A shadow drifted across her face, like an airy cloud that changes the sun’s intensity for a moment, its brightness returning almost instantly. “Well, thank you, again. That was very kind,” she said. Win emerged from the wagon with a bottle of oil. “Thank you for this morning, too,” Meg said to both of them. “I’m not sure what I would have done if you two hadn’t come along.”
Win opened his mouth, perhaps to ask again where she was from, or maybe to ask if she’d ever raced a Post rider, but Dutch arrived at the corral. Jeb wondered if they’d ever be able to finish a conversation, the way folks wandered in and out of everyone’s business on this train.
“I figured something was keeping you two from finding dinner.” The trail boss looked directly at Meg. “Glenn tells me you’ll be traveling with them.” He pointed his finger at her. “You bring trouble to our traveling community and you’ll be answering to me, you hear?”
She nodded quickly. “Yessir. I won’t cause any trouble, I promise.” She stuck her hand out to shake hands with him, as if to settle a contract with him. Startled, the trail boss took her hand. Meg shook it firmly, like a man.
Dutch flexed his hand after she released it and turned his attention back to Win and Jeb. “You expectin’ dinner to wander into camp by itself?”
“No, sir,” they both said together and mounted up. In unison, they tipped their hats to Meg and rode out.
“It’s Jeb, miss,” Win mimicked sarcastically once they were out of earshot.
“Grace said to be gentlemen.”
“Right.” Win snorted.
Jeb wondered if the trouble Dutch warned her about hadn’t already arrived.
Meg had her tent folded and Biscuit saddled long before the rest of the train was ready the next morning. She lifted Lizzie onto Biscuit’s back and showed her how to hold the reins. With their daughter in Meg’s care, Jeb saw Glenn and Grace slip into their wagon for some private time together before the bell clanged the signal it was time to move out. Jeb wondered if Meg realized the favor she had done for them and the reason for the satisfied grins on the couple’s faces when the train got under way. Win rode leisurely past Jeb with raised eyebrows and a big smile; Win never missed a thing.
Dutch led the train across the river. He assigned Jeb to the near side to help any wagon that got into trouble, apparently since he was so good at water rescue. When the Moberg wagon crossed, Lizzie sat in front of Meg on Biscuit, beaming with excitement. She waved at Jeb as they entered the river, shouting to him that she wouldn’t get wet this time. Meg handled her horse well crossing the river, walking through the water like a stroll in a park. When they got to the other side, Lizzie called and waved to Win, who had been teamed with Toby and Dale to keep the wagons moving up the riverbank. Once during the morning, Jeb saw Biscuit loping—Meg holding Lizzie securely with one hand while holding the reins with the other as casually as any other woman would hold a pair of gloves. Lizzie shrieked with delight.
At midday, Dutch signaled for the train to stop for a rest. Grace called to her daughter; Meg eased her down to the ground. Lizzie ran past Win and Jeb on her way to her wagon, stopping briefly to tell them what she learned from Meg that morning.
“Hey, Mr. Avery, Mr. Dawson, guess what? Miz Meg said she learned to ride when she was my age, and she’s gonna let me ride Biscuit all by myself sometime!” Lizzie’s eyes sparkled. “I asked her how she got her black eye, but she won’t tell me. I told her about Molly Ferguson and Johnny Novak, but she said it wasn’t like that. Well, gotta go!” Lizzie waved and ran to her mother.
Meg radiated happiness as Jeb and Win rode up to her, a transformation from the day before. “Isn’t the prairie beautiful this morning?”
“It is indeed. You captured Lizzie’s heart, by the way, letting her ride with you. Of course, you know she’s dying to find out how you got that black eye,” Win said.
Meg laughed. “She’s a walking newspaper, that one. Told me far too much about everyone on the train.”
“So, how did you get that shiner?” Win asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, her back stiffening. She stuck out her chin slightly. “It doesn’t matter.” Jeb wished Win would let it go. Obviously she didn’t want to talk about it, and he was going to ruin a perfect morning.
Win cocked his head, a sign he was a little exasperated. “Aw, c’mon, Miss Jameson. You can trust us. Jeb and me, we’re good people—ask anyone in Rockfield. That’s close to Council Bluffs, you know. We’re practically neighbors.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be secretive.”
It surprised Jeb that she didn’t bristle. Win could get pushy at times.
“At least I’m not Mormon,” she said smiling, revealing a sense of humor. “I have that going for me, don’t I? What does Mr. Ferguson have against Mormons?” She still hadn’t explained her black eye.
“Good question, but I don’t know. I never asked,” Win said.
“Thousands came through Council Bluffs, as I’m sure you know, being from Rockfield. From my bedroom window, I used to watch their wagons being ferried across the river. Gus and I used to ride over on the Omaha side to see their trains stretch out and dream about going, too.”
“Gus? Who’s Gus?” Jeb wished he hadn’t blurted out the question so fast; he sounded like some kind of jealous nitwit.
“He ran the stables where I kept Biscuit. He’s my friend.”
“And you two rode over on the Omaha side often?” Win asked.
“Oh, yes, we loved the open space across the river. Sometimes I wanted to just keep going and never look back.”
Win squinted at Meg, no doubt waiting to judge her reaction. “I was in Omaha once, when I rode for the Pony Express. I was assigned to deliver a special dispatch . . . in ’61, I think. This little girl in pigtail braids came chasing after me. Rode like the wind, and wouldn’t let up until I finally tipped my hat to her. The age would be about right . . . and the hair color.”
Meg’s eyes grew wide and her hand flew up to her mouth. “You were that rider?”
“I’ve been wondering if that little girl was you. You seemed familiar.” Win smiled broadly.
Jeb’s spirits sank, but Meg’s face lit up as though she had been reunited with a long-lost friend. “This is remarkable! I’ve thought about that day so many times.”
“You were fast. You would’ve been a good Post rider,” Win said.
Meg was full of questions. What was it like to race across the country? What part of the route did he ride? Win had the opportunity to build himself up in front of her, but surprisingly, he didn’t take it. He waved off her questions and said that truthfully, he spent a lot of cold, scary nights in the bunkhouses and often wished Jeb had come along with him.
She turned to Jeb. “You two have been friends a long time?”
“Since we were kids.”
“You’re lucky to have each other.” Her mind seemed to travel elsewhere for a moment.
“Yup.” Win didn’t elaborate, perhaps afraid the conversation would drift off topic. “Now, see? This isn’t so bad, is it? Talking friendly like this, eh, Miss Jameson?”
“Please call me Meg. After all, you’ve known me since I was twelve!”
Win smiled and nodded. Jeb made a quick calculation in his head. That made her seventeen, just three years younger than he and Win.
“You know, Jeb beat me hands down last time we raced. You’ll have to take him on next.” Win jerked his thumb in Jeb’s direction.
She grinned and said she’d welcome the challenge.
Grace called to them, offering cobbler. Win raised his arm, indicating they heard, but no one made a move to leave. It seemed to Jeb like something important had just happened. A breeze swirled around them, as though mixing their fates together. He was too embarrassed to express such a mystical thought, but he sensed Win and Meg felt it, too, because they also lingered. Meg looked content, almost happy, and Win smiled at the western horizon, lost in thought.
&n
bsp; Win and Jeb found themselves at the Mobergs’ campfire every night after that. During the day, Meg rode with them whenever Dutch didn’t have them working, but those times were rare. He kept the boys constantly busy. The train passed through an area Win called the Sandhills. What looked like easy passage across gently undulating hills turned into tortuous slugging through sandy, shifting soil that immobilized many a team of oxen. The scouts had to dig out heavy wagons sunk deep. Jeb was covered in grime and sweat most of the time—hardly a condition that favored courting a girl. But he looked forward to the evening, when the chores were finished; he cleaned himself up a bit and called on the Mobergs . . . and Meg.
Dutch had been right about this group of settlers. They were smart, worked tirelessly, and their spirits remained high. One evening, someone brought out a fiddle and folks began to gather for a dance. Jeb never learned that particular social skill, having pestered his mother to read pirate stories instead. Dance instruction had been postponed until the opportunity vanished. Jeb regretted it, as now, nothing would please him more than to hold Meg in his arms. Win disappeared; Jeb figured he couldn’t dance, either.
Under the fear of humiliation, Jeb offered to take Glenn’s guard duty. He lingered for a moment, however, mesmerized by the mysterious new girl who watched the dancers as the music started, her toes tapping time.
Glenn grabbed his wife’s hand and twirled her around. Bill Foster, the scout with the wife and daughter in California, showed up, sporting a clean shirt and slicked-back hair. “Learn to dance, boy.” He hiked up his trousers. “There’s nothin’ like a little music to brighten a young lady’s spirits . . .” Perhaps Foster sensed Jeb’s misery, because he changed his tone. “Now, don’t go fretting. I ain’t no competition, but just watch. Tonight, you’re gonna wish you was me, ’cause I’m gonna get a pretty girl to smile at me.” Then he sashayed comically over to Meg, bowed to her, and appeared to ask her to dance. She smiled, took his proffered hand, and they joined the dancers. Bill proved to be quite nimble on his feet. As he turned to face Jeb, he raised his eyebrows and gave him an “I told you so” look. Jeb laughed out loud at himself. The old man was right; he should learn to dance. He also wondered if his infatuation with Meg was as obvious to everyone as it was to Bill.
Later that week, the train moved into Sioux country. Attacks at Mud Springs and Julesburg earlier in the year by the Cheyenne and Sioux made Dutch jumpy. Jeb hardly ever saw him when he wasn’t scanning the horizon. He kept the wagons and crew close.
Late one afternoon, Win waved to Jeb from the top of one of the rolling hills. Meg saw him, too, and followed Jeb. “You ready for that race?” she said as they arrived at the crest, eagerness in her eyes.
“Ha! You two can race later, Meggie,” Win said. “Right now, you should see this. Take a look.” Win pointed to the valley, where thousands of buffalo grazed below. The dark mass looked like a cloud’s shadow in the vale until Jeb spotted the individual giants grazing.
“Oh my!” She gazed at the herd. “They’re magnificent!”
The wind carried an occasional grunt or bellow with it as it whistled in their ears. Something stirred the massive herd into motion and it ran in silence for several seconds before they heard the low rumble and felt the ground tremble.
Robert Dale, the Indian-hating scout, rode up to them. “The boss wants you closer to the wagons, Miss Jameson.” He glared at her. “We need to stay alert, and you did promise the boss you wouldn’t cause trouble.”
“For crying out loud, Dale,” Win said. “Camp Rankin is just over the next hill.”
“No, he’s right. I’ll go.” Meg turned to Win and Jeb. “Thank you for sharing that with me.” Meg rode slowly down the ridge toward the Moberg wagon. Even Biscuit’s head hung low, as though chastised.
Dale didn’t even wait until she was out of earshot. “She’s bad luck. She’ll bring trouble. I can feel it.”
“Go to hell, Dale,” Win said. “She’s fine, and we’re on the lookout for your goddamn Indians.”
The surly scout leaned over his saddle horn. “You go to hell. If you care what happens to that gal, you’d watch for Indians instead of watching her. Indians got strange ways, and the farther I am from them, the better. It’s inhuman, what they do—cut off a man’s privates, stuff it in his mouth, make him watch while they rape his wife and cut her up. They’re crazy bastards.” Dale rode away without waiting for a reply.
Jeb felt sick. Win glanced at him and said, “You look white as a sheet. Clint could tell you plenty of stories with different endings, Jeb. They’re just people, and we’re frustrating the hell out of them. Dale’s the bastard; his stories are meant to scare.”
“It worked.”
Dense fog rolled in overnight. When Jeb woke, he thought he might still be asleep, as he saw only gray mist. He sat up, large beads of dew rolling off his blanket. In the middle of the low-lying cloud, Jeb could barely see beyond three wagons.
The day broke quietly. Cookie didn’t clang his bell announcing breakfast. Instead, he gently kicked the men awake. The scouts quietly ate breakfast as they waited for the fog to lift, not talking, as though everyone was helping those on guard duty listen for danger, since no one could see beyond the camp. Muffled voices mixed with hinges squeaking and oxen lowing as the settlers prepared for the day. Jeb glanced at Meg’s tent. Catching a glimpse of her first thing in the morning would start his day off right.
Win arrived at Cookie’s fire, scowling. “Meg’s horse is gone,” he quietly told Jeb. The warm coffee Jeb had been savoring turned to acid in his stomach.
CHAPTER SIX: MEG
Camp Rankin, Colorado Territory, a day later
Meg regretted her rash decision to run away from Dutch’s train almost as soon as she had done so. She’d been relishing the kindness the Mobergs had extended to her. She liked the way Win called her “Meggie.” Gus called her that. She liked the way Jeb quietly looked out for her, without making her feel weak. She missed them already.
The evening before, Dale had approached her when she checked on Biscuit, and had frightened her. “I saw riders today,” he said. “I’ve been watching the horizon for you, ’cause I heard some men are after you.” The skin on the back of her neck prickled. Meg asked if one of the riders had a piebald mount, with three white legs and one black one. “Now that you mention it, yeah, one of them was definitely riding a horse like that.” Then he leaned in close and said, “Sure would be a shame if innocent folks got hurt trying to protect you—like that little Moberg girl, for instance.”
In a panic, Meg escaped to her tent, changed into her riding breeches, and waited for the camp to settle down for the night. She knew Grace and Glenn, Win and Jeb, and even that sweet old Bill Foster would try to protect her. She couldn’t let anyone get hurt on her account.
Fog had rolled in by the time she peeked out of her tent. Without a sound, she made her way over to Biscuit, who was waiting for her at the closest end of the makeshift corral like a faithful conspirator. Meg saddled her quietly, tiptoed out of hearing range, and then climbed into the saddle and slipped into the mist.
Her pace slow and cautious, and unable to see ahead more than a few yards, Meg couldn’t determine how far she’d traveled when the sound of clinking metal rings and bit mouthpieces announced white riders. No Indian made that kind of noise. Filled with dread, she drew her rifle, ready to shoot Sutter as soon as she could see him. The rumble of horse hooves grew louder. Biscuit snorted nervously. Then, Meg saw the faint outline of the distinctive Kossuth hat worn by cavalry officers. She lowered her rifle at the same moment she materialized in front of the officer’s horse, which reared up in surprise, nearly tossing its rider to the ground. Once he recovered and holstered his own weapon, the rattled officer asked what, in heaven’s name, was a white woman doing out here alone with war parties afoot? She blurted out that an evil man named Sutter was after her and he had a dangerous group of men with him, and that she’d left a wagon train to protect the good people s
he’d met. She told the officer that she’d return to the train with the regiment, though, as Sutter couldn’t cause trouble with the cavalry there. But the officer wouldn’t hear of it. A Cheyenne war party had moved into the area. If they ran into them before reaching the train, he said, she would be in the way. Without any more delay, the officer ordered one of his privates to escort her to the fort. He and his men continued on as Meg opened her mouth to protest.
Meg arrived at Camp Rankin with the cavalryman, who turned her over to a gruff-looking sergeant. The sergeant barely glanced at her before ordering her to join a group of civilians gathered at the flagpole. “They’re leaving any minute for Valley Station,” he said, and started to walk away.
“But I need to send a telegraph message . . .” Meg said. Everything was spinning out of control. She wanted to wait at the fort until she heard from Gus. Dutch’s train might be ordered here, too, and she could reunite with Win and Jeb.
“Can’t. Line’s been cut. Do it at Valley Station,” the sergeant said, “twelve miles down the road.” He pointed at the group of civilians again. “All non-military’s gotta get.” He turned to leave.
“Wait, please. I’ve got to at least mail these . . .” Meg pulled out letters she had written to Gus. Grace had told her the first night she’d spent with the Mobergs that Gus would be worried sick about her and to write to him in case an opportunity came along to post a letter before finding safe passage back. It seemed Grace was right, and Meg was grateful for the good advice. She wished she were back in her company to thank her.
“Give ’em here.” The sergeant held out his hand. She clutched the letters; they were too important to hand over to someone who might use them to light his next cigar. Her concern must have been transparent, because he softened his tone. “I’ll see that your letters get in the mail bag, miss.” She had no choice but to hand them over and join the group.
Meg expected only military men at the fort; she was surprised to see so many civilians. A disorderly mass congregated around three schooners, a stagecoach, and a freight wagon, all hitched with teams and ready for departure.
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