Once again Zachary Thatcher’s gaze touched hers, slipped away. “John Hargrove, Tom Swinton—”
She stiffened.
“—James Applegate and Nathan Fenton. Your wagons are beside the river. You men will stay here and guard this area. If you spot any Indians approaching through the water, fire a shot to warn them off. If they turn back, let them go. Do not shoot to kill unless they keep coming. Keep a sharp eye out for diversions. Watch the water for Indians crossing while others draw your attention from them, and be ready to shoot. If they reach the trees along the riverbank they can sortie on the wagons from there and they will be hard to flush out. Hargrove and Swinton, you two take the first watch. Applegate and Fenton, rest while you can, but be ready. And douse this fire.” His gaze swept over them once more. “You women, no lights in the wagons. An arrow can’t find an unseen target. The rest of you men, come with me.”
The women in attendance glanced at one another, then, faces set in grim acceptance of the situation, headed for their wagons. There was nothing to say. No comfort to offer. Things were what they were.
Emma watched Ruth Applegate hurry off beside her husband, baby Isaac clutched tightly to her chest. She looked at Pamelia Swinton hobbling along after Tom, young Edward beside her, and at Lydia Hargrove marching off beside John, at Carrie Fenton standing still as a statue beside her wagon. What would happen to all of them? And to all of the others on the train? What would happen to Annie? To her?
Annie. She had to protect Annie! Her stomach contracted. A quivering started in her legs and arms, spread to every part of her. She folded her arms across her torso to try and stop the quaking and peered into the dusky distance, fastened her gaze on Zachary Thatcher’s rapidly disappearing figure. Somehow, though frightening, it had seemed everything would be all right until he strode away.
Chapter Nine
Zach edged up to the rock, molded himself to its form and studied the length of denser darkness on the ground ahead. Was it a ridge of stone—or a guard stretched prone on the ground? He scowled and edged a little closer. The darkness was an enemy that hid his foes. But the same darkness covered him. He stayed perfectly still, listened and watched a few minutes longer, then took a firmer grip on his knife, crouched low and inched his way toward the thick darkness near the top of the low, sandy rise.
Emma stared into the dark, listened to her sister’s soft breathing. How could she sleep at such a time? It was worrying. Anne had not even been alarmed at the news of the Indians. Only irritated that she would not be left alone.
Emma released her grip on William’s pistol, flexed her stiff fingers then reached up and rubbed her neck and shoulders. Never had a night been so long. Every muscle in her body was protesting her cramped position, demanding movement, but she dared not rise or stretch in the close quarters lest she bump something and knock it onto Anne.
She sighed and rested back against the side of the wagon, shifted slightly to ease the discomfort of the tense muscles around her shoulder blades, then wiggled her toes and feet to relieve the annoying prickles in her legs. The weight of William’s pistol across her thighs hampered her movement. She lowered her hands, carefully felt for the weapon and again folded her fingers around the grip.
Hoofs thudded against the ground as the horses tethered to the wagon tongue changed position. Her heart lurched. Was an Indian stealing Traveler or Lady? Or had one crowded the horses over so he could climb into the wagon? She swallowed hard, lifted the heavy pistol with both hands and pointed it in the direction of the driver’s seat. Should she issue a challenge to scare whoever might be there away? Or should she stay silent and shoot if someone tried to enter? Could she shoot? She supported her trembling hands with her raised knees and nodded. Yes. Yes, she could shoot someone to save Annie and herself. But then she would doctor whomever she shot.
Laughter bubbled in her chest, boiled up into her throat. The doctor in her recognized it as hysteria. She clamped her lips tight, fought the laughter down.
Some sort of night bird called. She held her breath and strained to hear if another answered. Oxen horns clacked together outside. She jerked her head in the direction of the noise, jerked it back toward the entrance over the wagon seat again at a soft whisper of sound. A horse swishing his tail? Or leather moccasins brushing against the wood? Tears smarted her eyes. Every normal night sound had turned into a threat. If only William were here. She so missed him and—
No! What a selfish thought. She did not want William to be in danger. And if he were here, he would be out there in the night doing whatever Mr. Thatcher told him to do. And Caroline and the babe she carried would be sitting here in this wagon with Indians prowling around outside. Prowling around.
Moccasins are better for tracking. Her lungs seized. Is that what Mr. Thatcher had been speaking of? Tracking the Indians? Was he out there in the night sneaking up on the war party? An image of him as he’d stood listening to the Indians signaling one another by hooting like owls flashed into her head. There had been an intensity, a strength in his face that had both drawn and frightened her. What if— She shook her head, denying the thought. It was too terrifying. What would they do if something happened to Zachary Thatcher? Who would lead them to Oregon country? Who would get them safely across the mountains and rivers?
Emma shuddered, leaned her head back and closed her eyes, remembering how her wagon had slipped off the fording path in the Big Blue River and tipped sideways, how Zachary Thatcher had come and snatched her from the tilted seat as she was sliding toward the water. And of how safe, how protected she had felt with his strong arms holding her in front of him on his horse. And, again, earlier tonight, when he had caught her and kept her from falling. When he had looked down at her and his arms had tightened around her…
Suddenly, with her whole being, she longed to be in his arms again. What if he didn’t return? What if she never saw him again? Tears slipped from beneath her lashes and ran down her cheeks. Please, Almighty God, please. Do not let Mr. Thatcher be harmed. Please keep him safe for…for all our sakes.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her free hand and opened her eyes. She could see nothing in the inky darkness, but it made her feel more vulnerable to have her eyes shut. Her chest tightened. She forced her lungs to draw a deep breath, then expelled it slowly. It was so hard to be brave, sitting alone in the dark with a pistol in her hand guarding Anne while evil crept through the night.
Zach stretched out along the length of the ridge of rock and peered around the end. Five small fires burned at the bottom of the swale, the warriors around them dark silhouettes against the glow of their flames. So the Cheyenne were being cautious, but did not feel threatened. If there were Pawnee or other enemy tribes close by they would never light fires. And they were not preparing for battle. So, barring some fool mistake by one of the greenhorns, they had no plans to attack the train.
Relief eased his tense muscles. An owl hoot from behind him on the right drew them taut again. He turned his head, spotted a returning scout loping toward the camp and hugged the ground. The warrior’s footsteps vibrated through the earth beneath his ear. The whisper of moccasins against the sandy soil grew louder. The scout was not being careful, which meant he felt secure this close to camp and would not be so alert. Perhaps he would pass by without spotting him. And perhaps not.
Zach tightened his grip on his knife, tensed his muscles to roll aside and spring to his feet to silence the brave before he could give an alarm. Grains of sand skittered along the dry soil between the sparse blades of grass and pelted his hand. He held his breath—waited.
The scout loped by the end of the rocky ridge. Zach lifted his head enough to turn it and watch the warrior into camp. He drew his legs up beneath him, chose his path and got ready to run if the brave raised a cry.
All stayed quiet below. The Cheyenne gathered around the fires continued to eat, some were sleeping. He could make out their forms at the edge of the firelight. Near as he could see there were c
lose to fifty braves in the war party. More than double the number of fighting men he could field. And of the men he led, most were unskilled and untested in warfare.
Zach scowled, studied the area behind him, slithered back from the top of the rise, then crouched and ran toward the cover of a nearby tree. Best not to return on the path he had used to come to their camp. He would take a roundabout route back to the river.
“There are so many of them!” Emma straightened, wiped her brow and stole another look at the Indians sitting on their horses, a short distance beyond the massed herd. “There must be at least fifty of them!”
“Mind your skirt!” Lydia Hargrove gave her a little push back from the fire. “It’s not Indians you’ll be worrying about if you catch afire. And mind you don’t burn that gruel. It needs stirring.”
Emma nodded, bent and stirred the oatmeal bubbling in the iron pot over the coals. “How can you be so calm, Lydia? They look so…so…savage! Did you see their painted faces? And the feathers stuck in their hair? And they are fairly bristling with weapons.” She straightened again. “Look at all those spears, and bows and arrows and shields! And now that the light is strengthening I can see hatchets dangling from their waists.”
“Mayhap you would be calmer if you looked at what you are doing, instead of at the heathen. Remember, Mr. Thatcher said we are to act normal and not show fear.”
There was tension in Lydia’s voice, and her face was pale. She was not as calm as she pretended. Emma sucked in a breath and forced a smile. “I am acting normal. You are the cook, not I.”
“True enough.” Lydia laughed, but there was a strained sound to it. “That gruel is done.”
Emma nodded, gave the oatmeal a last stir and pulled it off the fire. “What will happen to us, Lydia?”
“We will do as Mr. Thatcher says and break our fast as usual.”
“And then?”
The older woman dumped the coals off the lid of the spider into the fire, lifted the pan out onto the grass and straightened. She wiped her hands down her apron and looked off toward the war party. “Most of our husbands and sons are shopkeepers or farmers, not fighters. What happens will be as God wills it.”
The quiet words sparked a fire in her breast. Emma looked at her wagon, at her doctor’s bag and William’s pistol resting on the shelf beside the water barrel where she had placed them and shook her head. “I am not as accepting as you, Lydia. Life is sacred. And I will fight to preserve it—with my doctoring skills, or with a gun.”
“You may soon have the chance.”
Emma jerked her gaze toward the Indians, spotted the lone figure riding out to meet them astride the large roan with gray spots decorating its hip. Her lungs froze. She opened her mouth to call Zachary Thatcher back, but no sound came out. She commanded her feet to stay put, to not run after him. Please, God! Please keep him from harm. Oh, please keep him safe. Keep us all safe!
Her pulse thundered in her ears, throbbed at the base of her throat. She closed her eyes, afraid to witness what might happen, then opened them again in case she was needed. He had covered half the short distance and stopped. An Indian was riding out to meet him. She looked at the garishly painted face, the spear clutched in a powerful hand, whirled and hurried to her wagon. If something happened she was too far away. She had to get closer. She snatched up her doctor’s bag and William’s pistol and, mindful of Zachary Thatcher’s order, forced herself to maintain a moderate pace as she walked toward the other end of the circled wagons.
Emma wrapped the pistol in the oiled cloth, slipped it into its leather bag and placed it back in the chest. Weariness washed over her. She cast a longing look at the bed folded up against the wagon wall and sighed. She should try to sleep, but it was impossible. She was still too…unnerved. The Indians were gone. But so was Mr. Thatcher. He had ordered the wagons to remain in camp until he returned, then rode off in the same direction the Indians had taken. What if— No. She would not think about that.
She lifted the lap desk from the chest and closed the top. Writing letters had become her escape, her comfort. She would use this time to write home and tell them about the Indians. But she must make the telling amusing. She did not want to cause her family to fear for her and Anne. Her lips twitched. She would tell them about the tobacco and beads.
Laughter bubbled up and burst from her mouth. She sat back on her heels, wrapped her arms about her waist and rocked to and fro with the false hilarity. It was only a nervous reaction to the long hours of tension and fear. She knew that. There was nothing funny about those savages. Or about Mr. Thatcher riding out alone to talk with them. She had been so frightened for him. But still—tobacco and beads? That was all that was required to make those fierce warriors go away. But now…
The laughter died. Now he was out there somewhere. Alone. And if something happened to him… If he were wounded or hurt…or worse, they would never know. She would not be able to help him and he might… Tears welled up, spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She wiped them away, tried to stop the sobs building up in her chest, but they demanded liberation. She crossed her arms on top of the chest, placed her forehead on them and released all of her worry and fear for him in a torrent of tears.
Zach peered over the rim of the ledge and watched Gray Wolf and the rest of the Cheyenne ride down the length of the wash below and disappear around the rock outcropping on the other side. If the war party had intended to ride ahead and set an ambush for the wagon train they never would have ridden so fast or taken that direction. The wagons could not follow their path. And they had not left sentinels to watch and report on the train’s progress.
The tension across his shoulders eased. He rose and trotted back down the hill. “All right, boy. We have trailed them long enough. Time to go back and get the wagons moving.” He swung into the saddle, reined Comanche around and touched him with his heels. The horse leaped forward, then settled into an easy, ground-eating lope.
Zach scanned the area ahead and resisted the impulse to urge Comanche to greater speed. The Cheyenne were far from their normal haunt. This was Pawnee and Sioux territory. And Arapaho and Comanche roamed these parts, as well. It didn’t pay to get careless. Hopefully, Blake would remember that and keep the emigrant greenhorns alert and ready for an attack as he had ordered. But calm. They had to stay calm. His gut tightened. If other Indians happened upon the train before he got back, one foolish act, one careless shot on an emigrant’s part could spark an all-out attack. And if that happened…
Images he didn’t care to remember flooded his head. He thought about the women and children on the train, about Emma Allen. He clenched his jaw against the memory of the sight of her when he had turned back from meeting with Gray Wolf. He had ordered the women to stay by their wagons, but there she was, standing in the shadow of a wagon, watching the meeting, her face pale and tense, her doctor’s bag in one hand and a pistol in the other. And when their gazes had met, he’d known from the look in her eyes and the set of her shoulders she would have used both to try and save him had he been in trouble. He had badly misjudged her. Emma Allen may have led a pampered life, but she had courage. And she took her doctoring seriously. And he’d never seen a woman as beautiful. If any harm came to her…
Zach shoved the thoughts away and again scanned the area as he rode toward the pass that led back to the river valley. It was dangerous to allow yourself to be distracted when— His heart jolted. Five mounted Indians stood atop the low ridge on his right. He kept his face straight ahead, watched them from the corners of his eyes. They turned their mounts and started down the hill on an intercepting path. He loosened his sidearm in its holster and judged the distance to the pass against the angle of the Indians’ approach. It would be a close thing. Too close. Even with Comanche’s speed. It would be better not to run and excite them with the chase. “Ease up, boy. We’d best meet these braves head-on.”
Be with me, Lord. Give me wisdom. And, if need be, make my shots true. He reined Comanche a
round to face the Indians and halted. They galloped toward him. He leaned forward and patted Comanche’s neck. “Be ready, boy. We may have a run ahead of us yet. But at least it will be a fair one with a chance you can win.” The horse flicked his ears back, then forward again, tossed his head.
Zach straightened in the saddle, lifted his right hand palm out, and pushed it forward and back. The Indians slowed, trotted their horses a little closer and stopped. He could see them clearly now. Pawnee. And they were not painted. But that did not mean they would be adverse to a little “sport” with a white man. He fastened his gaze on the brave in the lead, raised his hands and locked his forefingers together in the gesture of friendship.
The Indian returned the sign.
But more than one soldier had died because of an Indian’s treachery. Zach cast another swift glance over the surrounding area. He saw nothing alarming. “Okay, boy, let’s go.” Comanche snorted and walked forward. The brave walked his horse out to meet him.
Zach looked into the warrior’s dark eyes. Their expression was wary, but not angry. “Do you speak my tongue?” There was no answer. He tapped himself on the chest, pointed at the brave and again linked his forefingers in the sign for friendship. The brave did not move aside to let him pass.
Prairie Courtship Page 10