In the morning he was bleary-eyed, and his chin was bristly as a porcupine. Jenna fried bacon and poured his coffee with extra care, and Mary Grace and Tess yoked up the oxen on their own. Beaming, they pranced back into camp, and Jenna let them each have a mug of watered-down coffee.
Tess spit hers out immediately. “Ick! How can you drink this stuff, Mr. Carver?”
“Took me years to get used to the taste, but—” He halted as Sam Lincoln walked into camp, flanked by two tall, well-muscled Indian braves, their faces painted with red and yellow stripes.
Lee stood up. “Jenna, girls, get into the wagon.”
“But—” Tess started to object.
“Now!” he ordered. He watched them climb through the bonnet, then turned his attention to Sam and waited for the wagon master to explain.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jenna crowded together with the girls in the wagon bed, her heart pounding so hard her chest hurt. Ruthie whimpered in her lap, and both Tess and Mary Grace looked white as ghosts. Through the canvas bonnet she watched Sam and the painted Indians approach Lee.
Sam took Lee aside. “I know you speak some Indian lingo. Can you figure out what these two want?”
Lee lifted his right hand and spoke some words in that odd language he’d used before. Sioux, Jenna guessed. One of the braves returned the gesture; the other said nothing, just stared around the camp. He made a move toward the loaf of bread Jenna had baked, still sitting beside the fire, but the other one made a sharp cutting motion with his arm, and the bread-seeker focused elsewhere.
The first Indian held up two fingers and motioned toward the wagon. Lee shook his head and spoke a single word. The brave then held up four fingers.
Sam began to look uneasy. “What do they want?”
“They’re looking for white women for wives. They offer two horses for Tess, four for Jenna.”
“Good God!” Sam exploded. He spat onto the ground and shouldered his rifle. In an instant, Lee reached over and pressed the gun barrel down toward the ground. “For God’s sake, Sam, don’t shoot. Let them talk.”
Jenna shot a look at Tess; the girl’s hazel eyes were wide with horror. “Mary Grace,” Jenna murmured. “Find Lee’s revolver.”
The girl rummaged in the large pocket sewn high up on the interior canvas wall and slid the weapon into Jenna’s trembling hands.
“Now, take Ruthie and lie flat, all of you.” She trained the gun on the Indian doing the talking. After a moment, Mary Grace reached up and released the safety.
“Aim at his chest,” she whispered.
Jenna nodded and aimed.
Now the brave raised five fingers. Lee responded with a combination of chopping hand motions and Sioux words spoken in the harshest tone Jenna had ever heard him use. Then he jabbed at his own chest, poking his thumb on his own shirt.
Frowning, Sam looked from the Indian to Lee. “What’s happening?”
Lee made no answer. Instead, he spoke more words to the braves. One grunted and gestured over his shoulder toward the west. His companion paced around and around the cook fire, dipped his forefinger into the still-warm skillet of bacon grease and jammed it into his mouth.
Lee pointed to the west and apparently asked a question. The Indian broke into a grin and nodded. He kept nodding as Lee rescued the skillet and offered it to him. The brave grunted, tipped it into his mouth and gulped down the greasy contents.
Jenna shuddered.
Abruptly both Indians pivoted and strode out of camp. Sam caught Lee’s eye, shrugged and followed.
Jenna’s hands were trembling so hard the revolver wobbled, so she handed it back to Mary Grace. “Fix that thing so it won’t fire,” she ordered. “And put it back into the pocket.”
She patted a whimpering Ruthie, then climbed down from the wagon and ran to Lee. “What did they want?”
“You.”
“Whaaat?”
“They offered five horses for you. I told them that wasn’t enough.”
“Oh! You didn’t, not really.”
“Yeah, I did. Then they told me they’re fighting the Crow on the plain to the west. Unfortunately, west is right where we’re headed.”
Her knees felt weak.
He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “I’ve got to let Sam know so we can reroute the train. Pack up.”
Jenna’s head spun. Five horses? The Indian thought she was worth only five horses? Her very next thought was one she couldn’t stifle. What did Lee think she was worth?
The girls tumbled out of the wagon. “Are they gone? What did they want? Were those Indians mad?”
“Yes,” Jenna said, choosing to answer only the last question. “They were...mad. Now, quick, wash up the dishes.”
Tess’s lower lip pushed out. “Jenna, do we have to? I’m sick of washing dishes.”
Jenna clamped her jaw tight. For just one moment she thought of telling her oldest stepdaughter that the Indian braves had offered two horses to buy her. Some days, that seemed like a fair price.
* * *
The wagons rerouted to the south, and that night after supper Lee went off to Sam’s camp to discuss the situation. Those Indians were obviously keeping track of where the wagon train was, and that pricked all his old soldiering instincts. He prayed they were more interested in attacking the Crow than in stealing white wives.
He found the men gathered around Sam’s cook fire, muttering among themselves. It looked to be a long night; Emma had made enough coffee for an army.
“Lee.” Sam nodded at him. “I wanted you here while we talk over the situation.”
“Don’t tell them the Indians want white women, Sam. It’ll make the men edgy and they’ll be trigger-prone. Hotheaded action could be dangerous.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Relations with the Indian tribes are tense enough with thousands of settlers invading their hunting grounds. It’d be like tossing a match into a can of kerosene.”
The wagon master then turned to the crowd and explained about the two Sioux braves who had ridden in to talk with Lee. The crowd’s uneasy grumbling grew until Sam raised his hand for quiet.
“Carver here thinks it best we reroute the train even farther south.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mick McKernan blustered. “Why’s that?”
Lee moved into the firelight. “To avoid stumbling into the middle of an Indian war,” he said calmly.
Emil Gumpert nervously stroked his salt-and-pepper beard.
“How ve know where iss dis war?”
“Huh!” Mick spit out. “How do we know there really is an Indian war?”
“Because,” Lee returned, “the Sioux and the Crow have been enemies for generations. One of those Indians, a Sioux warrior, warned me to steer clear of their battleground.”
“You’d trust a dirty savage to speak the truth?”
Lee clenched his fists. “An Indian isn’t necessarily a savage, McKernan. In my experience neither the Sioux nor the Crow will lie. Steal, maybe, but not lie.”
“You believe them, Carver?” Ted Zaberskie asked.
Lee accepted a mug of coffee from Emma. “Yeah, I do. No reason not to.”
Mick McKernan flung the contents of his mug onto the ground. “Why should we trust this Johnny Reb any more’n a dirty Indian?”
Sam faced the Irishman. “For one thing, this Johnny Reb speaks some Indian lingo. And for another, he’s here on our wagon train, tryin’ to get to Oregon just like the rest of us.”
“Bull!” Mick shouted. “Carver’s prob’ly in cahoots with them redskins.”
Lee gave the Irishman a careful once-over. “You been drinkin’, McKernan?”
Mick dragged the toe of his boot back and forth in front of him. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
> “I notice,” Lee said. He propped both hands on his hips and turned to Sam.
“What do you suggest, Carver?” the wagon master asked.
“I suggest we keep driving south ten or twelve more miles before we turn west.”
“Might not be water out there,” an older man said.
“Might not,” Lee conceded. “It’s a risk, all right. But it’s better than running into a bunch of scalping knives.”
“Hell,” Mick jeered. “Yer nuthin’ but a coward.”
Lee ignored him, but Sam brushed past him to confront the Irishman. “Shut up, McKernan.” Then he turned to the assembled men. “Gentlemen,” he said quietly. “We will vote on it.”
“Vote!” Mick scoffed.
“That’s how we do things in this country,” Sam said. “And that’s how we do things on this wagon train.”
“Yeah, take a vote,” a few men echoed.
“All right, then,” Sam said. “All those in favor of heading straight west on our original course?”
Only two men, Mick and his brother, Arn, raised their arms.
“Looks like we’ll reroute south, like Carver said,” Sam announced. “Make sure your water barrels are full. We’ll pull out in the morning.”
Lee turned to go, but Sam laid a hand on his arm. “How far south you figure we’ll have to travel?”
“Don’t know. I can ride out and scout ahead, see if I run into any Indian skirmishes.”
“We’re already into sagebrush country. It’s likely real desert south of here.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve ridden some of this area with the army. It isn’t pretty.”
Sam frowned and worked his lower lip with his teeth. “Lee, if you go off to scout, who’s gonna drive Miz Borland’s wagon?”
“Mrs. Borland herself.”
“Think she can handle an ox team?”
“Yeah, I do think so. She’s tougher than she looks. The girls can yoke up the team. But there’s just one thing, Sam. I don’t want McKernan slinking around their camp offering to help.”
Sam gave him a long, steady look and then nodded. “Right. I’ll keep an eye on her wagon.”
“Could you move it up to the front of the train? Away from McKernan?”
“Sure, Lee. Glad to.”
“Thanks. I’ll saddle up and leave at first light. I might be gone most of the day, so just keep driving farther south until I can get back and report.”
He didn’t return to Jenna’s wagon right away. The exchange with Mick McKernan had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he needed to blow off some steam. He tramped twice around the infield where the animals were penned, checked Devil’s picket rope and stood for a long time studying the sky off to the west.
When he walked back into camp he could hear the girls arguing inside the wagon, their voices rising in strident tones. He closed his ears to the shrill accusations. If he was their father he’d put a stop to that squabbling right quick. Good thing for them that he wasn’t.
Jenna sat beside the dying fire, Ruthie curled up on her lap.
“Thought you’d be asleep,” Lee said.
“It’s too noisy. Just listen. The minute I think those two girls are finally growing out of their yammering at each other, they’re at it again.”
Lee hunkered down in front of her. “What are they fighting about this time?”
“You.”
“Me!”
“Tess insists she is a better horsewoman than Mary Grace, that you taught her more. Right now I wish you hadn’t taught either one of them to ride.”
“No, you don’t, Jenna. You don’t need helpless females out here on the prairie. Everyone has to pull his...” He hesitated. “Her own weight.”
Jenna said nothing. Was she pulling her own weight? With her increasing waistline and swollen ankles she was beginning to feel more and more inadequate. Useless. She didn’t want to be a helpless female, as Lee put it.
Lee rose and lifted Ruthie out of her lap. “Is Ruthie sleeping under the wagon with...um, you?”
“You mean with us? Yes. Do you have guard duty tonight?”
“Nope. I’m riding out at dawn to scout a new route for the wagons. We have to avoid the Indians. They’re on the warpath.”
“But what about the wagon?”
“You can drive the wagon, Jenna. If you’re unsure about it, put Jimmy Gumpert up on the driver’s box with you. But I’m pretty sure you can do it by yourself. You did it once before, when we crossed the Platte, remember?”
“I hardly remember crossing the river.” Her voice wobbled.
Lee laughed. “Well, you did cross it. You drove the wagon right into it, as I recall. You did well, Jenna, and you can do it again.”
She worried her bottom lip until it was rosy and swollen. Fortunately, she picked up Ruthie and headed for the wagon before Jenna could see how she affected him.
He spent a tense night with little Ruthie snugged down between Jenna and himself. He sure wished the older girls would stop pestering the little girl so she could sleep in the wagon bed and he could lie close to Jenna.
An hour before dawn he reached up and quietly retrieved his rifle from its hiding place in the wagon undercarriage, rolled away from Jenna and walked out to saddle Devil. He stepped into the makeshift corral and stopped dead.
What the—?
His prize Arabian stallion was gone! The picket rope had been cut into two neat segments, but he’d heard nothing, not a single footfall or a whinny. Nothing. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw cracked. No matter what that horse meant to his future, no matter how much he wanted to go after it, he couldn’t do it now. He had to scout west for the emigrant train.
He swallowed back a groan. He felt sick inside. Devil was a thousand-dollar stallion, but it wasn’t the money that mattered. That horse was the start of his herd, a herd he wanted so bad he could taste it.
Something didn’t make sense. An Indian wouldn’t cut the rope all neat and clean like that. An Indian would skillfully work the picket loose, take the horse and leave no trace.
He strode into the wagon master’s camp to find Sam crouched by the fire, nursing a mug of Emma’s coffee.
“My horse is missing,” he announced.
Sam’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Indians?”
“Don’t think so. Picket rope was cut clean through. Sam, I’m going to have to borrow another mount.”
“Wish I could give you one of McKernan’s string,” Sam growled. “Serve him right.”
“Forget it. I wouldn’t ride a McKernan horse.”
“Take one of mine, then.”
“Thanks, Sam. I’ll be back sometime tonight.”
“Be careful. I don’t trust either the Indians or McKernan.”
Lee saddled the bay mare Sam offered, touched his hat and rode out in widening circles, studying the ground for horse tracks on the off chance he could pick up Devil’s trail. When he found none, he set his jaw and headed west.
As he rode he kept an eye out for smoke from Indian campfires. At the same time he searched for some sign of his horse, a hoof mark, a tuft of black horsehair, anything.
He kept moving west, but by noon he’d seen nothing. When the sun was straight up overhead, the back of his neck began to prickle. Hell and damn. He knew he could be seen. A lone rider on this flat, sagebrush-dotted plain would be visible for miles.
Suddenly he spied something off in the distance and drew his mount to a halt. Then he sat staring at a mesa some miles ahead. He didn’t believe what he was seeing, but he sure believed what his stomach was doing. His gut lurched, then started to bunch up in a tight knot under his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jenna tightened her hands on the reins and tried to ignore th
e pain in her shoulders. She’d been hunched over on the driver’s bench since early morning, afraid to loosen her hold for fear of losing control of the ox team, and now she felt worn down to a nub of gritty skin and burning muscles. Despite her floppy sunbonnet, her nose was sunburned and her eyes ached from looking into the sun. Perspiration slicked her fingers under the leather gloves.
She straightened and looked ahead. The wagon rolled past bleached animal bones turning to chalk in the merciless sun. She was beginning to hate this flat, barren country with its endless miles of nothing but gray-green sagebrush and stunted trees. On her right, Tess and Mary Grace trudged along, their bonneted heads bent. Both girls had worn holes in their leather shoes, and their simple dresses of blue homespun were stained and fraying at the hem. Her own faded blue gingham skirt was torn and ragged.
Choking dust billowed up from Sam Lincoln’s wagon ahead of her. She was hot and sticky, and there was still supper to make, and then breakfast, and then more suppers, more quarrels to mend, and more dirty clothes to wash, that is if they could ever find water. Day after day it was the same, the heat, the drying wind, her squabbling stepdaughters. Sometimes she thought she would go crazy.
Still, she could not give up. The Borland girls were her responsibility, and soon there would be a baby. But Lord knew she was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Oregon was an unknown, and their future was cloudy. She swallowed over a moan of despair.
Then she straightened her backbone. No matter what, she had to see this through, had to be sure Mathias’s daughters had the chance for a good life, that her own child was safe. She groaned under her breath. She had to keep going. She would do what she had to do.
But oh, God, not knowing how to do it made her want to cry.
She gazed up at the sky where the sun was sinking behind the mountains off in the distance, sending a blush of orange across the horizon. It was so beautiful it stopped her breath. Even Tess and Mary Grace grew quiet as the sky flamed crimson and then purple.
Beside her on the bench, Ruthie pointed a grimy finger. “Look, Jenna. That’s real pretty.”
Baby on the Oregon Trail Page 16
