Trail Angel

by Derek Catron

  Josey listened as Proctor and the Colonel took each other’s measure, comparing where and with whom they’d served. “And you, Mr. Angel—” The captain’s tongue seemed to get twisted in his mouth.

  The Colonel laughed. “Everyone calls him Josey Angel.”

  Looking embarrassed, Proctor nodded curtly to Josey. “Of course, I’m familiar with your, uh . . . with you, sir. I was uncertain whether the sobriquet was to your liking.”

  “Just call me Josey.”

  Proctor relaxed once they settled to business. The Colonel told him about the attack on Caleb. “It’s amazing he survived,” Proctor said. “The Indians have killed nearly a dozen men—the ones I know about, at least.”

  “Open warfare?”

  “No. Nothing so dramatic. Sneak attacks and ambushes, mostly. It started near Crazy Woman Creek last Tuesday. Four companies were camped on their way to resupply Fort Phil Kearny. A few Indians sneaked past the pickets, cut loose the horses and charged off on the bell mare. Stampeded all the loose horses and mules. In the fight that followed, two infantrymen were killed.

  “It wasn’t a full-out assault, by any means,” Proctor added quickly. “But it was organized.”

  The Colonel looked to Josey. Neither liked the idea of leading the emigrants through the same area. “It might have been worse.”

  Proctor nodded. “It gets worse. Later, a patrol came upon several destroyed wagons. Covers were torn to shreds. Loot strewn all over. They found five dead civilians, another mortally wounded.” He swallowed hard. A war veteran, Proctor had seen carnage. His pause suggested something new in the experience. “All of them were mutilated in the most horrible fashion.”

  “They told us in Omaha we would be safe, between the treaty and the forts.”

  Proctor shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes directed to his desk. “Yes, well, I wouldn’t say they lied. . . .”

  They were silent a moment before Proctor regained the initiative, telling them of his new commander, who had marched on to build two additional forts along the trail. “Colonel Carrington has ordered that all civilian trains be consolidated to protect against further attacks. The Indians haven’t dared assault a well-armed wagon train.”

  He cleared his throat and straightened his coat. His focus returned again to his desk. “Your arrival is quite timely. News of this unrest has put me in a predicament. I have a company of infantry prepared to leave for Fort Phil Kearny, but we’ve been anticipating any day now reinforcements from Laramie, including a surgeon and the fort chaplain. Given the circumstances, I’ve been loathe to delay the company any longer than necessary, but the reinforcements will need a scout.”

  Realizing his shirt was untucked, Proctor stood straighter and fixed himself. He also seemed to remember he was the only officer in the room still commissioned by the U.S. Army.

  “I’ve had only one scout I trusted to lead the infantry to Fort Phil Kearny and no one to guide the reinforcements once they arrive,” he said, looking from the Colonel to Josey and back to the Colonel again. “Until now.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  A full moon was rising when Annabelle stepped lightly from her family’s wagon. She paused to listen that her father’s steady snores did not alter before she stole away into the darkness.

  It was a cloudless night, and cooler for it. Her mother had wrapped hot stones in blankets to leave at the foot of their mattress to warm the bed, but the rocks had lost their heat. Nights were peculiarly beautiful here, the rarity of the atmosphere magnifying the starlight so that it seemed there were twice as many stars in the sky as she remembered at home. Their light dimmed as the moon rose, shining like a beacon so bright Annabelle worried her efforts at stealth would be exposed for the whole camp to see.

  No one stirred. They were enjoying a restful night in the relative safety of the fort. Few had slept the previous night after Josey brought Caleb Williams into camp, barely alive after a savage Indian attack. The burly handyman had lost consciousness and fell into a fevered fit from which he still hadn’t recovered.

  Annabelle made a wide berth around the watch fire of the men tending the stock. The previous night they had doubled the guard, and they hadn’t set a fire because Josey said it would mark their position. Instead, they dug rifle pits, lying in wait for anyone intending to steal a cow or horse. Josey had been awake the entire night.

  With less cause to worry tonight, Josey and Byron had kept the first watch by themselves. Annabelle counted the hours until she judged Josey’s turn would be finished. After hearing the news that their wagons would be joining the infantry and moving on without him, she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She had to see Josey again.

  Since what she had come to think of as their “bath” in the river, heightened fears over Indians had made it impossible for them to steal away. Annabelle wanted to believe the circumstances were as aggravating to Josey, but he gave away so little of his thoughts. Niggling doubts nettled her mind like a loose thread she couldn’t leave alone—even at the risk of unraveling her peace of mind.

  Things happened so quickly that day by the river. With no time to think, the skeptical part of her mind couldn’t stop what happened. Her doubts multiplied afterwards, and she’d been relieved they hadn’t been alone since then. That changed at dinner when the Colonel shared the news he and Josey wouldn’t lead them to the next fort. He might as well have said they were joining an Indian band for all the sense it made to her.

  Her father had known. He never looked up as the Colonel spoke, even at the exclamations of surprise from her mother, her aunt Blanche and the others. Her father explained the logic of the decision after the Colonel moved on to the next cook fire. They would have a whole company of soldiers to escort them and would be guided by the legendary mountain man Jim Bridger. The Colonel and Josey would wait and lead the reinforcements coming up from Laramie.

  Her father tried to mollify them. “Without our ox-pulled wagons to slow them down, they will probably make the next fort about the same time we do.” As much as she struggled to quell her doubts, dread tormented Annabelle. Weeks of frontier travel had taught her this country was so big even a man as capable as Josey could get lost in it. Especially if it were in his mind to do so.

  Annabelle found him beneath his blankets, using his coat and a roll of clothes as a pillow. He had been looking to the skies as if counting stars when she noticed him, his figure a shadow against the gray ground. His face glowed in the moonlight when he turned toward her.

  “You don’t look surprised to see me.”

  “I heard you coming.”

  She kneeled beside him, lowering her voice to a whisper. “What if I had been an Indian? Or a road agent?”

  “If you had been an Indian, I wouldn’t have heard you. You don’t sound—or look—like a road agent.”

  “Aren’t you glad for that?” She took off her shoes and slipped out of the quilt she’d wrapped herself in. Beneath it, she wore a white cotton chemise. The fabric was loose and light and left her calves and feet exposed. Josey had seen her so often in a boy’s riding clothes, she wanted to come to him tonight dressed like a woman.

  He lifted his blankets in invitation. “You must be freezing.”

  Eagerly, she moved beside him. He wore the clothes he had bought in Laramie. She nestled against the soft flannel shirt, shivering at the change in temperature. The cold slipped away, leaving her as comfortable as she’d ever been in a feather bed with downy covers. “I couldn’t let you leave without seeing you.”

  “You’ll see me again.”

  “Will I?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “You know I do.”

  He looked at her, a hesitation giving her time to turn away, but she didn’t, an unspoken request granted as her eyes held his. Their lips met tentatively, once, twice, again. He pulled her tight. Her thin nightdress left her aware of his body almost as much as she had been at the river when they wore nothing. Josey’s next kiss left her breathless. H
e allowed her head to fall against his chest, and he stroked her hair, seeming to breathe her in.

  She needed to unburden herself, to tell him what had happened to her. She couldn’t live with the dread of wondering again when a man might leave her. With Richard, she had been sure one day he would decide his need for progeny outweighed any marital obligations. His death, ultimately, came as a guilty relief. Better to be a childless widow than cast aside as barren and useless.

  With Josey, she felt a passion she had never known—and felt it returned in full. This was how love should be, how they wrote about it in books: unbridled emotion, feelings so unmanageable they frightened her, excited her, consumed her. She could no more stop feeling than she could cease drawing breath. The only thing that frightened her more than how he might respond to her infertility was the thought that she would never see him again, never have the chance to sort through the rest of her feelings.

  That’s what she should tell him, she decided.

  Annabelle opened her mouth, still uncertain which word should come first—when she recognized the steady rhythm of his breaths as sleep. The poor man. Extra guard duty left him so tired he couldn’t stay awake even with a woman pressed against his waist.

  She nestled tighter against him. His legs twitched, but his breaths remained steady. She should sleep, too. Her body ached from the day’s trek as it always did, but her mind whirled as active as at noontime. She recalled what it had been like to sleep with her husband, but thinking of that only brought back bad memories. Better to think of the man beside her now.

  She allowed a hand to rest on his hip, her touch tentative at first, not wishing to wake him. It surprised her that he slept so well beside her. He’d told her he was a fitful sleeper. She smiled to think he rested more easily with her. Why does he have to choose this moment to demonstrate that?

  She nudged him with her leg.

  He moved but settled into the same position.

  She pushed him again, using her arm along with her leg.

  He stirred.

  “Are you awake?”

  He did not answer.

  She repeated the question, louder this time.

  He responded. Annabelle took a breath, thinking of how best to delicately broach the subject of her miscarriage and condition.

  “I cannot give you children.”

  Annabelle rolled back and fell against the ground. After all that time strategizing the best way to share her secret, she had blurted it out, subtle as a church bell. It wasn’t even what she’d intended to say.

  He grunted in response without moving. Annabelle began to panic. Had he not heard? Had he heard and feared speaking? She repeated herself as she pushed against him so he faced her.

  “I cannot give you children.”

  “So you say.” He sounded groggy. “It matters not to me.”

  He attempted to roll away, but she stopped him.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Of course, it matters.” Her mind whirled, searching for explanations for his reaction. She found none. “You might pretend it does not matter in the heat of our bed, but it will matter one day. Don’t let me think it doesn’t matter while you plot how to remove yourself from me.”

  He turned to her, blinking sleep from his eyes, his forehead creased.

  “You are mine. You will give me children, or you won’t give me children. If you wish to have children, we will take in orphans or Indian babies or bear cubs, for all I care. So long as you are contented. So long as you are mine.”

  He rolled away from her, the subject closed. Annabelle lay back, looking at the stars, their number diminished by the moon’s brightness. She started to laugh, a release of tension. “I should have told you sooner.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “I suppose not, not then.” Passion has a way of clouding the mind, especially in a man. “It will matter more later.”

  He turned back to her. “I was dead to the world until I met you. You gave life to me. If the price God demands for restoring me to life is that I shall have no children, well, I have you. I have life. Nothing else matters.”

  Relief warmed her, but she didn’t trust the feeling. “You may feel differently when you are older, thinking of the grave, with no child to carry on your name.”

  “No one can pronounce it anyway.”

  “Don’t tease me, Josey.”

  “Would that I could be an old man, if you are with me. I never thought I would outlive the war. You believe you can’t bear children. Ours is not to say.” He smiled mischievously, his hand sliding around her waist to her thigh. “Besides, we’ve only just started. I intend to practice diligently.”

  She pushed his hand away. She wouldn’t let him joke this away.

  “It’s not just a belief. I was pregnant once, but I was hurt and lost the baby. The doctor said I can’t have children.”

  He rose on an elbow and looked at her. “Doctors can be wrong.”

  “I can’t count on that.” Her throat grew tight, choking the words. She blinked back the tears welling. She turned away, but he moved his hand to her face.

  “It does not matter. Time will—”

  “No.” She put a hand to his lips. “Do not give me false hope. It will hurt more when I see your disappointment later.”

  “You won’t see it.” He took her hand, squeezed. “I am not he. He didn’t love you as I do. You are mine. That is all I care about.”

  He kissed her, silencing any reply she might offer as his hands moved greedily over her body. He is wrong. It will matter to him someday. Then she stopped thinking.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Caleb drifted gently until a stiff breeze off the harbor set his boat rocking. His eyes closed, he breathed in salt air, ignoring the pain as his chest expanded, forgetting the soreness in his limbs. He inhaled again, but instead of salt or the rotten-fish smell of shore, he took in horse dung, pine tar, leather. Instead of the lapping of water against the boat or the shriek of a gull, he heard the creak of harness, the crack of bullwhips, the braying of mules, the rustle of wagon canvas flapping in the wind.

  He opened his eyes. Waited for them to adjust to the darkness. He was in a wagon. He breathed again, his ribs pinching in protest against sodden clothes. An odd chemical smell cut through the others, and he knew it wasn’t his wagon. Swallowing took effort. His lips were gummy. Lifting his head, he cringed, feeling as if someone were taking a hammer to it. More slowly, he lifted his head again. A small glow from the back of the wagon alerted him to another man’s presence. Caleb’s movements, slight as they were, drew his attention.

  “Good morning. I’m pleased to see you’re still with us.” The man moved with practiced ease among the boxes and trunks whose forms emerged from the shadows as the man approached with his lamp. He took a seat on a box beside Caleb. “How do you feel?”

  Impatient for an answer, the man put a hand to Caleb’s forehead. Caleb started to speak, but his head grew heavy. Thoughts formed slowly, like his mind trudged through waist-high water.

  “Where . . . ?” His voice rasped. He needed water but couldn’t remember how to ask for it.

  “You’re in an ambulance wagon. I’m Dr. Hines, the surgeon posted to Fort Phil Kearny, with the Eighteenth Infantry Regiment. We’re in a train headed to the fort.”

  Nothing the man said made sense to Caleb. The darkness faded, or maybe his vision cleared. Dr. Hines was a fine-boned man, with a wispy mustache and a tousle of dark hair that seemed electrified.

  “Water . . . ?”

  “Yes, of course. I should have thought of that.”

  The little man moved almost noiselessly amid the tight confines of the wagon, reminding Caleb of a monkey he had seen in a street show. The doctor held a canteen to Caleb’s lips, cradling his head with one hand. Caleb’s throat was so parched the water burned. In his greed for more, he leaned forward and gagged, water spilling down his chin and onto his chest, cool against his skin. He coughed and collapsed, completely spent f
rom the effort.

  “Easy does it. We don’t want you drowning now that the fever’s broken.”

  Caleb struggled to breathe. “What . . . ?”

  “You took a fever after the Indians left you for dead,” the doctor said as he wiped Caleb’s face and neck with a cool, moist cloth. “You might not feel it now, but you’re a lucky man, at least compared with the others the Indians have taken. They did no permanent harm that I can see. I expect it was an infection that nearly did you in.”

  “Indians?” The doctor didn’t seem to hear the question. Still feeling like his mind was under water, Caleb needed a moment to catch up. He remembered the captain and Harrison. Apparently, they had nearly taken their theatrical touches too far. Before he asked another question, the doctor lifted his head and brought the canteen to his lips.

  “Slowly, this time. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

  Caleb obeyed. The water no longer burned. Caleb swallowed gratefully as the doctor laid his head back. His mind started to clear.

  The gold.

  Caleb might have leaped out of the wagon if he’d had the strength. Alarmed at his sudden thrashing, the doctor placed a firm hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Lie back, please. You’re not strong enough to be moving around.”

  This was true. Too weak to resist even this tiny man, Caleb fell back. His mind, no longer wading, had taken flight. “My wagon,” he managed. “Where are my things?”

  The doctor misunderstood his concern. “You’re perfectly safe. You’re in a military train now.” His voice controlled, soothing his patient. “It’s Caleb, isn’t it? May I call you Caleb?”

  Caleb’s panic invigorated him, and he grabbed the doctor’s bony wrist with a strength that surprised the smaller man. “Where’s my wagon?”

  Wincing, the doctor attempted to pull away but gave up the idea. “Your friends went ahead to the fort.”

  I don’t have any friends. “They left me behind?” In his anger, Caleb squeezed, eliciting a yelp from the doctor.

  “They didn’t leave you behind,” he said through gritted teeth. “They left you in the care of a doctor.” He explained, something about a military train and reinforcements. Between his muddled head and concern for the gold, Caleb couldn’t keep up.