Nina shrugged. “I might walk a while.”
“Whatever. Suit yourself.” Jessica turned and strode back to the wagons.
“I’m sorry,” Nina said, looking up to Jack but not fully meeting his gaze. As though she didn’t quite dare to. “She had no right to talk to you that way.”
“That’s all right. You have no need to apologize for her. Besides, I’ve done my share of being rude, lately. I suppose I had it coming.”
“Even still, there’s no excuse.”
“Would you mind if I walked along with you for a while? I mean, to rest my horse a bit?”
“That would be nice.”
He swung out of the saddle and fell into place at Nina’s side, leading his horse behind him.
He said, “I don’t think your father likes me much.”
She gave a quick chuckle. “Don’t feel bad. He doesn’t like anyone.”
Jack glanced to the sign post that was now within reading distance. Bozeman. 150 Mi.
He said, “I’m kind of concerned about the axle in your family’s wagon. According to Mister Ford, there’s a deep crack in it.”
“My father doesn’t seem to be worried about it. Besides, maybe he can find a replacement along the way. A stage passed by today, and the driver said there’s a way station twenty-five miles ahead.”
“I don’t know. Twenty-five miles is a long haul with a bad axle. If it should break out here, we’ll lose more than a day trying to get a new one.”
“My father can be a little pig-headed sometimes, but he means well.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that he didn’t, miss.”
She smiled. And for the first time, she looked him in the eye. “I’m sure you didn’t. And it’s not miss. It’s Nina.”
“Fine. Nina.” He returned the smile.
At his smile, her gaze darted downward again. “Is it true what they say? I mean, if I may be so bold?”
“Is what true? What do they say?”
“That you attended school in the east?”
He nodded. “It is indeed true. Harvard Medical School.”
“Harvard? Medical school?” She looked at him again, clearly astonished. “But you’re so young.”
“I graduated from high school at sixteen.”
And he found himself explaining how he had been raised on a ranch in Montana, but at an early age had shown unusual aptitude for things scholastic and was sent to boarding school in the east where he could gain a classical education.
“That sounds so exciting.”
He shrugged. “My father wants the best for me. For all of his children. And my Aunt Ginny wants it, too. She helped my father raise us after our mother died.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thanks. It was a long time ago. I don’t really remember her, but I feel I know her because Pa and Aunt Ginny kept her memory alive.”
“And now, what? You’re returning to the ranch for the summer?”
He shrugged again, noncommittally. “I suppose.”
“So, medical school is what your father and your aunt wanted for you?”
“Either that or law.”
She was silent a moment, then said, “Mister McCabe – Jack – you speak of what your father wants. Again, if I may be so bold, what is it that you want?”
His gaze met hers. “You know, I think you’re the first person who ever asked me that.”
It was then that Nina’s father called to her from the wagon. “Nina!”
“I’d best get back,” she said.
He touched the brim of his hat. “Thanks for the pleasant conversation.”
She flashed him a smile and turned to walk back to her family’s wagon.
It was late in the afternoon when Jack told Brewster he was going to scout their back trail again.
“We’ll be stopping to make camp in a couple of hours,” Brewster said. “And whether Harding likes it or not, I’m going to crawl under the wagon and have a look at his axle.”
Jack rode away along the trail, heading back in the direction they had come. Soon he found what he was looking for. A hill with a crest that was not too far from the trail, but high enough that he could have a good look at their back trail.
His horse made easy work of the long grassy slope. From the crest of the hill he had a view that was even better than the one he had found earlier in the day. Maybe seven miles, he guessed. And it was truly a guess because with landscapes like this, with a countryside made up of long low hills but no trees for points of reference, distances could be deceiving.
Movement to his left caught his eye. The low hill he was sitting on stretched down and away in a gradually descending slope, and then beyond it another hill began. Climbing this hill was an elk.
Its coat was the color of light buckskin, a color which blended into most backgrounds, and if the elk had been standing motionless Jack might have missed it entirely.
Elk would be a welcome improvement from the jerky and canned beans he was expecting for be his dinner. He would offer some to the settlers so they could make their own supplies last a little longer. Some fresh elk might also serve as a little peace offering with Nina’s father.
Nina Harding. He hadn’t given her much thought the day he first rode into the settler’s camp outside of Cheyenne. She seemed to be a girl who tried not to draw attention to herself. And yet, she had a quiet sort of natural beauty. The more Jack looked, the more he found he wanted to look.
He pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot, jacked the action to chamber a round and brought the rifle to his shoulder.
The elk was moving along leisurely. The way the wind was blowing, it hadn’t caught the scent of Jack or his horse. It was approaching the summit of the hill. Jack sighted in on a spot at the base of the elk’s skull and squeezed the trigger and the rifle roared and bucked against his shoulder. The elk pitched forward and came to a sliding stop in the grass. It flopped onto its side and kicked a couple of times, and was dead.
Jack rode to where the elk lay dead. With his Winchester returned to the scabbard, he stepped down to the grass and pulled a pocket knife from his vest. Though the blade was only three inches long, he kept it sharp to split a hair. He gutted the animal, then tied the carcass over the back of his saddle.
With the animal in place, Jack thought he would abandon his vigil of the back trail and return to the wagons. The added weight of the elk onto the horse would slow him down, and Jack wanted to be at camp before sundown.
He decided to take one last quick look at the back trail, and as he topped the hill from which he had shot the elk, visible in the distance maybe two miles away was a dust cloud. Riders. They must have been stopped when he rode out here, because he had a view of nearly seven miles and never saw them approaching. They must have been sitting and waiting. Maybe letting their horses rest a bit. Then they heard the rifle shot and were now coming.
Judging by the size of the dust cloud, Jack figured they weren’t riding hard, but they weren’t walking their animals either. At this speed they could cover two miles in less than twenty minutes. With the carcass tied to the back of his horse, there was no way Jack would be able to make it back to the wagons before the riders could overtake him. He would have to cut the elk free and leave it behind.
He hated the idea of leaving those men free food. He had essentially shot their supper for them. But he saw no alternative.
Then he looked closer and realized he might have been wrong in his first estimation of the cloud. The way the dust was being generated, he now thought it might have been created by wheels as much as by horse hooves. It was a wagon. Possibly a stage coach. He couldn’t imagine what other kind of wagon would be out here and moving that fast.
He cursed himself for his inexperience. He had retained all of the knowledge Pa had given him, but much of it was academic. He didn’t have the experience necessary to put that knowledge to practical use. He doubted Pa or Josh would have made that mistake in evaluating a
dust cloud.
Jack rode down to the side of the trail to wait for the wagon. He dismounted and loosened the cinch to let his horse breathe a bit before he began the long ride back to the wagons.
After a time, a stage came into view. The horses were being held to a trot, but even still, the hooves and the iron rims of the stage’s wheels kicked up a fair amount of dust. There was little rain in this land, and even though grass grew, the dirt could be loose and dry.
Jack held up his hand and the stage drive pulled the team to a halt.
“Howdy,” Jack called to the driver.
“Howdy, stranger.” The driver was maybe ten years older than Jack, with a face already weathered from years of riding into the sun and wind. Beside him on the seat was another man cradling a shot gun. The driver said, “Your horse pull up lame?”
“No, he’s fine. I’m with a small group of wagons that are camping a few miles up the road.”
The driver nodded with recognition. “Johnny McCabe’s son. I heard about you back in Cheyenne. They’re still talking about the way you beat up two of those gunhawks, and the way you and the marshal rescued that girl from their camp.”
“Those gunhawks – were they still in town?”
The driver shook his head and spat a wad of tobacco juice. “Nope. From what I heard, they pulled out about a week ago.”
Not good news, Jack thought.
The driver said, “Look, pilgrim, I’d like to stay and palaver all day but I got me a schedule to keep.”
“I understand. One more question, though. One of the wagons has a cracked axle. Is there any chance we could find a new one at that way station ahead?”
The driver shook his head. “Maybe. That’s where we’re headed now. He keeps stuff like that on hand, in case a stage breaks down. Axles and wheels. Extra harnesses.”
“I won’t hold you up any longer, then.”
“Nice meetin’ you, McCabe,” and the driver giddyapped his team and off they went.
Good news, Jack thought, as he tightened the cinch and stepped into the saddle. The way station would be, according from what Nina had they were told earlier in the day, maybe twenty miles further down the road. The teams of oxen couldn’t match the speed of the stage coach, but Jack thought they should be able to reach the place within a couple of days, should Harding’s axle hold up.
Before he started along the trail, he cast one more glance back. There, in the distance, a narrow finger of white smoke was beginning to rise toward the sky. Out here, it was most likely a campfire.
From the trail, he had visibility of only maybe two miles, and the smoke was from further away than that, but just how far was hard to guess. From the positioning of it, he estimated it to be a mile or more away from the trail. Someone traveling overland but keeping away from the trail.
Jack had no way of knowing for sure who the campfire belonged to. But he had a good guess.
He kicked his horse into a shambling trot, and began his way back to the wagons.
11
Cook fires had started, but dinners were not yet being prepared when Jack rode into camp.
“You been huntin’,” Ford said, his eyes lighting with a smile at the elk draped across the back of Jack’s saddle.
“That I have. Elk meat for everyone tonight.”
Elk was divided between the three families and roasted over the fires. As the sky darkened and stars began to show, Jack sat cross-legged in the grass in front of the Brewster fire with a plate of elk in front of him. Brewster was on a stool with a small wooden table in front of him. He held a fork in his one hand and was spearing a chunk of meat.
Brewster said, “This was such a welcome surprise.”
Jessica was in a small wooden chair, a plate of elk balancing on her lap. She said, “This might go a long way with mending fences with Mister Harding, since you seem to have set your sights on Nina.”
Jack was suddenly uncomfortable at the direction the conversation was taking. “What makes you think I’ve set my sights on anyone?”
“I can tell by the way you look at her.”
“Jessica,” her mother said. “That’s not talk for a lady.”
Jessica gave Jack a wicked smile. “Who says I’m a lady?”
Not me, Jack almost said.
“Jessica,” Brewster said. “That’s enough.”
She shrugged and went back to her plate, cutting another piece of elk and chewing into it.
Once he was done eating, Jack got his rifle. He said to Brewster, “I’m going to go do some scouting.”
Brewster nodded. “Be safe.”
Jack went on foot, as he did the night before. He was able to step down on the grass silently, but his smooth bootsoles were a little slippery. Pa usually carried a pair of deerskin boots in his saddlebags, in case he needed to move silently, and Jack found himself wishing he had a pair with him. Pa had made him some a couple years ago for Christmas, but he had left them in his room at the ranch. You don’t normally need deerskin boots at Harvard.
He had put maybe a quarter mile between himself and the camp when he saw a point of light in the distance. It was shimmering and flickering. A campfire. Most likely the one the smoke he had seen earlier belonged to.
He returned to camp and the Brewster’s fire and took a cup of coffee, draining what was left in the pot. The camp was quiet as everyone had turned in, and the fires were burning down.
Brewster stepped from his tent. He had removed his hat and jacket, and stood in a white shirt and suspenders. His sleeve was folded over the remains of his forearm, and looked to be somehow fastened. A button, maybe.
“They’re out there, aren’t they?” Brewster said. “You saw their campfire.”
Jack nodded. “I saw it.”
“And you’re sure it’s them?”
“I’m not really sure of anything. But the stage driver I talked to said those men had pulled out the day after we had, and it’s good to never take chances with men like that.”
“It seems like the prudent thing would be to post a guard, but no one here is qualified for anything like that, except you. Ford’s a good man, and Harding carry’s himself in a strong way, but they’ve never served in the Army. I can’t imagine either of them out there in the dark with a squirrel gun.”
“What about you?”
“I was in the Army once, back in the war. A long time ago. Back when I still had both hands. I can’t really use a rifle anymore.”
“How about a pistol?”
Brewster looked at him curiously, like he hadn’t considered that option.
Jack drew his revolver and flipped it over in his hand so he could hand it butt-first to Brewster.
“This is one of them Peacemakers,” Brewster said, holding it up before his eyes in the firelight.
“Forty-four caliber. Loaded with only five rounds. I keep the chamber in front of the hammer empty so it won’t fire accidentally when I’m riding. You hang onto that for the night. I’ll take the first guard and wake you up in a few hours and you can spell me, and we can switch off like that until morning.”
“No need to even worry Harding or Ford, I suppose.”
“Tell me about Harding. What’s his problem? He seems like he has a deep anger smoldering inside him.”
“Poetically put.”
“I’d hate to think all those years at school went to waste.”
Brewster chuckled. “I’ve known Carter Harding for years. We lived outside the same town in Vermont.”
It seemed to Jack like there was more Brewster wanted to say, but didn’t.
Jack said, “What about Ford?”
“A good man. He lived there, also. But all he knows is farming. That’s all either of them know.”
“Except for you. You went off to the war.”
Brewster nodded. “Lost my hand at Gettysburg. Took a Confederate musket ball right through the wrist. Most men shot that bad died of infection within a week, but I was spared.”
Brewster
tucked the pistol into the front of his belt. “Harding has his own ideas, and is stubborn to a fault. It’s hard for him to accept help and I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him admit he was wrong. But he’s a hard worker and pulls his own weight, and he might be a good man to have your back in a fight.”
“He won’t be pulling his own weight if that axle breaks before we get to the way station."
Brewster nodded and chuckled. “I don’t think he sees it that way.”
“He sure hates me.”
“He doesn’t understand you.”
“And you do?”
Brewster shrugged. “Maybe not entirely. But I met some hard men during the war. Met some good ones, and some bad ones. You kind of straddle the fence in some ways. You seem like a good man. An educated man. And yet, you move like a gunman.”
“I suppose you’re right on all accounts. I hope I’m a good man. And I have enough education to choke a horse. But I suppose I wear the gunhawk label honestly. It’s part of where I’m from. My Pa rode a dangerous trail. I suppose he still does. He taught me all he could.”
“He sent you off to school in the east. Maybe he wanted something better for you.”
Jack shrugged. “Maybe. Though I don’t know if I’m meant to ride that trail.”
Brewster hesitated a moment, then said, “Is it true what my daughter said? About you and Harding’s daughter?”
“She seems like a nice girl. But I don’t know if it would be fair to get too close to her. I don’t really know what lies ahead of me.”
“You’re not going back to school?”
Jack shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. But I don’t know where I will be going. The future’s like a blank page.”
“It is for us all, son. Just most of us don’t realize it. We plug along in a certain direction, but we never really know what the good Lord has planned for us.”
“Well, you might as well turn in. I think the wagons should be moving as soon as possible in the morning. Make that way station as fast as we can. With any luck, Harding’s axle will hold out until then.”
“Do you think we’ll be safe from those men there?”
One Man's Shadow (The McCabes Book 2) Page 8