He started to say no, thank you, but out of the corner of his eye caught the look of total disgust on Jesselynn’s face. “Thank you, it would be a privilege.” He glanced down at a tug on his pants leg.
“Buff’lo for supper, Mist Wolf.” Thaddeus smiled up at him, blue eyes sparkling. “Me shoot buff’lo too.”
“Someday.”
“Uh huh, someday. Jesse say when I get big.”
“Thaddeus, don’t bother Mr. Wolf.”
The little boy stepped back at the sharp tone in his sister’s voice.
“Oh, he’s no bother.” Wolf heard a burst of laughter from the school-age children gathered around Nate Lyons. Every evening as soon as they’d made camp, he taught ciphering, spelling, reading, and writing. His storytelling drew children and grown-ups alike. His ongoing story of the Jehosaphats had become a nightly ritual for most of the camp before bedding down. That and the singing led by Bronson, the fiddler, and son Billy on the harmonica.
Wolf leaned down and scooped Thaddeus up to sit on his shoulder. “Can he come with me?” He asked the question of Aunt Agatha while keeping an eye on Jesselynn.
“I don’t know why not.” Agatha patted Thaddeus’s knee. “Now you be a good boy, hear?”
Thaddeus straightened his back. “I always good.”
Wolf let out a roar of laughter. Jesselynn’s mouth made a string look thick, but did he glimpse a twitch at one corner? Maybe he was seeing things. “Hang on, partner. We’ve got business to attend to.” Off they went, with him fighting the urge to look back.
“Why did you let Thaddeus go like that? He could be in the way.” Jesselynn darted another withering look Wolf’s way but realized she might as well stop. He wouldn’t pay any attention anyway.
“If Wolf asked him, I thought it would be fine. Thaddeus didn’t ask.” Agatha stuck her threaded needle into the material of her waist, between shoulder and bosom, where hopefully it wouldn’t snag on anything—or anyone. She tucked the shirt she’d been working on for Sammy in her voluminous apron pocket and, using the lower portion of her apron for a potholder, lifted the lid on the stewing buffalo.
“My, don’t that smell good?”
Jesselynn sliced off another strip with enough force to cut into something else. Or someone else. She draped the pile of strips over the iron rack Meshach had fashioned for just this purpose, crowding those that had been hanging long enough to shrink some. She could hear the anvil ringing as Meshach worked to provide racks for some of the others. Other people dried the meat the old-fashioned way, over green willow branches lashed together.
Patch lay watching her, and if a bit dropped to the ground, it was his, quicker than a striking rattler.
“You’re furious because you didn’t get to go on the hunt,” Agatha said, shaking her head and watching Jesselynn glare at Wolf while he talked to someone at the next wagon. Even Benjamin and Daniel had subdued their high spirits when they saw her. “You’re being unfair, you know.”
Jesselynn snorted and kept on slicing meat.
“Sorry, my dear, but women just aren’t invited on hunts like that, britches or no.”
“It’s not fair.” The words were forced between teeth clamped tight.
“I know, but it’s not like we had nothing to do.” Agatha filled a bucket partway with water and added a cup of salt to soak more meat. “Jesse, take my advice. Let it go and let the men have their fun. Heaven knows, there ain’t been much time for fun on this journey.”
Jesselynn let out a pent-up sigh. “You’re right, but . . .” But I wanted to at least see the herd. And I’m a good shot. It’s just not fair. I know, Mother; the Bible never promised us fairness.
When she finished cutting the meat off the haunch, she dropped the bones into another kettle. They’d be making soup out of that. She glanced around at the stacks of bones, hide, and meat to tend to. However would they be ready to travel in the morning? Benjamin had promised to make spoons out of the bone, and Ophelia had asked for a comb to be carved out of one of the ribs. Nothing would be wasted. Soon as she had the rack full of strips, she began chopping the meat in fine pieces to mix with cornmeal and onions to stuff in the stomach. Once boiled, the whole made a savory dish that would keep a day or two at least. Sliced, it fried up well.
“You mad, Jesse?” Thaddeus leaned against her knee.
“No, why?”
“Sad?”
She shook her head and leaned over to touch her nose to his. “What makes you ask?”
“You not smilin’.”
Oh, Lord, save this child, who sees so far beyond the usual. She glanced up to see Wolf watching them. He always seemed to be watching her. What had she done now? She knew what she needed to do—ask Daniel and Benjamin to forgive her for being such a mean-spirited woman. She’d surely quenched their joy.
She lifted Thaddeus to her lap and blew kisses on his neck to make him giggle. “You are right, little brother. I’ve been too serious lately.” Laughing would be a lot easier if Wolf didn’t thwart her at every turn. Not letting her go on the buffalo shoot had been the final offense.
She needs to laugh more. Wolf watched the play between brother and sister. He knew what the other women were saying, that she shouldn’t be wearing britches and acting like a man. Several of them had taken to snubbing her, not that it seemed to bother her much. She’d taught several other women how to dry the meat, shared her box of simples as she called them, and never had a cross word for any of them—except him.
If they’d been through what she’d been through—
He cut off the thoughts and held his coffee cup up for a refill. Jane Ellen smiled at him as she filled it.
“Elizabeth speakin’ to you yet?” He kept his voice low, for her ears only.
Jane Ellen shook her head. “She says I lied to her, that I shoulda told her Jesse was . . . is . . .” She pursed her mouth and rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t. Not one of us ever told nobody.”
“Don’t you worry about it. Elizabeth just got her pride hurt a bit. ‘Twon’t kill her.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wolf. You want a hunk of cinnamon cake?”
“I sure do. That Ophelia be one fine cook.”
“I made the cake.” She ducked her head before he could see the blush.
“Then I’d say you are becoming one fine cook also. This wagon is sure blessed with good cooks.”
“Good save there.” Agatha sat down beside him and held up her cup for Jane Ellen to fill also. Setting her cup down, she took out her knitting and picked up where she’d left off. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”
Wolf nodded, at the same time wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Agatha had that look in her eye. “What?”
She knit a few stitches. “About Oregon country. Do we dare believe all that hoopla about living off the land and anything and everything growing there?”
Wolf let out a sigh of relief. Why had he thought she was going to be talking about her niece? “You can believe much of it. Like Kentucky, the land is rich, the seasons fairly mild. The Indian tribes live off the land and the water. White men will build towns. There will be shipbuilding on the rivers, farming. When the railroad crosses the country—”
“That’s nothin’ but a pipe dream.”
“No. It will happen. And if you think many people have crossed the country on the Oregon Trail, you wait to see what happens when the trains travel.”
“What makes you believe that?”
“I’ve ridden this trail four times now. I see sod houses sproutin’ like weeds in the spring, cattle grazing where the buffalo roamed, wheat fields where the prairie grass reigned.”
“And will you farm or—?”
“No, I will . . .” He stopped. The song of the fiddle caught his ear. “Let’s go hear the next chapter in the story.”
“No, I don’t waste my time listening to that old reprobate spouting off like that.”
“Why, Aunt Agatha, here Nate has had nothin’ but good to say
about you.”
“He better not be saying nothing ‘bout me, that old brushface.”
Wolf looked up just in time to see Jesselynn roll her eyes. Had she been listening to the conversation all along? He stood and tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “Thank you for a fine meal and a pleasant evening.” He tipped his hat to Agatha, nodded to Jesselynn, and followed the stream of folks congregating in the center of the circle.
The legendary Jehosaphats were in rare form that night, with Nate Lyons playing one part of the family after the other, from the grandfather sitting in the rocking chair to the mother scrubbing clothes on the washboard and the children getting in trouble no matter what they did. The fiddler got into it, playing on the low notes in the dark parts and lively high notes on the happy.
Jesselynn took her knitting over to the circle, chuckling along with the rest of them until she sensed Wolf behind her. She dropped two stitches and had to stop because she couldn’t see well enough in the near dark to pick them up again.
“What’d you go and do that for?” she hissed.
“What?” He leaned down to hear her better.
“Nothin’.” She stabbed the needles back in the ball of yarn, not wanting to admit the desire to stab them into him. Where had all this violence come from? She who never wanted to hurt anyone, unless of course they were wearing a blue uniform—or any uniform, for that matter.
As the applause broke out, she knew she’d missed a good part of the story. That man. Not only would he not let her hunt buffalo, now he’d ruined a perfectly good evening as well. She turned and left, oblivious to the lack of good-nights directed her way.
Wolf, however, was not oblivious. He steamed instead, responding to a pleasant “Good night, Wolf” with a curt nod. What a cluster of hypocrites. His father had always said, “Give me a straight-up Indian any day before a backbiting white.” Maybe there had been truth in that theory. Now that he could live comfortably in either world, all he could dream of was the life he’d lived as a child—before his mother died of the pox and his father took him back to civilization.
Meshach was still chuckling when he returned to their own fire. Sammy lay sleeping in Ophelia’s arms, and Thaddeus clung to Meshach’s hand. Ophelia put the two boys to bed while Meshach checked the meat hanging on the rack. He threw more chips on the fire to keep it smoldering all night to dry the meat. By the time the camp settled down, the moon had leaped from the horizon and floated like a silver disc in the heavens. After making sure everything was put away in their camp, Jesselynn rolled into her quilt on the ground under the wagon. Why had Wolf stood behind her like that? Silencing a yipping coyote would be easier than silencing her thoughts.
At a whine from Patch, Jesselynn rolled over, fully alert, listening with every nerve. She held still, wishing for Ahab, who was out with the remuda. Laying a hand on the quivering dog, she tried to see what he saw. A growl rumbled in his throat.
Could it be Indians?
EARLY JUNE 1863
Another dog barked.
Patch growled again, and the hair rose on the back of his neck.
Jesselynn slid out from the covers and to her feet as soundlessly as whoever or whatever was bothering the dogs. She stood at the end of the wagon, searching the flatlands around them. The grass wasn’t deep enough to hide much.
A third dog barked. Patch, at her knee, growled again. This time the hair stood on her own neck. Something was out there, but what?
She knew Meshach was behind her without looking. “You think something’s botherin’ the horses?” She kept her voice soft so only he could hear it.
“I go see.”
“Take Benjamin?”
“I’se here.”
She strained, hoping to hear something, anything. Meshach and Benjamin looked like shadows flitting across the prairie. Patch streaked after them. She could hear others rustling. The dogs had sounded the alarm.
A shout! A rifle shot! All from the direction of the grazing animals.
Jesselynn grabbed her gun. If someone stole the horses, this long ordeal would have been for naught. “Stay here and guard!” she ordered Daniel and threw him a gun. A volley of shots and shouting made her run faster.
The hoofbeats of a running horse caught her attention, even above the thundering of her own heart. Another shot. Then a horse and rider in pursuit.
She met Meshach and Benjamin returning with the Thoroughbreds.
“Dey got Marse Wolf’s Appaloosa and one other.”
“Who?”
“Indians, we ‘spect.”
“Where was the guard?” She knew two men had been assigned to keep watch, as they always did. She swung atop one of the mares to ride back to camp.
Meshach’s snort said what he thought of the guard. “Mos’ likely sleepin’. He weren’t on him horse, dat’s for sure.”
“Who?”
“Dat worthless Rufus Jones. He was mountin’ when we got dere.”
“Where was McPhereson?”
“Don’ know. Got to look for ‘im.”
By now half the camp was awake and other men running out to join them.
“Where’s Wolf?” several men asked at the same time. “What happened?”
“Indian raid. Got two horses, one Marse Wolf’s.”
At least our horses are safe. But guilt stabbed her as soon as the thought. Wolf and his horse were like one. She’d heard he’d raised the striking bay-and-white Appaloosa from a colt and never rode any other horse. But where was he?
She tied the mares to the wagon and waited for Meshach and Benjamin to return with the others. They’d gone to help round up the herd and bring it closer to camp. A shout said they’d found McPhereson. When they rode in with a body draped across the saddle, she knew.
Not only two horses, but they’d lost a good man. While Jones slept.
You don’t know that for sure, she reminded herself.
A lantern flared and lit the circle where they lowered the body to the ground. The gash across his jugular glowed black in the light. His wife burst through the circle and dropped to her knees beside the body, her keening cry bringing tears to Jesselynn’s eyes. Surely this was a death that could have been prevented.
“Where is Wolf?” one of the men growled.
“Mebbe gone after de horses?” Meshach dismounted and joined the circle.
“On foot?” The man snorted this time.
“Where’s Benjamin?” Jesselynn spoke for Meshach’s ears only.
“Out on guard.”
“What about Jones?”
“Don’ know. Just someone got to stand guard. I go back out. We bring dem all close to camp.” Meshach headed back out to the herd.
The sound of galloping hoofbeats drew their attention to a rider, etched in the moonlight, coming into camp.
Jesselynn knew who it was as soon as she caught the white splashes on the lead horse. It was Wolf’s horse, so Wolf must be the rider. A second horse raced beside them.
Silence greeted his halt at the edge of the camp.
“One brave—he won’t steal horses again.” He glanced around the circle. “Where’s Jones?”
Several shrugged. The wife’s keening continued, broken only by her gulps for air. Aunt Agatha knelt beside her, her murmurs of comfort lost in the sorrow.
“Shouldn’ta happened.”
“High price.”
The muttering caught Jesselynn’s attention. Why were they blaming Wolf when Jones was to blame? If he’d been on watch like he was supposed to . . . but did they know that? Had her men kept that knowledge to themselves? Knowing Meshach, she was sure that’s what had happened.
Edging closer so she could tell Wolf what had happened without announcing it to everyone, she caught her breath. His left arm wore a gash from shoulder to elbow, the blood dripping down over his hand. She turned to see Jane Ellen at her side.
“Get my medicine box, please.” Still keeping her voice soft, she added, “And ask Daniel to build up the f
ire. We need hot water.”
Her attention shifted back to the circle. Wolf stood at an angle so the men couldn’t see his arm.
“I didn’t sound an alarm because that was the job of the men on guard. If there had been more braves, more horses would have been stolen, but since I heard one set of hoofbeats, I knew . . .” His words wore the patient tone of a man explaining things to children.
“Didja know McPhereson was dead?”
Wolf shook his head. “No, but I suspected as much. What about Jones?”
“He was sleeping.” Jesselynn raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Meshach found him just mounting his horse, his bedroll out by the fire.”
“Ya sure about that?” A voice rose from the gathered men.
“Meshach never lies.”
“That worthless—”
Jesselynn took a step forward, hands clenched at her sides.
“No, I don’t mean your sla—er, man.” The man with a full mink beard backed off, hands in front of him. “I mean that lowdown Jones.”
“Good thing, Henry, he—er, she woulda dropped ya for sure.” The air lightened at the general chuckle but for the keening that had now diminished to hiccupping sobs.
“Oughta just string those two brothers up. Save the woman a life o’ trouble.”
“There’ll be no talk of stringing anyone up. We don’t know the entire story yet.”
Jesselynn took her box of medical supplies from Jane Ellen and, holding it with one hand, tapped Wolf’s arm with the other. “How about I fix that arm of yours before you bleed to death?” Not that there was much danger of that. The bleeding had slowed, the dark river coagulating on the buckskin shirt.
Wolf glanced down at his arm, then at her. “It’s fine.”
“It will be after I get it bandaged. Once I see it in the light, I’ll know better if you need stitches or not.” She wasn’t prepared for the tension that ran up her hand to her shoulder when she touched his arm. Like touching a hot stove, only in that case she was wise enough to pull back. Instead, she pointed to the hunk of oak they’d been toting across the plains. “Sit.”
A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy Page 27