Separate Roads

by Judith Pella

  “Are you getting on well, Miss Baldwin?” he asked.

  “Yes, quite.” She took the cloth she held in her hand and dabbed unconsciously at her neck. “If only we could do something about this heat. How I would love a swim in that creek!”

  “I am sorry there isn’t time for that now,” he said. “And when we move on, we shall veer away from the creek. It will be open, dry prairie for a while then.”

  He watched her finger a damp strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. He wondered how one appearing so cool on the surface could be hot and perspiring. He searched in his mind for words that might probe beneath the chilly exterior to the tender heart he knew must be inside. But he could think of nothing. And even if he could, what right had he? They had spoken of being friends, but the sentiment had progressed no further than words, and he felt it was not his place to encourage it more than that.

  “Well, there’s nothing for it, then, is there? I mean the heat.” She shifted her gaze back to her work, then her eyes skittered to him once again. “Would you care to join us, Captain O’Brian? Brenton should be back shortly.”

  “That is most kind of you, Miss Baldwin, but I have already eaten.” He didn’t know why he refused. It would not have hurt him to have another meal. He added quickly, “Perhaps another time.” He supposed he was just as cautious as she, if indeed her reserve had anything to do with caution. Perhaps she simply disliked him.

  “All right, then.”

  “I best return to my duties.” Tipping his hat, he turned and strode away, wondering just what duties he had that were so pressing.

  The party continued on after lunch. The heat dried out the earth, quickly turning mud to dust. Rich’s prediction about this leg of the journey proved true. Grassy prairie stretched out before them now like an endless sea. Not a tree in sight for mile upon mile.

  Rich rode up next to his sergeant. “Wes, I’ve got this prickly feeling in the back of my neck. But I don’t see a blessed thing out there.”

  “Yeah. It’s mighty quiet.” Sergeant Hart squinted as if that might change the horizon of unending grass.

  “Too quiet.”

  “I’ll keep a sharp look out, Captain.”

  “Never figured you’d do anything else.” Rich grinned, a gesture that did not reach up into his eyes, which were still focusing ahead.

  A half hour passed uneventfully—the creak of harness, the snorts of horses, the clouds of dust making a kind of music in the hot air. And it wasn’t a soothing music. But for all those sounds, it was just too quiet.

  Thwang!

  Rich heard the sound, felt the brief rustle of air. The instant it registered in his mind, another followed.

  Thwang! Thwang!

  “Indians!” someone yelled.

  But Rich was already shouting the orders for his men to take defensive positions, that is, circling the survey team, using the wagons for protection from the back. Unless the attackers were simply too many in number, the party’s best hope would be to stop and fight it out rather than attempt to outrun the Indians. All his men were armed with good percussion-cap rifles, which should quickly overwhelm the Indians, who he hoped were armed with only bows and arrows or old muskets. He quickly counted about a dozen attackers, who appeared to be Pawnee. Less than half were armed with rifles. How they had managed to keep hidden and get so close, Rich could not tell, but he knew enough about Indians to know they had their ways. They’d probably been following the party for hours, maybe even days.

  After seeing that the wagons were positioned to lend maximum cover, Rich was ready to dismount himself and take up a firing position, but before doing so he glanced toward the Baldwin wagon. It had stopped with the others, and Brenton was crouched behind the front wheel, rifle in hand, about to fire. Where was Jordana? The sorrel was not tied to the back of the wagon.

  Rich looked frantically around. Curse that girl!

  Zing! A sharp pain seared Rich’s head, throwing him back in his saddle. He would have been able to hang on too, despite the pain, if only the sudden dizziness from the blow hadn’t assailed him. He pitched forward, and the next thing he realized, he had hit the ground and a pair of hands was grasping his arms and dragging him toward the wagon.

  “Dear Lord! Are you . . . ?” came Brenton’s shaky voice.

  Rich blinked and brought a hand to his head. “I . . . I think so.” He drew away his hand, finding it covered with blood. “Just grazed, I think. Thanks for getting me—” Suddenly he remembered what he had seen—or not seen—just before he’d been hit. “Jordana! Where’s your sister?”

  Brenton’s head seemed to spin on his neck as he gazed all around. “She’s not here! Last I saw she was dismounting.”

  Rich sat up, and beyond the clouds of dust and gunpowder, he saw the sorrel racing away. What he could not tell was whether it had a rider.

  ——

  Everything happened so quickly, Jordana had no time to be either excited or afraid. She heard the shouts of Rich O’Brian before the chilling whoops of the Indians reached her ears. There were a few moments of chaos as everyone in the party reacted to the captain’s orders and their own stunned fear and excitement.

  With gunfire all around, both from the Indians and the soldiers, and arrows flying, Jordana was as anxious as anyone to dismount her sorrel and duck for cover behind the wagons. Brenton shouted her name as he reined his team to a stop.

  “I’m all right,” she assured.

  “Let’s get to cover!” He grabbed his rifle and leaped over the side of the wagon.

  “I’m right behind you.”

  And she had been. Within seconds she would have been down there safely behind a wheel. Then the sorrel reared suddenly. This was not a battle-hardened cavalry mount. Brenton had rented the animal from a livery in Omaha. The beast had probably never even been hunting before. Snorting with terror, the gelding shot off at a gallop the moment its feet retouched the ground.

  Jordana screamed, but who could hear above the riot of battle sounds?

  The sudden start of the horse unseated Jordana and would have surely thrown her to either her death or at the least a bad bruising on the ground had her boot not twisted in the stirrup, holding her foot firm. As she hung by the reins to the flank of the sorrel, she saw what had so provoked the animal. An arrow had pierced its right shoulder. But Jordana had no time to feel sorry for the beast, her own life hanging literally by a thread—a leather one gripped fiercely in her hand. As her teeth jarred in her head with the bouncing of the sorrel, Jordana’s arms felt as if at any moment they would be wrenched from their sockets.

  Struggling with all the strength left in her arms, she finally managed to get her leg over the back of her mount. Two bone-rattling minutes later, she found the strength to pull herself back into the saddle. Exhausted and hardly able to do more than hold the reins, she fell forward, hugging the sorrel’s neck. But she did not have the luxury to rest. The horse had to be brought under control. Taking a breath, she was about to do just that when she heard shrill shouts behind her.

  Turning in her saddle, she saw the last sight she expected or desired. Two of the Indians were chasing her.

  24

  Now she dare not stop. She dug her heels into the sorrel’s flanks. How would she ever outrun her pursuers? She could already feel her mount tiring, especially as they galloped up a grassy knoll. She wondered how serious its wound was and prayed the animal would not simply drop out from under her.

  A rifle blasted behind her, but a quick glance to the rear assured her she was still out of range. Surely the range of an arrow was no more than that of a musket. At any rate, a bobbing target on a galloping horse should do nothing for their aim. But as she crested the rise, she wanted to let out her own war whoop. A stand of trees stretched out about a quarter of a mile away. Either the creek they had left earlier in the day wound around to here, or this was another waterway altogether. Regardless, the trees meant cover—if she could get to them before the Indians got to he
r.

  “Just a little farther,” she encouraged the sorrel. Please, God, help us get there!

  The sun was now setting, and the bright glare was directly in front of Jordana. It was nearly impossible to see. But she hoped it also impaired the Indians’ sight as well as she veered toward the trees. It was not easy to slow when she reached the first of them. Of course, the sorrel was more than willing, but Jordana’s racing heart made her want to keep on racing as well. At least it was darker within the wood, but the branches and leaves that made it dark also proved to be a hazard to a rider. She had to duck several times as she penetrated more deeply into the thicket. Finally, believing she’d have a better chance on foot of eluding pursuit, she dismounted and tied her horse to a branch hoping she’d be alive to retrieve it later.

  In the not-too-far distance, she could hear the gurgling of the creek and, remembering that the water would cover her tracks, headed in that direction. As she went she cocked an ear for sounds of the Indians. Bursts of gunfire in the distance gave her hope that perhaps one of the soldiers had come to her rescue.

  A branch snagged at her hair, pulling out the pin holding the mass in place. It tumbled into her eyes. She didn’t see the root at her feet and stumbled, flying to the ground on her stomach. Bruised and scratched, and covered with damp leaves and mud, she was not seriously harmed. She jumped up and continued on. She heard no pursuit but knew that Indians had a talent for stealth. They could be within feet of her, and she’d not have a clue. But she made a concerted effort to push such negative thoughts from her mind. Instead, she looked about for a weapon, telling herself that after this, she was never going to travel unarmed again.

  A fallen branch proved the best weapon she could find. She grabbed it with trembling fingers and continued on.

  The gunfire had died away, and she tried to construe this as a positive sign. But her mind filled instead with all the horror stories she’d heard about Indians. Most she had discounted as tales from folks with wild imaginations. But her own imagination was having a field day now. Scalpings apparently were the least of the dangers. And female captives were likely to have an even more terrifying time of it. She wondered what it would be like to be taken to an Indian camp and forced . . . well, it was best not to wonder at all. She wasn’t going to get captured. She wasn’t going to end up a “white squaw woman.” She was going to get out of here and away from danger. She was going to make it back to camp and to her brother.

  “Oh, God, please help me! I sometimes think I am so strong and tough, but I’m not really. I’m just a woman, and even if my heart cries out to be more, you have given me the frail body of a female. I suppose it is so I will depend on you.”

  She stumbled again, then saw the ebbing light of the setting sun glint off the surface of the water. She was relieved to see the creek, though she didn’t know what advantage it would be. But her heart was pounding and her lungs still heaving, so she had to stop for a minute. Her mouth was dry and she was dying for a drink, but she would be too exposed if she stopped at the edge of the water. Ignoring her thirst, she kept to the trees.

  But why couldn’t she hear anything? Had the Indians given up on her? Brushing back her unruly hair, she strained again to listen. Only then did she hear the soft voice and the sweetest sound she could think of.

  “Jordana!”

  It was barely a whisper, and the moment the sound reached her ears, a hand grasped her shoulder. It startled her nonetheless, and she gasped.

  “Rich . . . I . . . uh . . . mean, Captain O’Brian!” She turned, forgetting the branch in her hand. It clipped him on the shin. “I’m so sorry!”

  He grinned, then raised a finger to his lips. “Shush!” he breathed. “I’m getting quite tough, thanks to you, Miss Baldwin. Now, why don’t we see if we can get out of here.”

  “Where are the Indians?”

  They spoke in hushed tones.

  “I killed one on the edge of the wood. I don’t know where the other one is. I managed to circle around to elude him and get to you.” He took her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, and thank you for coming after me.”

  “What else would I do?” And though a little smile played at the corners of his lips, there was an earnestness in his tone.

  It was then that she noticed the blood, mostly dried, smeared down the left side of his face. “You’ve been wounded?”

  He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Just a graze. Let’s go.”

  Keeping to the trees, but with the creek in view at their right, they moved on. Rich had his revolver drawn. Jordana still clung to her branch. They walked for about five minutes, darkness steadily encroaching upon them. But Rich had the step of a man accustomed to the woods and to survival. His feet hardly made a sound, but he was patient with her when she chanced to snap a twig underfoot. Jordana wondered about the kinds of military action this soldier of hers had experienced.

  Of hers?

  Well, it was getting to be like he was her personal guardian angel. But of course it went no further than that, no matter what Brenton thought. Rich O’Brian was a very nice man, even if he had a few rough edges. He’d saved her life on several occasions at no small risk to his own. She owed him something. Friendship? Well, maybe she could at least be nicer to him. And maybe she could try harder to keep from harming him, accidental though it might be.

  Suddenly Jordana was jerked to a stop with a painful wrench to her arm. “Ow—!” But Rich’s hand shot to her mouth, preventing further comment.

  In the next instant, an Indian leaped as if from nowhere, grabbing Rich and knocking him to the ground. The revolver bounced from Rich’s hand, and only then did Jordana see that the Indian had a knife.

  The two men grappled on the ground, the knife glinting in the shadows as it hovered lethally between them. Jordana thought about making use of her branch, but she’d done more harm than good with such maneuvers in the past and feared doing so again. Besides, Rich was on top of the Indian now, and she couldn’t have done much with the branch anyway. Instead she tried to see where the gun had fallen, but in the growing darkness it was almost impossible to find.

  In a moment, the two combatants were on their feet. The Indian still held the knife, and they were facing each other. The Indian made a lunge, the tip of his blade slicing Rich’s arm. Undeterred, Rich grabbed the Indian’s knife hand, repelling it momentarily.

  Suddenly, Rich went down. He must have stumbled over something. It hardly mattered. The Indian intended on taking full advantage of this error.

  At that same moment, Jordana spied the gun. She dove for it and took aim, praying it was fully loaded and ready to fire. She fired as the Indian made what would have been a fatal thrust with his knife at the now defenseless Rich. A moment after the explosion of the pistol, the attacker stumbled forward—right on top of Rich.

  Jordana screamed, squeezing her eyes shut, fearing she had been no help at all and the knife would still find its mark.

  Shaking all over, she forced her eyes open, only to find Rich had rolled away from the falling attacker just in time. Relief swept over her at seeing him safe. Then, in the very next instant, she realized she had just shot a man. The shock of it made her crumble to the ground.

  She awoke from her faint to find herself in Rich’s arms. It felt very nice, and she just wanted to close her eyes again and snuggle close to his safe and secure body.

  “You saved my life, Jordana,” he said, forcing her from her sweet solitude.

  “I . . . I g-guess we’re even,” she said with a lopsided smile. She added, “No . . . you are still a couple up on me.”

  He tenderly brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “You are a very brave woman.” He wore a slight smile, but his tone seemed to vibrate with intensity. “Can you walk?”

  That little question jarred her from her shock. Could she walk? As if she were some frail creature! She conveniently forgot she had just fainted. Instead, she scooted to her feet, with only a little remaining
regret at having to part from Rich O’Brian’s strong, warm arms.

  “Of course I can walk,” she said tartly. But then her gaze strayed to the fallen form of the Indian. A sick feeling fluttered in her stomach, and she swayed on her feet. Rich, having also stood, caught her. “Is . . . is he dead?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Oh, dear! How awful! I . . . I . . .” But she didn’t know what to say, how to express the horror she felt at having taken a human life. She had been so afraid of the Indians hurting her, she had never imagined her doing the same to them. But he was dead, and she had killed him.

  Rich put an arm around her. “I’m sorry you were forced to do that. It is never easy to take a life.”

  “Even for you?”

  “It makes me sick every time.”

  “Oh . . .” She turned to look at him and found him gazing at her.

  They both started in embarrassed surprise at the closeness, then jerked their heads away. Rich dropped his arm from around her waist.

  “We’d best get back,” he said. “Hopefully, my men have fought off the other Indians. I guess it helped that you drew off a couple from the main battle.”

  “Maybe that was my intention,” she said coyly.

  He laughed and the sound of his wry humor seemed to break the awkwardness they had suddenly begun to feel. Both of them, Jordana thought, were far more comfortable sparring with each other.

  “I think your intention was just to make my life complicated again,” Rich said with an amused edge to his voice.

  “I am so very sorry! You didn’t have to come after me.”

  “What? And risk one of my men on such a hazardous duty, when I know saving you can be a dangerous business!”

  With a loud “Harrumph!” Jordana started walking.

  “Miss Baldwin, it’s the other way.” His laughing eyes met hers as she turned.