence from her.

  "What's that?"

  "Nothing." She took one last look around. "I suppose we should return to camp. You will be calling us to arise far too soon." But she didn't move, for his arm had tightened about her waist.