by Janette Oke
Chapter Four
The Snowstorm
Will turned to his son. “Not certain jest when we’ll be back,” the big man said to the tall young man before him.
Laramie made sure his face betrayed no emotion, but he was not pleased with the fact that his father and Sam were riding off with a winter storm imminent.
“Any orders?” he asked quietly. He would not openly question his father’s decision, even though he felt it was downright foolhardy. He had a strong feeling Sam agreed with that assessment, though the man had not expressed such to him. Still, Sam stomped and cursed and looked particularly menacing as he saddled his own mount. The packs had been tied securely on the backs of the two other animals.
“No orders,” said Will curtly. “You know the ropes.”
The young man nodded. This was his father’s way of saying that he was in charge.
His eyes turned back to the waiting horses. His father’s horse pawed at the ground and blew, his nostrils flaring. He too seemed reluctant to leave the shelter of the buildings but was impatient to be off if a trip had to be made. Sam’s horse stood head down, eyes nearly closed against the cold wind. He was getting old, but Sam refused to give him up in place of a younger mount.
The two pack animals crowded in against each other as though seeking warmth. The young man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the two animals. Why two? The packs weren’t that cumbersome. One horse could have easily carried the load. And there was something very odd about the one. A blanket covered the entire pack—as if something was being concealed. But hidden from whom? He was puzzled, but he knew better than to ask.
“Ya sure this rope is—” he began nonchalantly and stepped forward to check the rope that reached across the pack. He let his hand run over the contents beneath the blanket. Again his face gave nothing away, but he had discovered the mystery of the blanket. There was a saddle underneath it, camouflaged by small packs that rested on it. And it sure wasn’t a pack saddle. It was a riding saddle. Why did his father need a third horse for a rider?
He stepped back and nodded to Sam, his way of casually acknowledging that the rope was secure. Sam cursed softly.
“Ya think I’m fergittin’ how to pack a horse?” he grumbled.
The young man did not answer. He knew that none was expected. The rule of the gang was to keep quiet unless talk was required. He had already broken one of the rules. He had questioned a superior. Anyone but Sam would have been more than upset by the interference.
There were no goodbyes. No calls of “Safe trip,” or “Be seein’ you.” The two men mounted their horses in silence; each picked up a lead for a pack horse and moved out onto the trail that wound away from the crude buildings. The few men left behind did not stand and watch them go or even wave a hand to send them on their way. They turned back to whatever their own activities had been, which in most cases was simply to be in where the fire would warm the frigid air.
“Skidder—best git up there and spell off Rawley,” said the young man as they entered the cabin.
“He ain’t been up there any four hours,” protested the man called Skidder.
Laramie stopped. He looked straight into the eyes of the man a few feet across the cabin. Something changed about the young man’s stance. Not that his face—or even his body—gave much away, except that he was ready. Ready for whatever he might face.
They both knew there was some bad blood between them. The entire gang knew it. Had always felt it, though no one was quite sure what had started it. Now the whole cabin tensed.
“I don’t think I asked how long he’s been out there,” Laramie said, and his words were coolly controlled. “I jest said thet it’s time he was relieved.”
He stopped and his eyes sent their own message. The others in the cabin shifted slightly. The young man appeared loose and easy—yet coiled like a snake about to strike. Everyone knew that the few words of question from Skidder had challenged the younger man’s right of leadership.
Laramie spoke again, suggesting that he was not anxious to start a row—but he was in charge. “It’s cold out there. We’ll take shorter shifts,” he said in explanation. He hesitated, and then drawled slowly, but with meaning, “Unless, of course, yer anxious to have yerself one extry long shift.”
Skidder shuffled nervously but seemed to feel some relief. Had it been Will he had questioned, his dead body likely would have been cooling off out behind some barn by now. Will, as boss, had never been known to give a gang member a second chance. And Will never stopped to explain an order. “Only one boss in this here outfit,” he said coldly to any new member that might be taken in. “An’ you ain’t it.” The meaning was always clearly understood.
Skidder, who had been around gunmen for most of his life, had already figured out that the Kid, as all the camp called Laramie, would not shoot to kill. Still, he had no desire to have his shooting arm all messed up.
Without another look toward Laramie, Skidder reached for his heavy mackinaw and his rifle. The room stirred again. It seemed that bloodshed had been avoided. Shadow pulled out a deck of cards, and James pulled a log stool up to the table to let the man know that he wanted to be dealt in.
Laramie moved toward the fire and reached for another piece of wood. This one was over—but he’d have to watch his back even more closely in the future.
In another cabin some distance away, Sam threw another log on the fire and shivered visibly in spite of sparks that shot upward.
“This here cabin’s got enough cracks to run a bear through,” he grumbled.
Will paid no attention to his complaining. He sat with a bottle of whiskey at his elbow and every now and then stopped to take a long, bored draught of the liquor.
“Fella gotta wear his hat to keep his ears from freezin’,” Sam went on. He rubbed his hands together to keep the circulation going.
“Why don’t ya sit down and quit yer grousin’?” Will said sourly.
“Gotta go git us some more firewood, thet’s why,” Sam threw back at him. “How many days we gotta keep this fire goin’ anyway?”
“ ’Til it storms.”
“An’ when ya bringin’ in this here storm of yers?” Sam’s sarcasm was more felt than heard.
Will scowled and shifted. Sam wondered if he had pushed too far and was relieved when Will’s right hand reached for the whiskey bottle. The man couldn’t hold a bottle and a gun in the same hand.
“Soon now,” he answered, almost civil. “I can feel it. It’ll be soon.”
Sam said no more but picked up the hatchet and went out to look for more firewood.
Ariana sighed and stacked the day’s marked assignments into a neat little pile on the corner of her desk. She was glad to have the grading completed so she could get home. The sky had darkened and the temperature had dropped. Even though she had recently added more wood to the potbellied cast-iron stove, it was unable to keep the room warm. Her feet cold, she stomped them on the floor once more as she sat at her desk.
She had some assignments to get ready for the next day and a Scripture passage to choose for the morning reading, and then she could bank the fire and be off home. She pulled her sweater a bit closer about her body.
The heavy door creaked open and Ariana raised her head. Along with a few flakes of snow, two men in long, heavy buffalo coats and black hats pulled down over bearded faces stepped through the opening. Ariana knew she had not seen them before.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly, thinking them to have lost their way. “Can I help you?”
There was no answer. The two men moved farther into the room. Ariana could sense that their dark eyes were sweeping quickly over the interior, taking in everything they saw. Something about them made her feel very uncomfortable. She stood.
“Can I help you?” she repeated. “If you are looking for the town—”
The smaller man looked longingly at the iron stove. Ariana saw one hand reach out toward it, as though to take full benefit of it
s heat if only for a moment.
“Please, feel free to warm yourselves before you go on,” offered Ariana. In spite of herself, she felt a tremble of fear pass through her.
“Reckon we won’t take time fer warmin’,” said the bigger man gruffly. “Got some ridin’ to do. Now iffen you’d jest git yer coat, miss—we’d welcome ya to join us.”
Ariana stared in unbelief.
“What—?”
“Git yer coat, miss.” The order was growled more loudly from the gravelly voice. Ariana froze to the spot.
“I think ya better do as told, miss,” advised the smaller man. “It’ll be easier on ya iffen ya co-operate.”
“But I…I can’t go with you. My family is expecting me—”
“Then yer family will jest have to wait a spell,” said the big man. Ariana saw the end of a pistol peeking out from the furry sleeve of his heavy coat.
“But I—”
Ariana stiffened and pulled herself to her full height. She took a deep breath and told herself to hold steady. Not to panic. But at the same moment her whole body trembled. She was afraid she was going to faint.
She closed her eyes and grasped her desk with both hands. Trust in the Lord, she managed inwardly. That was as far as she got with her prayer.
“Git yer coat,” barked the big man again. “An’ I’d advise thet ya git any other wraps thet might keep out the weather. We got us some tough trails ahead.”
“If you think I have any intention of riding off—” began Ariana, finding courage she did not know she possessed.
Her words were interrupted by a hoarse laugh. The big man turned to the smaller one. “Ya got us one with spunk, Sam.” He laughed again. “I like thet. Should work in our favor—later.” Then his eyes turned cruel again. “But not now. Now—ya git yer coat.”
Ariana lifted her chin and tried to still its trembling. “I will go nowhere with you,” she managed.
The big man reached out a hand that closed firmly on Ariana’s wrist, making her wince with the pain. Roughly he jerked her toward the hook where her coat hung. She struggled against his iron grip, writhing this way and that in an effort to free herself. The grip on her wrist tightened, sending spasms of pain shooting up her arm.
With one last mighty effort, Ariana spun around and raked her fingernails down the face of her opponent. She saw the prickles of blood appear on the broken skin before he wrested her to the floor.
Dark curses filled the air. “Sam, gimme the rope,” he shouted.
The other man stepped forward, an ugly frayed rope dangling from his hand. For a moment he stood looking down at her, chewing on his stained mustache. Ariana was fighting against tears. Her wrist felt as if it had been broken.
“We be needin’ this, miss—or are ya gonna be reasonable?” asked the man named Sam.
Ariana nodded mutely. The big man pulled her roughly to her feet. “Then git yer coat—and I ain’t sayin’ it agin,” he growled.
Ariana had no choice but to obey.
“Take everything thet ya be needin’, miss,” said the smaller man. “Ya won’t be back fer a while.”
Ariana felt there might be just a trace of sympathy in his voice. Instinct told her to respond quietly to his orders. Perhaps, if she did not resist, in time she would have an ally.
She quickly moved to get her coat, her eyes darting over the room to see just what she might take with her that could be of use in the uncertain future. With her wrist throbbing painfully, she managed to pull on her heavy coat and do up the buttons. Then she pushed a few items into her cloth carrying bag. She really had very little at the schoolhouse. Just as she was about to move off, she noticed her Bible and quickly slipped it into the bag as well. She had the impression that it might become more important than ever to her.
She felt as though she were in some horrid nightmare. Nothing seemed real. She prayed that it wasn’t. That she would soon wake up to her usual life. But the pain in her wrist was a reminder of how real her present circumstance was. She had to do something. Had to protect herself someway. But what could she do?
Her hands trembled and she felt weak and faint. There was no point in screaming—no one was within hearing distance. There was no use trying to fight—she’d never be the winner. And there was no way she could break and run—at least not now.
She was being kidnapped. Cruelly, frighteningly kidnapped—by two desperadoes. She knew not why and she knew not where they were taking her, but her whole being trembled at the questions tumbling through her mind. What would they do with her—to her? Would she ever see home again? What would her parents think? Her poor mother! Her pupils? Bernard Dikerson? Her—
No. No, she must stop thinking. It would drive her insane. She had to pray. She had to trust God. She had to.
But it was hard to concentrate on Bible passages as she was roughly pushed out the door and toward waiting horses. It was hard to pray sensibly. It was even hard to think.
“Oh, God,” was all she was able to whisper.
She was boosted up on one of the horses and given a blanket to cover her legs and feet.
“Wrap yerself in this. It’s bitin’ cold,” said the smaller man.
Reluctantly Ariana obeyed.
“Ya ride?” snarled the bigger man.
“Some,” replied Ariana in a trembling voice.
He nodded as though that was good enough. “Yer gonna ride now,” he said in his rough voice, and he grabbed the lead rope attached to her horse and gave a jerk. They were moving out. One man in front of her, one behind.
It was snowing quite heavily now.
Mrs. Benson let the curtain fall back into place. Her eyes were dark with worry as she turned back to the kitchen stove, where the evening meal waited. She was troubled. Ariana was never this late. And it was snowing. Fairly hard now. She didn’t like it. She moved toward the living room to speak again to her husband. Maybe he should go—
When she reached the door he was already pulling on a heavy coat. “I think I’ll just walk on out and meet her,” he said, making the words sound reasonable.
Relieved, she smiled at him. “You’ll take the lantern?” she asked simply.
He looked out the window at the falling snow. It was getting darker. He nodded slowly.
“Might be a good idea,” he said. “I suppose she’s been busy and just lost track of time. Doesn’t realize that a storm has moved in so quickly.”
Mrs. Benson knew he was trying to reassure her. She also knew he was aware that their Ariana was not one to lose track of time or the weather.
“She might have slipped and twisted her ankle—or something,” she responded. “It’s awfully—”
“Now, Mother,” said her husband gently. “Let’s not borrow trouble.”
His words could not erase the worry from her face or the pang in her heart.
She quickly lit the lantern and brought it to him. “She might have stopped at the hardware store,” she said, trying her own explanation. “She did say she needed another bottle of ink.”
“Likely got talking with one of her students—or friends—and has—” He floundered to a stop.
Mrs. Benson could tell he was going to add “lost track of time.”
“I’ll check there first,” he said instead.
She watched him go, anxiety making her body tense. Ariana had never worried them with tardiness before. It just wasn’t like her.
Ariana’s mother turned back to the kitchen. She would busy herself with finding a way to keep the evening meal palatable.
Chapter Five
Searching
All through the long night and into the next day they traveled. Ariana had lost all sense of direction or any clear knowledge of time. Once they stopped, and the man Sam dismounted and came up to Ariana.
“Best slip off those shoes and put on these,” he informed her. Ariana was so cold she couldn’t comply. It was the man who pulled the shoes from her feet and slipped on soft-furred moccasins. He tucked her sh
oes into one of the packs on the extra animal. Then he handed Ariana some heavy fur mittens. “Put these on,” he ordered, and Ariana managed to obey.
At least they were protecting her—in some ways. But why? Why was she taken? What was their reason for picking up a simple schoolteacher? They must have confused her with someone else. Surely there would be no demand for ransom. Her father was simply a village parson—not a wealthy man. He had no money to pay for her release. But if a ransom was not the motive, then why was she taken?
The very question made Ariana’s blood run cold. Was she to experience a fate worse than death?
“Oh, God—please not that,” she breathed into the cold night air.
It was again dark when Ariana saw the dim outlines of a cabin. She was helped to dismount by the man named Sam and led—almost carried—into the cold interior—no better than the outside as far as temperature went.
Sam busied himself with starting a fire and nodded his head toward the flame as he spoke to Ariana.
“Jest don’t git too close, too quick. Might faint.”
And he left her with the big, surly man while he went out to the horses.
The big man said nothing. He did not even remove his coat or hat. He crossed to a wooden frame in the corner that made some sort of crude sleeping platform.
“Gonna git me some shut-eye,” he said, and even those words sounded threatening. “Don’t go try nothin’ foolish. I’ve shot more’n one man in my sleep.”
Ariana shivered from more than just the cold. She bit her lip to keep from crying and huddled more closely to the fire in spite of Sam’s warning.
When Sam returned he made a pot of coffee. Ariana was surprised at how good it smelled. She wondered how her stomach could even respond to it under the circumstances.
When the coffee had boiled he poured her a cup, then rummaged in a pack he had brought in and handed her something. It didn’t look good—and it didn’t smell good either. Ariana’s stomach revolted, even though it ached for something to eat.