For the first time since she’d killed the wrong man she felt energized again. Denny was still alive, and he hadn’t ridden off like he should have. She vowed he’d be sorry about that.
Chapter Nine
Samantha and Nicholas took their morning ride as usual, but this time they rode along the railroad tracks.
“Mama, what are you smiling about?”
“Nothing, Nicholas.”
“You keep doing it, though.”
“It’s nothing. Really.”
They rode back to the ranch a little early, and she sent Nicholas to the kitchen for a bite to eat, washed her face and arms to cool them, splashed peppermint water over them to refresh herself, then walked into the parlor to look at what her son had written about the marmot they’d found on the desert. Tristera sat on the sofa, reading David Copperfield.
Samantha sat down at the desk. Juana padded into the parlor, her sandals making a shuffle-slap sound on the bare wood floor, then a softer sound on the carpet. “Cavalry’s coming! I see from kitchen window.”
The muffled clatter of horses’ hooves sounded on the slope leading up to the house. Tristera put aside her book and ran to the mirror on the parlor wall to push tendrils of her long auburn hair away from her face. Samantha had suggested she continue to wear it loose to emphasize the difference between herself and Hopi Indian girls, who wore their hair in maiden whorls over their ears. It worked. Tristera looked more Mexican than Indian. And she acted more Mexican.
Seeing Tristera at the mirror, her cheeks flushed with new color, her hands fluttering over her hair, Samantha realized she might not have to worry about Rathwick any longer.
“Tristera, could you greet them? I need to finish reading Nicholas’s school work.”
Tristera let out a soft, excited groan. “Sí, señora.”
Rathwick halted his ragged column of men and waited for someone to invite him down. Tristera Rodriguez stepped out of the open door. Her sweet face satisfied something in him.
“Good day, Miss Tristera.”
“Good day, Capitán Rathwick,” she replied, affecting Juana’s accented English. Tristera had a natural ability with languages. She spoke English, Spanish, and her native Hopi language. She could mimic almost any accent.
“I’m surprised to see you, Capitán. It is a long ride from the fort.” The sight of him caused a slight sinking feeling around her heart. He wasn’t here to see her but to court the señora. That thought made her more irritable than she’d felt canning tomatoes at the school—and she hated canning tomatoes.
“Chasing a band of renegades who left the reservation without permission,” he said gruffly. “Thought for a minute we’d caught them when I spotted that band camped by the creek.”
“Renegades?” Tristera hooted softly. “Or starving Indios, Capitán?” It pleased her to irritate the handsome captain, to see the pained expression on his ruddy face. “That particular family of renegades works for Señora Forrester,” she continued. “You harry them, she’ll not take it kindly.”
He spread his hands in surrender and smiled, revealing deep dimples on either side of his mouth and good teeth beneath a neatly trimmed mustache.
“Well, maybe you could put in a good word for me, Miss Tristera,” he said. “I’m just a poor, tired old soldier, trying to do my job.”
“I would invite you in, Capitán, but Señora Forrester allows nothing in her house that is not useful or beautiful.”
Rathwick laughed. “I’ve been in there before.”
“It’s a new rule.” Tristera tossed her hair. Sunlight glinted off the shining auburn mass. Her dark, challenging eyes sparkled with amusement.
Rathwick laughed again. Tristera’s heckling invigorated him, dispelled his tiredness. “If you’re not careful, Miss Tristera, I’m going to hire you away from Mrs. Forrester and take you home with me, so you’ll have to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“Don’t waste your money,” she said, snorting. She looked haughty and untouchable, but her cheeks took on color.
“I lie wounded at your pretty feet, Miss Tristera.”
Tristera rolled her eyes. “Another mess to clean,” she said, flashing him an arch smile. “I’ll get a broom and tell the señora you’re here.”
Samantha took that as her cue to appear at the door.
Rathwick bowed low, sweeping the porch with his black felt campaign hat. “I hope I did not catch you at an inopportune time, Mrs. Forrester.” His voice, which had been playful with Tristera, sounded formal now.
“Good afternoon, Captain. Please get down and come in.”
Rathwick complied. His men dismounted with much creaking of saddles. They walked toward the barn to water their horses from the trough.
“What brings you here so early in the day?”
“Chasing renegade Indians who left the papagueria last night, probably drunk on mescal. I thought I’d found them when I saw the Indians camped by your creek. Miss Tristera tells me they work for you…?”
“Yes, they do.”
“That’s too bad.” Rathwick scowled. “The only safe place for an Indian is on the reservations they agreed to stay on. According to my orders, if a full-blooded Indian is on the reservation, he’s a friendly Indian. If he’s off the reservation, he’s hostile.”
Tristera made a small strangled sound.
“Are you all right, Miss Tristera?”
Tristera lifted her chin. Her brown eyes flashed with fire. Rathwick thought it a shame for the girl to side with the Indians. She was blessed with the prettiness of a young Spanish aristocrata. Any Indian blood in her had not hurt her. Her brother, Ramon, was a different story. Rathwick had arrested Ramon once for fighting with three drunken soldiers. He was so difficult and stubborn he might not be a full-blooded brother to Tristera. Rathwick wouldn’t be surprised to learn the boy was part Apache.
Rathwick’s response thrilled Samantha. She saw his attraction to the girl and felt a rush of warmth for him.
“We’d love to have you stay for dinner, Captain.”
“I wish I could, but General Ashland is waiting for my report. I only stopped to pay my respects and to tell you that we secured your palace car and train before any hostiles found it. A Texas and Pacific crew took it back to Phoenix.”
“Oh! Thank you so much.”
Rathwick glanced from Samantha to Tristera. “There’ll be games and dancing at the Picket Post camp a week from next Saturday. I was wondering if I might be so fortunate as to escort you ladies and your party into town?”
“Thank you for asking us, Captain. The last time I was in town I got the distinct impression they didn’t want us there anymore.”
Rathwick nodded. “I heard about that. Perhaps that’s all the more reason you shouldn’t let them keep you away.”
Samantha frowned. “I’ve toyed with that approach.”
“It’s a sound one. I hope you can both go,” he said, glancing quickly at Tristera. “Every man will be the loser if the two loveliest women in the territory don’t attend.”
Samantha had not missed a single dance since she’d come to Picket Post. Social events were infrequent and looked forward to with anticipation. Everyone who could go did so. Men outnumbered the women three to one, so any woman who attended would dance until her feet were sore, and generally with a different man each time. So it wouldn’t matter who she officially went with, but he had caught her off-guard. She liked Rathwick, and she realized it would be awkward for him to take Tristera alone. Also Samantha knew it would be good for her to continue being seen with him. It might forestall any gossip about herself and Steve Sheridan.
Samantha glanced quickly at Tristera. “Why, yes, Captain. We’d be happy to accompany you.”
Rathwick bent forward in a slight bow. “I’ll be here Saturday morning about nine o’clock to escort you ladies into town.”
“This coming Saturday…?”
“No, Saturday next.”
Rathwick turned smartly on hi
s heel and clumped down the steps. He mounted his horse with a dashing clank of saber and creak of saddle and raised his black felt hat to them. The soldiers led their horses toward his and mounted.
A frown darkened Rathwick’s face. “Oh, by the way…”
“Yes?”
“I’m still looking for that Indian woman. You haven’t seen her by any chance?”
“Why, no. Is she still supposed to be wandering around in the desert alone? I can’t imagine such a thing.”
“Could be.”
“You didn’t say in town. What did she do?”
Rathwick hesitated. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to be sharing information he’d been told so grudgingly by Ashland. But he liked Samantha Forrester, and it would be unfortunate if anything happened to her because she didn’t realize how dangerous the Indian woman was. “She killed five men,” Rathwick said, repeating what he’d finally been told.
“Heavens! Are you sure?”
“Yes. And from what the general’s investigators found, it was an act of coldly calculated murder.”
“If I see her I will definitely send for you.”
“Thank you. Don’t leave yourselves unguarded. Keep men around at all times. The woman is extremely dangerous.” He placed his hat on his head. “Good day.”
Rathwick motioned to his lieutenant, who yelled, “Company ho!”
The column snaked back on itself and turned north. Samantha knew they would follow her valley north, then cut east toward Camp San Carlos.
Tristera looked stunned. “I killed no one!” she whispered. “Señor Steve knows!”
“There must be a horrible mistake. We’ll send for Steve. He’ll know what to do.”
Abruptly Tristera turned, jerked open the door, and stalked through the house. Seconds later, the back door slammed.
Samantha started after her. Nicholas came out of the kitchen. “Mama, can I go out and play?”
“No. It’s your nap time.”
“Mama! I’m not sleepy.”
“You haven’t even tried to sleep.”
“I can tell!”
“You know what the doctor said. Lie on your bed for however long it takes. Sleep will come, young man.”
Groaning, he turned toward his bedroom.
Samantha hurried to find Tristera. The back screen door hung half off its hinges. Tristera sat on the ground, her back against the house, her face buried in her hands.
Samantha sat down beside her and waited.
Finally the young woman uncovered her pale face. “I did not mean to break the back door,” she said, her words choked with fury. “But I am so angry.”
“You have every right to be angry. Steve will know what to do. If they catch you, he will testify on your behalf. Surely, once they know the truth…”
“With white justice, nothing is sure.”
Samantha had no answer. Her own life had never depended on the mercy of the government. She’d always had money, prestige, and the protection those afforded. It was hard to imagine being alone in the world, poor, and dependent upon the questionable justice of a race who had, according to its own newspaper accounts, taken everything from her people.
“Do you have family somewhere, E—Tristera?”
“I can’t go back there,” she whispered.
“May I ask why?”
Tristera looked like a child, her face pinched with outrage and bitter fury. “Tuvi trusted me. He chose me to go with the delegation to Washington, and they were all killed.”
“But you couldn’t have saved them. Surely your people could not expect you to save the delegation from armed men?”
“They wouldn’t have died if I had been good enough. If I hadn’t let Yellow Fox shame me,” she whispered.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Reluctantly, Tristera told Samantha about falling in love with Yellow Fox, his betrayal, and the attack on the delegation. The betrayal seemed insignificant now, in light of Tuvi’s death.
“Tuvi is dead,” she ended bitterly, “and my people are doomed. Without Tuvi to protect them, the whites will take away their land—and they will starve. I am labeled as a murderer and a loose woman. So I can’t even help them. They wouldn’t listen to me now.” Her voice failed her. She covered her face and gritted her teeth so hard her cheeks ached.
They sat in silence for a moment. Samantha’s heart went out to her. She wanted to pull Tristera into her arms and hold her, but the young woman looked rigid with grief.
“Now it will never rain again,” Tristera whispered.
“Rain?” Samantha thought she’d heard wrong. “What has rain to do with it?”
Tristera’s eyes filled with shame and guilt. “I was the rainmaker for my village. It has not rained since I lay with Yellow Fox. If it doesn’t rain, they will all die.”
“But it wasn’t deliberate.”
“It matters not. Only purity matters.”
“I don’t know anything about your Indian way of life or your religion, but Steve said that nothing can happen without the Great Mystery’s approval or permission. Is it possible the Great Mystery wanted you to experience this for some reason?”
Tristera rolled her eyes. “What reason? If so, then I hate Him, too. Even more than Yellow Fox! What kind of God is He, to let Tuvi die?” Her voice was choked with fury. “What kind of God would let the soldiers shoot a holy man down like a dog?”
Samantha turned away from the harsh, angry light in the younger woman’s eyes. She could not defend God. He had taken her parents. He had let Angie Logan steal her beloved away from her. Painful emotion quivered within.
“If you were an outcast, what were you doing with the Indians who were killed?”
“I think they were trying to bring me back into the circle of the tribe. It had not rained in a long time.”
“I’ve never believed in rainmakers,” Samantha whispered. “I guess I have a very limited view of the world.”
“One day when I was five, my grandmother saw me watching the clouds and she asked me to make them give up their rain because we had been in a drought for so long. To please my grandmother I held up my arms. My grandmother tells people I said, ‘It is time to stop being bad little clouds. Give me your rain.’ Within seconds the first raindrops fell. It rained for three days.”
Samantha didn’t know what to say. Obviously Tristera believed she had caused the rain. “I’ll send for Steve. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”
A column of black smoke moved steadily along the southern horizon, creeping north toward Samantha Forrester’s house. Steve watched until he confirmed that the train carried freight. This could be Ian. If so, he was right on time. Steve ordered men to hitch horses to the buckboards.
Men tired of the hard work of leveling the roadbed without proper tools, rushed to comply. Steve saddled Calico. Every available buckboard rapidly filled with the men needed to unload the supplies, and they followed him down the hill.
About halfway, Steve saw Ramon coming up.
“Looking for you, señor,” he said, lifting his floppy brimmed hat and wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. His wet thatch of hair was plastered to his head.
“We saw the train,” Steve explained.
“Don’t know anything about a train. The señora asked me to fetch you back pronto.”
That had an ominous sound to it. Steve kicked his horse into a gallop.
Jennifer Kincaid looked up from the limp, feverish form of her daughter and out the window, trying to gauge by the cactus formations how far they still were from Phoenix. They had just come from Los Angeles yesterday and should reach Phoenix by noon—if they were on schedule.
Amy was asleep now, but if she woke and they were still on the train she might start vomiting again.
Jennifer glanced from the window to her husband’s tall form, sprawled comfortably in one of the Pullman coach’s upholstered chairs. His eyes were closed, but under her scrutiny, he opened them and caught her glance.
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br /> “How is she?” he asked.
“Not good. The fever seems to be rising.”
“It’s probably measles,” he said quietly.
“Oh, God, I hope not.” Every year children died from measles. Little Chane hadn’t had them, either. Jennifer glanced at her sleeping son. He wasn’t sick yet, but…
“Hey, don’t cry,” Chane said, getting up to come feel his daughter’s forehead. “We’ll get them through this. We all got through it.”
“I was just thinking how awful it must be for Samantha, with no husband to support her through these crises.”
“Yeah, it’s rough on her.”
Jennifer took Chane’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s a lot easier when you have someone to be scared with.”
They pulled into the Texas and Pacific Railroad Company’s Phoenix station at 11:55 A.M., right on schedule. Even worried about his daughter, Chane looked at his watch and said, “More of my trains arrive on schedule than any other company’s.”
Jennifer smiled. Her husband took a great deal of pride in his work. Chane carried his sleeping son, and Jennifer carried Amy, who was awake now and groggy and fretful. Jennifer covered Amy’s head with a light blanket, but the girl pushed it aside and cried. “Shhhh,” Jennifer whispered, “you need to keep this over your head.”
As they stepped out onto the platform, Bill Penney, the stationmaster, hurried toward them. Penney was a tall, thin man who looked more like a town doctor. His hair had all been worn off, probably from worrying over schedules and wearing a green eyeshade eighteen hours a day. He lived alone and rarely went home except to change clothes and eat.
“Got some news for you, Mr. Kincaid,” Penney said, pushing his eyeshade up on his forehead.
“Oh?”
“It’s about your sister, Mrs. Forrester.”
Chane led the group into the shade of the covered platform. “What about her?”
“We got her palace car back a week or so ago all shot up. The brakeman had been killed and Lars was shot bad. He’s still laid up in Camp Picket Post.”
“Oh, no!” Jennifer whispered.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Amy whined.
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