Ballenger fixed Ben with a hard look. “Are you sure this is the place?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Ben wheeled Ivy about, took her down the path to the edge of the river where they’d plunged in the previous day, and while she drank as before, gazed across the current to where they’d made their mad dash through the cane. “I crossed over and rode away, over there—you can see marks of my horse’s passage there. I was certain I heard them pursuing.”
“They forded the river in the cold?”
“Well, who knows what they’d do,” another countered.
Ben gritted his teeth. If they could detect no sign of the ruffians’ passage, or of his encounter with them, how was he to prove helpful?
“Hie now,” Welsh said, “I think I’ve found something.”
Rachel took the bundle of letters from the post rider, handed him the ones that had been waiting the last three days, then tucked the required coin into his palm. While he examined both, she riffled through the stack he’d handed her. Familiar names, some of them, and others not—
Her own name leaped out at her, in an unfamiliar but beautiful, even hand. She turned it over to find “B. Langford, Esq.” and “Stanford, Kye” written on the other side.
“Will this be all?” the post rider asked.
Rachel looked up, her heart pounding a guilty rhythm for—well, for the simple act of quickening at the sight of that name. “Sorry—aye. Did I give you enough?”
“Aye.” After stowing the letters in his bag, he leaned from the saddle, his gaze warm with an appreciation she wished was not so very familiar. “Unless—you’d wish to add a kiss to sweeten the day and speed me along.”
She forced a laugh and flapped a hand at him. “Be off with you, Johnny. You know I don’t give those away.”
He smiled, slow and lazy. “I could make it worth your while.”
Rachel stepped back. “Most emphatically not. Now go.”
Holding the smile, he touched his fingertips to his hat brim and turned his horse toward the road. “One can always hope. And ask. Good day to you, Rachel!”
Shaking her head, she retreated back inside and set all but the one letter upon the counter for others to find when they came in. But hers—she found herself trembling a little, and unwilling to open it in sight of others, much less share the moment with them, so she slipped it into her pocket for later.
All afternoon, however, it seemed to burn there, and finally, stealing a moment where no one seemed to need anything, Rachel stole away, through the storage room and out the back door, where the light was already fading into evening but she could still easily read without a lamp. She broke the seal, red wax imprinted with an embellished “L,” and unfolded the vellum.
Expensive stuff, for a simple note. But then, she knew what kind of family Ben came from. And hopefully this meant he’d found his cousin, and Thomas’s older brother.
Stifling the sudden little catch to her breath, she focused on the script.
Stanford, Kentucky, Dec. 19, 1798
Dear Miss Taylor,
I am writing to inform you I arrived safely at my cousin’s house in Stanford. I have learned that it was indeed my cousin Thomas who met such an unfortunate end.
I covet your prayers as tomorrow I join the posse riding out to seek those suspected of his murder. Thank you for those you have offered on my behalf already, for they have doubtless been all that kept me from a similar end today, on my journey here.
A chill struck Rachel. Was that the very next day after she’d felt such urgency to pray for his protection—and had God answered that prayer so immediately? One hand stole up to cover her mouth as she quickly read the next lines.
I do not know, of course, when I might have opportunity to write again, but I will do all in my power to keep you apprised of our progress. Your friendship is greatly appreciated at this time, and even more so for its unexpectedness.
Ever your servant,
Benj. J. Langford, Esq.
Rachel looked again at the date. Three days ago. He’d been riding about, then, for the last two. Christmas would be in three more, hence. Would they find Sally and the others before then? If not, would Ben miss being with his family?
Christmas was a quiet affair at best out here. Maybe a little feu de joie, more these days since the Shawnee were less of a threat, she was told. The Cherokee, now, were still something else, but even they seemed to enjoy Christmas festivities back in Knoxville—probably a little too much.
She scanned the letter again, refolded it, and tucked it back into her pocket then hurried back to work.
She’d most certainly be praying. Every spare moment.
They’d found a clear trail at last. And even Ben thought he could follow this one.
It was a marvel how these sharp-eyed frontier men could discern what was amiss and what was not in the lay of the forest. From their conversation, he caught bits and pieces of what went into tracking, and though he wanted to know more, he felt it best to leave them to what they knew while they were on the hunt. And so he did a lot of standing back out of the way, holding the reins of other men’s horses, during their stops to examine a particular location.
After finding faint sign where Ben was nearly waylaid, the search party had combed what seemed every square inch of wilderness between that portion of the Road and southwestward for almost four more days, finding trails and losing them again. But still they pressed on.
He’d also watched them bear the hardships of making camp with humor and a resignation that Ben supposed simply came with living out here on the frontier. He of course was subjected to much teasing about sleeping on the ground, wrapped only in a blanket with saddlebags as his pillow, but Ben assured them he was willing to endure as much as they, under the circumstances. It was true that his coat and breeches were looking worse for wear, and a casual hand across his own jaw attested to the sore lack of opportunity to use a razor.
Captain Ballenger caught him scratching at the scruff on his chin and shot him a wry grin. “Another day or two, and you might have promise of a real beard there.”
Ben laughed. If such a thing would give him credibility among these men, he’d gladly forego shaving.
Today, however, on their fifth day on the hunt, there was a decided lack of humor. “Happy Christmas to us,” one man muttered as they shared coffee around the fire.
Ben counted the days. Surely enough, it was. He lifted his tin mug to his lips. “And how do your families observe the day, here on the frontier?”
As they had with other questions, they narrowed their eyes at him, as if to discern whether he meant it a criticism or was simply making conversation.
“It’s an honest question,” he added. “If I consider settling, it’s good for me to learn the ways of the folk who live here, and even if I don’t—I ask out of curiosity.”
“Some folk don’t hold with much celebratin’ at all,” Welsh answered. “And those what do, well, it’s anything from a simple dinner with family and mebbe neighbors, to enjoyin’ a bit of spirits and a feu de joie.”
Ben nodded. “It’s much the same where I come from, in southwestern Virginia. There’s more gaiety in cities farther east, however.” He offered a rueful smile. “I suppose it depends as well upon what church you align yourself with.”
A few chuckles greeted his statement. “Aye, that has some to do with it,” Ballenger said. “And whatever our views on church, well, we can agree that these men need to be brought to justice.”
With a hearty sound of agreement, they broke camp and were back in the saddle shortly after.
It made Ben contemplate, though, where folk did sit on the matter of religion. Did people on the frontier still respect the laws prohibiting travel on the Sabbath? How many were irreverent, or were they simply more private about their faith? He suspected the latter, with how quick most were to speak of prayer, or express gratitude for offers of such.
He supposed too that their courage and determination in fa
cing the task before them had no small thing to do with it as well.
Thank You for this company of men who have given themselves to find Thomas’s murderers, whatever their standing before You. Only—please give us favor in the actual finding! They need to be home with their families.
To his surprise, it was not long before the cry went up that fresh sign had been found of a small party’s passing.
They went forward with more caution until, as the ground grew rougher and the vegetation more tangled—notwithstanding the lack of summer foliage—someone called a halt and Ballenger sent two of the men ahead, creeping through the underbrush. They returned in short order. This time everyone dismounted, and securing their horses at the bottom of a gully, all gathered up their weapons and filed up the slope as silently as they could, skirting one hill before climbing a bit, and then—
Suddenly, there they were. Five travelers, huddled around a fire built half beneath a tree, no doubt to help diffuse the smoke. With a silent signal from Ballenger, the seven men rushed the camp, arms at the ready. Ben carried one pistol but had holstered the other under his coat.
Heart pounding, he kept his place between two of the other men as they converged upon the party, lifting his pistol to sight at the bigger of the two men. Cries came from the women, and all raised their hands as they gazed, openmouthed, at their assailants.
Three women, to be exact. All obviously with child.
Ben hardened himself to that, for the moment, and kept his attention on the men. Both bareheaded, shaggy, looking as if neither had seen a comb, much less shears, for at least half a lifetime. The bigger man was of darker complexion, his hair an indeterminate black and several weeks’ worth of beard obscuring rough features. It could not hide the cunning in that face, however, despite an obvious attempt to look unassuming, nor the way his gaze flicked this way and that before at last settling on Ben.
Those dark eyes met Ben’s. Recognition flared. A slow smile curved the man’s mouth.
Ben could not keep himself from a quick, hard swallow, and fought the urge to dry his palms on his breeches.
Lord God, You are my hope and confidence, and will keep my foot from being caught.
“You are under arrest for the murder of Thomas Langford,” Ballenger was saying, while he drew out lengths of rope. With the assistance of the others, he began to bind the men.
“Good morningtide to you as well,” the big man said in a heavy Scots brogue, a smile still playing about his mouth.
Ballenger made no comment but turned to the women. “My apologies, but I’ll have to bind y’all also.”
The woman wrapped in what was no doubt the cloak Rachel had described gave a grave nod. And she was almost certainly, also by Rachel’s description, not Sally.
The other men appeared to be treating the women with deference, so Ben could take his time, continue to watch and listen while he considered how he best could assist in the situation now.
And not betray how much he knew of these people, without good reason.
They performed a quick search of the ragged party’s belongings and found items that had definitely belonged to Thomas—among them, the account book that Farris had mentioned. And tethered next to two scrawny packhorses, Ben recognized Dandelion, the chestnut gelding Thomas had favored, which was a half sibling to his own. The evidence was enough to confirm they’d found their men and were well justified in hauling them back to Stanford to be tried for murder.
Hands bound behind them, said men were made to walk while heavily guarded. The women, however, would be mounted on the three horses, but when the tallest, wearing the blue cloak, would have claimed Thomas’s horse, Ben took it and approached the smallest of the females.
She stood back, head down, still clutching a ragged blanket about herself with her bound hands, although the edge had fallen back to reveal hair that might have been golden, or could be again, with a good washing. Ben could scarce believe any female would let herself become so unkempt.
“Will you allow me to help you up?” he asked.
The poor creature gaped at him as if he uttered a foreign tongue. Was she that unused to being spoken kindly to, or—?
“You would prefer riding to walking, would you not?”
Her mouth closed, and her cheeks washed red. “I would gladly ride,” she murmured, so softly he nearly did not catch the words.
He bent to give her a foot up into Dandelion’s saddle. While settling herself, her eyes flicked back to him, suddenly sharp. “Have a care in showing me any favor. They’ve killed a man, before, for appearing too solicitous of their women.”
The chill of her words struck where the morning air could not. He resisted the urge to look over at the men they’d apprehended. “To appear less solicitous would be ungentlemanly,” he said.
She blinked then drew the blanket more firmly about herself and turned a little away. “Well, pray don’t talk to me less’n you need to, at least.”
He so wanted to speak, if only to ask her name and about the cloak. The woman wearing the garment was seated now on one of the other packhorses, leveling a narrow-eyed glare upon the girl riding Dandelion, behaving as though she were queen despite having her hands tied before her.
Perhaps, in this party, she was.
The shorter of the two men—and he was not small by any means, topping Ben’s height by a finger or two—looked none too pleased at Ben’s attentions himself. The bigger man, however, met Ben’s gaze and once again smiled.
This time Ben held the look, first with one man then the other, until they were both prodded into motion by others.
Patience. He’d plenty of time to speak with the girl.
Still, Rachel’s request pressed upon him, and mounting Ivy, he let the others go ahead until only Ballenger’s second-in-command remained and motioned him to take the next-to-last place in the line. Leading Dandelion, with the rest of the girl’s party safely beyond earshot, Ben looked back. “Are you Sally?” he asked, keeping his words quiet.
Her head snapped up, the blue eyes wide again.
“I am acquainted with your friend Rachel.”
“Rachel Taylor?” Her voice quivered, pitching dangerously high.
“Shh—you don’t want the others to hear. But, yes.”
Tears welled instantly in her eyes. “I—saw her. Or thought I did. Days ago, before—”
She bent in the saddle, as doubled as her belly would allow, and pressed her forehead to her fists. An answering pang echoed through Ben’s breast. Glancing ahead to be sure they weren’t watched, he said, “Do not speak of that here. I am only bid inform you that Rachel has been praying for you.”
A strangled sound escaped the girl, and her shoulders shook with weeping.
Why? Why would God be so cruel as to send her a reminder of that last conversation she’d had with Rachel, now? When all was completely ruined?
Unless—unless He meant it as a reminder that He truly was with her, and this was not ruination but the beginning of her rescue, as she’d prayed for, herself, for so long. Could it be? Dare she even let herself contemplate it?
And how could Rachel be thinking of her, after all this time and all she’d doubtless heard of their misadventures? Sally saw the looks, everywhere they went. Knew what folk thought of them. It wasn’t like Sally was fine folk before, but she’d been a good girl—until Wiley. Now she was a mere step above offal. Maybe not even a step.
She scrubbed at her face with her sleeve and straightened but could not bring herself to look at the handsome, well-dressed man leading the very fine horse she rode—a horse that Micajah had himself claimed through such foul means—and riding another that was clearly of the same quality. “How fares Rachel these days?”
“She seems well.”
“Was it her brother’s trading post where you saw her?”
He nodded and hazarded her a glance. “You should probably know I am also a friend of Hugh White, who Rachel tells me served as witness to your wedding.”
She couldn’t help it—but just found herself gaping at him. “And how on earth would you know him?”
Except—another glance at his fine apparel, and she could guess it had something to do with both of them being of society.
“We attended school together,” he said, quietly.
School. Which meant—
“You’re a man of the law?”
He nodded again, shortly.
She swallowed back a hard lump in her throat. Should she be heartened by this knowledge, or threatened?
“I’ll do all in my power to aid you,” he said, his gaze suddenly severe. “But I must have your cooperation.”
And what would that require of her? To turn on Wiley? She stared ahead at him, and he must have felt the weight of her gaze, because he turned and looked back. His mouth curved in something halfway between a smile and a sneer, then his guard yanked him back around.
Wiley, who had given her away to Micajah without a fight, who she’d seen step up and deliver a killing blow with as much relish as his brother. Gritting her teeth against the sick feeling wrenching her gut, she hardened herself.
“I’ll do whatever’s necessary,” she whispered.
Perhaps this really was the beginning of a rescue.
They arrived back in Stanford with their charges by late afternoon and proceeded to the jail, a small but stout log building located just beside the courthouse in the center of the town, right on the Frankfort Road, once called only Logan’s Trace. Ballenger sent and summoned the clerk from Christmas dinner to sign the prisoners in. Ben stood by, listening, while the men gave their names as Micajah Roberts and Wiley Roberts.
“Not Harpe?” he asked.
Micajah, the bigger of the two, swung around to level a stare upon Ben. “We air the Roberts family,” he said at last.
The clerk glanced uneasily between Ben and the prisoners and Ballenger, who waved a hand and growled, “Record it as Roberts for now.”
Ben nodded, and the women were herded forward. The tallest stepped up. “I’m Susanna Roberts.”
The Blue Cloak Page 8