Ruth (15 page)

In the gray, still dawn, the small group hit the trail early. Ruth studied the map, nodding as Dylan pointed out the way.

“Stay to the road. The ruts will be deep, but we’ll have better footing,” he said.

The baby lay in Dylan’s arms, contented now. Ruth walked, leading the mare with the marshall and the infant riding.

Taking charge gave her a sense of belonging—of being needed. It wasn’t often that a man like Dylan needed anything or anyone, and she was proud to serve. The goat trailed, balking occasionally as the mare dragged the tenacious milk source through mounting snowdrifts. Cotton-ball-size flakes swirled around Ruth’s face as she trudged on, holding the collar of her coat over her mouth. Icicles formed on her eyelashes. Hard as she tried to be optimistic, her spirits began to sag.

Her burns had scabbed over but they itched now. Her clothing was in tatters. She didn’t think she would ever be able to get a comb through her hair. Her feet hurt so badly she wanted to cry. Every step was agony, pain radiating from toe to knee. Even with the toes and heels cut out of her boots, the blisters were still raw and bleeding. The toes of her socks were stiff and wet—it wouldn’t be long before she lost feeling. She actually looked forward to the numbness that would surely come after walking long hours in the snow. She could make it until then. She had to. At least the baby was fine, tucked in a snug pouch inside Dylan’s coat lining, cocooned in the warmth of his body.

She alternated between praying that they would find someone to take the child soon and begging the Lord to let the baby remain with her for a while longer. Death didn’t seem so frightening; at times she resolved to meet her fate without regret. Dying was merely a transition—not one she welcomed, but neither did she fear it.

She wanted Dylan and the baby to live, though. No matter how hard she’d tried not to—and she had tried her very hardest—she was starting to love both the child and the marshall. Maternal feelings were seeping out of every pore, and she didn’t know how much longer she could bear the feeling. What if she were to slip and allow Dylan the briefest glimpse into her thoughts? Would he think she had lost her mind? He clearly wasn’t a man destined for marriage, not to a woman so clearly his opposite. Then there was the matter of their difference in faith. She didn’t know where he stood in terms of belief in God, but his answer to her question about God offered little encouragement. No way could she let herself fall any further in love with the marshall.

Conversation had now ceased. They were too weary to attempt to converse above the icy wind that snatched their words and flung them away. At dusk they dropped onto the ground, and she dealt with the child who was too tired, too cold, and too hungry to do much more than whimper. Ruth knew the same could be said about her and Dylan—they were too tired to exist. They lay down without a simple good night and fell into an exhausted sleep.

At dawn, they got up and continued on. Ruth laboriously put one foot in front of the other and climbed each rise. She could hear Dylan’s labored breathing as he rode the horse and carried the baby. At times she was forced to rest her hands on her knees for support. At the top of each hill she stopped to catch her breath.

Suddenly she saw what looked like a trail below them. Recent wheel tracks showed in the snow-packed ruts. She yelled back at Dylan. “Is that what I think it is?”

Dylan opened his eyes and focused on the scene below. Snow had tapered into swirling, barely perceptible flakes. “It’s a road.” His mouth thinned. “I don’t know—could be the one to Sulphur Springs, Ruth. Maybe not.”

Elation filled her, and tears brimmed in her eyes. She would take the chance. Grabbing the mare’s reins, she started down the incline, stumbling, falling twice before she reached the road. Her mind whirled. Food, shelter. Tonight they would sleep in a warm room and have hot food and coffee in their bellies.

Her eyes searched the distance for signs of life—anything that moved. Panic crowded her throat. What if this wasn’t the road? What if nobody lived for miles around? What if the miners had all gone and Sulphur Springs was nothing more than a deserted camp now? But the tracks indicated recent passage.

Please, God. Let someone come to help us. We’re going to die out here if you don’t help us.

“Do you hear that?” Dylan’s voice rose over the wind.

Ruth stopped in her tracks and listened carefully. “Is that a wagon?” she whispered. It sounded like wagon wheels churning through packed snow. There it was—the unmistakable creak. Turning wheels . . .

Before her eyes a wagon pulled by a team topped a rise in the road. Tears blinded her now, and she bit back a smile. It
was
a wagon!
Thank you,
God.

Dylan lifted his fingers weakly to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. The sound ricocheted over the snowy mountainsides. When the male figure in the wagon spotted the travelers, he stood up, gaping in surprise. “Helllooo!” the stranger called.

“Helllooo!” Ruth called back. She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Can you help us?”

The buckboard rattled closer, and Ruth turned back to grin at Dylan. “It’s okay—we made it! Hold on . . . in a very short while we’ll have food and a warm fire . . .” Her voice trailed off as she viewed the marshall’s ashen features. Help had come none too soon—but it had come and Ruth was grateful.

The buckboard rattled to a stop and the man set the brake. He stared at the frozen strangers. “Surprised to see travelers on a mornin’ like this—what are you doing out in this weather?” The grisly-looking old man was bundled in heavy buffalo robes; a fur hat sat atop his head.

Ruth drew back, intuition warning her not to move closer.

“Coming from Denver City,” Dylan told him. “Ran into some Indian trouble some miles back.”

“Indians, you say?” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Trouble’s been scarce lately.” His gaze swept the mangy travelers. Ruth imagined they looked more like a couple of scarecrows than human beings.

“We’re trying to reach Sulphur Springs.” Ruth edged forward.

The man nodded. “Town’s still five . . . six miles away,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb in the direction he’d come.

Dylan shifted in the saddle. “We’re without food, and we’ve traveled by foot and mare for days. Can you help us? We need shelter for the night, a hot meal, food for the child.”

The man peered at them. “Got a baby there, I see.”

“Yes. The child needs shelter,” Ruth said.

The man, who looked to be in his sixties, eyed the couple. Ruth wasn’t sure he was buying their story. Finally he reached for the reins. “Well, climb aboard. Name’s Nehemiah Ford. The missus and I have a place not too far from here. Got some cattle, some horses; do a little farmin’. You can stay the night. I reckon the missus can rustle up some grub for ya and the babe.”

“Thank you, God,” Ruth breathed aloud.

Dylan nodded. “Name’s Dylan McCall, and this is Ruth.”

“’Pears you’re Christian folk,” the man said, staring at Ruth’s trousers. She thought an explanation of why she was dressed like a boy might be in order, but then the response wouldn’t help the cause. Some things were best left a mystery.

“Yes, sir, we’re Christian,” Ruth said, noting that Dylan neither agreed nor disagreed. Perhaps he was making some progress spiritually.

The marshall dismounted and helped Ruth into the wagon bed. He handed her the baby, then secured the horse and goat and climbed in himself. The wagon was piled high with supplies—two fifty-pound sacks of flour, two of sugar, cans of sorghum, other canned goods, as well as sacks of corn that would probably do for both horses and chickens, if the old man was indeed a farmer, Ruth thought. Somehow nothing rang true about Nehemiah Ford.

“Hi-up,” Nehemiah called to the team, slapping their rumps with the reins.

The wagon lurched forward, and Ruth and Dylan leaned gratefully back against the sacks and rested.

The buckboard rattled as it plowed through the deep snow. Ruth closed her eyes, exhausted. When Dylan nudged her shoulder, she opened her eyes to the welcome sight of a tightly constructed cabin with smoke curling from the chimney. Her gaze followed to the right side of the house to another structure, quite clearly serving as a barn with a small corral beside it. The corral was empty, but a dozen or so chickens pecked in the snowy barnyard. Ruth’s mouth watered. Fried chicken. Or maybe even an egg or two.

Nehemiah Ford drew the wagon to a halt and set the brake. The front door opened and a short, heavyset woman appeared, wiping her hands on a cloth. Her dark eyes landed suspiciously on her husband’s two passengers.

Nehemiah jumped down from the wagon seat and looped the reins over the brake handle. “Got company,” he announced. Then he spoke Indian, something Ruth didn’t understand. Ruth slid from the wagon bed, wincing when her tender feet touched ground. The baby awoke in a fretful mood. She was so hungry, Ruth thought. She spotted a lone cow standing near the fence line and breathed a sigh of relief. It looked to have sufficient milk.

The woman stood back from the door as Dylan handed the baby to Ruth; they trooped in and gravitated to the fire. Nehemiah hung his hat on a peg by the door and went immediately to the stove to pour a cup of coffee from a huge black pot.

“This here’s my wife, Ulele. She’s full-blooded Cherokee. She don’t speak much English, only ‘sit’ and ‘go’ and a few other phrases.” He took a sip of the scalding coffee, his gaze on Ruth. “You look plumb tuckered out. Why don’t you give the baby to Ulele? She’ll take care of the young’un whilst you catch yore breath.”

Ruth was reluctant to surrender the child to a stranger, but if the old woman could help, she would be grateful.

The woman pointed to a chair by the fire. “Sit.” The guttural command was low, but the authority coming from the woman with thickened features was unmistakable.

Ruth and Dylan sat at the table before the fire. Ulele held the child in the crook of her arm, her velvet-brown eyes evaluating the infant. The two looked as if they belonged together, each dark-skinned, each with coal black hair and a prominent nose. The baby seemed fascinated by the woman and immediately quieted down. Chubby hands reached out to touch the woman’s face, patting it with exploring hands that were grimy from travel.

“Gonna see to the team,” Nehemiah said. “Ulele will get ya somethin’ to eat. Real lucky I came along. Ordinarily, I buy supplies in the early fall. But I been feelin’ poorly and couldn’t get to town until yesterday.”

“Can I help?” Dylan slowly moved from the fire.

The old man’s eyes noted his condition. “Not this time. Looks to me like yore in bad shape.”

Dylan sank gratefully back into the chair. “I’ll be fine once I get warm.”

Ruth’s heart broke as she watched Dylan’s valiant effort at normalcy. It would take more than a simple fire to help him. “He was injured almost two weeks ago now—gravely injured. We haven’t had the necessary medicine to treat his wounds,” she explained.

“Well, the missus can help. Woman, git yore healing herbs—this man needs help once he’s et and got the chill outta his bones.”

Ulele wordlessly shuffled off to the bedroom, carrying the baby on her hip.

“Whilst she’s getting her herbs, I’ll stow the supplies and get the horses in the barn.” With that, the old man went back outside and started hauling in sacks of flour to store against the back wall before he drove the wagon to the barn.

Ulele returned with a small wooden box and set it on the hearth. While Ruth watched, the stout woman, still holding the baby, put bowls and cups on the table and dipped brown beans and some kind of meat from a kettle on the stove.

Ruth’s stomach cramped from lack of food. She wasn’t able to wait for the food to cool. She snatched up a bowl and eagerly spooned beans into her mouth.

Ulele filled a fourth bowl, then sat at the end of the table opposite Ruth. She picked a piece of meat out of the dish and chewed it. Then, before Ruth’s astounded gaze, she removed the piece from her mouth and popped it between the child’s lips.

Ruth’s stomach heaved as Dylan leaned over and whispered, “That’s how squaws feed their infants, chewing the food first so the child can swallow it.”

“But—”

His warning look made her clamp her lips together.
Simple milk would have done.

Ruth couldn’t bear to watch the woman feed the starving infant. Maybe it was common practice for Indian mothers to chew the food prior to feeding, but she couldn’t imagine that it was healthy, even if the baby seemed to accept it. Though she’d been famished earlier, Ruth couldn’t eat the food in front of her. But she noticed Dylan had no problem. When he had cleaned his bowl, she nudged hers toward him.

He glanced up, concern darkening his face. “You’ve got to eat.”

“I can’t right now,” she murmured. She averted her eyes as Ulele spat beans into the child’s mouth.

In a short while Nehemiah returned from the barn and sat down across from Dylan. Ignoring his wife, the man quickly devoured his meal, like a hog emptying a trough, not even noticing its content.

“What are your plans?” He studied Dylan as he pushed back a few minutes later.

Dylan drained the last of his coffee and set the mug back on the table. “I’m a U.S. marshall. I was on my way to Utah when I ran into trouble.” He glanced at Ruth. “We’re trying to reach Sulphur Springs, where I can wire my boss and inform him that I’ll be late for my assignment and, I hope, get credit for clothes and supplies. Right now we’re at a bit of a disadvantage. We have no money and only one horse.”

Ruth held her breath while the old man appraised Dylan. Would knowing that Dylan was a marshall make the man more likely to help? She knew that sometimes men who were running from the law came to this desolate area to make homes and were never heard from again, and this old man and his wife were strange. Both looked as if they could be running from anything, or was it only her imagination running amok again? Ruth couldn’t be sure. Lately, she couldn’t think straight. At least these people had been kind enough to take two frozen strangers and a baby into their home.