Frontier Courtship

by Valerie Hansen

  Ben quickly responded to her call. His long ears were up and alert and he seemed truly glad to see her as he trotted over and tried to tuck his velvety, graying nose into the front of her slicker.

  Stepping behind him for shelter from the wind, Faith hugged his neck and chuckled. “You’re spoiled rotten, you know that? Trust me. If I had an apple I’d give it to you. Honest, I would.”

  She’d been treating the old mule with fresh apples for as long as she could remember, often sneaking into her mother’s root cellar to help herself to them after picking season was long past. Undoubtedly, Ben was the reason they’d had fewer winter apple pies than most families she knew.

  “Where’s Lucy and Lucky?” she asked Ben. “You see them lately? And how about Puck?”

  Ben tossed his head and laid his ears back. The rain-slicked hide of his neck and shoulders twitched, his concentration focused beyond the perimeter of wagons.

  “What is it, boy? What’s wrong?”

  Faith turned to scan the darkness in the direction Ben was looking. She soothed him with one hand on his withers while she wiped the cold rain out of her eyes.

  “Settle down, Ben. There’s nothing out there.”

  But the mule wouldn’t be placated. A clap of thunder set him to dancing and nervously stamping his forefeet.

  If she hadn’t been so close to their wagon, Faith might have thought Charity needed help and the mule was sensing it. However, she could see the rippling canvas plainly every time the sky flashed bright and all seemed as peaceful as could be expected during such a violent storm.

  Stroking the mule’s nose, she repeated soothing words of comfort. “Easy, old boy. Easy.”

  Suddenly, the atmosphere reverberated with a piercing scream. Ben jumped in unison with Faith.

  A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the shocking scene before her. Two war-painted figures were exiting her wagon bearing Grandmother Reeder’s favorite quilt between them! And the rolled bundle of bedding was writhing and emitting strangled cries.

  Faith’s heart leaped. Charity! Good Lord in heaven, wild Indians were making off with Charity!

  Giving no thought to her own safety, Faith gathered her skirts and dashed forward, her small feet flying across the slippery ground.

  Launching herself into the air behind the nearest kidnapper, she grabbed him around the neck and hung on, oblivious to her earlier injury.

  He muttered an oath as he spun around. His beefy elbow shot back, clipping her hard in the ribs. With a cry, she doubled up and fell to the muddy ground in a haze of pain.

  “Look!” one of the Indians muttered. “We got the wrong one.”

  Suddenly, Faith felt herself being lifted, dragged, then thrown over the wagon tongue and out onto the soggy prairie. Resting on hands and knees, she shook her head to clear it. Something was dreadfully wrong here! The few Indians she’d heard speaking at Fort Laramie hadn’t sounded like they came from some place back east, yet this one certainly did.

  As she struggled to regain her footing, she remembered the pistol trapped beneath her slicker. She had to reach it!

  Hands dripping with mud and water, she clawed frantically at the copious length of rubberized cloth, finally managing to raise the hem enough to expose the butt of the Colt. Her slick fingers slid off the grip!

  Before she could try again to grab onto the revolver, someone pinned her arms from behind. The man she’d attacked at the outset faced her and drew back his arm. Surely he wasn’t going to hit her!

  Camp lanterns that had been quenched began to flicker to light. Charity was thrashing around in the mud with Grandma’s quilt all askew beneath her.

  The younger girl screamed for help as she pointed to an arrow sticking out of the canvas of their wagon.

  Then, Faith felt a jarring blow to her jaw and everything went black.

  Chapter Seven

  This storm had Rojo spooked more than usual, Connell thought, watching his fidgeting horse with interest. The strange thing was, he seemed to be feeling the same unexplained nervousness the animal was.

  There was bad medicine in the air, as his Arapaho friends would say. He’d already moved down into a draw to avoid being an easy target for lightning. Not that it couldn’t strike where it pleased, as many a plainsman had seen. It even took out a buffalo, now and then. He’d never personally witnessed such an event but the stories were numerous. It wasn’t a pretty sight. No matter how hungry Indians were, they refused to eat the charred flesh, considering it tainted by evil spirits.

  Shivering, Connell arose from his crouched position. He’d donned the oilskin coat he carried and hunkered down beneath the piece of buffalo hide he’d had his meat wrapped in, but it had afforded little shelter. Nothing helped much in the midst of a prairie storm as bad as this one. Soon, the draw he was in would fill with racing water and he’d have to climb to higher ground. If he wasn’t already soaked by that time, he soon would be.

  He stamped his feet to work the kinks out of his legs and warm himself. This wasn’t the first time he’d been caught miles from any decent place to take cover. He’d live. A traveler on horseback couldn’t carry his shelter along the way the emigrants did.

  Pausing, he listened. The noise of the storm blotted out everything, as far as he could tell, but the canelo seemed to be growing more agitated. He hoped there wasn’t a twister brewing!

  Connell approached and took up the loose reins. Rojo, ears pricked, was staring toward the distant wagon camp.

  “What is it, boy?”

  The horse snorted and tossed his head, then went right back to staring into the distance.

  Connell peered along the same line of sight to no avail. The rain was falling too hard and fast for him to see much. Yet something had caused the hackles on the back of his neck to prickle. Maybe his nervous horse was spooking him, he argued rationally. And maybe not.

  The urge to mount up and ride closer to check the situation was getting too strong to ignore. He’d intended to wait till morning to approach the camp. That way, there’d be lots of activity to cover his arrival and he’d be less likely to be shot by an overeager sentry or one of Tucker’s henchmen when he tried to speak to Faith.

  Now, however, his instincts insisted on immediate action.

  “You’re crazy and so am I,” Connell told his horse as he lifted the left stirrup to reach under and tighten the cinch before mounting.

  Rojo snorted and stamped.

  “Yeah. I don’t know why, but I think she needs us, too,” Connell said, his voice barely audible. He swung into the saddle and nudged the horse into action. “Let’s go.”

  Closing on the wagon camp, Connell heard a ruckus. Folks were milling about, shouting to each other. A flash of lightning outlined two bent figures sneaking away. His first instinct was to follow them.

  Thoughts of Faith gave him pause. Once he’d seen her and talked to her—made sure she was all right—he could go after the suspicious men. Trouble was, in this storm and at night to boot, there wasn’t a chance in a thousand of successfully trailing them once they got a head start.

  He peered in at the camp. Looked like no one had started to saddle a horse for pursuit. By the time they did, the marauders would be long gone.

  A continuing barrage of lightning gave Connell further glimpses of the fleeing men. The taller one was carrying a large, dark object draped over his shoulder while the other walked sideways and backward, apparently watching to see that they weren’t being followed. Judging by their headdresses, they’d be Blackfoot, except he’d never seen braves from that tribe so far west or south before.

  Connell urged Rojo forward so he could keep his quarry in sight. A pair of horses waited several hundred yards from where he’d first spotted the men. They hoisted their burden, threw it across one saddle, and the smaller man swung up behind it. As soon as his partner had mounted, they whipped their mounts and began to put distance between themselves and the wagon train.

  Connell knew now what h
e must do. Indians sometimes rode saddles of their own making, but he’d never seen a brave yet who could abide a high Spanish cantle.

  He spurred the canelo into a gallop, oblivious to the dangers of traveling so fast over prairie-dog-ridden ground. The question was no longer who he was tracking but what.

  One thing was certain. They weren’t real Indians.

  “I think she’s comin’ to,” Ab warned, reining up beside Stuart. “And I’m half-froze to death. I don’t know why we couldn’t wear buffalo robes or at least hunting shirts the way the real Indians do in foul weather.”

  The heavier man grunted his disapproval. “Shut up, old man. He let us keep our long pants, didn’t he? Stop your complaining or I’ll shoot you on the spot and leave your sorry carcass for the buzzards when I dump the woman.”

  “I don’t think we should keep doin’ this for Tucker,” Ab whined. “Trouble comes, you know he ain’t goin’ to fess up. We’ll be stuck payin’ for his crimes.”

  “Not me. I got enough on Tucker to see he rots in some stinkin’ prison like the one I seen once in Yuma. Man, it was hot there.”

  “Don’t talk about hot.” Ab’s teeth were chattering. “It reminds me of Hell, where you and I are probably goin’ fer doin’ this. How far do we have to ride, anyways?”

  “Couple a more miles.” He glanced at the slicker-covered bundle across Ab’s saddle. “You said she was comin’ to. She ain’t moving much.”

  “Quit about as soon as she started. Probably fainted. You know women.”

  Stuart chortled. “Yeah. If we wasn’t on a job here, I’d sure like to see if that one’s as good as she looks.”

  Horrified and dismayed, Faith held her breath, biting her lip to keep from crying out every time Ab’s horse took a step. The saddle horn was pressing into her stomach, thank goodness, but her sore ribs got a painful jolt at every stride just the same.

  They were going to kill her. That was evident. She’d been a fool to think she was safe simply because she was in the emigrant company. Clearly, a nefarious man like Ramsey Tucker was not above kidnapping her to implement his scheme to get to Charity.

  Cautiously, she tried to wiggle her fingers. Ropes held her wrists fast. The same with her ankles. When they’d secured her, they’d apparently looped the rope under the horse’s belly because when she tugged the bindings on her wrists, the pressure on her legs increased.

  Her mind whirling, Faith tried to reason through the panic that was eating away her ability to think logically. The voices of her captors were all too familiar, yet perhaps that could work to her advantage. From what little she’d heard, it sounded like Ab was the least committed to her demise. Perhaps, if she prayed hard enough, God would make Ab speak up and give her a chance to plead for her life before it was too late.

  She held her breath. Dear Lord! They were stopping! Tied facedown she couldn’t see much, but it was evident the men were dismounting. In seconds she was loosened, pulled from the saddle and released to fall painfully onto the soggy ground. That was the last straw. Unable to keep quiet any longer, she cried out in agony.

  “She’s awake!” Stuart shouted. “Get your gun on her.”

  “What gun?” Ab started to laugh like he was crazy in the head. “In case you ain’t noticed, there’s no room for a holster or a pistol in these danged costumes.”

  “Then hit her over the head with a rock.”

  “You hit her,” Ab argued. “You’re the one who likes that kind of thing.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you help me save Miss Irene?”

  “’Cause Tucker’d a killed me if she’d a got away, that’s why.”

  Ab continued to cackle as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Then you’d best get ready to meet your maker ’cause that little gal is alive and well.”

  Stuart shouted a string of curses.

  Lying in the mud at his feet, Faith began to give thanks for what she’d just learned. Now, if she could only escape, she could take word to her friend Hawk that his future bride was all right.

  It was also a relief to hear that the men were unarmed, since the Colt was still snug in its military holster beneath her black slicker. The trick would be reaching it and using it to defend herself before her kidnappers figured out she had a gun.

  She snaked her right arm inside the oilcloth while she tried hard to keep the rest of her body from moving. The dark, rainy night helped mask her cautious movements.

  Arguing loudly, her attackers moved off a bit, thereby giving Faith the opportunity she needed. Her cold fingers touched the leather flap over the top of the holster and lifted it out of the way. Under the cover of the slicker she eased the heavy pistol from its sheath and raised it to point toward the two men in case they noticed she was fully awake and getting to her feet.

  She need not have worried. Neither man was the least bit interested in her at the moment. Stuart was pushing at his smaller companion’s shoulders over and over. Ab was fighting back with angry words.

  “I don’t care what you say. I done the right thing and I’m not sorry.”

  “You will be when the cap’n hears.”

  “Go ahead. Tell him. I ain’t goin’ back there, anyhows.”

  “Oh, yes you are.”

  “No I’m not.”

  Ruing the added weight of her wet, muddy skirt and petticoat, Faith edged herself partially behind the weary horse she’d been tied to, then pulled the black slicker off the pistol barrel. Having the gun would do no good unless she took careful aim before ordering the drovers to surrender.

  Gathering her courage, she shouted, “All right. Hands up, both of you!” How weak and puny her voice sounded in the vastness of the open prairie!

  Ab lifted his hands over his head with a wild laugh. “Ha-ha. I see somebody remembered to bring a gun!”

  “Shut up, old man,” Stuart ordered. He began edging away from his companion, making a split in Faith’s target.

  Not sure which man to continue to point the gun at, she wavered, her eyes blinking fast against the falling rain.

  Lightning flashed. For a moment she was blinded. Something told her Stuart was lunging for her, but not wanting to shoot without being certain, she held her fire.

  He hit her low, like a cowhand bringing down a steer from the back of a running horse. The blow made her squeeze off one wild shot.

  In an instant he’d wrestled her to the ground and torn the pistol from her grasp. The next lightning flash showed him standing over her, the menacing-looking Colt pointed right at her head.

  “Nice of you to bring your own gun, Miss Faith. It makes my job much easier.”

  “I was always good to you.” She hugged herself to ease the pain in her side. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Stuart cocked the hammer of the pistol to bring another loaded cylinder into play. “Don’t want to,” he said. “It’s just the way things worked out. No hard feelin’s.”

  His uncaring attitude made Faith boiling mad. He might actually kill her, but she wasn’t going to Glory without giving him a piece of her mind no matter how much it hurt to breathe and talk.

  “No hard feelings?” she spit out. “You bet there are, mister. I’m going to be mad as a hornet at you if you pull that trigger. Maybe I’ll even come back to haunt you. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Ab appeared at Stuart’s elbow. “You’d better listen to her. There’s talk on the train she’s got special powers. Just might be able to do as she says.”

  “I didn’t hear no such talk.”

  “Well, there was.” The thin man raised his trembling right hand. “I swear.”

  “Bah. Get away from me, you old fool. I got work to do.” With that, he raised the pistol higher and took aim.

  Connell hadn’t been more than a quarter of a mile behind the riders when they and their burden had stopped. He thanked the Good Lord over and over when he recognized Faith’s discarded bonnet and realized exactly who he’d been followi
ng and what was apparently going on.

  He’d dismounted to approach on foot when he heard her shout “Hands up!”

  A single gunshot cracked amid the thunder.

  Faith cried out.

  The sound tied Connell’s gut in knots.

  It was clear that at least one of the men had doubted she’d really shoot to kill, because Connell had seen a dark, crouching figure run at her and knock her to the ground.

  When the man scrambled to his feet, Connell glimpsed the reflection of a shiny object in his hand. Faith’s pistol! His heart sank. He’d left Rojo behind in a ravine so he could sneak up on the abductors more easily and his Hawken was still in its scabbard. That left only his .44, a much less accurate weapon than the rifle, even under the best of conditions. Which these were not.

  It was dark except for the scattered clusters of lightning flashes. Rain was falling in bursts, as if someone were emptying buckets on him from above.

  Connell knew if he chanced a shot and missed, the man with the gun would fire, likely hitting Faith. Yet if he waited until he was within better range, it might be too late. Unless…

  Using a trick he’d learned from Little Rabbit Woman’s people, he pulled his hunting knife and began to slice off thick bunches of grama grass. The idea was to make his swiftly moving shadow resemble a large, dangerous animal like a mad buffalo.

  It would have been much better to use a real animal’s hide but he’d left that behind, as well, so a substitute would have to do. The ploy didn’t have to fool anyone for long. It was meant only as a delaying tactic and a way to get closer to Faith and the men.

  Growling, snorting and making as much animal noise as he could, Connell started off at a dead run toward the three people. He was counting on surprise to keep them from firing at him. He was wrong.

  Wheeling, Stuart squeezed off a shot. The bullet whizzed through the grama grass bundles. Connell dropped them, hit the ground, rolled away in the darkness and sprang to his feet with the speed and agility of a pronghorn antelope.