GOLD RUSH DREAM

by Billie Sue Mosiman

  For the first time in their weeks together he actually thought about her being his real wife. Was this love? He didn’t know, but he did know the sight of her made his heart race and his pulse quicken. He let her take his arm as he escorted her to the ring of revelers where happy fiddle music softened the night.

  They all believe she is mine, he thought. Yet she belongs only to herself. What a lie it all is. If only she really belonged to me…

  He twirled her in dance, holding her hand, touching her waist, and her smile was brighter than the moon. When she laughed the air filled with joy. Travis caught himself grinning like an idiot, so happy to be alive and with this girl that he wanted to burst out of his skin.

  Yes, he decided. He must be in love. It wasn’t complicated at all. He knew he wanted her at his side forever, not just for the months it would take to cross the west. He only hoped one day soon she would feel the same about him. He’d do everything in his power to make her love him back.

  #

  Broken Bear had been at the far end of the draw when the Red Hair came to bathe. She disrobed in the twilight so that he could not see her body that well. She stood naked in the little clear stream and kneeled. It was as if she were in prayer the way she cupped the water in her hands and let it stream over her shoulders and back.

  He crept nearer, thinking to take her away. This was his perfect chance. She was alone and unprotected. They wouldn’t find her missing for several minutes.

  His chest hurt from holding in his breath. He moved closer, clinging to the shadows on the far side of the draw. He moved from boulder to depression, from brush to cacti.

  Suddenly she was out of the stream and on the water’s edge, drying herself down. In a flash she had her dress over her head, falling to cover her body.

  Broken Bear panicked, knowing he had so little time. He moved forward, knowing once he reached the stream she would hear his approach. He hurried, small rocks sliding beneath his moccasins.

  Then she was climbing the slope leading up to the camp. She was getting away, his perfect chance turning into a fiasco. He clumped across the water, splashing his bare knees, and came behind her at a furious pace.

  She was gone!

  He stood just below the ridge out of sight, disappointment filling him like poisoned water. He leaned over, hands on his knees, cursing silently. He had waited too long watching her bathe. He hadn’t taken action when he should have.

  He drew out his knife from its leather strap around his waist and slashed the sharp blade across his left arm. It was only a surface wound and he hardly felt it. Blood welled immediately and dripped into the rocky sand. That should teach him. What kind of kidnapper was he to have let her get away?

  He turned and disappeared into the draw again, following the stream away from the camp. His one satisfaction lay in being the single man to have seen her in all her flesh and glory. He wondered if the trapper had his way with her in their shared tent at night. If he did, Broken Bear would take his scalp, and take his nose and ears for good measure. He’d leave him disfigured and dying in the mean heat of the sun.

  Broken Bear slapped at his cut arm so he could feel the pain. He had to feel something to take his mind off the idea of anyone touching the Red Hair. What a fool he’d been to hesitate. Surely she had magic power to transfix him so completely when logic would have had him already moving toward her.

  The dark was thick now, as the fires from the camp faded at his back. His arm had ceased bleeding, the edge of the cut crusting over with dried blood. All along his arms were scars from similar cuts he’d performed on himself. When he did something stupid, or missed a prey, or was thrown out of his village for his temper, he always gave himself a reminder of his dishonor. That way he could keep track of his mistakes. One day he would reach perfection and could do away with the painful practice. One day the Great Spirit would recognize his suffering and courage and reward him with his heart’s desires.

  He fell in a heap on a thin, worn deerskin, burying his face in his arms. Soon he dropped into sleep where he dreamed of the girl in the shallow stream, kneeling and cupping water over the twin white moons that were her breasts.

  #

  Rose danced until she was worn to a frazzle. She had sometimes danced with her father while her mother sang. A few times she had danced with young men at church socials. But nothing before this had thrilled her so much. Travis was ebullient, twirling her like a top, catching her in a big swing when the square dance threw them together on a turn. He was not the most elegant dancer she had seen, but his enthusiasm was contagious. She laughed, enjoying herself for the first time since he’d taken her from her home.

  That night when the two of them retired to the small tent, she sensed he wanted to say something to her. He had his back to her, as always, and she was curled into her usual fetal position. But she heard the rustling of his legs as he moved them and saw the tensing of his shoulders as if he intended to turn toward her.

  She rather wished he would, but on the other hand she feared what might happen if he did. She couldn’t trust herself around him now. She liked him a great deal. The longer they were together the more she was impressed with his competency on the open Texas plains. She admired the way he took command of situations, the way he made snap decisions that always seemed to be the best course of action.

  He was a provider, a protector, and, most of all, he was a gentleman. She might be a naïve virgin, but she was not so ignorant of the ways of men and women to not realize most men in Travis’s position would have long before made a bold move. Everyone already thought they were man and wife. If he forced her to his will, she’d have no real recourse.

  She smiled in the dark and sighed into her hands. She knew he would never turn to her, though he struggled against his normal urges. She could trust him. And wasn’t that the highest compliment of all?

  It was possible she might want to make their false marriage permanent once they reached her family. She must wait to see if that is what she really should do. As long as he did not take advantage of her, his chances were rising each and every day. What better man could she find anyway? There was nothing about Travis that she found unpleasant.

  She could certainly make a worse commitment, but probably not a better one.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The trail west took the small wagon train beyond the Texas territory into a desert that seemed to stretch into infinity. The heat was unbearable. Flies followed the caravan, clustering around Rose’s face, lighting on her arms and neck to sting her. “Biting flies,” Travis called them. If it weren’t for the infestation of intolerable fleas none of them could seem to vanquish, the flies might have driven her mad. The flea bites and the itching took her mind off the fly swarms.

  They had gone days without finding game. Their stores were low so the wagon master regulated them. Maisey had taken on the job of camp cook, pooling all their small stores into caskets in her wagon and cooking from them at the end of each day. She often used some kind of spice she’d brought with her and the group was thankful for the variety this spice added to their diets of beans and hard tack. Adding tubers Maisey found along the trail, even cleaning cactus leaves of spines and slicing them into a soup, the crew ate reasonably well. Nevertheless a haunch of an antelope or deer certainly would have been appreciated.

  Travis left the caravan each day, setting out ahead not only to scout the way, but to look for wild game. So far he had come back empty handed. “It’s a dry land,” he said. “Soon we won’t worry about finding fresh meat. We’ll be desperate for water.”

  Rose eyed the water caskets with a worried look. Her father had told her once that a man could go quite a long time without food, but he was doomed within three days without water. Surely they would come across a stream or river soon. She looked at the scorching sky overhead and wondered if they’d ever make it across this grim land. She also wondered, for the first time, if her aunt and uncle had actually made it. What if they’d died out here, t
heir bones bleached and lying beside some trail, and this terrible journey was for naught?

  Don’t be a worrywart, she told herself. They made it. We’ll make it. Some way, we’ll make it.

  Conversation lagged as the days dragged past and the trail was dusty and hot. Travis still scouted ahead, looking for game, and searching for a watering hole. This was a much-traveled trail during the past two years so they all hoped a water source would appear soon. The trail wouldn’t have been chosen if the travelers hadn’t found water. Now and then they happened on a weathered wagon board tied to another splinter of board. It would be stuck in the sand to catch their attention. On it would be a carved arrow pointing west, indicating others had passed this way. It gave them all hope they’d find water soon.

  Rose thought she’d never seen such desolate country and hoped never to see it again once they could pass through it. It was true the landscape was majestic with sunset and sunrise, with new and waning light spreading from beyond the horizons over distant rugged mountain ranges, seeping down over the bare plains. But for the majority of the day, with the sun overhead burning her head and shoulders, she only wanted to curse the land and call it hellish. Travis begged some cloth from Maisey and used it to drape over Rose’s head, sheltering her from the worst of the day’s sun.

  There was no coffee at night camps now. Travis seemed to miss that the most, even more than fresh game for a savory stew. “Blamed, if I can’t stand not having a sip of black coffee,” he complained. “But at least we have some jerky left and a little salt for the beans.”

  He never asked her to cook, taking the chore upon himself once he had the supply donkey and horses settled. Without grass for feed, all the animals were suffering from hunger. Rose often caught Travis making night rounds and talking softly to his horse, brushing his mane and patting him down. She wondered what he said, but suspected it was apologies to the animal for taking it to a place without food. All any of the animals got was handfuls of hay from a supply wagon each day and whatever scrounging they could find along the trail—tiny patches of dried grasses hiding beneath brambles and at the bases of cacti. The hay they’d brought along was waning and would soon be gone.

  One night when Rose felt at her lowest, she said, “Maybe I made a mistake risking this trip to find my relatives.”

  Travis was stirring a meager pot of beans. He paused and looked at her. His face was more rugged than it had been when they set out. His cheeks were grizzled with beard, his eyes slightly sunken in their dark sockets. He looked older, but no less kind. His gaze softened as he sat back on his haunches to give her his attention. “It’s going to be all right, Rose. I’ll take care of you. I know I haven’t found any game except that prairie dog days ago, but we’ve still got beans left and there’s a way station just over the mountains where we can re-supply. I don’t want you to worry. You look tired. Why don’t you lie down a while before we eat our supper?”

  Tears sprang to Rose’s eyes at this. He was as tired and hungry and dirty and hot as she was, yet he was trying to encourage her.

  “Oh, now, don’t cry,” he said, embarrassed at his own little speech. He leaned over the fire again, to stir the bean pot.

  She wiped at her eyes with her knuckles. “I’m sorry, it’s just…it’s just…” She felt herself blubbering up again and had to stop trying to talk. Her throat was constricted against the words. Finally she said, “I’m just scared.”

  Travis was around the campfire and taking her into his arms before she knew what was happening. That’s when a torrent of tears let go and she sagged against his chest, clinging to him. “Oh, Travis, will we be able to do this? Are we really going to get across this desert?”

  He hugged her close, stroking her hair and whispering softly to her that Yes, they would make it, Yes, they’d cross the desert, and Everything would go as planned, Don’t cry now, Don’t cry.

  That was the pivotal moment, Rose realized later upon reflection, when she really fell in love with her rescuer. He was a strong man with faith in the world and faith in himself. He didn’t harbor the doubts that plague most men. She felt sheltered in his arms against any onslaught from the elements and future misfortune. If anyone would ever really save her, it would be Travis.

  She lifted her face, wet with tears, to his and saw in his eyes the longing. She closed her eyes and leaned toward him. His lips found hers…

  * * *

  His lips found hers soft, pliable, and cool with tears. He tasted salt and sweetness, feeling as if he had plunged into a dream world that consisted only of Rose. The feel of her against his chest was so right, so good. He crushed her to him, his arms circling completely around her body. He didn’t want the kiss to end. He felt himself growing hard, but this time he wasn’t embarrassed. He wanted her to know just how much he needed her. Together they were sinking to the ground, supper forgotten on the campfire. Everything--food, water, and uncertainty forgotten. She was on her back and he was half atop her, kissing her neck now, moving down to the swell of her breasts.

  Suddenly he felt her hands loosen from around him and move to his shoulders, pushing him away. Regret was as large as a storm cloud descending over Travis. He raised his head and looked down into her eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Rose?”

  Her name was a plea. He was on a precipice and she was the cool river where he was about to dive, yet she held him back. He lost his breath at the sadness in her eyes. His ardency dwindled, replaced by a sense of honor.

  “Rose, it’s…I’m sorry…”

  Seeing his stricken look, she tried to smile. “Oh, Travis, I’m sorry, I can’t let this happen…this way.”

  Finally he realized they were out in the open, in view of the entire camp if anyone cared to glance their way. A flush of embarrassment now rose from his neck to suffuse his face and he felt hot all over. His ardor cooled immediately. He sat back, pulling her by her hands to a sitting position. He moved away, keeping his eyes down.

  “Don’t be upset,” she said. “I wanted you to kiss me. I…I liked it.”

  He took up the long wooden spoon to stir the beans, trying not to sneak a glance at her. Left to himself and his need he might have lifted her skirts and undone the buttons on his pants. He might have…

  Oh God, she drove him insane. Every night they were in such close proximity in the tent. Every day in her presence, he noticed her red hair blowing in the wind, her blue eyes flashing. He had not availed himself of a woman in Galveston, though if he’d been alone he certainly would have. He had not had sex for some months now and that lack, along with traveling so intimately with a beautiful young woman, left him jittery and on edge. He still tingled all over from contact with her body and from her kisses. His hands actually shook as he stirred the beans.

  He didn’t know what he was saying until he said it. It was as if his need drove him, her beauty forced him, and his feeling for her overwhelmed him. He said, “Rose, would you really marry me? Marry me for real and be my wife?”

  He was as startled as she. He dropped the spoon and straightened his back, hands on his knees. He thought he might look fierce and that would frighten her. He tried to make his face behave and reflect his love and his need.

  She recovered quickly from the shock and he saw how something new entered her eyes. Something he had not seen before.

  She said simply, “I think I will, Travis Caldwell. I think that’s what I ought to do.”

  #

  Broken Bear suffered immeasurably. He could not count the days he had gone without a decent bite of food. The desert was the place of other bands of natives, men used to the harsh realities and trained through hundreds of years to survive it. Some of them were indeed Apaches, but they were undoubtedly made of sterner stuff. Broken Bear was from a place of forests and streams, of badger, bear, wildcat, and wolf. He could track and hunt as well as any of the People, but this desert would not give up its bounty easily. Now he had trapped a little gopher no larger than his hand and as he skinned it, he
growled low in his throat at such a pitiful offering for his stomach. The tiny beast would hardly satisfy a hunger he’d felt for days. Still it was better than nothing and would keep him alive.

  He had found an arroyo not far from where the whites camped out in the open. He had swept aside all the little pebbles that he could before scooping out a hollow for his body. That is when he’d spied the gopher, small head sticking up from a hole, curious about the commotion above it. He’d snatched it quickly and broken its neck before it could bite him in fear.

  He lay back in the depression he’d made in the ground and nibbled at the salty blood taste of the gopher’s meaty haunches. He was turning into a cannibal, it seemed to him. Half his meals were taken cold and raw.

  After his spare meal, he wiped his mouth along his arm, leaving a smudge of blood there. If he could find water, he’d bathe off all these horrible smears on his body that attracted so many flies. He did not mind being filthy and unkempt, but it attracted too many species of insects—fleas, mosquitoes, flies. He knew he must look like a monster, dirt embedded beneath his nails, in the crevices of his neck, and even coating his scalp. Blood smears along his arms and on his hands. Even his fine feet were tan with a coat of dust. But if it weren’t for the insects his condition attracted, he wouldn’t mind it so much.

  Grunting with inner anger at these harsh circumstances, he slipped from his earthen bed and climbed the side of the arroyo to spy on the wagon train. Some nights like this he was able to camp very close by to spy on them. Other nights he was so far away that he could barely see the glow of their night fires. He often had to follow in a parallel path for if he followed behind, he chanced they’d see him.