“You just ask Zach and Matthew here if I’m tellin’ the truth. They’ve lived up along the Yellerstone all their life, and they can tell ya all firsthand that I ain’t lyin’. Ain’t that right?” He nudged the man sitting next to him. The one lying away from the fire shook his head slightly.
“Why, ya only need to cast your fishing line in the lake, and by the time ya pull the trout out, it’ll be cooked and ready to eat,” he croaked. The men around him shook their heads and laughed.
“It’s the gospel truth, I tell ya,” Bridger roared. He glanced at the newcomer sitting next to him. “Tell ‘em, Zach.”
The man he’d addressed straightened, and rubbed his hand along his chin. Della set her plate on the tailgate and cocked her head to the side to hear, but the man didn’t speak as loudly as Mr. Bridger, and his response was lost to her. Disappointed, she finished her meal, and scraped her plate clean.
Darkness came quickly, and the camp fell quiet. The trappers had warned them since they’d left Fort Williams to keep the fires low, and to speak softly once night set in. Everyone had been warned of the Pawnee, that an encounter with them might be dangerous. Even Mr. Bridger had to curb his habit of talking in a loud tone. The mountain men took turns standing guard throughout the night, and in the time since leaving the trading post, they hadn’t encountered any Indians.
After packing away the food, Della glanced to where her father still sat with his men. She needed some time away from camp, the darkness and solitude away from the wagons beckoning to her. If she snuck away for just a few minutes, she’d be back before her father even noticed.
“I’ll be right back, Mary. I need a little privacy.”
Mary shot her a quick look, then glanced to where their father sat. She nodded, and Della smiled in thanks. Her little sister knew that she snuck off to be by herself for a few minutes each evening, and had kept her secret from their father.
Beyond the shadows of the campfires, Della stopped. She inhaled deeply. She hugged her arms around her waist, and stared up at the clear night sky, marveling at all the stars. Crickets chirped, and a desert wolf howled somewhere in the distance. A twig from one of the low-growing prairie bushes snapped nearby, and Della froze.
“Not wise to leave camp after dark,” a low voice said from behind her.
Della spun around. The faint outline of a man with broad shoulders and a tall stance materialized out of the darkness. She strained her eyes. Although only his silhouette was visible, he was definitely one of the newcomers.
“Are you following me?” she asked, lifting her chin.
He chuckled softly. “Nope. I was already here. First turn at night watch.”
Della swallowed her growing apprehension. Was this the same man who’d dared her with his challenging stare earlier, or was it the other one, who’d laughed with Mr. Bridger? Something told her he was the former. She glanced quickly toward camp, then back to the woodsman. If her father found out that she was alone in the company of a man, there was no telling what he might do.
“Is it true what Mr. Bridger said?”
Another quick chuckle rumbled in the darkness. “Which part?”
“I heard him say that you and – I assume – your brother, live in the area he likes to tell stories about. Are they true?”
The sounds of the crickets seemed to grow louder while the man remained silent. Della was about to open her mouth to ask if he’d understood her question, when he spoke.
“Bridger likes to exaggerate and embellish his tales,” he said. The rich timbre of his voice held her mesmerized. “He likes to mix the truth with his own versions.”
“So which parts are the truth?” she pressed, eager to hear him speak some more. “Are there really rivers that boil and water that can shoot high into the air?”
There was another long pause before he answered. “I only know of one spot where there’s a stretch of river hot enough that it could be considered boiling, but the water shooting into the sky is true. My folks call those things geysers.”
“It sounds like a wonderful place.” The images of such a phenomenon were lost to her.
“I don’t think you’ll be heading that way, Miss Witmer, and rightfully so. It’s a harsh land, not for the faint of heart.”
Della’s eyes widened. First, because he knew her name, and second, had he just called her a weakling?
“I hardly think you’re in the position to make that sort of judgment about my character, Mr. –”
“Matthew Osborne,” he said in a low tone.
“Well, Mr. Osborne, as I was saying. I –”
“Adelle.”
The sound of her father’s booming voice sent a jolt of trepidation through her. She crossed herself mentally for the swear word that came to mind, one of the many she’d heard the trappers say out loud on several occasions.
“Thank you, for the warning about staying in camp, Mr. Osborne,” she mumbled, and rushed off toward her wagon, bracing for her father’s anger.
Chapter Four
Matthew reined his horse to a stop atop a shallow rise. The dark silhouettes of the Paha Sapa, the Black Hills, rose high into the cloudless sky in the distance. By tomorrow, they’d be out of Pawnee territory, and heading into the mountains that were sacred to the much friendlier Lakota.
For the last week, since joining the missionary caravan, he’d gotten little sleep. Always on alert from a possible Pawnee raid, he’d tossed in his bedroll unless it was his turn at night watch. Had it been just Zach and himself, or with the other trappers, his worries would have lessened. Seven wagons that stood out like a grizzly among a group of squirrels, however, were much more difficult to keep out of sight and harm’s way.
Adding to his sense of unease were Isaac Witmer’s daughters. Fending off a possible Indian raid would be easier if he didn’t have to worry about the safety of a couple of females. Matthew focused his gaze into the distance. Once they reached the Wind River Basin, and the site of this year’s trapper rendezvous, he and Zach would be parting ways with the wagons and heading north toward the Yellowstone. Then he could focus on other things again, and not think about further chance interactions with Miss Adelle Witmer.
Addy
Her sister called her Della, but when he’d first learned her name from Will Sublette, one of the trappers, he’d immediately thought of her as Addy. Not that he’d ever have the chance to call her by that name. Sublette had warned him that her father kept a watchful eye on both of his daughters, and none of the men were allowed to speak to them.
All week, Matthew had watched her from afar. She’d acted like a demure and quiet mouse in front of her father and around the other missionaries, keeping her head down and avoiding all eye contact. Yet when she thought no one was looking, she’d listen in on Bridger’s wild tales, her eyes sparkling with keen interest.
A slow grin formed on his face. She hadn’t backed down when he’d stared at her that first night, or when he’d told her the Yellowstone wasn’t for the weak. He’d nearly intervened after she’d scurried off when her father called her back from wandering away from camp. Although he had a point, the man’s angry outburst that she’d been disobedient had boomed loudly through the night. Tom Fitzpatrick and Will Sublette had to give stern warning to stay quiet before Isaac Witmer calmed down.
Since then, Addy hadn’t been alone for even a second. Her younger sister was constantly at her side. The faraway looks Matthew caught on her pretty face hadn’t escaped his notice. He mentally shook his head. She was the most unlikely of women to catch his eye. He had no business talking to her.
Something about her demeanor, the way she’d stood up to him without flinching, and hadn’t been intimidated by his outright stare, held his interest. If Witmer continued to keep her caged, he’d soon have a flighty deer on his hands that would escape at the first opportunity, rather than a devoted daughter.
Not that it’s any of your concern, Osborne. She’s heading west, and you’re heading back east again
after a winter with the folks.
Once they reached the Wind River, he’d never see her again.
“Another day, and I won’t feel like a moving target anymore for a while, at least not until we reach Blackfoot Territory.”
Matthew turned at Zach’s words. His brother had pulled his horse up alongside, and stared off at the Paha Sapa as well. Crossing the endless flat prairie after leaving the Missouri River had always been the risky part of this journey. They’d made the trip with their parents since they were young boys, when his father traded furs in St. Louis.
Since the fur companies had come to the mountains and started holding annual rendezvous, the long trek was no longer necessary. Matthew, Zach, and their brother, Sam had continued to go as far as the Missouri nearly every summer to trade and bring back supplies to outfit the small trading post their parents had set up at their cabin. It was a familiar route for him, and they’d been in their share of skirmishes with the Pawnee, but this time, Matthew was on edge because of the caravan.
Because of the women . . . Because of one woman in particular.
“I’ll be glad when we’re in the mountains again,” Matthew said.
He reined his horse around to head back to camp. Sublette had asked for volunteers this morning to go hunting for some fresh meat, and Matthew had happily offered. It had been a good excuse to get away from camp for a while and to clear his head. Zach, no doubt, had felt the same way, since he’d been more than eager to accompany him. Zach had shot a pronghorn, which now lay across his lap. It would be enough to feed everyone tonight and for several days.
“Another week or so, and we’ll be parting ways with these good folks.”
Matthew raised a questioning eyebrow at Zach’s wide grin when he spoke.
“The quicker, the better,” he grumbled. “I don’t plan to stay at rendezvous. I doubt Mama and Papa will be there this year. They’re expecting us along the Madison. We’re already a week or more behind schedule. We would have made better time on our own.”
Zach nodded. “But then you wouldn’t have had the good fortune to meet Miss Witmer.”
Matthew scoffed. His hand tightened on the reins. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His brother’s matchmaking efforts were getting downright infuriating. First it had been Miss Halsey, and now Isaac Witmer’s daughter.
“I’ve seen the way you keep following her around camp.” Zach sniggered.
Matthew straightened in the saddle. “I haven’t been near the woman, nor do I plan on it anytime soon.”
He hadn’t gone near her, except for the one time that first night, but she’d been the one who had nearly walked into him in the dark. He hadn’t been following her. He shifted his shoulder to ease the sudden tension in his neck. Talking to her had been a rather enlightening experience. She wasn’t some mousy woman who’d faint at the first opportunity to draw attention to herself.
“Maybe you haven’t been shadowing her physically, but your eyes have been following every move she makes. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you take such close notice of a woman.”
Matthew glared at his brother. His scowl wouldn’t intimidate Zach, but it gave him a small measure of satisfaction. “She’s a missionary. Hardly a woman who would hold my interest.”
“Her father’s a missionary,” Zach shot back calmly, holding his stare.
Matthew shook his head. Why was he even letting his brother goad him? “Seems to me that you’re the one who’s taken an unlikely interest in Miss Witmer.”
Zach laughed. “No, just observing you. It’s been rather entertaining, I must say, watching you look like some love struck moose these past days.”
Matthew kneed his horse into a lope. This discussion only increased his tension. No one other than his brother knew him well enough to be this observant. He certainly hadn’t let his fascination with Miss Witmer come to the surface for anyone else to see.
He followed the course of the shallow creek back toward where they’d left the caravan early this morning. With any luck, the wagons would have made at least a few miles’ forward progress. The uneven terrain had slowed them down considerably. The landscape had gradually changed from flat prairie to greener meadows and a few hills over the last few days. Cottonwood, oak, and elm trees lined the creek bank they’d been following.
When Zach caught up to him, Matthew slowed his horse. No sense tiring out his animal to get away from his brother. All he had to do was ignore the teasing. His scowl remained, even if what Zach had said held some measure of truth.
Matthew groaned silently when Addy’s words - her voice filled with awe and wonder when he’d spoken of the Yellowstone - came back to him. “It sounds like a wonderful place.” How would she react if she could see and experience the wonders of the land where he’d grown up?
Zach abruptly pulled his horse to a stop, bringing a jolting halt to Matthew’s wandering mind. He raised his hand in a warning gesture, and eased his mount behind a grove of cottonwoods. Dismounting, he checked his flintlock. Matthew followed without question. Zach wouldn’t reach for his weapon without good reason.
Zach nudged with his chin in the direction they were heading. A dust cloud stirred in the distance. Matthew cocked his head to the side to listen. If he hadn’t been daydreaming a moment ago, he would have heard the sound of a large group of horses’ hooves nearby. Fast-moving horses, not the lumbering pace set by the mules pulling the wagons. Leaving their mounts behind, he and Zach made their way along the creek, using the trees and shrubs for cover. If shots had been fired, they would have heard them by now.
Apprehension and unease crept through Matthew the further they followed the creek upstream. The horses he’d heard were no longer on the move, but there was no doubt that they’d been in the general vicinity of the caravan, and their comrades. Not more than half a mile further along the stream, the wagons came into view. Zach hissed a curse close behind him.
A group of twenty-five Pawnee warriors surrounded the camp. Sublette and Bridger lowered their flintlocks, and appeared to be conversing with the leader. The missionaries stood by their wagons. Fitzpatrick and the other trappers remained with them.
Matthew’s eyes instantly locked onto the Witmer wagon. A jolt of dread rushed through him. Addy stood by the wagon, while her sister sat in the driver’s box. He motioned with his hand that he was going to move in closer.
Slowly, he made his way toward the camp. By all appearances, the wagons had stopped near the creek to rest. The Pawnee had obviously surprised them. Most likely, they’d been following the caravan for a while, and saw their opportunity.
Why hadn’t they attacked? Matthew’s fingers tightened around his flintlock. The Pawnee looked well-armed with rifles of their own, as well as bows and arrows. What he wouldn’t give for his hornbow at the moment, but it was a weapon he only carried when he was home in the mountains.
When he crept close enough to hear, he crouched behind a dense willow shrub, and trained his rifle on the closest Pawnee. Zach silently followed. No words were needed between them. They’d wait and see what the Indians would do. It was a good sign that neither the Indians nor the trappers had fired a weapon. Sublette and his men were experienced with Indian encounters. If there was a chance to negotiate out of this predicament, they’d do it.
Witmer walked up to stand beside Bridger at that moment, while Bridger spoke in Pawnee. Addressing the man who appeared to be the leader, the trapper told him with quiet words and hand gestures that they were passing through in peace, and would be out of Pawnee hunting grounds in less than a day.
The Pawnee leader sat his horse proudly, his rifle across his lap, and he scanned the camp. Matthew tensed when the man’s eyes lingered on the Witmer wagon. Zach must have felt the shift in him. He turned his head slightly, and shot him a warning glare. Matthew focused his attention on the camp, his fingers tingling near the trigger of his flintlock.
“We come in peace, and mean you no harm,” Witmer spoke in a loud voice, stepp
ing forward.
Bridger’s arm reached out and held him back. One of the Pawnee who sat his horse next to the leader leaned toward him, and spoke quietly. Obviously, this warrior knew English, and was translating what Witmer had said. The Pawnee leader glared at Witmer with piercing eyes, and spoke in his native language.
“Show that you come in peace,” Bridger translated. “They’ll want you to offer gifts,” he added.
Witmer smiled, then looked back at the leader. “We’ve brought seeds to grow crops, and tools to work the land as gifts, as well as the Good Book. While we wish to distribute them to the people further west where we intend to settle, we’d be happy to gift some to you as a token of our friendship.”
Matthew suppressed a smirk. Zach shot him another warning sideways glance.
The other Indian tried to translate, but the word book, or what it meant, seemed to be lost to him.
“Offer them something they can use, like readily available food or clothing,” Bridger said. “These Injun’s are hunters. They don’t grow crops.”
Witmer’s head snapped to the trapper. “We can’t give up our food. We will provide them with means to grow their own.”
He reached into his coat pocket. Several Indians raised their weapons at his gesture.
“Easy, Witmer. Your scalp might be worth a little more than a sack of flour,” Sublette said.
“I was reaching for my Bible,” the man retorted.
He stepped up to the Indian, and held out a black book. The Pawnee stared at it, but didn’t take it. He shook his head. Witmer turned to look at Sublette and Bridger. Even from a distance, the anger and indignation rising to the man’s surface was easy to see.
“What should I offer?” he called loudly. “We need our provisions to get us over the mountains.” He spun around, and pointed at his wagon. “We have nothing else we can part with.” He paused, then added, “What do they want? Would offering up my first-born daughter be enough?” His voice rose even more.
Yellowstone Homecoming: Yellowstone Romance Series Novella Page 3
