None of this made sense. He felt as if he’d been beaten with big sticks and trampled by buffalo, a whole lot of them. Norbert closed his eyes again, ran his thick tongue around his mouth. Same old teeth, but he tasted blood—what from?
Someone sighed nearby. Norbert forced his eyes open and saw legs, clad in tall moccasins, buckskin pants. He let his eyes travel up, squinting at the brightness of the sky. They ended up staring at an Indian who stared right back at him.
This could not be, could it? Norbert tried to speak. The words fetched up something awful. His mouth was so dry. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You savvy American lingo, Injun? Hey? I . . . I might could get you some money or whiskey. Maybe you like gold? I know of a place where there’s heaps of it. We was headed there.” Norbert looked at the man, more convinced with every second that this was one of the rascals who did all those horrible things to that body they found on the trail.
He felt his legs shake even more, knew they were about to give out on him. He had to do something, had to get away from him somehow. Had to let him know he wasn’t a threat. “I don’t want anything from you. Heck, I didn’t even want to be here, you savvy? Me . . . uh, I want to go away. I got kin back in Tennessee. That’s about all I got, I reckon. You set me free and I won’t bother you or anyone here, for the rest of my days. That’s a promise.”
Still the savage stared at him. He was even smiling, but not the sort of smile Norbert would guess meant anything friendly.
Norbert’s eyes skittered up and down him. Saw the mix of Injun and white clothes on him. Beaded buckskins. Couldn’t hate a man for wearing such practical attire. He’d sported them himself for years. Wore like iron, they did. Maybe he could appeal to him that way.
“Them folks I was with, I got no ties to them. Don’t owe them a thing. In fact, they owe me.” Norbert’s eyes widened. Here might be the way in. Might be he could convince him that he had promise, could make him money somehow. If only he knew what the Injun wanted.
The man circled around the tree so that he stood out of kicking reach, and every few seconds, he’d feint to either side, as if he were about to dart behind the tree and . . . what? Norbert had no idea what the man might do—lop off his hands? Bite him? Knife him in the back? Oh no, what if that Injun starts cutting skin off me like he did to that man on the trail?
Norbert, you have been in a pile of messes in your day, stuck behind Union lines in the war, hiding in that pile of corpses, then found and stuffed in that Yankee prison.
He watched this Injun, who was obviously more than Injun, and felt there was something odd looking about him, almost as if he had a touch of white man. It had something to do with the fact that he was decked out in white gear, had long reddish brown hair and odd-looking skin, and wore a Colt revolver and all.
But Norbert didn’t have time or inclination to think on that too much, because the Injun scared him right to his core, looked as though he knew everything going on in his mind. Looking at him, Norbert got the feeling that even if they could understand each other, there wouldn’t be a thing he could say or do to prevent what he might do to him.
Might? Fool, Norbert, he told himself. This boy is, sure as the sun comes up each day, going to gut you like he did that man back on the trail.
All of a sudden having a face full of beard and a topknot that he’d always been proud of, a full head of it like his pap and his mam’s pap too, didn’t feel like such a good thing.
He struggled against the rawhide thongs, but they were lashed too tight. The more he squirmed, the worse grew the cuts on his back from Rollie’s whipping. Soon he felt them open up again and seep. Blood began to drip into the snow. The sight of it, coupled with the shooting pains in his legs he still had from his dunk in the freezing river and the pictures in his mind of the body they’d found on the trail, all came together so hard that he couldn’t hold himself up any longer.
Norbert felt his legs go, first the left, then the right. He went with it and sagged, slumping down against the tree, the weight of his slight body jerking his arms high behind him, scraping against the rough bark. He didn’t care, could not even cry out. He was done for and he knew it.
The Injun spoke. He’d said a few words before Norbert realized he was hearing his own tongue. He’d been weeping silently, his chin on his chest. He looked up.
The man had moved closer, stood over him, looked down on him. The man repeated himself. “You weep, white man. Like a woman.”
“You . . . you speak American?”
“No,” he said.
Norbert looked over at him, his brow pulled tight in confusion.
“I speak English. Better than you, from what my ears tell me.”
“How is that? You one of them reformed savages?”
The Injun laughed. Norbert stiffened back against the tree and tried to stand.
The Indian spoke again. “If your ignorance were not so sad, it would be funny.”
“I don’t understand a thing about this at all,” said the wayward freighter, his voice wavering and whimpering. “Is there anything I can help you get? You want them wagons full of stuff? I could maybe help you pull off stealing them. Hey, hey, they got a white woman there. You want her? I bet Rollie’d part with her. Ain’t nobody wants any trouble with you all.”
“I do not want anything from a man who would trade a woman for himself.”
Before Norbert could respond, the Indian slipped behind him. Norbert struggled, clawing with his fingers at the too-tight leather wrappings. He felt the cool flat metal of a blade rest against his hand and stopped. But he couldn’t stop his breathing from sounding as if he’d run up a mountain without stopping. What was he going to do with him?
Then the Indian bent low, spoke in his ear: “You are the one who likes to swim, is that correct?”
Chapter 33
“I knew it! I dang well knew it!”
Those were the first words Hester heard, the words that forced her eyes open. And everything that had happened a few hours earlier in the dark of the early, early morning came back to her. And within seconds, she knew exactly why Rollie’s hoarse voice was once again rasping out rage.
“Now that I can see, it’s plain what happened here!” Rollie stood at the dead, cold fire, hands outstretched toward it anyway, as if the black coals would, by his will alone, spring to life and offer the warmth he wanted.
“What’s that, Rollie?” Bo said, walking back toward the cold camp, buttoning his fly after relieving himself a few feet away behind a tree.
“You idiot. It’s Norbert.”
“What? Naw, it ain’t neither,” said Bo.
“Do you see him anywhere around here?” Rollie stared wide-eyed at Bo, then at Shiner. “Do you?”
Both men looked at the trees, as if their friend might wander out. “Nope,” said Shiner.
“That’s because he killed them mules and took off! He was riled because I grazed him with the whip. I reckon he didn’t like that.”
Hester couldn’t help herself—she snorted back a chuckle.
“You think this is funny?”
“No, Rollie. In fact, I think it’s plain sad.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He walked over to her.
“Why would Norbert leave? Where would he go? Did he take his gear with him?”
Bo went over to the wagon, lifted the corner of a tarp. “His war bag’s still here, boss!”
“Shut up, Bo. And get away from there.” Rollie turned to face them all. “Course he left—and he took one of the horses, rode on out of here.”
“You really believe that?” Hester knew she was pushing her luck with him, but she couldn’t help it.
Rollie folded his arms and stood hipshot over her. “Well, now, Miss Smarty, what do you think happened?”
“Indians,” she said without hesitating.
“Oh no, no!” At mention of the word Indian, Bo pulled his pistol and hustled off toward the dead mules. “We got to get going, Rollie. This is bad.”
“Shut up, Bo. Go find the other animals.”
Shiner slowly turned in a circle, eyeing the thin, snow-filled scape around him.
“Don’t just stand there, you idiot,” yelled Rollie. “Go help Bo to round up them others. We only caught four so far and that ain’t enough to drag both those wagons, you hear me?”
He nodded heartily and stomped through the snow to the sagging picket line and the blood-spattered mess beneath it.
Rollie turned his attention back to Hester. He crouched down beside her, pulled his pistol, and ran the cold steel barrel tip up and down her face, tracing her strong chin. He smirked at her and gently dragged the snout of the barrel up the side of her face until it rested in the middle of her forehead. “Seems to me you know a whole lot about what happened here last night.”
“You would too, if you hadn’t been drunk.”
Instead of hitting her or shouting, as she expected, Rollie surprised Hester by nodding in agreement. “I reckon that is so, yes, indeed. But you got to understand something.” He leaned even closer, so that his mouth was inches from hers.
She smelled his breath, a gagging reek of tobacco, stale whiskey, food smells, and what seemed like vomit topping it all off. His teeth were clouding gray from neglect and several had pitted and were blackened in the middle. She tried not to look, tried not to breathe in as he spoke.
“You say the word Injun one more time in front of them two, or displease me in any other way, and I will kill you.” He pushed her forehead with the pistol again and held it there. Hester tried to remain calm, tried to not show the fear she felt knotting her insides. But she had never had a gun pointed at her forehead before meeting him, never had one jammed hard into her.
“Oh, I will have me some fun first, but make no mistake, you will end up poorly. Now, nod if you understand me.”
Hester felt her eyelids tremble and she could not help it. She nodded and hated doing so.
“Good.” He stood and turned away.
“Please untie my legs,” she said. “I need to . . .”
“Oh yeah.” He smiled and nodded. “Just remember,” he said as he slipped free his sheath knife and sliced through the binding wraps at her ankles. “Don’t try to run, ’cause a bullet travels faster than any person I ever seen.”
She told herself she’d keep that bit of information in mind, then test it on him as soon as she was able.
Twenty minutes later, Bo and Shiner had managed to round up seven animals, one of them Mabel-Mae. None had strayed far.
“Well, this’ll be cozy, won’t it? All of us riding in two wagons.” Shiner rubbed his stubbled head and looked at the haggard-looking animals.
“Can’t put three on a wagon. Ain’t enough to pull. And that mule belonging to Big Boy is bound to be useless in the traces. Have to go on with one wagon.”
They all looked at Rollie. He was red faced and shaking his head. “You and Bo empty that rear wagon, and the woman’ll ride up front with me.” Then as quickly as his rage emerged, it dwindled again. Rollie winked at Hester and patted her behind.
Impulse grabbed her, and Hester spun and kicked Rollie. She caught him on the side of the leg, below the knee. He buckled into the side of the wagon, clutching his leg, and howling in pain and anger. It didn’t take him but a moment to launch himself back at her.
She had already spun and headed off the trail into the trees, but the snow was deep and with her hands bound behind her, Hester’s balance was off. Rollie closed the gap, limping and cursing her. She looked over her shoulder as he lunged at her, his arms out to grab her by the shoulders. Hester sidestepped, lost her balance. He fell one way, she the other. They both struggled to stand in the cold snow.
Rollie was faster and she felt his fist slam clumsily into her shoulder blade, sending her back down into the snow, face-first. She thrashed, waiting for the second blow, guessing that she’d really stepped over the crazy man’s line this time, that he would do terrible things to her and then kill her. Without Delia, what would it matter. Still, she tensed and waited for the blow.
What she heard was a scream. But not from Rollie, from one of the men. It was a horrible sound. It reminded Hester of a child’s cry of terror at seeing something frightening, something it had never before experienced. But there was also pain mixed with the scream.
She opened her eyes and raised her head up out of the snow. Rollie stood above her, crouched with his arm raised to pummel her again. But he’d stayed his blow and looked toward the scream.
For a few seconds she saw nothing but the dark stalks of the trees rising from the stark white snow, a steel gray sky above seeming to push down on everything below it. The only things that moved in those few seconds were plumes of breath from the horses and mules, and then she saw Bo’s arms wagging up and down from behind a tree as if he were trying to fly.
“Bo? What in heck are you doing?” Rollie asked, but quietly, as if he were unsure if it were safe to shout.
Hester didn’t move, stayed crouched low. Then she saw Shiner rise from where he must have been crouched down in the snow by the animals. He strode hard through the snow, big strides bringing him to the wagons. He reached the nearest and ran around it until he was on the far side.
“What are you doing?” yelled Rollie, over his initial fear. “And what is going on with Bo?” He loped back down the slope, his Colt drawn. Hester heard him thumb back the hammer.
“Oh no, no, no, Rollie, don’t!” Shiner shouted, gesturing wide-eyed toward where Bo still stood behind a thick tree, his arms not flopping as rapidly as they had been.
Hester didn’t like the looks of any of this. She rose to her knees and crept upslope several feet until she reached a large tree with a snow-humped rock at its base. She angled low beside it and huddled there, unsure why she was doing so, but sensing that something was very, very wrong.
Rollie looked from Shiner to Bo, then shook his head and walked toward where Bo hid behind the tree. He was still a dozen feet from it when Hester saw him stop, as if jerked tight by an invisible rope attached to his back.
He stood that way for a few moments; then with arms spread wide, he stepped backward, once, twice, then turned and ran for the wagons.
Hester looked back to where one of Bo’s arms was still visible from behind the tree. And that’s when she saw blood drip, drip, dripping from his twitching, trembling fingertips.
Then, as she watched, he slipped into view, facing her. He held himself up, canted at an angle as if peeking out from behind the tree. The look on his face was something she was sure she would never forget. His eyes were wider than she’d ever seen anyone’s, his eyebrows arched high, and his black, rotten-toothed hole of a mouth had stretched tall in a silent scream. Beneath it, brilliant red blood gushed out as though a miniature waterfall over his bottom lip and down his stubbled chin, cascading down the front of the tangled mat of his buffalo coat and black wool shirt beneath.
Those frightened eyes seemed to stare right at her. Hester heard her breath drag into her throat and lock there as if pulled by an invisible hand from her gut.
Bo stepped once, twice from behind the tree, his full body visible. He made a sound like a failed shout that pushed a gout of blood spuming up from his mouth. It arched high into the air, spraying scarlet feathers across the white snow before him. Then he pitched forward, facedown in the snow. And from between his shoulder blades thrust upward a long, slender arrow, the feathered tip quivering rigid and final.
Hester stared at the scene for long moments, then forced herself to look beyond Bo’s body toward the direction from which the arrow would have come. But she could see nothing. No Indians, no movement in the snow, nothing but the humps of snow-covered rocks and slope and stunted pi
nes and the winter-stiffened silvery arms of aspens.
But instead of being gripped in dread, Hester instead felt a creeping weariness. What a strange few weeks this had been. Here she was, on a trip she hadn’t wanted to make, and now she was the one making it while the one who had wanted to make it, her deathly ill younger sister, had been left to die . . . by the man who now held her prisoner!
If Rollie Meecher was to be believed, the one kind person she’d met in the past many months, Big Charlie, was apparently some sort of outlaw. He certainly didn’t seem like one. And she’d always been a pretty good judge of people, so she felt pretty sure Charlie had been a good man. But he too had been left for dead by these foul freighters—they were the bad ones. And now here she was, staring at a man freshly dead, with an arrow sticking out of his back. Indians were hunting them, picking them off one by one and killing their animals.
Hester decided she had to either get away from these men, somehow cut the leather wraps tying her hands tight behind her, and take Big Charlie’s mule, Mabel-Mae, and ride down out of these mountains, somewhere far and away, but not back to Monkton. That town could rot and all its inhabitants with it. Starting with that thief, Jasper Rafferty, and his business partner, Marshal Watt.
“Hey, woman!” Rollie’s low growl broke the silent spell.
Hester didn’t want to look at him. She was too tired, cold, wet, thirsty, hungry, and sore. But she knew she was kidding herself—he held all the cards and she didn’t even have a penny to sit in on the game. Heck, her hands were still tied behind her back.
She shifted her gaze from the dead Bo to the wagon. Rollie nodded, gestured to her to come to the wagon. “Come on, we got to make a run for it! We’ll get all the best stuff into this here wagon.” He clunked the wooden side of the wagon and turned to Shiner. “You hitch the animals. I’ll cover you.”
Rollie looked back at Hester. “Woman! Get on over here. You got to help move the goods into this wagon, you hear me? Else I will be sorely tempted to leave you here to deal with the savages.”
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