Frontier Courtship

by Valerie Hansen

  Papa’s Colt lay beneath the clothing in her trunk. Probing under the piles of folded garments, Faith lifted the holster and heavy pistol. The belt was much too big, as she knew it would be. Preparing to make the necessary adjustments, she seated herself on the ticking she and Charity used for their bed.

  The straw-filled softness beckoned, making her admit how much the trying day had already taken out of her. She’d rest for just a few moments, she thought, lying down on her uninjured side, the Colt beside her, her eyelids so heavy she could barely keep them open.

  Camp noises from outside the wagon became a muffled din as sleep overtook her. Drifting in and out of awareness, she only vaguely heard a man say, “I’ll kill him before I let him ruin my plans to marry Charity Beal,” but that was enough to snap her to wakefulness. She held her breath and listened.

  A different voice asked, “Aren’t you afraid of him?”

  “Naw. I don’t care who he really is or who he fought with in California. He’ll bleed to death easy as any man.”

  Faith’s eyes were wide, her lethargy gone. There was little doubt who the men were discussing, especially since she recognized the bloodthirsty speaker as Ramsey Tucker and the other as his cohort, Stuart.

  “I imagine he’ll be shot by renegade Indians real soon,” Tucker said, laughing.

  “What about Miss Faith?”

  Tucker shushed his companion. “Watch your mouth, you lamebrain. She may be about.”

  Stuart protested that he’d already checked the camp, then began to whisper. Faith could only catch a word here and there. “…trail…problems…accident…”

  She yearned to move and press her ear to the canvas but the straw in the ticking would surely rustle if she tried. Once her presence was discovered, there was no telling what might happen next.

  Slowly, cautiously, she reached for the Colt. Her fingers closed around the grip and drew it closer till it rested on her stomach. The firearm was heavy, weighing at least four pounds. She held it tightly with both hands, her eyes on the loose flap of canvas covering the rear of the wagon, her thumbs ready to pull back the hammer to cock and fire, if necessary.

  It wasn’t. Hearing the men walk off, she let out the breath she’d been holding and slowly sat up. Rapid-fire pounding of her heart accentuated her worst fears. Tucker was planning to do serious harm to Hawk McClain, with the help of Stuart and probably others of his henchmen.

  And it was all her fault. It wasn’t McClain they had started out to best—it was her. By allowing the plainsman to come to work for her, she’d unknowingly placed him in mortal danger!

  Maybe it wasn’t too late to save him by sending him away, Faith reasoned. Certainly she’d be no worse off than before, and since she now had indisputable proof of Tucker’s nefarious character, she’d be doubly on her guard. As long as she carried the Colt and stayed close to the other wagons, she was certain Tucker wouldn’t dare harm her, not if he really wanted to win Charity’s heart.

  The idea of her poor sister in the wagon boss’s bed turned Faith’s stomach. It didn’t matter how much he slicked himself up and minded his manners for courting, the evil shone through. Given time, Charity would see that. She must. Their future depended upon it.

  Chapter Six

  When the men returned with the sated animals, Faith helped her hired hand harness the mules. They were fastening the trace chains to the hames when she quietly told him, “As of tomorrow, you’re fired.”

  He scowled over at her. “I’m what?”

  “Fired. It’s for your own good.”

  “What about Irene?”

  “Nobody will talk to you anyway, thanks to Tucker. After you’ve gone and things have settled down, I’ll ask around and keep my ears open. If we rendezvous later on at some place like Independence Rock or Fort Bridger, I’ll tell you whatever I’ve learned. I simply can’t have you traveling with Charity and me anymore.”

  Connell ducked under the heads of the lead mules and came closer, his countenance dark. “What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Faith turned her face away, afraid the imperative lie would be too plain to miss.

  Two strong fingers lifted her chin. “Yes, you do. Something made you change your mind about me while I was gone. What was it?”

  She jerked away. “I just decided it would be better for my reputation—and for my sister’s—if I didn’t encourage any more spurious rumors. That’s all.”

  “And you really want me to go?” His hand had come to rest lightly on her forearm, the contact as necessary for him as was breathing. If she truly did mean to part company, he wanted this brief moment to become seared into his memory the way his idyllic days with Little Rabbit Woman had been.

  Connell’s heart leaped to his throat at the comparison. No, his mind shouted. No! Not like that. Never again like that.

  To care too much was to invite loss. He should know. He hadn’t been able to prevent his mother’s death or his father’s drunken tirades. And he’d been away hunting when the Pawnees had raided the Arapaho camp and killed his bride. Now, not only was Irene missing, he was beginning to have strong feelings for Faith Beal, as well.

  Connell muttered and turned away. Faith was right. The best thing he could do was comply with her wishes. He’d been fooling himself into believing she needed him a lot more than she really did. Without him around to sully her reputation, she’d be free to implore some of the other men for help—men who were more civilized and more to her liking. Besides, nothing said he couldn’t keep out of sight and dog the train from a discreet distance without her knowledge.

  “All right,” he said, rechecking the mule’s harnesses while he spoke. “The Sweetwater River passes by Independence Rock. You won’t get there by Independence Day, like Fremont did when he named it, but you should arrive sometime in mid-July. I carved my name at the base of the western face in ’43. Since you’re the only one around here who knows it’s McClain, you can watch for me near that mark without causing suspicion.”

  Faith nodded. “What’s your Christian name?”

  “Connell,” he said quietly, feeling a prickle at the back of his neck as she echoed it ever so softly.

  “I like it. It suits you,” Faith told him, thinking sadly of their proposed parting. She’d prepare a special meal tonight, something he could also take along on his journey to remember her by.

  “How’s the pain?” he asked.

  “Nearly gone.” She hated to lie to him again, but she knew if she told the absolute truth, he’d never leave. And if he stayed, Tucker’s men would kill him for sure.

  “Good.” Scooping her up, he lifted her easily yet gently, set her in the wagon and handed her the lines. “Think you can handle the team from here on out?”

  “Yes, but…” She watched him mount Rojo. “Where are you going?”

  “No sense waiting till tomorrow to part company,” he said flatly. “The longer I stay, the more gossip it’ll cause.” He gallantly touched the brim of his hat, nodded and said, “Vaya con Dios.”

  Faith had heard that phrase before among the Mexican wranglers. It was a parting benediction.

  In her heart she knew she’d done the right thing for Connell McClain. Sending him away was her wordless blessing on his quest.

  She only wished there was some way of letting him know the underlying reasons for what she’d done and how much she truly cared about his welfare.

  Following parallel, the sun at his back, Connell managed to easily keep the Tucker train in sight. If anyone noticed him, he figured they’d probably think he was just one of the extra drovers, rounding up loose stock, or maybe a lone Indian on a scouting mission. There were sure plenty of those around since the emigrant trains had cut such a wide swath through the plains.

  Two days out, he came upon a Cheyenne and Arapaho hunting party in search of buffalo. Seeing members of the two tribes together had become a common sight, especially after the summer council of 1840 had drawn them,
plus the Kiowa and the Comanche, to the Arkansas River to make peace amongst themselves.

  Ascertaining that he and the hunting party were moving in the same general direction as the Tucker train, Connell spent the next three days riding with the Indians and communicating by means of rudimentary language and sign. To his relief, the hunters treated him like a long-lost relative.

  The young men in the party were upset about the presence of so many wagons crossing their hunting grounds, and rightly so, Connell thought. Westward migration of Eastern settlers as well as the influx of Mexicans from the south was unstoppable, and the tribes were only now beginning to realize what all that meant to them.

  In the course of the evening meal on the third day, he’d shown them Irene’s picture. To his great surprise, Lone Buffalo had nodded solemnly.

  “You’ve seen her?” Connell asked.

  Another nod.

  “Where?” He had trouble feigning calm in the face of such news, but he knew if he demonstrated much excitement, his cautious companions might choose to tell him no more.

  Lone Buffalo pointed north. “Black Kettle camp.”

  “In the Big Horn Mountains?”

  The young Indian recoiled at the use of the settlers’ name for such a sacred place, but he nevertheless nodded affirmatively.

  None of the others in the hunting party could confirm the sighting. Still, the lead provided the first glimmer of hope Connell had had in months. Could the woman with Black Kettle really be his Irene? Maybe. And if not, he still had the God-given responsibility to visit the camp and try to rescue whoever was being held captive there. He might not be a Bible-quoting zealot or a churchgoing man, but he was a believer just the same.

  Although he’d prayed fervently and long that he’d find Irene in a white man’s settlement, he knew she could have done worse than to wind up with the Cheyenne. Of all the Plains tribes, they were the least likely to force her into a quick marriage, since their normal courting rituals took from one year to as long as five. Then again, if she was considered a slave instead of having been adopted into the tribe, those customs wouldn’t apply to her.

  Connell’s jaw clenched. He forced himself to consider various options. If, by tribal custom, she now belonged to one of the Cheyenne families, that relationship could pose a worse problem. It was far easier to purchase a slave than it was to convince a bride’s father, adoptive or not, that he’d make a worthy husband.

  It would be better to make a formal appeal than to simply grab her and make a run for it, he reasoned. Black Kettle would definitely not take kindly to having one of his band spirited away, no matter what the reason.

  What he needed, Connell decided, were twenty good, fast horses as a show of his wealth and importance. Trouble was, he had so little money that, unless he intended to adopt the age-old Indian custom of stealing them, that particular option was out of the question. It was times like these that he wished he hadn’t been raised with Christian values. To the Indian, stealing wasn’t a sin, it was merely a contest of skill and daring, a besting of one’s enemies. Instead of feeling guilt after a raid the way he would have, they celebrated victory.

  Bedding down by the communal fire, Connell worked out his next moves in his mind. First, he’d return to Faith, explain what he’d learned, and tell her not to look for him at Independence Rock. Then he’d head for Black Kettle’s camp and try to convince the chief that, as Irene’s betrothed, he had the right to claim her no matter what her current status. Even if the woman captive turned out to be a stranger, he’d liberate her and see her safely to the nearest fort before he resumed his original search. The plan was simple. All he needed were trade goods, courage and a colossal marvel.

  Early the following day, Connell packed the fresh buffalo meat he’d been given for his participation in the hunt, bid his traveling companions goodbye and headed out to intercept the emigrant trail. It was nearly sunset when he finally spied the smoke from the cooking fires of the Tucker train.

  Reining in his horse, he paused on a slight rise to watch the activity in the camp and see where Faith’s modest rig had wound up when they’d stopped for the night.

  As was the routine, each wagon was backed up over the tongue of the one behind, forming a large circle and leaving only a narrow passage from the outside into the enclosure. Stretched across that passage, wheel to wheel, was a heavy chain that formed a gate and kept the loose livestock secure for the night.

  Connell spotted the Beal wagon just to the right of the makeshift gate. Inside the circle, oxen milled around with horses, mules and an occasional goat brought along for milk when no freshened cow was available. Attached to the side of several of the wagons were slatted coops containing laying hens, although he imagined they’d wind up in the stew pot before long rather than have precious food and water wasted on them.

  Dismounting, he led Rojo behind a hill where they could hunker down against the rising north wind and dropping temperature. No chance to keep a fire going tonight, not with the weather worsening.

  He shivered, looking up at the gathering clouds and smelling the moisture in the air. Chances were, he and everything he owned were going to get good and soaked before morning.

  “Over my dead body,” Ab grumbled as he climbed into the supply wagon.

  Stuart snorted in derision. “That can be arranged. I don’t make the rules, old man.”

  “But criminy, Stu, we’re gonna freeze out there and get soaked to boot. Why couldn’t he pick a dry night?”

  “How do I know? Probably figures most folks’ll be inside, keepin’ out of the storm, so’s we won’t be so likely to be seen. You ought to thank him.” He reached into a burlap sack and pulled out a beaded band of bedraggled feathers and three sorry-looking arrows.

  “Don’t suppose any of these green settlers will notice that’s a Blackfoot headdress and Sioux arrows, do ya?” Ab remarked, stripping off his shirt and sitting down to remove his run-down cavalry boots.

  “Naw. Not a chance. To them, an Indian’s an Indian. Besides, we’ll be in and gone with the girl before most of ’em even wake up.”

  Ab sighed. “One of these days we’re gonna get shot playin’ Injun for Tucker.”

  “Just as long as we don’t get separated like last time. You’re lucky you were able to handle the Wellman woman alone.”

  “Yeah.” Ab busied himself lacing up the tall tops of his moccasins.

  “Tonight, we sneak in together, grab this one and ride. No fancy stuff, you hear? The cap’n said.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ab stood, shivering in the icy dampness that had invaded the supply wagon. “Get the blasted war paint and let’s get this over with before I freeze to death.”

  Stuart soon finished decorating himself and his unwilling companion, picked up the arrows, selected one and put the others back. “We’ll have to barter for more of these man-stickers pretty soon if Tucker wants a sign left every time we pull a raid.”

  Peering first into the darkness to make sure they wouldn’t be seen, he led the way out of the wagon and faded into the night. As soon as the rain began in earnest, they’d work their way back to the camp, shove the arrow into the canvas cover over the Beal wagon and make off with Faith, just as the captain had instructed.

  That was the easy part. What came next was going to be harder to stomach. He’d kind of taken a liking to the girl. Slitting her throat, scalping her and burying her body in the wild was going to be a lot rougher than most of the other folks he’d killed. He almost hated to do it this time.

  Frightened by the lightning and nearly continuous rumble of far-off thunder, the draft animals enclosed by the circle of wagons milled restlessly. A lone dog barked in reply to the distant howls of coyotes.

  By the time rain began to pelt the canvas above her pallet, Faith was already up and dressed, preparing to go outside and reassure her mules.

  Charity, having made a temporary peace with her sister, was huddled beneath their quilts instead of sleeping in the Ledbetter
wagon as she had been of late.

  “I don’t see why you have to go out there,” the younger girl whined, peeking over the top of the calico fabric, her fair hair in total disarray. “Come back to bed before you hurt yourself again. Captain Tucker will see to our stock for us.”

  “He won’t touch those mules while I still have breath in my body,” Faith said flatly. “Go back to sleep.”

  “How can I when you’re running all over the camp like some hoyden? Look what it got you back at the fort.”

  Faith made a face at her. “You didn’t think of that all by yourself. Who’s been calling me names?”

  “Nobody. Not exactly. Mrs. Ledbetter just says you should remember you’re a lady, the way I do.”

  “Oh, she does, does she? Well, don’t waste your time worrying about me. I’ll do what I have to do.”

  Charity’s response was to hunker down in the bed and pull the covers up higher.

  Faith belted the heavy Colt over her hips beneath an old, oversize India-rubber slicker that had belonged to their father, stuffed her feet into an old pair of shoes she’d walked holes in before they’d reached the valley of the Platte, and tied her slat bonnet on her head. The cotton fabric wouldn’t afford much protection against the driving rain, but she needed to wear something familiar so Ben and the other mules would recognize her. Otherwise, she’d have little luck approaching them, especially when they were already so spooked.

  Calling to Ben, she threw back the canvas flap and climbed down out of the wagon. Water borne on the unseasonable gale stung her cheeks like freezing sleet, its force whipping at her skirts and making her stagger. Bumping against the sideboards, she was thankful Charity had rewrapped her bruised ribs so tightly.

  From where Faith stood, it appeared that few others had left their warm beds to check on their livestock personally. She wasn’t surprised, since the makeshift corral did offer considerable protection and there were regular guards posted at the four points of the compass.