Trail Angel (35 page)

“I saw a man gut shot once. It took him hours to die. He begged us to kill him, but nobody would. Oh, God, I'm so sorry.”

He went on like that for what seemed hours. Annabelle tried to quiet him. Told him to save his strength, but speaking seemed to keep him from thinking of what happened. He told her about the gold, told her how he believed Richard was dead but couldn't tell her what had happened. He even confessed how he plotted against her, hoping to pit Josey against Richard.

Even as Caleb confessed, it was Annabelle who was overcome with guilt—first, for wishing him dead because of what he had done. Later, for praying he would live, knowing his suffering would continue, just so she wouldn't be alone. When he begged her forgiveness, she gave it without hesitation. When he asked her to kill him, she demurred.

“You can't ask that of me. I've never killed anyone, and I surely wouldn't know how.”

“You don't have a knife?”

She told him no.

“What about a rock? Is there a rock here?” She hoped his delirium portended a quick end. Instead, he lapsed into an uneasy sleep. He had been that way for hours.

Annabelle resisted the urge to move, even as she started to lose feeling in her legs, afraid she might wake him and renew the conversation over his murder. As she stroked his hair, she noticed the small pillow beneath his head. Her hand stopped.

The pillow, so threadbare and dirty it had nearly turned gray, lay flat against her legs, with barely enough down to make a difference in his comfort.
It might serve another purpose.
She pushed the thought from her mind, resumed stroking his hair, thinking they might both be blessed if his sleep turned eternal . . .

Annabelle might have dozed herself. She woke to the warbling, flute-like call of a meadowlark. No light leaked into the tent. She sensed more than saw the gray cast of pre-dawn through the canvas. She no longer felt anything below her waist. She shifted beneath Caleb's weight but stopped when he stirred. He woke with a smile. “I was dreaming of Laurie.”

“That's good.” His smile confused her. She wanted to think it signaled a recovery but feared it was more like the gray light of a false dawn. He turned his head, exposing more of the pillow beneath him. “You should go back to her. I'll wake you when Josey comes.”

“Do we have any water?”

A canteen lay by the front flap of the tent. “I'll get you some.” Grateful for an excuse to move, she lifted his head just enough to slide out from under him. The pillow stuck to her legs, leaving his head to rest on the ground. She moved to replace it but changed her mind.

Annabelle nearly collapsed as she rose, her legs giving way beneath her. She crawled to the canteen. Sharp pricks attacked her thighs, like the bites of an army of ants. She shook the canteen, relieved at the sloshing sound inside.

She brought it to Caleb, raising his head so he could take a mouthful. Most of the water spilled over his chin, but he smiled and thanked her.

He was still in a mood for confessions.

“I wanted you. You had to know that. I thought you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen, and I thought I deserved you, now that I was going to be a rich man.” Annabelle took his hand and shushed him, afraid of what he might ask of her. “I never loved you, though, not the way I loved Laurie.”

Annabelle hadn't known Laurie well but believed she would have liked her from the way Caleb spoke. Ridiculously, Annabelle felt a pang of jealousy, not for Caleb, but for the devotion he still held for his wife. She'd never known that kind of love.

“Laurie must have been very special.”

Caleb nodded. “Laurie made me want to be more than I was, and I don't mean rich. That never mattered to her. I lost my way without her.”

He closed his eyes. His face had lost most of its color. His thick features had softened into serene repose. “Laurie made me a better man, and I loved her for it.”

Touched by his words, Annabelle stroked his hand, hoping he might imagine it was Laurie who stroked him, that he might rejoin his wife in sleep. His eyes opened. “That's how Josey loves you.”

Annabelle stopped, wondering if she'd imagined him saying that. Tears that had clouded her vision as Caleb spoke of his wife rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away, recalling how cold Josey could be. “He doesn't love me, not really.”

“He's afraid to love you, is all.”

She dismissed Caleb's words, wanting to shield herself from the hole growing inside her, like the wound slowly eating Caleb from within. Men liked to talk about the effects of a woman's love while they pursued it. With Laurie only a memory, Caleb talked about his love more eloquently than she'd ever heard him speak of anything. In having a woman's love, men treated the daily obligations and inconveniences that came with it like forgotten chores around the house.

“I suppose he's afraid to be a better man,” she said.

She expected Caleb to contradict her, to take Josey's side as a final act of contrition to the man he'd hated and betrayed. Instead, Caleb nodded slowly and closed his eyes. His hands fell away from where he'd been holding the cloth to his wound. He whispered something. Annabelle leaned in to hear him repeat it.

“A better man won't survive what's to come.”

Long before anyone else awoke, Josey forced himself to eat a cold biscuit. His stomach roiled and burned with uncontained anger.
Caleb will be dead before this sun sets.

Josey hadn't slept much in days and not at all the previous night. No one had realized Annabelle and Caleb were gone until all the wagons crossed the river. He had been preoccupied. The chance that at any moment one might topple off the ferry left him frazzled and so short-tempered he had gotten into a shouting match with John Bozeman over how long it took. Dusk had settled in by the time Mr. Rutledge alerted him to the pair's disappearance, too late to initiate an effective search.

Josey found it hard to believe Caleb would take Annabelle, but he thought of no other explanation for their disappearance. They had left Annabelle's horse, and they hadn't taken much in the way of supplies, so they couldn't be far. Josey's best hope was to pick up their trail in the light of day. He'd spent the night tending a burning rage, the kind he thought he'd learned to keep tamped down. Even Lord Byron knew to keep his distance with Josey in such a mood.

Once the pale dawn grew bright enough to see, Josey kicked out the fire. He'd forced himself to be patient but couldn't wait any longer. He rolled up the blankets that had gone largely unused and kneeled down to tie them into a roll. His rifle and pistols were on the ground beside his leather bandolier when he heard a stirring behind him.

“You're up awful early. Any special plans for your last day?”

Recognizing the voice, Josey bit back a response. He turned only his head, slowly. Harrison stood watching him. The dandy gunman wore a fresh shirt for the occasion. His choice of words wasn't lost on Josey.

“Just about to clean and load my guns. Want to help?”

Harrison was quick. He had his revolver drawn and pointed by the time Josey had his hand on the rifle. Josey gripped the rifle by the barrel and raised his other hand, palm open.

“Why so edgy, Harrison?” Slowly Josey moved his free hand to twist open the rifle's magazine sleeve. “It's not even loaded.”

“Let's see it stays that way,” Harrison said, pointing his gun to Josey's head. He moved close enough to kick away the bandolier with Josey's spare cartridges.

Josey turned the magazine sleeve back in place. “Have it your way.”

“Yes, that's what we're going to do.” Harrison took another step and backhanded Josey with the barrel of his pistol.

The blow knocked Josey to his side and drew blood. He stayed down until his vision cleared, using the pain to focus his mind.
At least this helps explain Annabelle's disappearance.
Josey wiped away the blood with the back of his hand.

“I guess I was wrong to blame Caleb. Where's Annabelle?”

“She's where she belongs—with her husband.”

Harrison was enjoying himself so much, Josey didn't want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. The man's grin showed him he had failed.

“Your captain,” Josey said, knowing the answer came too late.

“You're not as ignorant as I thought. Since she's still married, I guess that makes her your whore.”

The words were intended to provoke, but Josey's anger burned more like a furnace than a spark of powder. He shrugged off the news. “You came all this way to reclaim a man's wife? That's a love story for poets.”

“I don't know if you can call it that.” Harrison licked his lips as he watched Josey. “Captain intends to give her to me.” Another grin. “Her and my share of that gold you've been hauling all this way.”

The gold again.
Josey rose, making a show of holding the rifle by the barrel as he settled against a boulder that had served as a windbreak for his fire. “I guess I'm not as smart as you suppose.”

“Spoils of war,” Harrison said, his eyes lighting up at the thought. “We figure that sod-buster's got it hid in his wagon.”

So Caleb was one of theirs.
“And you want me to bring this gold to you?”

Harrison shook his head, trying to look downcast but enjoying himself too much. “The captain's seen enough of you.” He waited for Josey to get his meaning. A cat playing with its prey. Josey's grip on the rifle tightened. Harrison directed him with the gun. “Go ahead and drop that if you don't want a bullet in your head.”

Josey studied the rifle. “I suppose you'll be taking this for yourself. Ever fire a Henry?”

Harrison shook his head, licked his lips. They were chapped from the habit. “We used to call those ‘the damned Yankee rifle you could load on Sunday and fire all week.' ”

Josey nodded and smiled. “I never found that I made it last that long.”

“I bet you didn't.” Harrison grinned again. “It's a fine weapon. I'll take good care of it.”

Josey ignored the comment. “The thing about a Henry is you have to be careful. It's got no safety, if you've got the hammer cocked.” He moved his hand along the barrel as if to demonstrate to Harrison.

“Just keep your hands on the barrel.”

“You don't trust me?”

“No.”

Now it was Josey's turn to grin. Still holding the rifle by its barrel, he extended his arms toward Harrison, as if making an offer of it. “You're not as ignorant as
I
thought.”

With a sudden movement, Josey drew the rifle down hard so the hammer struck against the boulder. With the hammer resting on the rim of the chambered cartridge, the gun fired without Josey even touching the trigger. The impact struck Harrison in the chest and sent him staggering back a step. He kept his feet, looking at Josey with an expression of disbelief that shifted into something else as he put his hand to his chest and drew it back bloody.

“I lied about needing to load the gun.” Josey stood and levered in another cartridge as he approached Harrison. His second and third shots put Harrison on the ground. Josey stood over him as he levered in a final shot. “Any man who tends to himself before his guns isn't worth much in my view.”

The pain returned, twice in strength of what it had been. The hurt nearly blinded Caleb. He wondered again at the cruelty of life, that even as a man's body loses the last of its strength, what still works should be the part that feels pain.

Caleb looked to Annabelle a final time and nodded. He wondered if she would be strong enough to do what he asked.
Could Laurie have done it?
Gentle Laurie had loved him. Annabelle never held any affection for him. Caleb wasn't sure if that would make the task easier or harder.
I suppose I'm about to find out.
It amused some part of his brain that he'd turned philosopher at the last.

She spoke, but he didn't make out the words. Didn't matter. Her pleasant tone reminded him of Laurie.

The cold ground felt hard beneath him, but he was thankful to no longer be in her lap. Her attentions made him feel worse for what he had done. She moved beside him. He wanted to see what she was doing but didn't have the strength.
God, it hurts.
He closed his eyes, imagined himself somewhere else, but the pain held him here. His belly burned. His legs were heavy. He tried to shake free from the numbness. No response. He went to lift his arms. Again, nothing.

A woman's voice, hollow and far away as if he were hearing her in a dream.
Maybe this is a dream. If I pinch myself, will I wake with Laurie? It's been so long. Where has she been?
He started to rise to see his wife, but he managed only to turn his head, shift his gaze down.

Blood had gathered in a pool near his waist. It glistened darkly in the gray morning light. Its stench filled his nostrils, left a taste in his mouth that he wanted to spit out but couldn't.

He asked Laurie for water. Felt her hands on his brow, blotting the sweat with a handkerchief. She said something. His heartbeat, quick but weak, fluttered like little bird wings in his chest. They flapped in time with a humming in his head.

It seemed odd that he thought so clearly in a dream. He was grateful to be asleep. He no longer felt cold with Laurie. The pain was gone. She stirred beside him, then hovered over him, her white dress filling his vision. He closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a new day. He might fish. Or go hunting. When he woke, if he didn't oversleep, Laurie would be there.

Once Josey knew to look for the gold, it didn't take long to find the sturdy trunks buried at the bottom of Caleb's wagon. He needed Lord Byron's help to lift them out.