"On the other side of the river, right at the ford, there's a covered wagon. I couldn't see anyone moving around, and there's no livestock anywhere. It's like it's been abandoned." He shook out the lash he wore strung on his wrist and popped his boot, causing his horse to sidle and stomp. "It's plumb in the middle of the path."
"Some sodbuster get lost? That's just what we need. They lose a wheel or bust an axle?" Steve surveyed the herd, two thousand four hundred sixty-one longhorns, every one of them wearing the Double K brand, every one of them his responsibility. From the lead steer to the dogies bringing up the drag, the herd spread out well over a mile, kicking up dust, bawling, winding over the prairie, a river of backs and horns, sounds and smells.
Near twenty-five hundred cattle, every one of them necessary to the future of the Double K. He had two more months to get the cattle to Dodge, sell them, and pay off the note on the ranch. The shock of finding out his father had mortgaged the land hit him anew. Dad had used the money to sink some wells and improve the property, but the terms of the loan were carpet-bagger steep. Steve had been forced to round up every steer he could find and get them on the trail with just a skeleton crew in order to try to meet the banker's timeline. But in eight more weeks, he'd wire the money from Dodge to Bandera, and the Double K would be freehold again. And perhaps he could start to salve the guilt that tore at him every time he thought of the widening gulf between himself and his brother. If only he'd handled things differently, not been away from the ranch when Henry needed him.
Steve tugged his gloves on tighter and lifted his gaze to the horizon.
Half a mile to the east, sunshine gleamed off the white canvas cover of the cook-wagon as it trundled along. His cook, Fuzzy, had been a thorn from the first day, and Steve wished he'd hired someone less cantankerous to be the cookie for this trip. The food wasn't bad, but the man was a malcontent, riling up everybody and complaining about everything. His attitude was like a canker, and the crew was restless and looking for trouble.
Wayne leaned over and spit into the grass. "Didn't appear to be broken down, but like I said, I couldn't spot any livestock—horses or oxen. Maybe they ran off? Maybe Indians stole them?"
Steve stood in his stirrups to ease the ache in his backside. He'd been in the saddle since long before sunup. Three hundred miles from the ranch near Bandera, and more than three hundred to go to Dodge City. "Let's take a look. I don't want anything to delay the crossing tomorrow."
They put their horses into a lope, and passed Bob Frye, riding point. Steve motioned for Bob to stay with the herd. As they approached the river bottom, Steve and Wayne had to slow their mounts, wending over rougher ground.
"There's plenty of sandbars. Looks like they had a heavy spring through here. Good for grass, but it scoured out the crossing." Wayne spoke over his shoulder as they filed toward the water's edge. "Lots of places for the cattle to bog."
Ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, Steve surveyed the approach to the river.
"We'll have to look sharp through here. There's the wagon, yonder." Wayne pointed, his lash swinging from his wrist.
Sure enough, a prairie schooner sat square in the crossing on the far bank. Wind flapped the canvas cover, but nothing else moved. Steve tugged a bandana from his pocket and wiped down the sweatband on his hat. "Guess we'd best have a look."
He replaced his hat and put his horse, a rangy bay the cowboys called Knothead, into the water. Brown eddies swirled around him, and Knothead sank a few inches into the soft river bottom. Diamonds of sunlight dappled the surface, and Steve squinted against the glare. At its deepest point, the water was stirrup-deep, splashing Knothead's belly and making him snort and plunge. Steve pulled him back into a walk, relaxing when he realized none but the youngest calves would have to swim.
Wayne, with no fear, plunged his horse into the river, sending arcs of water in every direction. They made the other side.
"Scout around, see if you can find anyone." Steve pointed upriver, and Wayne wheeled his dripping mount and galloped away.
The wagon had been here for at least a couple of days. Someone had strung a clothesline, and a pair of dungarees and a couple of calico dresses hung from it. They were bone dry and had a bit of dust on them. The ashy remains of a spent fire lay on a bare patch of ground about twenty feet from the wagon, and he could make out two sets of footprints, one large—boots—and one smaller—ladies' shoes. He circled the wagon. The wheels and axles all looked to be in fine shape. It was eerie, as if someone had dropped the wagon here from the sky. Other than the flapping of canvas and the ripple of water, it was silent.
"Hello? Anybody here?" He dismounted.
A low groan came from the wagon. He parted the canvas flap at the rear of the wagon and peered inside.
Not much in the way of supplies. A sack of flour. Some pots and pans. A small keg and some boxes. And a pallet near the front with a bundle lying on it, covered with a sheet.
Another groan, and the bundle moved. He flexed his fingers and gripped the tailgate, his heart rate picking up.
"Do you need help?" Though what help he could be, Steve didn't know. Maybe when Fuzzy got here with the chuck-wagon, the camp cook would know what to do. Fuzzy was the closest thing to a doctor they had, though that wasn't saying much.
No answer from the front of the wagon. Why didn't they respond? Steve tied Knothead to the tailgate with a few quick jerks, not taking his eyes off the interior of the wagon. He clambered inside and edged past the flour and the boxes, squatting beside the bed and easing the sheet down a few inches.
He jerked his hand back, drawing a quick breath. This was no sodbuster.
Scared eyes looked into his, dark eyes with dark, damp lashes. Then her eyes closed, and she groaned again. A flush rode her cheekbones, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
A sick woman? He was way off his own range here.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to intrude." He'd crab-walked a step toward the exit when her hand reached and clutched his shirt.
"Please." She gasped, squeezing his arm.
Her fingers bit into him with surprising strength for such a little thing. How long had she been here alone? Where was her family? Where was anyone? How sick was she?
She rolled onto her back, her belly rising in an unmistakable rounded arc that sapped his strength.
"You're having a baby?" His voice went high and ended on a squeak.
A nod as she moistened her lips. Damp, dark hair clung to her temples, and her hand rested on the top of her stomach.
"Now?"
Another nod. All the sand drained out of him as her whole body seemed to clench. Her grip on his hand intensified until his fingertips went numb.
"I sure wish you weren't doing that just now, ma'am."
"So do I," she whispered through clenched teeth.
He cast a glance through the canvas opening, wishing he were outside with nothing more to worry about than getting two thousand cattle safely to market. "Where're your people, ma'am? Your husband? Is he close by?"
She relaxed into the pallet, her hand going lax in his but not letting go. "He…" A sob escaped her throat. "He's dead."
Steve's heart sank like a boulder in a stream.
A horse galloped close. "Boss?" Wayne hollered. "I think I found something."
Steve loosened his hand from hers and patted the lady's shoulder awkwardly. "Don't go anywhere."
Stupid thing to say. Where was she going to go? Steve scrambled into the sunshine feeling as if he were escaping prison.
"Somebody in there?" Wayne leaned from his saddle to peer into the wagon.
"What'd you find?"
"A grave. Shallow, but a grave. No horses. Looks like they were stolen. Picket lines were cut. Who's in there?" Wayne swung his lash in a circle at his side, trying to see over Steve's shoulder.
"I want you to get back to the herd fast as you can. Tell Fuzzy to whip up those mules and get here quick. We've got trouble."
"What's going on?"
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "There's a lady in there, and she's…in the family way. And her time has come." How had he landed in this particular bowl of soup? Babies and trail drives didn't mix. What had that man been thinking, bringing her out here all alone, and her in such a delicate condition? How long would it take her to deliver? He didn't have time for delays. Every day lost could cost him the ranch. Not that his problems were the lady's fault. Still, he wished she'd found a different place to drop her young'un.
Wayne's eyes widened, and he sidled his horse a few steps away. "A baby?"
"Yeah, so don't dawdle. Tell Fuzzy to get here right now." Because sure as shootin', someone was going to have to help the lady. They couldn't leave her to do it alone.
Wayne whirled his mount and plunged into the water. Steve swallowed hard, his hands slick, and sent up a prayer that his men would be quick, and that the lady would wait to have her child until help arrived.
Kitty had prayed and prayed for help to come, but a rangy, dusty, sharp-eyed cowboy wasn't what she'd been hoping for. When she'd heard horses, she almost cried with relief, but common sense and fear took hold, and she stayed quiet, not knowing what manner of persons had stumbled upon her campsite. Why, it might even be whoever had stolen the livestock in the night.
Then the cowboy had climbed into the wagon. When he'd seen her, when he'd realized what was happening, he'd looked every bit as scared as she felt…which somehow reassured her that he wasn't an outlaw or renegade.
Another contraction struck low in her belly, and she sucked in a sharp breath against the pain.
Where was that cowboy? Had he abandoned her, too?
The pain dug in, and she grabbed fistfuls of bedding. I can't do this. She wanted to sob, but she hadn't the breath. For the first time in a very long time, she longed for her mother. For any woman. For anybody. At last, the contraction relented, and she opened her eyes.
He'd returned. Relief had her biting her lip and swiping at her eyes. Even a rough-hewn stranger was better than being alone.
"Ma'am, I sent for some help. Just sit tight and don't do anything until he gets here, all right?" He made a damping motion with his hands, his brown eyes filled with worry.
Her heart lifted. "A doctor?"
"No, ma'am. Fuzzy, my camp cook."
"A cook?" Was this man off in the head? She wasn't hungry, she was in labor.
"Yes, ma'am. He's the closest thing we got to a doctor." He glanced again at the back of the wagon as if wishing he could escape. "How long you been laboring? Is this your first baby?"
"Yes, my first." She tried to relax, but knowing another contraction was coming had her tensing in anticipation.
"What happened to your husband?"
"He had a fight with one of the mules and lost. Got kicked in the head. I told him to go easy, but that wasn't Mal's way, not with horses or people." She spoke through gritted teeth. Couldn't he see she was laboring here? He wanted to chatter like a magpie on a sunny day. She tried to relax her knotted jaw. Maybe he was trying to take her mind off the pain. "He lingered for a day, but he died last night. I think the grave-digging started my laboring this morning."
Another contraction began to build low in her back and wrapped around until it constricted tighter than a corset. Kitty grabbed for his hand and held on through the worst of the maelstrom. There was little time to rest between pains now, and she could feel her strength waning.
"Ma'am, can you slow this thing down? It will take Fuzzy awhile to get here." He nodded as if to encourage her to comply.
She glared at him. Slow it down? It was taking forever now. Exhaustion pulled at her body and mind, and her anger turned to tears. She couldn't stop them rolling across her temples and into her hair.
A horrified expression overtook his features, and he swallowed hard, rubbing his hand across his face, his whiskers rasping on his hard palm. "Don't do that. Don't cry. What can I do?"
Kitty made an effort to collect herself and wound up sniffing inelegantly, mopping her face with the sleeve of her nightgown. "I'm scared." The wavering, whispered admission brought more tears to her eyes.
"Me, too, ma'am. Just tell me what to do."
"I don't know what to do. I've never done this before."
"Well, that makes three of us."
"Three?" She frowned.
"You, me, and junior. I doubt junior's ever done this before either." He cracked a weak smile which broadened when she gave a small laugh.
The first warning pangs of another contraction hit her, and she swallowed hard, bracing herself for what was to come. Concentrating, she gripped his hand and looked hard into his eyes. "I suppose we should have something to wrap the baby in when it comes."
His eyebrows rose. "And by 'we' you mean you and Fuzzy, right?"
The pain gained momentum until she was sure she would split in two. Was it supposed to hurt this much? Was something wrong? Panic beat frantic wings against her ribs.
"I can't do this," she sobbed.
"It doesn't look like you have a lot of choice. Just hang on." He kept a tight grip of her hand, and her world narrowed to one of pain and the deep, rumbling voice of a stranger.
Where was Fuzzy? Where was Wayne? Where was anybody?
Steve eased his fingers from her grasp and changed hands, his poor digits protesting the mauling after the tenth time in an hour. Where did she get her strength? They'd been at this forever, it seemed.
In the distance, he heard familiar sounds. Hooves thudding, horns clacking, cows bawling. And closer by, splashing.
At last, horses crossing the river. Thank you, Jesus.
"Sounds like help's here. I'll be right back." He patted her shoulder before heading outside.
Wayne and Bob sat their horses at the riverbank, and when they saw him, they looked at each other. Bob jerked his head toward Wayne, who nudged his horse forward.
"Where's Fuzzy?" Steve demanded. He was about played out, and it was time for the cook to take over. Why hadn't the cookie ridden ahead and left Wayne to drive the wagon?
"He's crossing the wagon now, but he ain't happy." Wayne shrugged, smoothing his moustache.
The chuck wagon lurched and heaved, the team straining to pull it through the sandy river bottom. Fuzzy hollered and slapped the lines, practically standing in the wagon box, urging the mules on.
At last, they stood on the bank, sides heaving, water dripping. Fuzzy swung down, agile for a man of his years. "What's this all about? Wayne said somebody needed doctorin'." He looked over the campsite. "Gonna have to move that wagon if you're gonna cross the herd here."
Steve bit back a sharp reply. Fuzzy was forever telling him what he already knew, acting as if Steve couldn't get along without his cook's help. "There's a woman in there needs your help. Grab your kit."
Fuzzy's brows collided over his bulbous nose. "A woman? She hurt?"
"Didn't Wayne tell you? She isn't hurt, she's having a baby." A quiver hit Steve's gut at Fuzzy's stunned expression.
The brows nearly disappeared under his battered hat. "A baby? What do you expect me to do about it?"
"Go help her. You're the camp cook, so that means you do the doctoring."
"No way. I'll sew up cuts or set bones, but I ain't delivering no baby." He spat a long stream of tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll boil water or something, but no way am I getting in that wagon."
Fear and frustration had Steve snatching his hat from his head and smacking his thigh with it. He'd had it with his cross-grained, belligerent cook. "By thunder, I'm the boss here, and you'll do as you're told. Get in there and help that woman, or draw your pay."
Fuzzy's eyes went hard as marbles. "Then I quit. I ain't no midwife. She can deliver her mongrel herself, or you can help her, but either way, I'm done. Shouldn't have signed on with this crew anyway. No likker, no cards, no trips into any of the towns we pass. Might as well be cooking for a bunch of missionaries. Just gimme a sadd
le and a horse, and I'll make tracks."
Steve felt as if he'd slipped into a quicksand bog, amazed at how his day had gone from bad to worse in the space of a few minutes. "Fine." He turned to Bob and Wayne, the desire to punch something swarming him. Grinding his back teeth, Steve got hold of his temper. "Bob, you get back to the herd, make sure they don't get too strung out along the bank, then bed them down on the south side. Cut out a horse for him." He jerked his thumb toward the cook. "And give him the spare saddle out of the wagon. We'll still cross the cattle in the morning like we planned. Wayne, get a fire started and tote some water. We're gonna need it soon."
They nodded, and Wayne swung from the saddle. Gratifying to see someone hop to when he gave orders. As Ben raised his reins to head back to the herd, Steve put his hand up and stepped close. "Put one of the Baxter boys on the remuda and send Henry here."
"He won't like that much."
"He doesn't have to like it. He just has to do it."
"Sure thing, boss."
Wayne plowed his horse into the river, while Fuzzy climbed into the chuck wagon to pack his things, no doubt.
"What about the lady?" Wayne tied his horse to the side of the wagon and unhooked the water bucket.
"You wanna help her have her baby?"
"No way." He spread his big hands, palms outward, shaking his head.
Me either. But he saw no hope for it.
"Mister?" Her voice drifted through the canvas cover, sending a quake of dread through him.
"Coming." Steve turned to go back to the wagon.
"Anything else we can do, boss?" Wayne asked.
"You can pray."
* * *
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The Road Home by award-winning author Winnie Griggs
Unable to operate since a devastating accident, surgeon Wyatt Murdoch is left wondering what to do with his life. He reluctantly agrees to escort two young orphans to their only remaining relative, a great-uncle who lives in Texas.
The Gentleman's Quest Page 9