Trail Angel (9 page)

“I best leave that to you, pretty lady,” he said, drawing a blush from the teen. “If we come across some hostile Indians, maybe then I'll try a tune. The sound is sure to drive them off.”

Josey Angel and Lord Byron never joined them on these evenings around the cook fires. They always took the first shift of guard duty, with the rest of the men taking turns on the overnight shift. The guides would fill plates of food and disappear to eat in darkness with the animals. It wasn't clear to Annabelle if they wanted to eat by themselves—or if they assumed that to be the preference of the others.

Quick to warm to an audience, the Colonel enjoyed company. Once Caroline finished her song, Annabelle asked him about Indians. She knew his opinion that sickness and travel accidents posed a greater threat and didn't want his joke about hostile tribes to alarm her mother.

“Indians are a concern.” His measured words sounded as if he hoped not to frighten the women without giving the men reason to feel they no longer needed the guides' services. “That being said, the Indians along the Platte are mostly peaceful now.”

“You mean they've been put in their place,” one of the Daggett boys said. Annabelle couldn't yet tell them apart.

The Colonel chewed on the stem of his pipe. “The tribes aren't what they used to be. Some lost more than half their people to cholera, smallpox, measles. One of the many gifts we've brought to the land. Now, so long as the white men stay on the trail and avoid trouble, the Indians in these parts usually keep their distance.”

“Unless they're out begging or stealing,” the other Daggett said.

“A lot of them beg,” the Colonel confirmed, “but that's not always the case. Many Indians have a custom of giving a token to strangers—and they expect something in return. That can seem like begging if you don't know better. But when there's trouble in these parts, it's not always the Indians' fault.”

“What do you mean?” Annabelle's mother asked.

The Colonel never needed much encouragement to tell a story. “We passed a shallow stream not long after leaving Omaha—you probably didn't take much notice. It's just a little thing the locals call Rawhide Creek.”

Interruptions were rare once the Colonel started a story, but he liked to pause for effect. He took a moment to brush his mustache with his fingers, clearing any trace of dinner that remained.

“Some years back, during the gold rush to California, a young man set out all full of himself and sure as blazes the only good Indian was a dead Indian. He swore to anyone who listened he'd kill the first Indian he saw.”

“What was his name?” Caroline asked when he paused to draw on his pipe.

“Hush. Don't interrupt,” her mother said.

“That's all right,” the Colonel said, a pleased look on his face. He had a sweet spot for Annabelle's light-haired cousin. “I believe his name was Davey.”

She nodded as if that sounded right. “Davey.”

After a puff of smoke, the Colonel continued. “Even then, there weren't many Indians along the trail. It wasn't until he got to the creek that he saw his first Indians . . . a squaw and a little girl sitting on a log by the water.”

Annabelle didn't like where she thought the story was headed.

“One of the men in the train sees this and teases the braggart. ‘Here's your chance, Davey.' Of course, this man never thought Davey meant to kill a woman or a child. He was just having fun. But wouldn't you know it—Davey pulls out his rifle, and as his wagon draws near the Indians, he shoots the woman dead.”

Everyone had drawn closer around the fire. No one spoke. Annabelle wasn't sure anyone breathed. Even the mosquitoes seemed to quit biting.

“The settlers were so shocked, no one knew what to do. They were more afraid of Davey than Indians at that point. So they rolled on, ignoring the cries of the child with the dead woman, treating the incident no differently than if Davey had shot a wolf or wild dog.” He drew deeply on his pipe, holding his breath a moment before slowly exhaling. Annabelle smiled.
He enjoys the attention as much as the tobacco.

“Their attitude changed that night when a tribe of Pawnees surrounded their wagons. The little girl was with them and recognized Davey right off. He wasn't so full of sand face to face with a whole pack of braves.”

“What did the other settlers do?” little Jimmy asked. Too late, Annabelle wondered if her younger cousins would sleep that night.

“They just stood aside,” the Colonel said, sweeping his arm as if inviting guests into a parlor. “No one was going to risk his life to protect Davey after what he'd done. They watched while the Indians dragged him off.”

The Colonel sat back. The silence lingered, and in the soft glow of the fire Annabelle saw a twinkle in the old man's eyes as he measured the moments and waited for their patience to run out. Annabelle's aunt Blanche gave in first, practically bursting out, “Well, what did they do to him?”

The Colonel leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper over the crackling fire. “I'm not sure I should share the rest in mixed company.”

“You
have
to tell us,” Mark and Jimmy sang out together.

“Maybe he shouldn't,” Annabelle's mother said, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“Please,”
Caroline said, adding her voice to the boys.

“It's not a pleasant ending,” the Colonel warned, trying to sound stern, though his mustache had curled into a smile.

“Go on.” This time it was Annabelle's uncle Luke encouraging him.

The Colonel nodded. “They dragged Davey away from the camp and tied him to a tree near the creek. Then they took their sharp knives and set to work.”

“Doing what?” Mark asked, his eyes big as gold dollars.

The Colonel leaned toward the boy. “You ever peel an apple with a knife? That's what the Indians did to ol' Davey. They peeled him like an apple.”

Both boys and their sister squealed in the delighted disgust only children can muster. Annabelle felt ill.

“They say the screams went on for hours. Nobody slept that night, even once the screams stopped. By sunup, the Indians, and most of what was left of Davey, were gone. But Rawhide Creek got a name that's stuck ever since.” The Colonel sat back, looking pleased.

Annabelle looked toward Caroline and the boys. She needn't have worried about them. The children's eyes were aglow. Caroline would probably have a song composed about the story before Sunday. Annabelle's mother looked pale, even in the amber glow of the fire. Annabelle's plan to put her mind at rest had backfired, but she didn't mind. A smile crossed her face as she watched her family and new friends. Even without walls and a roof, there was no place else she would have rather been.

This world possessed a simplicity that appealed to her. So many things weren't the way she imagined them when she lived on a cobblestone street lined with houses, a place where Indians seemed no more real than Amazons or centaurs. The world seemed small then. Now she lived in a place where the sky stretched forever, where it seemed she could walk in any direction and never reach an end, where even the most fantastical story sounded more real than the news in the papers at home. Anything could happen.

The Colonel watched her from across the fire, a grin behind his pipe as if he read her mind and agreed. He was probably just pleased to see his story well received, but Annabelle smiled to imagine someone understood.

Walking alongside her family's wagon, Annabelle envied the guides on their horses. She and her father had sold their horses before setting out, knowing they couldn't properly feed animals raised on oats while on the trail. Her father consoled her with the belief that horses were one thing they would find in ample supply in Montana. Of course, he spent his days driving a wagon. Perched in the only seat equipped with springs, it was easy for him to think a horse an unnecessary luxury.

On dry days when the wind didn't blow too fierce, Annabelle preferred walking to riding in the wagon, which jostled so much her stomach grew queasy. Her mother spent the better part of her days reading in the back of the wagon, but more than a few minutes made Annabelle ill. On a bright, cloudless day, she led the family's cow by a rope, the Colonel having instructed her in the best methods for training the animal to follow the wagons.

He rode up alongside her, tipping a hat in greeting. The Colonel and the scouts rode Indian ponies that were accustomed to foraging on grass. They were smaller and not nearly as handsome as the riding horses Annabelle had known, but they were sure-footed and appeared tireless despite their diet. Recalling their meeting with General Sherman, she couldn't resist a gentle tease.

“May I call you Marlowe?”

“You may
not,
” he said, though she detected a hint of amusement in his gruff manner. “I've never liked that name. My mother thought to make me a poet. It didn't take.”

“I don't know,” Annabelle said. “There's a poetry in the stories you tell.”

“Those are just things I've heard. The best ones I can't tell, not with such a delicate audience,” he said, looking to her.

“You forget I was a married woman. I'm no blushing maiden.”

He ignored her teasing. “Josey's the one who should have been named for a poet.”

“Josey?”

The Colonel cut a glance her way, as if taking measure of her curiosity. “When I first met him, he used to scribble away in a notebook nearly every night at camp.” From his tone, Annabelle knew he spoke of their time in the war. “He had some dog-eared books he would read by the firelight.”

“Does he still have them?”

The Colonel shook his head, his gaze far away. “One night he tore the pages from his books, one by one and burned them in the fire.” He must have seen the look of confusion on her face. “He never told me why.”

Just like a man not to ask.
“What a loss,” she said.

“Nothing lost,” the Colonel said. He pointed to his head. “It's all up there. He read those books so many times, I don't think he forgot a word.”

Annabelle tried not to sound miffed. “He told me he has a terrible memory.”

“He does for some things. Can't play a hand of cards worth spit. Forgets names and faces. Loses track of conversations like he's drifting somewhere else.”

Afraid to ask where, Annabelle was pleased the Colonel continued. “We had this fellow who rode with us a spell in Georgia. He was an artist from
Harper's Weekly.
They sent him to draw pictures so people in New York and such would know what the war was like.”

Hoping to encourage him, Annabelle said, “I've seen drawings like that.”

“Josey wasn't much for conversation at that point. The rest of the company kept their distance, all but this artist from
Harper's.
”

Annabelle couldn't imagine a time when Josey
was
much for conversation, but she didn't interrupt. A terrible cough left the Colonel's voice hoarse. “All this dust isn't good for my throat,” he said, taking a sip from his canteen and leaning down from his horse to offer her a drink. “I might have to move back to the front of the line just to breathe.”

“Finish your story first,” she pleaded, handing the canteen back. “Why did Josey talk to the artist if he wouldn't talk to anyone else?”

The Colonel hocked and spat, a hint of laughter in the sound. “I don't think the artist gave him much choice. He pestered after him like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. The artist was good—he sketched enough of what he saw to fill in the rest later. But, Josey never forgot anything he saw—or did. The artist called it Josey's gift.”

“That's remarkable.”

“Josey never saw it that way.” The Colonel's voice grew soft. “I suppose it was a gift he gave to the artist. Because after the artist sent off his drawings to be engraved and published the next month, he forgot what he had drawn. Josey couldn't. I don't think he can yet.”

They moved on in silence, and Annabelle regretted putting the Colonel in poor spirits.

Hoping to brighten his mood as he rode off, she said, “Well then, I shall call you Marlowe only when we are alone.”

That won her a bushy grin before he galloped off. Over his shoulder he called back, “Then you shall be left alone by me.”

By the end of the day, the cow followed the wagon with nothing but a long tether, and Annabelle walked beside it. Her mother had warned about her fair skin burning in the sun, but the fresh air invigorated her. Her feet grew sore and her legs stiff, but she walked farther each day.

The wagons in the lead had started pulling into a corral when the Colonel rode back to her. From the mischievous glint in his bright eyes, she sensed a test. After he greeted her, she responded with emphasis, “Good afternoon,
Colonel.
” Their friendship was sealed.

He began sharing news from the other wagons when another bone-rattling coughing fit interrupted him. His horse turned in a circle while he struggled to catch his breath.

“Are you all right?”

“It's nothing.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Excuse me. These old bones aren't as suited to sleeping outdoors as they once were. It's usually mornings that are the worst.”

“Mother has some honey and vinegar for a cough. You should see her about that.”

The Colonel tipped his hat. “You're kinder than an old goat like me deserves, Miss Rutledge.”

“It's Holcombe,” she said automatically. “My married name, that is.”

The Colonel looked stricken. “My deepest apologies, ma'am. I had forgotten.”

Not wishing for things to be awkward between them, she quickly added, “Call me Annabelle, please, and we will be spared any future confusion.”