by Janette Oke
“Yer slops,” he explained. “Winder is nailed shut so’s ya’ll jest have to wait ’til we come to dump ’em.”
Ariana noticed her schoolbag on the table. She was comforted to see even that little bit of home.
Sam stood to his feet. “Reckon ya’d like to get washed up. Water’s hot in the kettle.”
Ariana had missed the kettle that sat near the back of the stove.
“I’ll brung ya over some vittles.”
Sam shuffled toward the door.
Ariana moved as though to follow. She wanted to call after the unshaven man. She had so many questions. Where were they? Is this where she would stay? For how long? Why? Why?
Before she could get her voice to work, he had gone. She heard the thunk of a heavy bar falling into place over the outside of the door. She was locked in.
Ariana spent most of the first two days in her captive cabin in tears of fear and frustration. She was locked in. Solidly and securely. She didn’t know where she was or why she was there. The most frightening thought was that she didn’t know what her captors intended.
There was no way out. She had already pushed with all her might on the door and clawed at the window until the tips of her fingers bled. There was nothing she could do. Nothing but weep and pray.
On the third day, Ariana awakened from a troubled sleep and took a fresh look at her situation. So far, nothing too terrible had happened to her. She was a prisoner, yes, but other than that first encounter with the two men and her damaged wrist, she had not been hurt or mistreated, at least so far. Only Sam had been to the cabin—though she had heard other voices outside and other footsteps on the path. She should thank God for each day of safety. Her father—and the townsfolk—would be looking for her, led by the sheriff and his men. Maybe they were closing in even at the moment. She just had to be patient. Be calm. Trust. Really trust in her heavenly Father. Her fighting and agitation and tears were getting her nowhere. Ariana wiped her eyes and decided that those tears would be her last.
“Well, ya got her here—now what?”
Sam spit at the fire and turned back to eye his boss. The big man said nothing. He seemed to be thinking.
At last he stirred and turned to Sam. “So far—plan’s worked jest fine,” he said with satisfaction. “Ya picked a good one. Pretty an’—well, she oughta race the blood of any man. Even one as cool and calculating as the Kid.”
He stopped and laughed, not a pleasant sound. Sam shifted nervously on his wooden block.
“The storm did jest what we wanted it to,” went on Will Russell, then stopped to curse and spit on the floor. “Not even an Injun could track us through all thet.”
Sam shivered at the thought of the storm. There had been more than once when he’d thought they would all end up frozen in the saddle.
“So now—” prompted Sam.
The big man scowled. “What ya frettin’ on now?” he growled.
“Ain’t frettin’,” responded Sam, unruffled. “Jest wonderin’ how long I’m gonna be playin’ nursemaid to the little schoolmarm.”
Will stomped across the room and looked out the window at the sunny day. The snow lay in shimmering drifts across the floor of the canyon. The buildings all wore big fluffy caps of winter snow, and the trees bowed down with the weight of the whiteness. It was a pretty world.
But Sam could tell his thoughts were on other things. “ ’Bout time to have us a meetin’,” Will said, and he grinned an ugly grin that showed his stained teeth and highlighted the jagged scar crossing his cheek.
He turned back to Sam. “Tell the fellas we want to have them all in here followin’ supper. Who’s on guard duty?”
Sam thought for a moment. “Right now—James. Then Curly. First night shift—McDuff.”
“Good,” said the big man. “I wanna be sure that Skidder is here fer this meetin’. And the Kid. Make sure the Kid’s here.”
Will Russell began as usual, spitting on the floor, then clearing his throat. His son watched as the big man’s eyes scanned the group of rough and rugged men, a motley crew, to be sure.
“Ya all know thet we got us a guest,” was his opening statement. He paused. There was no response.
“Now this here guest is—special. I can’t give ya none of the particulars—jest want to say thet the keepin’ is important. Thet’s all thet’s necessary to say. Iffen anything should happen to—our guest—thet is anything thet would lend itself to—leavin’—well, I wouldn’t take a bit kindly to thet.”
He paused again and his eyes swept the room, stopping to bear down on each of the occupants in personal challenge.
“Ya git my meanin’?” he growled.
No one moved. Laramie knew that each man understood. The prisoner was not to escape.
“Thet means thet we gotta have extry guard duty.”
He let the words hang heavy in the air, and then turned slightly to look at his son. Laramie forced himself not to flinch.
“Kid,” he said, “thet’s you.”
The young man’s face purposely showed no change of emotion. He did not even nod. There was no need to agree to the assignment. It was understood that he would.
“From now on, yer off the usual sentry duty. Yer full duty will be to guard thet cabin.”
The father looked at the son. Their eyes locked for a moment. The Kid had never been shown favoritism by the big man. He expected none now. Yet it didn’t seem fair that he was to be given the sole responsibility for guarding the man in the south shack. Who did his father have in there, anyway? Some bank president? A wealthy rancher? Some politician? Or was it an Indian chief? And what was the game? Some huge ransom? Laramie didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. He had sensed—had known—that something strange was going on. He just hoped the whole camp didn’t live to regret it. If they lived at all.
“Like I said,” continued his father, his dark beard and dark eyes making his scowling face appear even more menacing, “I won’t be happy iffen anything should happen—no matter who allows it.”
The meaning was clear to Laramie. He was guarding the prisoner at the risk of his own life.
“Please,” said Ariana as Sam opened the door a crack and handed her in a plate of unsavory food. “Please—can’t…can’t you wait a minute? I really need to…to talk.”
Sam looked about the camp. No one was in sight. Uneasily he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then he pushed the door open farther and slipped into the room.
“I…I…” Ariana looked down at her rumpled garments. “I really do need to…to freshen up,” she ventured. “I’ve been in these same clothes for…days.” She had not counted the days. She truly had lost track of time.
For a moment Sam looked sympathetic, then he shrugged thin shoulders. “Missy,” he said, “iffen ya didn’t notice, there ain’t ’xactly a ladies’ shop nearby.”
“But surely…surely there is some way for me to…to bathe. To wash my…my hair and my…garments,” protested Ariana. “I…I’m filthy.”
The man shrugged again. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised as he turned to go, but he quickly added, “But don’t ya go expectin’ much. I’ve no notion where we gonna find any—bathtub.”
“Thank you,” breathed Ariana as he left.
She had been living one day at a time since arriving. She spent most of her hours reading her cherished Bible. It was the only way she could survive the uncertainty and tedium. Then Sam came. Only to bring her a supply of wood and fresh water. He emptied her slop pail and brought her a plate of food. Other than Sam, she saw no one.
Her one window faced away from the camp into the woods. There was a small window on the camp side—but it had been covered over on the outside, so Ariana still had no idea where she was. She prayed for release. She thanked the Lord for daily safety. But she felt as though something needed to happen—soon—or she would lose her sanity. How long had it been? Six days? A week? More? She wasn’t sure. But each day seemed like an eternity
.
She was pushing the food around on the plate—the fork had a broken tine—when she heard someone at the door again. It was Sam who poked in his head.
“You found one,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet.
He waved her words aside.
“Ain’t even had time to look,” he quickly informed her. “Jest thought of somethin’ else.”
Ariana sat back down.
Sam entered the room again and his voice lowered as though he feared someone might overhear their conversation.
“Jest thought ya oughta know,” he said in a raspy whisper, “things have changed. I won’t be comin’ anymore. Boss has assigned—”
Terror gripped Ariana, and she stood shakily to her feet and reached out her hand to him.
“Please. Please,” she pleaded. “Please don’t let him change. I…I don’t want anyone—”
“Now calm down some,” Sam said with a measure of irritation. “It won’t be all thet bad. The Kid will be takin’ care of ya. Ya jest…jest mind yer manners an’—”
“Who’s…the Kid?” asked Ariana, her eyes wide with fright.
“Aw, he ain’t so bad. It’s the boss’s son.”
Ariana’s mind filled with an image of the man Sam called the Boss. She hadn’t seen him well. There had always been the storm—or the darkness of the cabin or cave, lit only by the light from the open fire. But she knew enough to fear him. To feel terror at the very thought of his nearness. Unconsciously she reached her left hand to rub her right wrist. Though it was improving, Ariana well remembered the searing pain. Sam’s boss was some kind of madman. And now—she was to be guarded by his son. Her whole body began to tremble.
Sam turned back to the door. “Jest thought ya oughta know,” he said as he exited the room and pulled the door shut behind him. Ariana heard the bar fall into place.
There was little sleep for Ariana that night. She forgot about her unkempt hair. Her rumpled clothes. She even forgot to throw more fuel into the heavy iron stove. Hour after hour she lay shivering in the darkness. Shivering with terror.
She tried to pray. Tried to trust, but every time she shut her eyes she saw the dark, brooding face of the man they called the Boss. What was to happen to her now? Ariana found herself wishing she had perished in the storm.
Ariana stirred from her sleep to thumping on her door. Sam must be bringing her breakfast. But then she became fully conscious and remembered Sam had said he would not be coming anymore. That she would now be cared for by the boss’s son.
Ariana frantically cast her eyes about the room, looking for a place to hide. Even as she acknowledged that there was none, the door pushed open.
A tall young man ducked his head to enter. She saw his hand on his pistol as his eyes swept the room quickly. When they lit on her, he froze. She saw the confused, shocked expression that momentarily transformed his face.
Chapter Seven
The Dilemma
He stood where he was, staring at her. The food in his left hand threatened to spill from the forgotten, tilting plate. His eyes quickly scanned the room again as though he must have missed something, then came back to her.
She stared back with eyes wide and frightened. She clasped the tattered blanket in both hands, holding it up against her like a protective shield. Her breath caught in her throat in a little gasp.
The sound seemed to jerk him back to reality. The gun hand lifted to push his Stetson up a little on his head. From the way his hand moved, she guessed it to be a nervous gesture on his part. Yet he looked so calm. So composed. She still had not risen to her feet but sat on the edge of the crude bunk, as though poised for flight.
He nodded silently and moved into the room.
Without a word he set the plate of food on the table. His eyes moved over the room once more. She could see a steeliness in his face and instinctively knew she would never wish to challenge this young man. She noticed the hard set of his jaw—as though something had deeply disturbed him. He looked almost angry—yet what had she done?
He cast a glance toward her iron stove and without a word proceeded to build a fire. Then he picked up her water pail, filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then poured the remainder of the water into the empty basin.
He still had not spoken, and Ariana had not moved toward the plate of food. He did not look her way again, but left, the water pail in his hand.
Ariana heard the thunk of the wooden bar across her door. She heard the steps crunching on the new snow of the path. And then he was gone—as quickly and as silently as he had come.
Ariana shivered anew. She felt all trembly inside, further frightened—but she knew not why.
Whoever had entered her cabin had not looked vicious. He had not looked at all like the man Sam called the Boss. While that man was dark and heavyset, this man was tall and lithe. He was much fairer, too. His eyes were blue rather than almost black.
But the memory of those piercing blue eyes made her shiver again. She longed for the return of Sam. It was frightening enough to be held captive, but to have to face a new guard….
Ariana shook her shoulders slightly and wrapped her arms close to try to hold at bay the fear that had overtaken her being. This new guard had brought food. She must eat if she were to keep up her strength. Surely the day would come when she would find some way to escape from her prison. She must be ready.
In spite of her fear and her lack of interest in the bland plate of food, her stomach growled. She forced herself to her feet and moved toward the shelf with its basin.
She splashed the fresh water over her face and washed her hands as best as she could. Without soap, she always felt she hadn’t really washed—simply rinsed. Still it felt refreshing, if nothing else.
She dumped the used water into the pail beside her feet. It was full.
He hadn’t emptied the slop pail.
Laramie had never felt so disturbed in all his life. First of all, the secrecy of his father’s plans and mission had bothered him. Then the strict orders on the importance of guarding the prisoner, leading the whole camp to believe they had some—some armed desperado or high-ranking official in the south cabin. And now this. A girl. A mere girl. A girl did not belong in a camp of men. Any camp of men. And certainly not in their camp of men. He shook with anger. He had never questioned his father before—but he was going to demand some answers now.
He had to calm himself. He was in no condition for either a confrontation with his father or another visit with the prisoner. He took the path through the woods to the spring where they got their water, glad for the pail in his hand that gave him a good excuse.
Not calmed down by the time he reached his destination, Laramie stared at the spring. The small pool had frozen over again during the night, and he picked up the axe, relieved to be able to expend some of his anger in strenuous activity.
He made a hole large enough to dip in the pail and still kept chopping. The silver slivers of ice flew with each swing of the axe, sprinkling the new blanket of snow that lay on the surface.
Why had his father done it? Why? What was behind this fool scheme? Surely this bit of a girl was worth nothing to the gang. Or was she? Was she some wealthy rancher’s daughter? Was there a large ransom on her head? If so, he hoped that it quickly would be paid so she could be returned to wherever she belonged.
He knew nothing of women, but he didn’t like the thought of one in the camp. Instinctively he knew that this eventually would mean trouble.
He finally laid aside the axe and dipped the pail. But he was not prepared to see her again. Not yet. He was still shaking from the last encounter. She was so young. So—so delicate. And her hair hung about her shoulders like—
He shivered and pushed away the memory. He didn’t want to even think about it. He emptied the pail back into the pool and hung it on a tree limb. He’d care for his horses first. Maybe by then he’d have himself back under control.
“I’d like to talk.”
Lara
mie stood before his father in the main cabin that the gang shared during the daylight hours. All the men were there except for Shadow, who was taking the morning watch. Seven pairs of eyes lifted at the simple words. There was something different in the voice.
“Alone,” he added.
Will Russell did not look up from his game of solitaire, simply nodded. The men, without question or further orders, began to rise from wherever they sat and leave whatever they were doing, to file from the room, grabbing needed wraps from the pegs by the door.
At another nod from his boss, Sam took his log seat again. Laramie made no objection.
A few of the men dared to curse under their breath as they went. The day was not warm even though it was sunny, and some had been in the middle of a game of cards. McDuff was grumbling along with the curses. “Jest when I had me a good hand,” Laramie heard him mutter. They could not take the game along with them like Curly was doing with his whiskey bottle.
The door closed and the room became silent. Will Russell continued his game. Sam shuffled uneasily, then pulled his plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket and began to cut off a large chew.
“What’s on yer mind?” Will growled, still not lifting his eyes.
Laramie took a deep breath to control his emotions—his voice.
“I’ve got a feelin’ thet ya know,” he responded.
They had never played games with each other. The father looked up now and met the steely eyes of his son.
“The girl?” he asked simply.
Laramie nodded.
Silence hung heavy in the room. Will played a few cards.
“What’s she doin’ here?” asked Laramie, his voice controlled and hard.
Will looked up quickly. “You questionin’ me, boy?” asked the man, his black eyes growing darker.