Zeus whinnied. The sound was followed by a blow and a firm stomp of a hoof—probably Cyrus. She smiled. He was as petulant as they came and not shy about asserting his opinion. Seth had tied them to graze in a clearing on the other side of the wagon, and they were probably wishing to be watered again. They always got greedy when they could hear the flow of a stream.
The ruckus continued, so she set her things aside. “Settle down, boys,” she chided as she rose. “I’m coming.”
Becca rounded the back of the wagon and stopped dead in her tracks as the air in her lungs completely evaporated.
Cooperate. But don’t show any weakness.
Seth trudged back to camp under the weight of the task ahead. The scow was in working condition and a sturdy rope already spanned the divide, but the river was deep and the current was swift. Crossing would be dangerous at best.
And how would they go about it? The scow was too small to hold both the wagon and the team. He’d have to swim the horses across, or ferry them first and come back for the wagon. No matter what method or order he chose, something vital would be left unprotected. He couldn’t be in three places at once.
Approaching the wagon with a sigh, he spotted the biscuits and cheese Becca had set out. Worry had his appetite in its grip, but he’d force himself to eat. Fighting that current was going to take all his strength and more.
The snort of a horse stopped him short as he bent to pick up his lunch. The sound was too close. He’d staked the team in the clearing beyond the trees that lined the other side of camp. One of them must’ve gotten loose.
Seth rounded the back of the wagon and saw Becca standing a few feet away. He opened his mouth to call her name, but closed it again. Something was wrong. Her back was ramrod straight and her hands hung, pale and trembling, at her sides. He’d only seen her this frightened one other time.
Pulse kicking into a gallop, Seth eased his hand toward his holster and crept closer.
“Iipa!”
The cry was followed by a stream of staccato words Seth didn’t understand. Hooves thudded the ground as firmly as his heart against his ribs, and a savage on horseback loomed over him, poised to throw a spear.
Seth straightened and lifted his hands, palms out, hoping the brave would comprehend the gesture.
The Indian barked something at him, but Seth could only shrug.
The Indian repeated himself, this time reining his horse backward several steps.
Seth glanced at Becca who was looking at him now, her face bloodless and her hands gripping the folds of her skirt. He took a tentative step forward, toward the brave.
The Indian issued the same command and backed up some more, so Seth took more cautious steps.
A murmur of male voices to his left stole his attention, and his blood ran cold.
Six more braves atop horses emerged from the shadows of the trees, all of them stone faced and most of them armed. They carried everything from bows to clubs, and were in various states of undress. Some wore leather pants and scanty animal skin ponchos, while others had only a loin cloth. But all of them bore blue ink tattoos.
The markings—rows and rows of parallel lines—varied in pattern from one to the next, decorating their bodies and extending to cover their faces. Their long black hair flowed wild and loose, and the slant of the inky lines matched the fierce slant of their eyes.
Seth’s indrawn breath grated over his throat as he regarded the threat. No matter what, he had to protect Becca. Everything else was expendable. Including him.
The brave with the spear glared at him, unblinking, as if waiting for a reason to attack.
Seth held the man’s gaze and lifted his chin.
The savage narrowed his eyes, then looked to Rebecca, his lips curving to match his lecherous stare.
A growl lodged in Seth’s throat as he resisted the urge to fist his hands.
One of the men spoke, another sharp string of meaningless syllables. The phrase was apparently meant for the spear-carrying savage, if the cowed look that crossed his face was any clue.
Seth focused on the man who’d spoken. The entire group was young, but he was older by several years. Perhaps he was their leader.
The older Indian spoke to him then, his cadence slow, but his words as lost on Seth as the ones before.
“I’m sorry,” Seth said, turning out his hands. “I don’t understand.”
The older man turned to one of the others behind him. After a brief exchange of words, the brave dismounted and emerged from between the horses.
His skin was lighter than the rest—merely tan, not deep bronze—and his only tattoos were five vertical lines spanning his chin. His prominent cheekbones and sinewy frame were clearly native, but sky blue eyes crested an aquiline nose.
Was he a half-breed?
“Kumadha wishes to know why you are here.” He spoke slowly, as though pulling each word from deep in his mind.
“We’re on our way to California. We were preparing to cross the river.”
The fair-skinned brave turned and spoke to the older man, apparently translating his answer. Kumadha gave a brief reply.
The translator glanced around, as did many of the men on horseback. “Where are the other wagons?”
Seth drew a measured breath and debated lying. “There are none,” he finally said, ruing the fact he’d tipped his hand. “We’re traveling alone.”
“How can one man cross a river?”
“I was figuring that out when you came.”
The translator had another brief exchange with Kumadha. The spear-carrying savage growled and spat out several words with disgust, but Kumadha calmly put him in his place.
Seth gnawed the inside of his lip. He and Becca were grossly outnumbered, and Kumadha seemed reasonable. Maybe they could make some kind of deal.
“My name is Seth,” he said when the translator faced him again.
The Indian hesitated, studying him. “I am Hatchoq.” Seth slowly lowered his hands, but kept his right well clear of his holster. “What tribe are you?”
“We are called Mojave.”
“You speak English well.”
Hatchoq’s gaze darted away. “It is my mother’s language.”
Kumadha spoke to Hatchoq, his voice low but with an edge of authority.
Without looking back, Hatchoq nodded. He lifted his chin, his blue eyes keen yet cold. “What will you give us to cross?”
Seth glanced at Rebecca. Her face was still pale, but she’d stopped shaking. He crinkled the corner of his eye in a barely-perceptible wink, then focused on Hatchoq and mentally tallied what he could barter. “I have extra corn and beans.”
“How much?”
“I can spare ten pounds of corn and twenty pounds of beans.”
Hatchoq relayed the offer to his leader. “What else?”
“Well... I can give you a peck of dried apples.”
Hatchoq said something in his language without even turning around. “What else?”
Seth rubbed his chin and exchanged a look with Rebecca. He was reaching the end of their surplus.
“Clothing,” she whispered. For the purpose of salvaging fabric and fasteners, she’d packed extra clothes from her stash in the cave. It was worth a shot.
“Good idea,” he replied. “Bring out what you can spare.”
Becca turned to climb into the wagon, and a chorus of clicks disturbed the silence. Save Hatchoq and Kumadha, every brave had drawn a weapon and aimed it at her back.
She glanced over her shoulder and froze, her hands gripping the box and her foot on the rail.
“She’s getting some clothes to trade,” Seth explained.
At Hatchoq’s retelling, Kumadha spoke and his men lowered their weapons—a few of them reluctantly.
Hatchoq inclined his head.
Seth gave Becca another reassuring look. “Go ahead. Just don’t make any sudden moves.”
Becca climbed in. After rummaging through a trunk, she handed a stack of odd
shirts, skirts and trousers to Seth who turned them over to Hatchoq for inspection. Amid murmurs of approval, Hatchoq passed them to one of the men who then tied them to his saddle.
The spear-carrying brave said something while Seth helped Becca out of the wagon.
Seth looked slowly from Hatchoq to him and back. “What did he say?”
“Mahwat wants one of your horses.” The interpreter gave no guidance and Kumadha’s face was impassive.
“I can’t give you that,” Seth said.
Hatchoq glanced back at Mahwat and shook his head.
The denial brought a more demanding comment. When Hatchoq didn’t respond, Mahwat addressed Kumadha. The words were foreign, but the meaning was clear.
Kumadha listened, and then drew his thick brows as though he were considering the plea. With a mix of authority and resignation, he spoke to Hatchoq.
“Mahwat wants a horse or he won’t agree.”
Seth’s patience slipped to the ground along with his stomach. “I can’t give him one. I need both of them to pull the wagon. Your leader seems to be a fair man. Surely Kumadha can convince him to see reason.”
“I could appeal, but it would do no good,” said Hatchoq. “Every member of our group must agree. It is our way.”
Seth looked at Rebecca. The defeat in her eyes deepened that in his heart. They wouldn’t be allowed to cross the river if he didn’t give up a horse. And without the team, they’d never make it farther than the opposite bank.
“Interpret for me,” he said as he angled to face Mahwat.
“I found her in the wilderness,” Seth began, indicating Rebecca. “She got separated from her family when they were traveling west. She was starving and alone.”
Hatchoq hesitated, then spoke in the same calm tones.
“I told her I would help her find her family. I spent all the money I had on the wagon and supplies.” He paused while Hatchoq repeated his words. “I need two horses to pull the wagon, and I can’t afford to buy more. If I give you one, we won’t be able to complete the trip.
“Please,” he added when Mahwat’s scowl failed to ease. “Don’t prevent me from taking her home.”
The spear-carrying brave sat tall on his stallion, eyes dark and unreadable.
At a shift of his gaze, Seth glanced behind. Rebecca had held up her hands and was easing toward their forgotten lunch. After squatting down for moment, she lifted something and carried it toward Mahwat.
“You don’t have to do this,” Seth murmured to her as she passed. “We’ll find something else.”
“We don’t have anything else.”
Moving slowly on shaky legs, she approached Mahwat and lifted the wooden box she held in her hands—her precious pastels. “Will you accept these instead?”
She held them out to him for what seemed like minutes, but—despite Hatchoq’s translation—he didn’t respond.
Becca lowered the box and opened the lid. “They’re for coloring. See?” Her trembling fingers lifted out the sapphire blue one, her favorite, and stroked it along the pale skin of her forearm until some of the color rubbed off.
When the stone-faced savage refused to acknowledge her, she replaced the beloved stick and closed the lid. Her disappointment was palpable.
Seth gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to spit on the heartless bastard. But his anger quickly turned to embittered despair. They were going to end up stuck on the trail—or worse—and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
Damn it all! Why can’t these people see reason!
Hatchoq said something in his peoples’ language and brows rose throughout the group. Even Mahwat’s harsh veneer was affected.
“What did you say?” Seth asked.
A wan smile curved Hatchoq’s lips, spreading the lines on his chin. “I reminded them of another one of our ways.”
Kumadha looked at Mahwat expectantly.
The brave’s jaw clenched, causing muscles in his cheeks to bulge and twitch. Eyes shuttered with rancor, he gave a curt nod, then looked straight ahead and fixed his gaze on the horizon.
Once the bartered food was portioned out and given to the Indians, along with Becca’s precious pastels, the men pulled the wagon to the edge of the river and rolled it onto the scow. They removed a few crates and ration barrels from the bed and placed them around it to spread the load and make the narrow barge more stable. As the braves finished shoving the containers into place, Seth walked up the bank and took Becca aside.
“I’m going to swim the horses across while you ride on the scow. I wish I could ride with you, but I need to keep an eye on the horses. I don’t want to be on the opposite bank from either them or you. The safest thing is to stay together, to reach the other side together.”
She stood tall and nodded, but fear radiated from her in waves. He was frightened, too. So many things could go wrong, and there wasn’t enough time to prepare her. His mind raced as he worked to keep his cadence slow and his voice calm.
“Stay near Hatchoq. And hold on tight, but don’t get in the wagon. If the scow starts to capsize or sink, jump clear of it and swim to safety.” He drew her into a hug and whispered in her ear. “If we get separated, go to the other side and go downstream. Hide yourself and wait. I’ll come find you. Understand?”
“Yes.” Her arms slipped around his waist and she clung to him. “Be careful.”
“I will.” Seth memorized the feel of her as he inhaled her sweet scent and gave her one last squeeze. “Be brave, little rabbit.”
After gazing up at Kumadha sitting on his horse and watching from a nearby hill, Becca turned toward the river and stepped onto the scow. It wobbled, sloshing the shallow muddy water. She bent her knees and held her arms out in an effort to gain her footing. Two ropes stretched from the raft’s upstream corners to the long rope spanning the river to keep the small ferry on course, but they didn’t do much for stability. Spreading her feet to give herself a wide base of support, she eased forward, grabbed onto the left, rear corner of the wagon, and positioned herself so she could see around the side.
The four Indians traveling with her had already boarded and taken their places with ease, walking as if they were stepping on solid stone. One manned the front, two held long poles at either side, and the one called Hatchoq stood near her, in back. The native at the front of the scow called out to the others on the bank, then went about his final preparations.
Becca’s hands began to ache. She was squeezing the wood so hard, her knuckles blanched. Forcing breath into her constricted lungs, she eased her grip and willed her pounding heart to slow. She could do this. They’d make it. Everything would be fine.
Hatchoq stood a few feet to her left, his shoulders square, his back straight, and his hands not holding onto anything. Clad in only a pair of leather pants, he was facing south, observing his surroundings without a word. She tried not to look at his bare chest and the lines on his chin, but she found it hard not to stare.
A slight breeze lifted his shiny black hair off his shoulders as his piercing blue eyes scanned west and lit on her. Becca’s breath caught in her throat. Crystalline irises regarded her with uncertainty... curiosity. Then, with the humble courtesy that marked everything he did, their silent owner drew them away.
“Thank you for helping us,” Becca said once she’d found her voice.
Hatchoq turned those striking eyes on her again. After regarding her until her lungs seized up again, he answered with a slight lowering of his lids. “You’re welcome.” They silently studied each other. He started to look away, then stopped. “May I ask you a question?”
Becca swallowed. “Yes.”
“How long were you alone before Seth found you?”
Her gaze fell slightly at the memory, but she lifted it again. “More than a year.”
A look of surprise wove its way through his brow as his golden chest rose with an undisciplined breath. He quickly regained his impassive face and stoic composure, but a look of admiration lin
gered in his eyes. “You have much courage.”
Becca chewed her lip. “May I ask you something?”
Hatchoq gave a single nod.
“The other men have lines all over their bodies. Why are yours only on your chin?”
A distant look stole the light from his expression. “My mother is white and my father is Mojave. Like my mother, I am a slave.”
The shock of his confession left her speechless.
“Ready,” Seth called.
Hatchoq turned and said something to the other men, then crossed behind her and placed a single hand on the wagon.
Several yards downstream, Mahwat swam his stallion out to a sandbar midway across the river while Seth mounted Cyrus and waited on the bank. Zeus’s lead line in hand, Seth spoke softly to Cyrus and urged him down the sandy slope and into the water.
Still stunned by the Indian’s answer, Becca looked back and forth from Hatchoq to Seth. She wanted to know more, but she’d run out of time. The horses were in the water and the braves were preparing to float the scow. She needed to focus all her attention on keeping her balance and making it to the other side.
The Indians holding poles dug them into the dirt and began pushing away from shore. Their muscles bulged, and they grunted and groaned with the effort, but she couldn’t feel any difference. How could they possibly move such a heavy load?
Long moments later, the scow eased forward. Her hands closed like a vise on the wood as the raft lifted and rocked and surrendered its will to the current.
The ropes pulled taut and the scow leveled out. Other than a gentle rolling motion and the lapping of water, it felt as if they were slowly sliding across ice. Becca didn’t let go, but she released her bated breath. This wasn’t so bad. Maybe they would make it after all.
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