Prairie Song

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Now that’s curious. The canvas flaps on all the other tents he’d passed had been tied back, the better to catch the breeze. But not this one. Cole’s eyes narrowed as he looked around.

  No fancy carriage sat parked nearby, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t be inside. He looked down at the ground surrounding the tent. Pretty chewed up. Looked like horse activity. A lot of horse activity. Interesting. Of course, he would have preferred to have real horses hitched outside … horses whose flanks were still lathered. Because that would mean a recent hard ride. In his head, Cole estimated the distance from the stand of trees below to this tent up here. And figured the timing of a getaway was about right.

  He had to hand it to whoever had pitched this tent here. He’d chosen well, if his mission had been one of secrecy. For one thing, the tent sat practically off by itself. The nearest tent was a good thirty yards away, Cole guessed. For another, this tent was staked around a bend in the tent city, away from the sight of the would-be settlers camped in droves on the prairie below. Which meant too that whoever had occasion to ride off through the trees that surrounded the creek wouldn’t easily be seen before he was already away.

  Still sitting in the aged-leather saddle, which creaked with his every motion, Cole turned toward the tree-sheltered stream below and plotted in his head the escape route he’d envisioned. And concluded his thinking was right. The lay of the land would have sheltered any fleeing horseman. Hell, only yesterday hadn’t he himself lost sight of the fancy lady when her carriage had rounded the bend?

  All this is mighty interesting, Cole reflected. Mighty interesting. His expression hardened as he dismounted and looped the reins around his saddle’s horn. After settling his Stetson low on his brow and checking his gun in its holster, Cole stood a moment by his roan and kept an eye on the closed flap of the tent. After all, it could be flung back at any moment by anybody who might be inside. Considering what his best approach might be, Cole rubbed his horse’s shoulder and listened for any sounds from within. Frustratingly, only silence and chirping birds greeted him.

  There was only one way for him to know if someone, innocent or otherwise, was inside this tent. He had to take a look. He stepped back from his roan and pulled his Colt revolver. Even if this was the wrong tent, whoever innocently resided here, should they happen to be home, would be more inclined to listen to his apology if he had a gun in his hand.

  And since he did, Cole didn’t hesitate. Boldly stepping up to the tent, Cole led with his six-shooter and yanked the flap back, aggressively thrusting himself in through the opening and waving his pistol back and forth threateningly as he searched for a target.

  None existed. The tent was empty of people.

  “Damn,” Cole fumed, relaxing his gunfighter’s stance and holstering his weapon. He’d been so sure this was the correct tent. All the signs indicated it was.

  It probably is. Maybe you’re just too late. Maybe Kate has already been taken away.

  Cole stiffened, hearing inside himself the whisperings of an ugly creeping fear. It gnawed at the rough edges of his confidence in his own abilities. He put a hand to his waist and rubbed his other one over his face. Could it be true? Could it be, for the first time in his life as a hired tracker, that he’d been too slow, too bogged down with Kitty and the kids and the ride out here and the need for caution? Had this newly learned caution of his cost Kate her very life?

  “Son of a bitch.” The curse slipped out of Cole along with his exhalation of a breath laden with sudden defeat.

  He looked around the tent, turning slowly from where he stood in its middle. A thick, woven carpet under his feet cushioned each step. Greeting his contemptuous gaze were ornate but practical furnishings. A thick and inviting bed. A washstand with mirror. Two armoires spilling over with clothes—both men’s and women’s, he noted. A folding table and chairs probably meant for dining. And various closed-front cabinets, which no doubt held china, crystal glassware, and silverware. Everything a rich couple would need to pamper themselves out here.

  To Cole’s troubled gaze, the interior appeared painfully innocent. Nothing here even hinted of dark plottings or evil doings. Which had him wondering if the whisperings inside him could be right. Was he wrong about this tent? Were his instincts off? At thirty years of age, was he losing his edge—and at the worst possible moment? Cole fisted his hands in an effort to steady himself against any such misgivings. But, slowly, even a bit surprisingly to him, his hands relaxed. A change came over him. He realized that he was not in any way ready to accept the possibility either that he was wrong or had been too late.

  Because he wasn’t—wrong or late. It was that simple. Because anything else, with Kate’s life hanging in the balance, was just too unthinkable.

  Then, the thought of Kate uppermost in his mind, another emotion overwhelmed Cole. His chin came up a notch. His eyes reflected a mixture of fear for her and anger at her captors. A sudden and overwhelming sense of helplessness swept through him, something he’d not felt since he’d been a boy of seven and had watched his father ride away. Again seeing himself as that small boy crying and running after his father’s departing horse, Cole erupted. Caution and calm and good sense fled. For once, in his adult life, Cole acted on gut emotion. And because he did, nothing in the tent was spared. Nothing was allowed to stand.

  His face contorted with a helpless rage, he yanked clothes out of drawers and flung them aside. He tossed the coverings off the bed and kicked aside the carved folding table and chairs. With a glancing brush of his forearm, he swept gold jewelry and a silver-backed brush and comb set off the top of a bureau. He told himself he searched for anything that might be a clue, that might tell him at least that Kate had been here … that he wasn’t wrong, that he wasn’t over the hill. That he wasn’t too late.

  But in his heart, he feared the truth. He raged against every damned thing in his life that had ever held him helpless and shaking in its grip. He raged against every moment he’d ever felt lost and alone and scared. He raged against every hard and humiliating thing he’d ever had to do in the name of feeding himself and his sister and her kids. He raged against a fate that had made of him a killer of men, that had made him a man who—if he didn’t find Kate—would never know the finer, more tender things in life. A man who would never have love. Goddammit, he raged against—

  His father.

  “No.” The hoarse cry was torn from Cole. And left him feeling alone in this world, this life … as always. It left him shaking. And hurting.

  The storm of emotion abated as suddenly as it had erupted. “No,” he repeated, this time quietly, as he shook his head. He looked around himself, at what he had wrought. The tent’s interior was a shambles. The contents were all upended. And he was in the center of the ruin … squatting down, his weight supported on the balls of his feet, his fisted hands pressed against his eyes. For long seconds, he wasn’t conscious of any thoughts … only that he was conscious. And sweating. And that he ached and hurt and his heart was thumping wildly. And he was, for the first time in his adult life, scared. Really scared.

  Cole saw himself again as he’d been all those years ago. There he was … a skinny, dark-haired boy, terrified, watching his father ride off. Forever after, he and Charlotte had been alone, with only each other for comfort. Cole remembered how, for weeks, he had been too terrified to sleep and had clung to his sister. He’d promised himself, as he’d grown into his teen years and had become more independent, that he’d become the sort of man who’d never be afraid. That he’d be the one whom all other men would be afraid of. And now, years later, here he was … that man. The one all others were afraid of.

  And yet, Charlotte had still died. He hadn’t been able to stop that, had he? And afraid? He still was. Inside, in his heart, he was still the scared little boy, lost and alone. Helpless. Unable to understand his world anymore. Unable—after all his years of experience in tracking down all sorts of desperadoes—to find even one small black-haired, green
-eyed woman named Kate.

  “What am I supposed to do, Daddy?” he heard himself whispering. With great effort he blinked back the sudden tears in his eyes. “What am I supposed to do?” His voice was no more than a sick, weak whimper. And Cole hated it. Squaring his jaw, clamping down on his back teeth, he pushed himself up and stood tall amidst his ruined surroundings. He looked around, listened. But heard nothing. No one running to come see what the trouble was. No inner voice. No whispering back to him. No reassurances. Nothing.

  “What am I supposed to do?” he asked again, his voice this time strong and resolute. “Tell me, damn you. Tell me.”

  And then he stood there, realizing his hands were fisted and raised in the air. He asked himself, What is there left to do? Accept that I might truly be too late? That I’ll never see Kate again? Just quit? Give up?

  He thought about how that made him feel. And slowly shook his head. No. I’ll search every son-of-a-bitch tent and wagon until I find her. Cole lowered his hands … and chuckled, a somewhat erratic, watery sound. He inhaled several long, strengthening breaths in the moments he gave himself to tamp down his earlier fear and hopelessness. Since he’d decided to stay and fight, the only question remaining, then, was where to start.

  “I could really use some help here, Pa,” Cole surprised himself by saying aloud, even as he realized he was already slowly turning in a circle and again searching—for anything, in a place where there was nothing.

  And then … he stopped. His gaze lit upon the cot in the corner—at the back of the tent. Everything inside Cole stilled and seemed to focus itself on the simple bed.

  He hadn’t noticed it before, not even in his rampage. And even now, there was nothing special about the cot itself that should draw his notice. Indeed, it was just an ordinary cot. Could even be standard army issue. But it wasn’t the cot, really, that had arrested Cole’s attention. No, it was what was lying atop it, strung over the wooden canvas-covered edge. There it was … the clue he needed, the clue that gave him back hope. A simple strip of calico cloth. Only this morning Kate had torn it from an old threadbare dress of Lydia’s and had tied her hair back with it before going to the creek to wash up.

  Cole couldn’t seem to look away from the strip of calico. He felt certain that if he did, if he looked away—it would disappear. Slowly, stiffly, he walked over to the cot and bent over, snatching up the piece of fabric and threading it between his fingers. Clinging to it were several long strands of Kate’s black hair. Something murderous coiled inside Cole. Had this cloth been torn from her hair? Or had she somehow, unseen by her captors, left it for him as proof of her presence here? He had no way of knowing at this moment.

  But one thing he did know, he assured himself, was that he meant to find out. He raised the calico to his nose, breathed in Kate’s scent, and then stalked across the tent, ripped back the flap, and stepped outside. Daylight assaulted his eyes. Squinting, Cole searched the muddy ground around the tent. And finally looked closely at what before he’d only glanced at. The narrow wheel tracks of a rich man’s conveyance … some sort of carriage. Maybe a black landau, like the one he’d seen yesterday? Could be. At any rate, the wheel ruts and horse tracks led away from here, straight away from here.

  Cole trained his gaze on those tracks, following them, until he estimated where this course would carry a vehicle. He raised his head to stare toward the horizon. In that direction lay the Cherokee Strip. That was all he needed to know. Cole wadded up the calico he still held and threw it on the ground. It had served its purpose. He then sprinted toward his roan, knowing he was about to find out just how fast this horse could run.

  * * *

  Terror coursed through Kate—terror for herself, terror for her baby—as twilight approached and she sat facing the Talmidges. The couple perched, shoulder to shoulder, on the seat opposite her in their enclosed landau carriage. As the driver kept the vehicle rocking along at a frightful, jarring pace, no words were exchanged. The occupants only stared at each other. Kate swallowed, half afraid her throat would actually close from the emotion constricting it. Of course, she could look away from the hateful faces of her captors … but what was there to see? The passing landscape of Indian Territory?

  She realized they were covering in reverse the same ground she and Cole and the children had ridden across only two days ago. Could the Talmidges mean to return with her to Arkansas City and the trains that made the runs back East? It made sense. But getting to the trains was a three-day journey. What would they eat? Where would they sleep? Already it was close to dark, which meant they’d soon have to stop for the night. To continue—with the horses unable to see their way—was to invite disaster.

  But perhaps, Kate reasoned desperately, before they’d had her abducted, they’d managed to set up another camp deep in the wooded area somewhere out here. That had to be it. Because if not—Kate could barely get her fear-frozen mind around the words—then they simply meant to bring her out here and kill her … and then return to their fancy tent as if nothing had happened.

  The idea of such cold calculation stunned Kate. But which did she prefer, she asked herself? The quick death tonight? Or the one she’d know was coming once she delivered her baby? A wave of despair all but swamped Kate. Instantly she fought it, promising herself that she’d think of something, that she’d do anything, at almost any cost, to avoid either of those fates.

  Afraid that her sudden conviction would show on her face, Kate finally did glance out the window. The passing parade of lurching and lumbering schooners, all traveling in the opposite direction from the landau, did nothing to cheer her. They were all headed for the Oklahoma Country. Which was where Kate desperately wanted to be. With Cole and the kids. She worried now about the children, about how Joey fretted over everything and felt everything was his responsibility. She worried if Willy would help his big brother keep up with Lydia. The little girl was always chasing off after Kitty and could get herself hurt. And who was fixing their supper and seeing that they said their prayers before going to sleep?

  Suddenly, a heartsickness seized Kate and nearly tore a cry from her. Her concerns were those of a mother for her children, a mother whose children weren’t being watched over.

  Kate fought the helplessness in her soul. In only moments, though, she came to her own rescue when another thought occurred to her. She should forget about herself and worry about getting back to the children. After all, worrying about another child, the one she carried, had gotten her this far. Telling herself now that was exactly what she’d do, Kate affirmed for herself that Joey, Willy, and Lydia were indeed her children now. And they needed her.

  Just like she needed Cole. Oh, God … Cole. Kate again looked out the window as she blinked back sudden tears. It was true … she needed him. And only God above knew where Cole was and what he might be doing to locate her. She felt certain he would come after her. Somehow he would. He’d get someone to see to the children, and then he’d come after her. Earlier, she’d dismissed an unsettling doubt that had her wondering if Cole might be in cahoots with the Talmidges—besides his contract to find and kill her. Even though he’d never said he wouldn’t carry out his orders, the reality was … he hadn’t done so. Because here she sat. Alive and—Kate stopped herself. She was alive, yes. But not well. She was far from well.

  Because Mr. Talmidge held a gun en her. An unnecessary ploy. What could she do against the two of them and their driver who perched outside on his box? Besides, Kate’s hands—swollen and tingly with an increasing numbness—remained tied behind her back. If only her hair were still tied back, Kate lamented. Long black waves of it insisted on falling toward her face. And her scalp still hurt from where Norah Talmidge had yanked her by her hair as she’d forced Kate to sit down again on the cot when Edgar Talmidge had entered the tent. In the violence, the threadbare calico strip she’d used to tie her hair back had come undone.

  And how long ago had that been? Days? Weeks? It seemed so, to Kate, since so much h
ad happened. But the truth was, she realized now, that only hours had passed. What an ordeal she had gone through! Once Mr. Talmidge had arrived to announce that their plans—plans, no doubt, for spiriting her away—were completed, Kate had been blindfolded and gagged and then hustled out and pulled, prodded, and finally tossed onto a horse, with someone—a big man—behind her in the saddle.

  They’d ridden over jarring ground, hard, but not alone. Kate had heard, on either side of her, other horses’ hooves. At the time, she had no way of knowing just how many other men on horses had accompanied them. But she found out soon enough, once they got to the waiting landau, which had been hidden in a forested area along the trail to the land run border. Once her blindfold was removed, she discovered that there were only two other steeds. Atop them sat Edgar Talmidge and his wife, Norah. And the hardships continued. Kate hadn’t been given so much as a mouthful of food or a sip of water since she’d been abducted. And yet, she still had a painfully full bladder to remind her of her baby.

  Through it all, though, she purposely hadn’t raised a fuss. She hadn’t fought, hadn’t screamed, hadn’t so much as kicked out. Nor had she said a word. Instead, she’d focused on her baby and had tried to conserve her energy and to shield her belly as much as possible. Kate believed now that the Talmidges wouldn’t kill her. They wanted her baby very much. And until she delivered it, they’d be forced to see to her well-being. And that being so, maybe it was time to tell them a few things—a few things that wouldn’t make them any happier, she supposed. But still, a few things they ought to know.

  Kate pivoted, giving up her closed-off posture to face the Talmidges once more—two people she’d hoped never to see again. To Kate’s unsettling surprise, their steady gazes were already upon her. And judging by their grim expressions, she could only wonder and guess at their private thoughts. As she looked from one to the other of them, and saw the flicker and dart of their eyes as they in turn assessed her, she wondered if people like them had thoughts—decent ones, anyway. And how they faced themselves in a mirror.