Trail Angel (20 page)

“Maybe we'll just take our chances.” The rider's manner gave him away. She realized he was one of the Confederates who'd confronted Josey on the street in Omaha. They'd called him Harrison. She might have recognized him sooner if not for the grime and the incongruity of seeing him on the trail. He favored her with a wolfish grin. “Maybe we'll just come in and take what we want.”

“There's twenty guns pointed at you says you won't.”

Harrison leaned from his horse and spat on the ground, in case the Colonel wasn't clear on what he thought of his threat. “Bunch of quim-eaters and old men from the looks of 'em. They'll drop those rifles and run at the first shot.”

“You won't live to see it.”

Harrison nodded his head and grinned ever wider. “You've got salt, for an old man.”

The Colonel interrupted. “It's getting late. You head on now, stick to the road and you'll come to a good site before it gets full dark.” He turned and walked back between the wagons. Harrison looked surprised for a moment, before the grin returned. He tipped his hat to Annabelle, pivoted and rode back to his companions.

Her father looked relieved to see Harrison ride off. Annabelle didn't share his confidence. She told him about seeing the man in Omaha as the Colonel listened.

Her father didn't want to believe it. “Are you certain, Annabelle? Why would they follow us all this way?”

She had no answer.

“I don't believe Miss Annabelle would mistake a thing like that,” the Colonel said. “They probably didn't count on a hostile greeting. Maybe they thought they would get into camp, put us at ease. I expect they left a few of their number in reserve, back in that gully where we can't see 'em. They'd have come out soon enough.”

“What will they do now?” her father asked.

“They'll move on, once they realize they can't ride back the way they came, not without arousing our suspicion.” The Colonel turned his gaze toward the gully. “I expect their leader is back there somewhere with the rest. They'll come at us from both sides.”

Sure enough, the six riders started off to the east, making a wide circle around the camp. “Maybe it's just those six,” her father said, sounding more wishful than confident. “Maybe they'll just leave.”

“Maybe Annabelle mistook him for that other man,” the Colonel said. “But I wouldn't bet our lives on it.”

The Colonel rallied the camp after the riders moved off. The women started a large cook fire, while he made a show of pulling the men from their posts. Only Lord Byron and a couple of others hidden in wagons remained on guard. The Colonel wanted anyone watching to think the emigrants believed the danger had passed.

“Won't that just encourage them?” Annabelle's father asked.

“Better they attack when
we're
ready—and they don't know it—than have them wear us out waiting,” the Colonel said. “If they think they can surprise us, I think they'll come soon, while there's still some light. It's always better to attack when you can see who you're shooting.”

They didn't have to wait long.

Another half dozen riders came charging out of the gully, and they might have come straight into camp if Lord Byron and the others hadn't opened fire when they drew near. Clifton Daggett rose up from between two wagons and fired a shot that unhorsed one rider.

“I got one,” he shouted to his brother.

“Get down, you fool.”

The warning came too late. The riders reacted quickly, and Annabelle looked away after Clifton was spun around from multiple shots. She looked back, hoping her eyes had betrayed her, that what she had seen couldn't really have happened. She heard more shouted warnings and Willis's anguished scream as he rushed toward his brother's body and dragged it like a heavy grain sack.

Annabelle felt untethered from the action around her. The sight of Ben Miller running forward to help Willis barely registered. Then Miller was struck and fell. The Colonel called for cover fire, but the bursting of gunfire all around Annabelle seemed muffled, as if she were far removed from it.

The riders retreated from the heavy fire, and Willis pulled his brother within the corral. Two of the young miners did the same for Miller, his cries finally snapping Annabelle from her reverie.

She went to Willis and pried him from his brother while her mother looked to Clifton's wounds. Willis fell heavily against Annabelle, his body shaking with sobs. She held his head to her chest as she looked to her mother, who shook her head and closed her eyes.

Annabelle pulled Willis tighter so he wouldn't see the two miners drag his brother's body away, the pressure of his body forestalling the numbness spreading through her. She sensed it was only his weight and the need to give comfort that kept her mind from slipping away.

She forced herself to focus amid the noisy confusion in the camp. The first six riders returned from the opposite direction, and the Colonel shouted commands to redeploy men to defend both ends of the corral. Once they realized their attempt at surprise had failed, the riders circled at a safer distance.

The attackers fell into a pattern the Colonel described as Indian tactics. A few riders at a time would bolt toward the camp, firing as they rode to force the defenders to take cover, probing for a weakness in the corral's defense, retreating before the emigrants rallied. Clifton's death made the defenders more cautious. They fended off the next two attacks without loss to either side.

As the light faded, Annabelle wondered how much longer the standstill could last. Waving a white flag, Harrison came within calling distance. He no longer grinned, though he seemed no less sure of himself. “No one else has to die,” he called. “Give us the gold and we'll ride off—for good this time.”

Gold?
Annabelle looked to the Colonel, who looked to her father. “What's he talking about?”

“I don't know,” her father said. “Truly,” he added, seeing the Colonel's doubt.

“Are they touched in the head?” Annabelle's uncle Luke said. “We're
going
to the gold.”

The Colonel smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “This is a lot of trouble to go to for a few wagons. If you're carrying gold, maybe something you were saving to buy supplies, now is the time to tell me.”

Annabelle's father was adamant. “We spent everything we had to outfit these rigs because the price of goods is cheaper in the east. That's the entire point of our business.” He'd made his point, but he didn't like to be doubted. “The only extra money we have is the balance of what we promised to pay you.”

The Colonel made a snorting sound. “You're a fair man, Mr. Rutledge, but you're not paying us enough to make all this worthwhile,” he said. “What about the others. Any of them carrying gold?”

“Anyone who had gold worth stealing never would have left Omaha,” Luke said.

The Colonel turned from the wagons and strode toward the cook fire. Pulling an old rag from his belt, he tied it around a stick and held it to the flames until it caught. He waved the torch overhead.

“I suppose we're going to have to do this the hard way.”

Annabelle wondered if the Colonel's torch was some signal only soldiers understood, but everyone else appeared as confused as she. Even the riders stopped to watch. Then one tumbled from his horse at almost the same moment Annabelle heard the echo of a rifle shot.

The fallen rider's stunned companions turned toward each other, a fatal delay. The horse of another rider reared, casting the man from its back as another shot cracked. Before anyone reacted, another horse spun wildly and fell to its side, pinning the rider beneath it.

“That would be Josey,” the Colonel said with a wicked hint of mirth.

The remaining riders, unsure from where the shots came, fired toward the camp to cover a retreat. They resumed their circling, the speed of their movements making the defenders' shots ineffectual.

The circle grew tighter, the forays toward the camp, bolder. More than once a rider managed to get against the wagons and fire a shot inside the corral. They wounded the youngest of the miners, and Annabelle worried that the strain of the attack would show on the rest. The Colonel shouted encouragement.

“Give me men with family to protect over an army of mercenaries any day,” he called.

A few of the riders made a run toward the rear of the camp, and the Colonel rushed to that spot, calling for Annabelle's father and Luke to follow. The attack proved a feint. The riders veered off before the counter-attack while the rest of their number rushed the side of the corral where Annabelle stood. Three men on horseback managed to reach the wagons, firing within the corral, as more riders approached. Annabelle dropped beneath the nearest wagon, hoping the riders wouldn't see her.

From underneath the wagon, the fight was a confusion of hooves as the riders sought the best way to bring the attack into the corral. The horses wheeled about at the report of another gun, a steady firing that grew louder with each shot.

A rider fell directly in front of Annabelle, clutching his neck. She rolled to get out from under the wagon. A horse fell beside her, its rider screaming as the weight of his mount crushed his leg. Caleb Williams, hiding under the wagon beside her, rose and put a bullet into the man's head.

While the other riders retreated, Annabelle came from under cover in time to see Josey. She had never seen him ride so fast, steering Gray with his knees, the reins tied short so both hands were free for his rifle. He had lost his hat with his hard charge, and his face was so grim he looked ten years older than he had that morning.

Another rider went down. Josey cast the rifle aside and drew the first of his pistols. Three of the riders turned to give chase, but Josey cut toward them.

The distance between the hard-galloping horsemen closed faster than Annabelle believed. The ground shook at their charge. In another moment, the horsemen were upon each other. One of the riders flew as if launched from a cannon, his horse collapsing beneath him. Josey rode, seemingly close enough to strike the other riders with his fists. When it seemed they should collide, Annabelle closed her eyes. When she looked again, another rider lay on the ground, and one fled as Josey dropped his pistols and pulled his last two. Gray wheeled and gave chase, but the exhausted pony slowed, and the rest of the riders escaped into the darkness.

Annabelle stared as Josey dismounted and retrieved his guns. Caleb Williams emerged from the corral, walking among the fallen to end the suffering of the wounded horses. Annabelle stood stunned by what she had witnessed. “How . . . ?” She stopped, unsure how to even phrase the question.

The Colonel scanned the darkening horizon, making sure none of the riders returned. Annabelle's confusion must have been plain. Setting down his rifle, he pulled his pistol from his belt. “This isn't much good but close up. Put a man on a moving horse, aiming at another on a moving horse and, well, most men, they may as well be throwing stones at each other.”

Annabelle nodded, as if that explained everything, though she felt no closer to making sense of what she had seen. “Josey didn't miss.”

“Josey ain't most men.”

They buried Clifton Daggett in the dark and were on the move again before first light. They didn't even build a coffin. No one complained at the haste, not even Willis Daggett, who wept as they laid his brother in a hole Caleb feared wouldn't prove deep enough to stop the wolves. No one said anything. The emigrants were eager to be gone from the place, as if danger were inherent to it. Knowing better, Caleb visited the other wagons, curious what folks said—and what they might suspect.

He overheard Mary Rutledge tell her husband, “They were
white
men. All this time I've been afraid of Indians. I never thought we had to fear white men with the war over.”

“The Colonel called them road agents,” Rutledge told his wife. “He said they've been a problem near the gold fields, but he's never heard of them on this part of the trail. It doesn't make any sense to rob a train headed
to
the gold.”

“Why would they attack us?”

“I don't know. Desperate men will do desperate things.”

No one saw Josey Angel that night, and no one seemed to mind. Sitting by the cook fire as Constance Smith stitched up a wounded Ben Miller, Caleb listened to Bill Smith speak with wonder. “He must have killed half a dozen men.”

“There weren't that many bodies,” Miller said between gritted teeth.

“Well, he killed at least four,” Smith replied.

“A good thing,” his wife added.

“Until tonight,” Miller said, “I'm not sure I believed those stories people told about him.”

“I did,” Smith said.

No one remarked on how there were no survivors among the men they left in the field for the wolves. For once, Caleb didn't mind the legend of Josey Angel, as everyone assumed every shot he fired was lethal. Maybe those who knew better preferred not to say anything, relieved someone had the stones to do what needed to be done. They weren't equipped to handle prisoners. As Caleb walked among the fallen with a pistol, nobody noticed or cared that it wasn't just horses he put out of their misery. Well, that wasn't exactly true.

Jacob Cooper noticed.

He had been trying to crawl out from under his horse, his bony legs not quite skinny enough to squeeze his way free. He looked relieved to see Caleb.

Until he saw the Navy revolver.

“Please,” he said. It wasn't much for a last word.

The memory of Jacob Cooper bothered Caleb. What he didn't find bothered him more. No Johnson. No Harrison. No captain.