Isabella glided into the room, a tray bearing brandy and glasses in her hands. “Now, Father, don’t work yourself up. I’m sure we can think of something.”
“I’ve already thought of something,” her father replied. “That’s why I’ve called you all here this evening.”
Isabella placed the tray on the tea cart and began to pour the brandy. “What plan have you come up with?” She was not one to be shy about speaking her mind, even in the presence of her father’s male guests.
“We need to rid ourselves of the good Mr. Baldwin. I know his family is powerful, but so is ours. And you, my friends, are at the core of that power,” Montego said, smiling as he accepted a snifter of amber liquid from his daughter. “We are not ruffians as some might suppose. We are civilized men who work in civilized means whenever possible. However, this situation calls for a most uncivilized plan.”
“You gonna use the Arapaho?” one of the older gentlemen questioned.
“I believe they might serve our purpose quite well. Or perhaps the Sioux or Pawnee. It doesn’t really matter. One Indian is pretty much like another, and all have their price.” He grimaced. “Well, perhaps not all, but most. I haven’t yet found a single tribe that can’t boast at least one corrupt man.”
“So what is the plan?” someone asked.
Montego smiled. “Since Joe Baldwin is so concerned about the Indians and why they are raiding the railroad, I suggest we put him in the company of those very people. Perhaps he need not be killed. After all, he is a very public figure, but on the other hand, think of how sweetly that might work to our advantage.”
“But, Father, if the land is not safe to settle and well-known citizens are disappearing in Indian attacks, will that not hurt your desire to build up cities and sell land?”
Montego considered his daughter for a moment. She was both intelligent and beautiful, and it had served them well. “My plan is to see people settle the lands and cities that are most advantageous to me. Let the world believe Nebraska to be the very heart of hell itself, but let them love Laramie, Rawlins Springs, and Green River. Let them rush here to settle the territory where I own great parcels of land. Let them, seeing the peaceful protection afforded them, come in droves to purchase what we in this room will offer to sell.
“The Indian attacks are all taking place in Nebraska at this point. That has been my direction, and perhaps now is the time to turn our attention elsewhere. I simply utilized a problem that was already in existence—the Indians were already at odds with the railroad when I came into the picture,” Montego said, sampling the brandy. “Land sales are good, and the outrageous prices I’m making for building houses and businesses is enough to allow all of us to live out our old age in style. However, if Joe Baldwin has his way, writing as he does about our towns as though they were the very modern re-creation of Sodom and Gomorrah, detailing the deadliness of merely walking down the street unescorted or the high percentage of crime per capita, no one will settle our towns, and, gentlemen, we will be left holding a great deal of useless property.”
“Sounds like we need to get right to this, then,” someone called out, only to be followed by a unison call of affirmation.
Montego smiled. “Well, then, we are in agreement.” He lifted his brandy and smiled. “To our success,” he said with a glance at his daughter’s smug expression.
“To success,” she murmured, lifting her own glass.
——
October in Utah was proving to be an uncomfortable matter. Cold weather had set in rather early, even in the valleys, and the Baldwins found it greatly interfered with the business of photography.
“I think we might as well give it up and go home,” Brenton said after trying for the third time to photograph a stretch of land not far from the territorial border. “The lens keeps fogging, and the coating on the glass is drying quicker than I can take the pictures.”
Jordana nodded. “I suppose you’re right. This cold isn’t going to let up, at least not in the way you would probably benefit.”
“I’d still like to get pictures from Echo Canyon Tunnel. I’m sure Charlie would like to see those.”
Jordana nodded and pulled on a warm woolen coat she’d managed to purchase in Ogden. “I’m sure the photographs you took of the route Charlie intends to propose to Congress will help more than a picture of the Echo Tunnel. Charlie feels quite confident that if your photographs accompany his surveyors’ information, Congress will have no choice but to approve his route for the completion of the transcontinental.”
“The line is a sound one, in my estimation,” Brenton said, packing his equipment into a large leather case. “As long as the line follows that low pass through the Ombe Mountains, I think the Central Pacific will have it quite good. That puts them eventually on a twenty-five-mile flat stretch along the northern edge of the Great Salt Lake’s Spring Bay. And for as ugly as that area is, it doesn’t look like it will be all that difficult to work.”
Jordana smiled her agreement as Caitlan appeared from inside the wagon. “Feeling better?” she asked her sister-in-law, who had taken to the wagon earlier in the day with a stomach complaint.
“Only marginally.” Caitlan did look pale.
“It’s probably just something you ate,” Brenton said offhandedly. He hoisted the case into its place at the back of the wagon, then helped his wife down.
Caitlan laughed and shook her head. “I’m thinkin’ it’s nothing six or seven months won’t cure.”
Jordana giggled, having been Caitlan’s confidante since she’d first suspected her pregnancy. “I think you shall have to draw him a picture, Caitlan.”
Brenton looked at Jordana oddly, then realization dawned on him and he reached out for his wife. “A baby?”
She laughed and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Baldwin. A baby.”
Brenton let out a loud whoop and lifted Caitlan into the air but just as quickly set her back on her feet with apologies for his rough treatment.
“I’m no porcelain doll, Brenton,” Caitlan assured.
“Well . . . uh . . .” Brenton looked just as pale as his wife.
Caitlan smiled and gave a whoop of her own, causing Brenton to grin. With a shrug, he grabbed her hand, and the two, with Jordana chiming in, continued whooping and dancing. All at once, theirs weren’t the only shouts to be heard. These new yells, however, were not ones of pleasure, but rather they were hostile and intent on harm.
Jordana was first on her feet. She grabbed up a rifle and began to run to the front of the wagon. “Indians!” she called out over her shoulder.
By then Brenton and Caitlan had rifles and, using the wagon as cover, were returning fire. But there were too many, and soon the little party would be overwhelmed. The only thing Jordana could think to do was to somehow divide the attackers.
Jordana freed her mount, then shouted to her brother. “I’m going to try to draw them off.”
And before anyone could respond, she swung herself up on her horse’s bare back with nothing more than the animal’s mane to assist her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw three braves bearing down on the camp. She fired at these men, and it was only then that Brenton realized what she was up to.
“Jordana!” he yelled.
But there was no time for him to berate her foolhardiness. He had to keep shooting. And Jordana had no time to worry about his displeasure. When they discussed it later, as she was certain they would, he would have to realize that it was especially imperative that he remain with Caitlan to protect her and their unborn child.
Jordana urged the horse forward and, with a powerful kick, felt every muscle of the beast leap into action beneath her. She hadn’t ridden bareback in years, but now was no time for worrying about it. Firing off in the direction of the newest line of attackers, Jordana counted another five men bearing down on their camp.
Hearing shots behind her, Jordana could only pray for her family’s safety. Glancing around as her horse tried desperately to climb the rocky
terrain, Jordana realized that her plan was a success; in fact, it was quite shockingly successful. With the exception of one or two, all of the braves were now following her! A sickening feeling permeated her senses. If they caught her, they would kill her.
Urging the horse and praying at the same time, Jordana crested the butte and found herself face-to-face with another half dozen braves. It appeared to be a hunting party. Knowing her efforts were futile, Jordana didn’t even attempt to shoot at the group but, instead, pushed her horse into the direction away from the gathering. Crouching low to the horse’s neck, she heard several bullets whistle by her.
Then the shots stopped, and Jordana thought for the briefest moment that she had somehow managed to elude her captors. Just as quickly as the thought came to her, a mounted warrior rose up in her path. The suddenness of his appearance made her mount jerk skittishly, throwing her to the ground. Hitting her head hard against a rock, Jordana fought against the blackening cloud of unconsciousness. Her last image was of an Indian warrior, probably no older than herself, kneeling over her to survey her injuries.
——
Brenton gathered his wife into his arms and held her as she cried long and hard. The events of the morning were more than either one of them could possibly understand or felt up to considering in any detail. The shock had made them numb and then had rendered them grief stricken in the wake of Jordana’s disappearance.
Brenton had watched stunned as the entire party of attackers had gone off in pursuit of his sister. He knew she had not intended for this to happen but rather had simply wanted to break up the war party and give Caitlan and him a better chance.
Only two Indians remained behind, and these had seemed uninterested in anything Brenton and Caitlan had to offer, including their scalps. The two braves had stripped the wagon of what they wanted—blankets, food, rifles—but the photography equipment seemed of no interest, and since the chemicals were inedible, they simply tossed them to the ground. Brenton had been amazed that the entire wagon hadn’t erupted into flames.
Within moments these Indians also left in the direction of Jordana’s path of departure. They neither acknowledged Brenton’s and Caitlan’s existence, nor concerned themselves with the wagon’s horses.
“Oh, Brenton, what are we to do?” Caitlan said in tears.
Brenton shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think.”
“Do you think Jordana got away?”
Again he shook his head. “I don’t know. I need to round up our horses and go look for her.”
Caitlan nodded vigorously. “Aye. That’s what we should do.”
“Not we, me.” His firm tone was edged with fear.
“But I don’t want ya to be goin’ alone, and neither do I want to be left here all by meself,” Caitlan replied. “I’ll stay where ya tell me to, but don’t leave me here.”
How could he best protect her? What if he should make the wrong choice? “All right. We can come back for the wagon.”
He took the spare saddles from the wagon, and in minutes two animals were ready. They searched for several hours, and the only thing Brenton could find was Jordana’s discarded hat. What grieved him the most was the wet blood he found smeared at the rim. Swallowing hard, he searched the horizon from the butte and tried to see where the Indians might have taken her. But there was no sign of life out there. The barren land revealed nothing, and the growing cold of the wind seemed to indicate that the weather was soon to turn quite harsh.
Glancing at Caitlan, Brenton felt he had once again failed Jordana. He was unsuited for this harsh land and its dangers. Unsuited to keep his family safe while venturing out to do nothing more difficult than take photographs of the landscape.
Heavy clouds had been gathering since early morning, and now a light rain began to fall, chilling Brenton to the bone. Jordana was out there somewhere—she, too, was no doubt cold and wet—and bleeding, he reminded himself.
With a cry that reached clear down into his gut, Brenton bellowed out her name against the angry Utah skies. “Jordana! Jordana!”
The silence deafened him in reply. “I can’t do this alone,” he said, lifting his face to the heavens. “I know nothing about how to go finding her. I don’t know what to do.”
Rich. The name came to him like a whisper of hope. Rich O’Brian not only knew Jordana and cared deeply about her, but he knew this land. He had been a soldier, and he also knew about tracking and Indians. Rich was the answer!
“We have to get to town!” Brenton cried, and with renewed hope spurred his mount into a gallop. “We have to find Rich.” Caitlan raced after him.
——
Jordana awakened to hear the murmur of voices somewhere near. She struggled to understand the words, feeling certain she recognized one of the voices. Charlie? she wondered, then shook her aching head. No, it didn’t really sound like him.
Forcing her body to comply with her desires, she rolled to her belly and crawled toward the sound of the voices. She was lying on the ground but in some sort of enclosure. Although her vision was blurry, she could make out a crack of flickering orangish light through some sort of a door. What had happened to her? Why did her head hurt so much? Had she gotten sick back in Wadsworth?
Her eyes adjusted somewhat to the dim lighting of the room, and as she began to focus on the objects around her, Jordana felt as though she must be in a dream. Smells she had never known before assaulted her senses. What had happened to her? Where was she?
Laughter broke through her thoughts. She had heard that laughter before. Where? She edged closer toward the light until she came up against something rather soft: the walls of the room—or rather the tent. A leather flap seemed to be the only closure between her and the outside world. Carefully lifting it, she peered out but fell back as a sharp pain shot through her head. The pain nearly blinded her, but not before she could make out the figure of a white man and several Indian braves outside, seated around a campfire.
Panting hard and struggling to sit up, Jordana could no longer take the pain. She eased back to the mat on which she’d been placed. The voices came to her, muffled but clear enough to distinguish.
“We took the man just as you said. We left the others unharmed.”
“Good, good. No sense in everyone getting into an uproar. You’ll find your price is even now being unloaded from my wagons.”
Jordana fought to stay conscious, anxious to know what this meeting was about. What man was he talking about? Should she scream and let the man know that she was being held captive? Perhaps he could help to rescue her. He obviously seemed to be friends with this particular tribe of Indians.
“Are you interested in another job?”
“Against the railroad?” came the reply.
“Yes.”
“I will speak to my people. If it is to our benefit, then I will consider it.”
Jordana could not tell who was speaking because the two speakers both used excellent English. Yet she was certain by the clothing that only one of the men was white. Before she could consider further, the voices grew muffled and the words became slurred and unrecognizable. It was only then that Jordana realized she was about to pass out again.
Just then the flap opened and the orange light of the fire made eerie shadows dance about the tent. She struggled to clear her head but pretended to remain unconscious. She didn’t know why, but instinct told her this was for the best.
“There he is,” the Indian said. “Is this your man? Your Mr. Baldwin?”
“That’s the little troublemaker,” the other man replied. “Do with him what you will. Just don’t let the body be found.”
“The signs promise a bad winter. My people are preparing to leave for better ground. Perhaps we will take him with us to help with the move. Your job must come soon or we will not be here to help you.”
“The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned. Just keep Baldwin out of my hair.”
Jordana felt a cold sensat
ion settle on her body. When the flap was once again in place, she shuddered and realized that whoever the man was, it was he who had caused her to be captured by the Indians. Then the other words of his conversation came back to haunt her.
“Are you interested in another job?”
The man was hiring the Indians to work against the Union Pacific. Perhaps even the Central Pacific. Yielding to the blackness, Jordana closed her eyes. If only she could somehow let Rich know about the deception. If only she could remember whose voice it was that she’d just heard. She had tried to see the man through her narrowly opened eyes, but the light had been too dim. Perhaps she could somehow learn his identity from the Indians. That was, if they let her live long enough to ask questions.
19
When Jordana next awakened, she found herself lying warm and snug beneath a pile of furs. She shifted her weight to roll over and the fur fell away from her shoulder. The air was quite cold and caused her to shiver. Then realization dawned on her. She wasn’t wearing her clothes. Feeling along the lines of her body, Jordana realized that she wasn’t wearing any clothes at all.
Startled, she opened her eyes and focused on the room. An old Indian woman sat not two feet away from her. She watched Jordana with curious eyes and spoke in halted English.
“You no move. You hurt.”
Jordana reached up to her head and felt a sticky concoction. Pulling her hand away, she wasn’t at all sure what the substance was, but it appeared to be some kind of poultice.
“Where am I?” she asked, her voice croaking from disuse.
The old woman shrugged. “You rest.”
“I need clothes.” Jordana clutched the fur tight to her breast. “Where are my clothes?” She motioned to her body, then to the woman’s layered outfit of buckskin.
“You no man. You woman,” the woman replied matter-of-factly.
Judith Pella, Tracie Peterson - [Ribbons West 03] Page 16