Gone West (13 page)

The intruders closed in on the camp. Maggie followed their movements. They were not exactly hostile~rather sly. Would there be Indians like this in the Territory? Would she be comfortable in teaching them with Johnny? Surely they wouldn’t have such savage, ferocious demeanors.

Maggie clung to her baby, one arm stretched out to grasp Jamie’s shoulder sharply. The Indians were coming nearer. Dismounting completed, the leader with the headdress stood aside to talk with Chandler and the group of emigrant men surrounding him. Smoothly, almost unobtrusively, the other braves were dispersing down the line, pausing here or there to remark upon something to each other with a guttural grunt or laugh.

Before Maggie could think a brave was before her, poking his head into the back of Johnny’s white top, coming to rest against the book wagon next to her, his fingers touching the fading flowers and animals she’d painted upon the caravan.

Then he was boldly confronting Maggie and her children, smelling different from any man she’d ever met. It was a strong smell, of animal grease and dirt and something else~something feral. Maggie broke out in a cold sweat as the brave’s hand was raised first to Charlotte’s red head, next to her own.

She must not show fear. He probably meant her no harm. His knife was sheathed, his rifle pointed down. But the touch brought Gwen’s words about men back to her. Especially the dread of being touched. At this moment, Maggie was petrified by the Indian’s touch.

Jamie, however, was fascinated. He stared at the bronzed man as brazenly as the Indian was staring at them. Finally, Jamie broke away from Maggie to tug at the Indian’s arm. The Indian looked down, an expression close to amusement in his eyes.

“Excuse me, sir, but I powerfully admire your britches. That’s a fine snake slithering down your one leg. And is that horse hair all braided up like that? Or,” he added hopefully, “maybe human hair?”

Maggie moved swiftly, unconsciously, to pull her son back within her grasp. The Indian laughed, then made an obvious eating motion, fingers held to his mouth like a scoop. Maggie loosed her son again.

“Jamie? Run into the wagon. Grab a hunk of bacon. Bring it out. For him.”

Jamie caught the tension in his mother’s voice and obeyed without question, forgetting the other things he wanted to ask the fascinating wild Indian.

Maggie kept her own eyes locked on the brave’s until the boy returned. She mustn’t allow the Indian into their wagon. That much she understood. This was not Independence, and he was not Black Raven. This situation had nothing to do with being a neighborly Christian. It was more on the order of highway robbery. If she could only keep his attention . . .

Jamie finally appeared, hands laden with food. Following him was Bacon, shaking the sleep from his puppy body. For one brief second, the little coyote took in the Indian’s sight and smell before a strange conversion overtook him. His hackles raised, his teeth were bared. Then he raced ahead of Jamie and lunged at the Pawnee’s leg. His baby teeth could do small harm, but the animal bit in and clung ferociously. The brave finally broke his eye contact with Maggie, shook the pup off his leg and calmly but methodically gave it a vicious kick. Bacon sprawled on the ground, shocked, before gamely picking himself up for a second attack. The Indian unsheathed his knife and held it at the ready.

“No! No! Please don’t hurt my dog!” Jamie shoved the meat at the man and ran to gather up Bacon. The animal tried to free himself of his friend’s protection, actually giving Jamie a good scratch with his nails, but suddenly whimpered and flopped back against the boy.

“Take Bacon into the wagon, Jamie. Stay with him. I’ll check how badly he’s hurt as soon as our visitor leaves.”

All this time Maggie never allowed her eyes to wander from the intruder. Now she gave him a look of pure, unbridled anger and contempt. It was understandable in any language. The Indian slowly sheathed his knife. He gave her a final glare of his own, bent to pick up the bacon that had fallen, and stalked off.

Maggie exhaled slowly. She dropped her squirming child to lean against the wagon, gasping in lungfulls of air. Still shaking, she managed finally to bend under both wagons, to walk their circumference, to make sure there were no unexpected loiterers left to surprise her. Only after she’d caught up with the crawling Charlotte~almost under the oxen’s feet~did she turn to the meeting place up ahead.

An understanding must have been reached. The stolen horses were now held in the hands of the emigrants, and the Indians were gathered again, carefully packing bolts of cloth and other commodities onto their own animals.

Johnny was grim when he returned.

“We’re packing the stock inside the wagons tonight. They won’t have as much grazing possibilities, but we daren’t take another chance with these villainous bandits so close.”

“What did they say, Johnny?”

He rubbed his forehead wearily. “Said they’d
found
the animals wandering loose. They were just returning them to oblige us. It cost the owners a fair penny, it did, this little incident.”

He went to the water bag hanging from outside the book wagon and ladled a scoop over his head before drinking deeply. He finally inspected his wife.

“What happened here? You’ve lost a week’s worth of sun from your face.”

Maggie took the water scoop from his hand and helped herself to a drink. She gagged on it.

“We had our own little encounter. One of the men stopped here. He seemed fascinated by my hair, and the baby’s. He wouldn’t leave. Then Bacon woke up and attacked him . . . Oh, Johnny!”

Johnny took Charlotte from her arms and tried to gather in Maggie, too.

“I don’t think he took anything aside from the meat we gave him, but he did frighten me so!”

Johnny ran his free hand down her cheek, trying to calm her. “Jamie and the pup. Are they all right?”

“I don’t know. Bacon may be injured. The brute gave him a ferocious kick and the little thing just whimpered and finally gave up.”

“Let’s go find out.”

Inside the wagon Jamie was curled up in the bottom bunk, humming tunelessly to the coyote. Johnny sat down and carefully picked up the pup, fingers feeling gently for ribs beginning to flesh out. Finally he set the animal down again.

“Let him rest, Jamie. Nothing seems broken. He may just be bruised a little, in spirit, too. He took on a big job trying to protect you. He probably feels he let you down.”

“Bacon couldn’t ever do that! It’s all right, Bacon. You did a good job. That old Injun can keep his fancy pants. Didn’t really like ‘em anyway.” The crooning began again.

Johnny smiled at Maggie. “Maybe Jamie would like to ride with Bacon and Charlotte for a piece. Keep an eye on them both, and give you a little breathing space.”

Jamie stopped mid note. “I’ll stay, Pa, till Ma needs me.”

Outside, Johnny quietly held his wife. “Wish I could walk with you. You’ll be all right?”

Maggie was loath to let him go, but finally did. “The McDonald’s didn’t breed any shirkers, Johnny. I’ll manage. But I’m not looking forward to any more wild Indians!”

The week following the Pawnee horse exchange passed with little incident. The travellers stepped up their security and made good time on the drying prairie, sometimes more than twelve miles a day, by their best estimates, figuring from the sparse sites given in the few guidebooks in the train’s possession. An occasional Indian band~the same Pawnee or perhaps different ones entirely, they were never completely sure~was seen at a distance, outlined against the horizon.

Once they were stopped at a minor stream and pressed for toll by a handful of Kickapoo. Grumbling inwardly at the blackmail, the men followed Chandler’s lead, paying out the twenty-five cents per wagon demanded. Maggie didn’t mind either the Kickapoo or their requested toll. The braves straddling their mounts around the shallow creek had none of the insolence or self-possession the Pawnee had. Their apparel was a motley assortment of Indian skins and trade blankets~and one rather venerable-looking old fellow was holding onto a Christian prayer stick in lieu of a rifle. Her heart went out to their obvious confusion and weariness. They’d lost the will to plunder as though it was their right~like the Pawnee. These Kickapoo had become just another tribe caught between two worlds.

Maggie dared not share these most private thoughts with anyone but Johnny. Sentiment against the Indians had begun to grow and fester, along with the fear of what could actually happen should the red men be crossed. Mormons were no longer the invisible bogeymen around the campfires.

On the seventh night after the horse exchange Max walked over during dinner and handed Maggie a small parcel.

“Hazel sent some butter. It churned up nice for her in the wagon this afternoon.”

“It’ll taste good on the fry bread,” smiled Maggie. “Thank Hazel for me.” She nodded at the pot. “Care for some beans, Max? We’ve got plenty.”

“I just ate, but might be room for a spoonful. That ain’t why I came, though.”

Sam put down his plate. “Spit it out.”

Max was not eager to spit it out. He accepted his beans first, carefully tasting them.

“Down by the stream. Tracks were left in the mud from last night’s storm. Horses, mostly unshod. Not ours. And footprints, too. Moccasins. Could be the band we spotted off in the distance just before noon.”

“Lord in heaven!” blurted out Irish. Then he shrugged an apology to the ladies. “Sorry. But I’ve got sentry duty tonight. The midnight shift. With Richman! Wouldn’t you know I’d pull duty with him when there was a real chance of Indians around!”

“Just don’t let him get near his jug, Irish.”

Irish grinned ruefully at Johnny. “You can bet I won’t! Won’t let him near the wagons at all. But he’d better keep his distance from me.”

“Is it fair to keep treating the man like a pariah?” Maggie looked at Max. “I know he’s already cost you dearly, but you did get your stallion back, and we all learned from the experience. He taught us a necessary lesson, and perhaps in good time.”

Max finished his beans and reached for his pipe. “I’m doing my Christian best to put all that behind me. Others been a little less forgiving, though. Winslow got back his horses, too, but never goes by the man without giving him a temperance lecture. If I was Richman that alone would be enough to drive me to drink harder.”

Maggie threw more batter into her pan and carefully handed Jamie some finished bread with a dab of butter on top. The boy immediately broke it in two and shared half with the waiting coyote.

“Save the butter for yourself, son. I’m not sure it’s good for the pup’s digestion.” She turned back to the adults. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to be done about the Reverend Winslow? He tends to cast a shadow over everyone’s daily affairs.”

Gwen smiled. “You have such a pretty way of putting things, Maggie. He stopped by our wagon today to castigate me for causing last night’s thunderstorm.”

Sam’s face became thunderous. “Didn’t mention naught to me about that, Gwen.”

Gwen colored. “I didn’t want to upset you, Sam.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“I was, well . . . You know how hot it got about midday. I was tucking up my skirts for some air . . . Not more than an inch or two above the ankles.” She paused to blush again. “That man walked by, just then~”

“Why wasn’t he tending his own wagon!”

“Well, you know how he leaves it for his wife and goes poking about.”

“What did he say, Gwen!”

“Oh, Sam.” She looked pointedly at Jamie.

“Jamie,” Johnny spoke. “Why don’t you take Bacon for his evening constitutional. You’ve finished your dinners.”

“May I go see how Jube’s doing?”

“Fine.”

With Jamie’s departure attentions turned to the flustered Gwen.

“I never meant to bring this up at all.”

“It’s all right, Gwen,” Johnny’s tone was comforting. “He’s been at my wife, too. It might help us to figure out what’s troubling the man.”

“Everything’s troubling him!” let out Gwen in a sudden rush. “The heathens, the non-existent Mormons, the way I wear my hair, the storms. For a man of God he’s the most troubled person I’ve ever met! He called me `the harlot of Babylon’ today. He said I was enticing fine married men with my loose ways, bringing God’s wrath down upon us all! He said I’d better watch out for the Indians, too, since they’d taken to the Mormon’s ways of extra wives, the more the better . . .”

Gwen’s vehemence petered out, and it looked fairly questionable as to whether she’d laugh or cry next. Her heightened emotions only emphasized her coloring, gave strength to her face, and made her more attractive than usual.

Maggie glanced at Sam. The veins on his neck were standing out, and his face had become as thunderous as the heavens the previous night. She was afraid he might erupt. Luckily, Johnny had noticed, too. He reached over to give his big friend a hearty slap on the back.

“What would that make Grandma Richman, Sam? She had her skirts up to her waist today, showing off very handsome petticoats. I even spotted some lace! Think the Indians~or Mormons~will want to take her on, too?”