Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  One warrior waved back.

  Once they had left camp, Meg gazed all around, taking in the mountainous terrain and the lush green river valley. When she sighed and said, “I belong here,” Jeb’s heart fluttered with excitement.

  “Even with Indians?” Win asked.

  “I feel bad for them. Our government has broken so many of its promises. It isn’t right.” Meg furrowed her brow.

  Jeb turned to Win. “What were you and Gray Wolf talking about just now?”

  “Oh, you know, stock prices, investing in commodities . . .”

  Meg laughed. “Seriously, Win . . . Tell us.”

  “Well, One Who Waits took a fancy to you and wanted to take you back with him. I had to do a little fast talking on your behalf.” Meg gasped. “Oh, don’t worry.” Win waved his hand. “I told him it was a bad idea because you would make a bad squaw. I said you were a lot of trouble, had a stubborn disposition, wouldn’t obey a husband, and would embarrass any brave who dared take you as his wife because you’d never listen—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Meg lifted her chin and straightened her back.

  “I was doing you a favor!” Win spread his arms out innocently. “There’s more . . .”

  Meg took off on Biscuit, apparently unwilling to listen to Win’s foolish talk.

  “Ah, you sweet talker, you.” Jeb watched her lope ahead of them.

  “Well, the way you’ve been attending to her . . . being all sweet-like . . . shit. She’s gonna get all self-possessed if we both go moony over her. I’ve got to give her a hard time once in a while.”

  “I’m not being moony.”

  “You go on thinkin’ that.”

  “Fine by me if you keep annoying her. It’ll work in my favor.”

  “I didn’t annoy her. Besides, I’m twice as smart as you, and ten times better looking.”

  “Now who’s self-possessed?” Jeb said.

  “Just stating facts.”

  Jeb rolled his eyes and changed the subject. “What were you really talking about?”

  Win seemed ready to drop the banter, too, and became serious. “Well . . . Gray Wolf asked a lot of questions. He must have been up all night trying to remember English words. He asked that I tell Clint he has furs to trade. He seems worried that he’ll have to move his family again, and while I don’t blame him, I don’t know what we could do about it.”

  They watched Biscuit lope up a steep rise. “Meg sure was a good sport,” Win said, “the way she laughed at herself when Standing Horse mimicked her falling in the stream . . .”

  “She did well, didn’t she?”

  “Yep, no acting high and mighty like some women get, and didn’t panic. She didn’t even get squeamish when they took apart that deer. Pretty fascinating the way they washed out the bladder.”

  Meg crested the hill. Biscuit reared up as she screamed, “Run!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MEG

  On the road to Denver

  Meg panicked as soon as she saw the piebald with three white legs and one black tied with the other horses. In the time it took her to shout a warning to Win and Jeb, a barrel-chested man jumped from his hiding place and pulled her from Biscuit. Meg fought him like a wildcat, but he grabbed her by the wrists and spun her around, pressing her back to his chest. Then he pinned her arms to her sides with one arm and with the other hand, grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. She tried to kick him, but was unable to gather enough force to inflict pain. She heard scuffling and grunting behind her. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she knew Win and Jeb had ridden straight into the fight. Apparently, Sutter had picked up help on his way to find her. She couldn’t tell how many.

  Sutter, never a patient man, drew his gun and fired it once in the air. The sound of fighting stopped when he lowered his gun and aimed it directly at Meg. She heard the sickening sound of a rock thump against a head, followed by what sounded like a heavy sack of potatoes thrown from a cart.

  “Barney, take their guns,” Sutter said.

  More scuffling came from behind her. Meg tried to turn around, but the man holding her lifted her by her hair, making her stand contorted and awkward, like a doll hanging from a hook. Sutter swaggered into view and holstered his gun. “You’re a hard girl to find.”

  “I beg you, Mr. Sutter, don’t kill Biscuit.” Her voice sounded quivery and high-pitched—not her own.

  Sutter scoffed. “Why the hell would I kill your horse? You gotta ride somethin’ back to Council Bluffs.” He paced back and forth in front of her. “Your uncle is dead,” he said, sneering as he looked her over head to toe, as though considering a purchase.

  Confusion surfaced, despite her panic. “Then what do you want?”

  “I ain’t been paid for some time now. You’re coming back with me so I get what’s owed me.”

  “My aunt will pay you. You don’t need me.”

  He snorted. “She’s dead, too. Want to know how? Want to know why?” He stood in front of Meg, his right hand resting on the holstered revolver slung on his hip. “The old lady found out your uncle preferred fillies to mares. He sure got distracted by you, didn’t he?” Sutter traced a line from her eyebrow down her cheek, a dead tree branch of a hand brushing against her in the dark of night, the kind of touch that causes a cold shiver. He continued drawing a line down her throat and stopped at her breast, where it lingered. She recoiled, only to press her back against the man holding her. She felt sick to her stomach. Sutter smiled and let his finger drop.

  “Jealousy must’ve made her lose her mind. She found him in the library, and you know what she did?” In a swift and sudden move, Sutter pulled his gun, pointed it in Meg’s face, and shouted “BANG!” Meg flinched and shut her eyes as she cried out. “Your auntie shot him dead.”

  Meg felt the blood drain from her face as his words registered.

  Sutter continued to pace. “After your aunt killed her husband, she tried to cover it up by setting fire to his library. Only thing is, she used a little too much kerosene, and it made such a smoky mess she didn’t quite find her way out before the whole place burst into flames.”

  “You’re lying,” Meg said.

  He smacked her hard across the face. “No, I ain’t.”

  The sting from his strike made her eyes water, but it knocked resolve into her, as well as defiance. “I’m not going back with you. You won’t get a cent of my father’s money.”

  Sutter ignored her, motioning to a man Meg didn’t recognize to bring Biscuit over. They were going to take her away. Biscuit, loyal as always, danced about nervously as the unfamiliar man tried to manage her.

  Someone behind Meg said, “Darryl cain’t never get no female to mind him.”

  “Shut up, Barney,” the man called Darryl replied.

  Sutter growled at Meg. “Control your goddamn horse.” The barrel-chested man holding her released his grip. She pushed him away and faced Sutter squarely. “Go to hell.”

  Sutter raised his hand to wallop Meg again, but she turned away, covering her face. Instead of hitting her, he grabbed her arm and shoved her toward Biscuit.

  Meg buried her face in Biscuit’s mane, wrapping her arms around her neck. Biscuit lowered her heavy head and nudged Meg with it as she rubbed her neck—perhaps to return comfort, perhaps as a signal of encouragement. Inside her saddlebag, tucked just inches away from her, opportunity waited. Opportunity for Win and Jeb to get away, at least.

  “Why you wastin’ all that sweetness on a horse, girl? She cain’t give you the kind of attention you need.” Meg turned briefly toward the ugly voice of Barney. The retort ready on her lips escaped her as she saw him thrust his hips at her. “You need a man, girly girl,” he said. “I got something you can rub.” He started toward her.

  “Stay away from her!” Win shouted.

  A quick glance showed Jeb in a crumpled heap on the ground, unmoving. Win was face-down in the dirt, with an enormous man she remembered as Big Bull sitting on him like he was a park bench. In
a fleeting moment, she wondered how many of Win’s ribs Big Bull was crushing.

  Distracted, Barney pointed at Win, enjoying the power briefly in his possession. “What are you squawkin’ fer? Nothin’ you can do but watch.”

  The few seconds of diversion was all the time she needed. When Barney turned his attention back to Meg, she had Carl’s derringer pointed at his groin.

  She’d forgotten to give the little gun back to Carl. Win had seen it back in LaPorte and had joked, at the time, that a weapon that size couldn’t do much damage. It all depends on where you aim it, she had replied. She saw in Win’s expression momentary relief that she’d been able to get her hands on the gun. But other than maiming Barney, the little weapon couldn’t take them all on.

  Barney laughed nervously. “What you got there, honey?”

  Meg was about to tell Big Bull to get off Win or Barney would lose his manhood when she heard a swish in the air and a thup. Barney stopped laughing and stared at her with wide-eyed surprise. An arrow stuck out of his back. The tip poked out of his chest—not far, but far enough for blood to spread like a blossoming flower on his shirt. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground. The man who’d held Meg reached for his gun—two arrows hit him at the same time, one in his heart, the other in his stomach. A blood-curdling war cry pierced the air just before Sutter fell. The man Barney called Darryl, who couldn’t manage Biscuit, sprinted away. Big Bull, a giant of a man, heaved himself off Win and tried to escape, his weight and size working against him. Both Big Bull and Darryl met their fate out of view from Meg. She heard two sharp cries, grunts, muffled thuds, and then silence.

  Stunned, she couldn’t move, but in a dream-like state watched Win retrieve his gun and kneel over Jeb. He turned him over and put his ear to his chest. Relief on his face, Win motioned her over to him. She saw his lips form her name, but she couldn’t hear anything. She felt like she was swimming underwater as she tried to move toward him. He reached out to her and pulled her down next to Jeb. Then Win crouched over both of them, spreading his arms over them like protective wings. He had his revolver in one hand, the other rested on her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her jacket.

  Gray Wolf, Sharp Eye, and One Who Waits rode into view.

  Meg cried out with relief and reached up to squeeze Win’s hand. They were safe. Win stood and holstered his gun. Gray Wolf dismounted and walked around to each of the fallen men, while the other Arapaho picked them clean of anything valuable. One Who Waits yanked the arrow out of Barney before he turned him over and took his gun. Standing Horse appeared, carrying guns and a knife, his forearms spattered with blood.

  “These are bad men.” Gray Wolf pointed to Sutter.

  “Yes, they were going to take Meg away,” Win said.

  Gray Wolf nodded slowly, as though pondering Win’s words. “They take her to a reservation.”

  “Something like that. We’re grateful to you.”

  Meg looked around her at the dead men with arrows lodged in their bodies. Two more lay a few yards away, hacked to pieces. Gray Wolf and his braves had just killed five white men. She could feel Gray Wolf watching her.

  “Our people hang when they kill white men,” Gray Wolf said.

  “You were protecting us,” Meg said. But she knew Indians were treated differently under white laws. The Arapaho may have saved their lives, but ruthless white men still commanded a higher status than a principled Arapaho.

  “No one needs to know about this,” Win said. “We are indebted to you. There is no need to report this to anyone.”

  Jeb stirred. Meg sat on the ground and cradled his head in her lap. “You all right?” Win asked his friend, bending over him.

  Jeb squinted. “Yeah, great.” He tried to stand up, but winced in pain and fell back.

  “Wait, take it slow.” Win felt Jeb’s head. “You aren’t bleeding, but that’s a nasty bump.”

  Win helped Jeb to his feet. Meg remained on the ground and watched two Arapaho braves pile the dead bodies. What they were going to do with them, she couldn’t guess. Sharp Eye checked Sutter’s horse for a brand, while Standing Horse tested the strength of a lariat. She felt no remorse, no fear—only relief. She hoped the Arapaho would get good use out of the treasures they collected.

  Gus spoke to her, then, in a memory. There’ll be moments in your life, Meggie darlin’, when who you are and what you believe are forever etched into your soul.

  The moment etched itself into Meg’s soul. Her life would never be the same. Nor would Gray Wolf’s. They would forever be linked.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: WIN

  Denver, Colorado Territory, August 1865

  When Win arrived in Denver with Meg and Jeb, she insisted that Jeb see a doctor, while Win found his old boss and secured work for Jeb and himself. She’d find rooming houses, she declared, and left before they could protest.

  Ever since her rescue from Sutter, Meg had appeared to be on a quest, her determination more transparent than the reasons behind it. When Win had asked her what she was up to, she’d simply put her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and said if he and Jeb could have a secret pact, she saw no call for full disclosure, and raised her eyebrows like Grace Moberg, preventing further inquiry about what she was doing. Jeb must’ve slipped about the pact; he was never good at pretense. Win found Meg both amusing and befuddling at times, but always had the sensation he was aboard that locomotive again, careening out of control.

  Win left to search for his old trail boss. He first met Clint in the spring of ’62, after the Pony Express had gone out of business. Win drifted into Independence, looking for work, and saw wagon trains forming. He knew right away he wanted to attach himself to a train so he could head west again. One trail captain impressed him with his quiet authority: Clint Sanders. Win hung around, trying to figure out how to get hired, but got a little too close and felt Clint’s iron grip on his shoulder.

  “Why are you hanging about? Every time I turn around, there you are.”

  “I’m trying to learn . . . ’cause I need a job.” Win squared himself in front of the man, holding on to the last of his pride. “I figured if I knew something before I asked, you’d have reason to hire me.”

  Sanders looked him over head to toe. Win knew he looked mighty pathetic. He hadn’t eaten in a while, his hair was long and dirty, and he smelled ripe. But Win looked his prospective boss straight in the eye, hoping he showed grit and intelligence. It worked. The trail captain tossed him a dollar and told him to get a bath and haircut, clean clothes, and a meal before reporting back.

  “When you get back,” Clint had added, “find Cookie and tell him Sanders sent you. He’ll take you on, as long as you ain’t too irritatin’—so don’t be irritatin’.”

  “Thank you, sir. You won’t be sorry!” Win ran off to do as instructed. He returned in a couple of hours, clean, cut, fed, and ready to work.

  The cook hired Win as his helper. Win cleaned the fresh game brought in by the scouts and scrubbed the dirty pots every night, all the while steering clear of the crusty old cook so as not to irritate him. He got along with the other hired hands, once he proved he could stand his ground in a fight. When payday arrived, Win paid back a dollar to Sanders.

  When they reached California and the train disbanded, Win roamed awhile. But he eventually worked his way back to Independence, where he hoped to find Sanders organizing another train west. This time, Win showed up in clean trail clothes, carrying his own saddle and grinning broadly.

  “Mohican!” Sanders thrust out his hand. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Trying to stay out of trouble, sir, and succeeding . . . mostly.” Win shook the extended hand.

  The trail captain studied him. “Well, I see you’ve got your own saddle. I need scouts, and you’re a good rider,” he said, “You’ve got a job if you’ve come lookin’ for one.”

  “Thank you, sir. You won’t be sorry.”

  Sanders slapped Win on the back. “Wasn�
�t the first time. Go find a fella named Pete over at the corral and tell him I said you’re riding Sophie. She’s smooth as butter. Welcome back, son.”

  Now Clint was somewhere in Denver. Win asked around and was directed to the warehouse district. He spotted his old boss outside one of the shipping warehouses, making notes on the back of a stage schedule. Clint hadn’t aged a day—maybe even looked younger without the burdens of trail life weighing on him. Or maybe the lack of a handlebar mustache he’d once sported gave him a more youthful appearance. He looked up, the way people do when they sense someone is looking at them.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Clint said as Win walked up to him. “You just keep turning up like a bad penny. Can’t seem to shake you loose.”

  Win extended his hand. “It’s great to see you, too, Clint.”

  “How the hell are you, Win?” Clint asked, his grip strong as ever. “What brings you to Denver?”

  “You, frankly. You’re the best boss I’ve ever had, though Dutch Ferguson comes in close. He says hello.”

  Clint threw his head back and laughed. “Dutch, that old sonofabitch. We had some times, he and I.”

  “That’s what I hear. I rode with him to Ash Hollow with a friend of mine. We broke off there and headed this way.”

  “That wouldn’t be your old friend . . . What was his name? Jeb?”

  “That’s right. He’s over at the doc’s. We ran into a bit of trouble between here and LaPorte.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Clint squinted at him curiously.

  “Well, I think you need a glass in your hand to hear it. Can I buy my old boss a beer?”

  “How ’bout you buy your new boss a beer? I got work, if you want it. First, you gotta meet Mandy.”

  Clint brought Win by his home to meet Amanda, a woman Clint’s age, who looked as though she lived unapologetically, a trait well suited for Clint. She greeted Win with a kiss on the cheek that was maternal and yet not, which seemed to amuse her. When they left, Clint confessed that he’d never been happier and would die a contented man, as that Mandy was a peach.