Beyond The Horizon

by Connie Mason

  “Give him a chance,” Major Vance, entering the conversation for the first time. “The young man did a brave thing by rescuing Miss Branigan. Few men would challenge Mad Wolf’s authority.”

  “Well?” Goodman prodded, leveling Blade an austere glance. “Tell us how you performed this miracle.”

  “I spent my early childhood in Yellow Dog’s village,” Blade confessed. “My mother was Sioux. Mad Wolf is not well liked in the village. He has his followers, but most are hotheads and outcasts like himself.”

  “Your mother is dead?” Greer asked sharply.

  “Yes,” Blade lied, for some obscure reason unwilling to divulge his mother’s whereabouts and reveal his relationship to Yellow Dog.

  “We are grateful Miss Branigan has been returned safe and sound,” Greer allowed.

  “Whatever method of persuasion you used certainly earns our gratitude,” Vance added with a hint of admiration.

  Lieutenant Goodman slanted Blade a penetrating glance. “I sense you’re not telling us everything.”

  Blade stiffened. “Are you calling me a liar?” His features hardened to stone, his mouth a thin slash in his swarthy face. He didn’t like the cocky lieutenant, not one damn bit. There was something about him he didn’t trust.

  Goodman recognized the quiet menace in Blade’s dark features and was too cowardly to tangle with the powerful half-breed, fearing he’d find himself on the receiving end of his implacable anger.

  “I meant no harm by that remark, Swift Blade,” he blustered. “No one is questioning your veracity. We just want the whole story.”

  Major Vance hid a smile behind his hand. He hadn’t been at the fort long, but it did his heart good to see the brash lieutenant quail before Blade’s steely-eyed glare. Goodman was the colonel’s fair-haired boy who could do no wrong. Personally, Vance didn’t like the man, and he was pleased to note that Blade shared his feelings. His judgment hadn’t failed him yet.

  “That is enough, gentlemen,” Greer warned sternly. “I think you’ve told us all we need to know, Swift Blade. What are your plans now? The wagon train has already hired another guide, and there will be no others through till next spring.”

  Blade sent the colonel a searching look. “Are you offering me a job?”

  “There is one available if you are interested,” Greer said slowly. “Are you?”

  “Depends on what you have in mind.”

  “We need a scout. Our last died from a rattlesnake bite. The job is yours if you want it.”

  Blade pretended to ponder the offer, glancing at Major Vance from beneath shuttered lids. The major’s barely discernible nod provided him with an answer.

  “I reckon I’ll just take you up on the offer, Colonel Greer.”

  Blade smiled, offering his hand. Greer did not hesitate, accepting Blade’s handshake to seal the bargain.

  “See the quartermaster—he’ll assign you quarters. If you need a horse, choose one from our stables.”

  Blade nodded curtly, turned, and left the room.

  “I fear you’ve made a mistake,” Goodman advised, frowning. “I don’t trust the breed. The Sioux are a savage lot who don’t easily adjust to civilization.”

  “Give the man a chance,” Vance allowed. “He looks trustworthy to me. If there had been a problem, I’m certain Miss Branigan would have spoken up.”

  Colonel Greer nodded sagely and Lieutenant Goodman reluctantly dropped the subject, vowing to keep an eye on the breed, for something told him the man wasn’t what he appeared.

  Blade didn’t complain when he was assigned a small room behind the blacksmith shop that obviously wasn’t fit for either officer or ranking NCO. At least he’d be alone, with no one keeping track of his comings or goings.

  But when Blade went to select a horse, he received the surprise of his life. There, munching contentedly on hay with the other animals, was Warrior. Placing two fingers in his mouth he let loose a shrill whistle. The gray’s ears perked up, neighing in recognition as he trotted over to greet Blade. Blade scratched Warrior’s head, speaking to him in a low voice.

  “He seems to know ya, mister.” Blade spun around as the stablemaster appeared at his side.

  “He should, I’ve owned Warrior many years. We’ve traveled a long way together. How did he get here?”

  “Wandered in a couple days ago. Figured someone would claim him sooner or later. I’m Sam Daniels.”

  “I’m called Swift Blade, but just Blade will do,” Blade offered. “I just hired on as scout. Never thought I’d find Warrior. Was he alone?”

  “Yep, and he made hisself right at home, almost as if he was waitin’ on ya. Was he stole?”

  “Lost him in a tornado a few days back. I assumed he was dead. Glad to see I’m wrong. I missed the old boy.”

  “You mean I’m stuck here for the winter?” Shannon lamented. “Whatever will I do? Are you certain no other wagon trains will come through this year?”

  Shannon was seated at the supper table with the Greer family, enjoying an excellently prepared meal while Molly clucked over the small portions she selected. She had already been with the Greers several days and Colonel Greer had promised to look into the possibility of getting her to Idaho.

  “I know how disappointed you must be, Shannon, but I fear there is nothing to be done about it. It’s already September, and the mountain passes between here and Boise will soon be impassible. Besides, the Boseman Trail has been under constant attack these past few months. We have received word that woodgathering details from Fort Phil Kearny have been ambushed by bands of twenty or thirty renegades. Forts Fetterman and Reno report the same conditions. Scant security exists outside their walls, and I warned Wilson to choose another route.”

  “Frank Wilson?”

  “Yes, he was elected captain of the wagon train after Clive Bailey left their company.”

  “I have good friends among the emigrants—are they in danger?” Shannon asked fearfully.

  “There is always danger in Indian country,” Greer said tactfully. “We tried to sign a treaty with the Sioux for the right to travel the trail but the chiefs walked out of the negotiations. Anyone who travels the Boseman Trail faces peril and possible attack.

  “You’ve heard of the Fetterman massacre, haven’t you?” he continued. Shannon shook her head. “William Fetterman was an impetuous young captain at Fort Phil Kearny who was sent out with eighty men to relieve a wood detail under attack. A wily young Sioux named Crazy Horse lured the patrol into an ambush and wiped out the entire force, including the woodcutting detail.”

  The Colonel’s story so unnerved Shannon that she fell silent, chewing her food thoughtfully. If she had to stay at Fort Laramie, there were many things she had to consider. It looked as if she was marooned for the winter—at least until early summer when the wagon trains started arriving. Fortunately she had some money in one of the trunks the Johnsons left off, but she’d need it to buy passage on the next wagon train. Kindhearted Molly Greer offered her a place with her family for as long as she chose to stay, but Shannon didn’t want to impose on the family for several long months.

  “Colonel Greer, is there no way to earn my keep?” Shannon asked. “I don’t feel comfortable imposing on your kindness.”

  “Nonsense, dear, you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like,” Molly smiled warmly. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve opened our home to visitors. That’s the way of things on the western frontier.”

  “I appreciate your generosity,” Shannon demurred, “but surely there is something I can do.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, my dear,” the Colonel blustered. “We’re pleased to have you.”

  “Papa, didn’t you say you were looking for a schoolteacher?” Claire hinted innocently. “Shannon would be perfect for the job.”

  “I don’t think Shannon would …”

  “Schoolteacher?” Shannon asked, her interest piqued. “Tell me about it.”

  “If you insis
t. I’ve been trying to lure a teacher out here for some time to teach the dozen or so children of officers attached to the post. It appears no one is interested in teaching school in the heart of Sioux country.”

  “I am,” Shannon surprised herself by saying. “I’ve been given a good education and feel qualified to apply for the job. There is a salary, of course?”

  “Of course, and a small house of your own next to the schoolhouse. “Are you saying you’d consider it?”

  “Oh, yes. I’d rather be useful than sit here all winter doing nothing,” Shannon assured him.

  “Well,” Colonel Greer considered, “if you’re sure. We certainly could use a teacher. I tried to interest Claire in the job, but it didn’t appeal to her.”

  “When can I start?” Shannon asked eagerly.

  “There is a certain amount of work to be done in order to get the schoolhouse and your house in condition. I’ll try to lend you a man, but we’re woefully short-handed. It shouldn’t take more than two weeks to whip everything into shape.”

  “I’m sure I can manage on my own,” Shannon stated.

  “We’ll help, won’t we, Claire?” Molly offered kindly. Forced to it, Claire grudgingly agreed.

  When can I move into the house?” Shannon asked.

  “Are you so anxious to leave us?” Colonel Greer chided gently. “As soon as it is habitable, you may move.”

  “It’s not that I find your hospitality lacking,” Shannon assured him, “it’s just that I’d like to get school started as soon as possible.”

  That evening Lieutenant Goodman came to call. Somehow Shannon wasn’t surprised to learn that the lieutenant was a frequent visitor, and that he and Claire were considered practically engaged. For a man supposedly in love, Shannon thought the man’s eyes strayed in her direction far too often. Claire must have thought so too, for she glared daggers at Shannon at every opportunity. When Goodman invited Claire for a walk and asked Shannon to join them, Shannon politely declined. She certainly didn’t intend to become involved in the couple’s love affair.

  Blade stood concealed in the dark shadows outside Colonel Greer’s quarters. He wondered what Shannon was doing, if the room where the light had just flickered on was hers. So close yet so far, he thought regretfully. They were poles apart, meant to be neither friends nor lovers. Yet he wanted to be both. He lingered outside until the light in the upper window went out, then walked morosely back to his room, recalling with vivid clarity the night he had taken Shannon’s virginity and attained paradise.

  If Blade were Waken Taken, he might have been able to read Shannon’s thoughts, felt her soul and body calling out to him. She missed his comforting presence, his big body next to hers at night. They’d been together so many days and nights that she had grown accustomed to his company, accepted it quite naturally. Shannon’s emotions were so tangled where Blade was concerned, she had difficulty sorting them out.

  Blade had risked his life to save her, even if his methods were harsh and she’d lost her innocence in the bargain. Yet mere gratitude didn’t begin to describe what Shannon felt for Blade. She couldn’t really hate him, the attraction between them was too vitally alive for that emotion. It occurred to her that he had made love to her as if he truly meant it, making her first time memorable. Blade was a man like no other. Did it really matter that he was a half-breed?

  Clive Bailey was a happy man. He had returned to his trading post to find it prospering under the able management of a man from Iowa named Burt Dunlap. Burt’s wife, Iris, sewed ready-made dresses and sold them in the store. But after his return, their services were no longer needed so he let them go before they inadvertently discovered the smuggled guns. Then he had successfully traded the guns to Mad Wolf for a fortune in gold—gold that the renegade had stolen from a stagecoach transporting the precious metal to meet the payroll of railroad workers. Bailey had even demanded and received more than originally agreed upon. He had been angered by Mad Wolf’s attack upon him on the prairie and threatened to withhold the gun shipment unless more gold was offered. Not sharing the white man’s greed for gold, Mad Wolf readily agreed.

  Bailey was so anxious to rid himself of the contraband weapons that he appeared at the rendezvous designated by Mad Wolf shortly after he arrived at Fort Laramie. He learned from the renegade that Blade had left the Sioux village with Shannon Branigan and would probably reach the fort soon.

  Bailey had mixed feelings about this news. Little was known about the half-breed except that he had turned up seemingly from nowhere to act as guide. Highly recommended by the army, Blade had been hired sight unseen and arrived in Independence mere days before the wagon train departed. Though Bailey had no complaint with his work, the man appeared too educated for the average half-breed, and much too curious.

  Nevertheless, Bailey was relieved to have the guns off his hands and the gold hidden away, enough to last him a long time. One day, before the savages massacred every living person on the western frontier, he would return to civilization and spend his wealth. Still, he couldn’t erase Mad Wolf’s parting words from his mind.

  “Bring Little Firebird to me and the rest of the gold is yours.”

  It was a tempting offer.

  Chapter Ten

  Blade’s footsteps were noiseless as he approached the rear of Clive Bailey’s trading post. The wagon in which Bailey had crossed the plains sat forlornly beneath the slim crescent of moon. The night was still, the air crisp with the promise of winter. Blade’s midnight foray went unheralded, due in good part to his Indian cunning. With the stealth of a mountain lion he eased into the wagon.

  Since the conestoga was nearly empty, Blade had little difficulty exposing the false bottom. A twinge of keen disappointment twisted his gut when he discovered the guns had been removed. They had either already been delivered or were hidden somewhere in Bailey’s store. Dropping to the dusty ground, Blade circled the building until he found an unlatched window in the rear. Boosting himself up, he wriggled through the opening, his broad shoulders barely scraping past its narrow frame.

  Once inside, Blade found himself in a rear store room with no other windows save for the one he had just used to gain entrance. Searching through his pockets he located a match, lit it, and held it aloft. He faced a closed door, which he suspected led into the main part of the store. Blade saw a stub of candle atop one of the bales nearby and carefully lit it from his match. Then he made a thorough search of the storeroom. He found nothing remotely resembling guns or anything else of a suspicious nature. Though Blade doubted Bailey would be stupid enough to hide weapons in the main store, he cautiously opened the door and stepped into the large room crowded with merchandise of all descriptions. Wasting little time, he began a cursory search of the boxes and bags stacked on the shelves and on the floor.

  His need for speed caused him to become careless, and he brushed against a tin can perched on the edge of a shelf. It teetered for a breathless moment, then crashed to the floor. Blade’s lungs filled with air, then he exhaled slowly as he doused the candle and crouched low behind the counter. He waited breathlessly to see if his blunder had aroused Bailey, whose living quarters were above the store. Suddenly a trap door lowered from above and Bailey, wearing a nightshirt over his breeches and carrying a gun in one hand and a lamp in the other, appeared at the top of the ladder.

  “Who’s there?” Bailey called out, holding the lamp aloft to illuminate the dark interior.

  On hands and knees, Blade crawled to the open door of the storeroom and eased through. He heard Bailey’s footsteps descend the ladder, move about the store, then falter outside the storeroom door. Blade realized that if he was found prowling where he shouldn’t be he’d risk exposure, be charged with trespassing, and punished. President Johnson had warned him he was on his own in this investigation, and he wasn’t certain even Major Vance would help if he got himself in trouble.

  Bailey burst into the storeroom just as Blade dove through the window.

  Thoug
h the hour was late, a single light still burned in a window in an apartment on officer’s row. Three short raps on the door brought an immediate response.

  “I’ve been waiting. You’re late.”

  Blade slipped inside and Wade Vance quickly closed the door behind him. This was the second private meeting Blade had had with Vance since his arrival at Fort Laramie. Blade had already revealed his suspicions concerning Clive Bailey and had been given permission to search the trading post for the smuggled weapons.

  “They’re gone!” Blade announced with a foul oath. “Bailey has already rid himself of the guns. Damn, I wanted to nail that bastard.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Blade,” Vance consoled.

  “He’s a wily son of a bitch. I’d be willing to bet this isn’t his first involvement with illegal weapons. I wonder if he has an accomplice?”

  “If I hadn’t taken time to go after Shannon, I’d have the evidence we need. Now we’ll have to wait and see if Bailey goes back east in the spring and brings back more guns,” Blade grumbled sourly.

  “There is a good chance Bailey will somehow expose himself,” Vance offered. “Sit down, Blade, and tell me what happened. Whiskey all right?”

  “Whiskey is fine,” Blade said distractedly.

  Vance poured two glasses of amber liquid and handed one to Blade, who sipped slowly on the whiskey while he told Vance how he’d searched Bailey’s wagon and store and found nothing, almost getting caught in the bargain. They chatted a while about their unfortunate luck, then Blade left to snatch a few hours of sleep. Before he departed he assured Vance he’d not give up so easily. Failure wasn’t something Blade took well.

  Shannon awoke early, excited by the prospect of inspecting the schoolhouse and moving into her own home. She ate a hasty breakfast, and when Colonel Greer asked if she wished to see where she would be teaching, Shannon nodded her head with an eagerness that amused him.