Angel Train

by Gilbert, Morris

  Tremayne turned with the Gypsies but first directed a comment to Charity, “A woman should have gentleness.”

  Charity’s face burned. She thought of a sharp answer, but Tremayne had already walked away.

  Later, after the Gypsies’ wagon and horses had been checked and approved, Zamora approached Charity. “Why do you not want me to go?”

  “I’ve told you. You could be killed.”

  “So might you.” Her eyes went to Tremayne. “Are you his woman?”

  “No!”

  “Which is your man?”

  “None of them.”

  Zamora’s dark eyes were fixed on Charity, and she said only, “We are grateful for what your people have done for me.” She turned, walked away, and found Tremayne standing beside his horse, waiting to begin the trip. “How far is it to where you’re going?”

  “Well, a long way. We’re going all the way to the ocean, but it’s not that far to Council Bluffs.”

  “What sort of place is that?”

  “Council Bluffs? Just a little town on the river.”

  “I wish we could go to the ocean. It’s far away from all this.”

  “Well, Miss Zamora, I expect people are what they are, no matter here on the prairie or in the mountains or at the ocean.”

  She smiled at him, and he was aware of her beauty. “I thank you for your help.” She put out her hand like a man. He shook it. It was firm and warm.

  “Well, you’re welcome, Zamora.”

  “What can I do to show my thanks?”

  “Make me a pie of some kind.”

  “I will do that.” She walked away.

  Elsworth came up and said softly to Tremayne, “Beautiful young woman.”

  “I guess so.”

  Elsworth laughed. “You’re a devious son of a gun! Come on. Let’s get started. I’m anxious to get to the big water.”

  Chapter Ten

  THE MISSOURI HAD BEEN low when the Angel Train, as the travelers had started calling the caravan, reached its banks. It had taken half a day for Tremayne to find a place where a fording could be made without any trouble. The journey so far had been simple, with plenty of trees, springs, creeks, and fresh water available at all times. Tremayne had warned them that at some point in their journey all of these things would be hard to find.

  The sun was high in the sky as Tremayne and Charterhouse crested a small rolling hill. To their left were wooded areas and to the right, hills sprawled against the horizon. A breeze was blowing, and Tremayne pulled off his hat. He wiped his brow, and his eyes moved from point to point, which Charterhouse noticed was his habit.

  “He’s always careful, always watching. I think that must be from his Indian days,” Charterhouse had told Stefan. It was a habit that would come in handy.

  Charterhouse said, “Look, there’s a creek over there. We could pull up tonight maybe.”

  Tremayne’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. “I think there are deer in there.”

  “You see that far?” Charterhouse asked, astonished.

  Tremayne didn’t answer. He simply stepped off his horse and said, “You stay here with the horses. I’m going to get downwind from them. We can use some fresh meat.”

  Charterhouse watched as the tall man pulled his rifle from his saddle holster and began loping in the opposite direction Charterhouse had expected. Watching as the hunter circled, Charterhouse wondered if he would ever be able to hunt like his friend. He knew it was impossible, for a man had to be born in this kind of setting, and England didn’t have this sort of hunting ground, nor was Harvard a place where one learned to shoot deer. Stepping off his horse, Charterhouse recalled the journey so far. He had been pleased, and he knew that Tremayne also was happy that there had been little friction between the rough crew and the saints of the train. The thing that held it all together was the scout. Everyone knew that any infraction of the rule would bring a sudden confrontation with Tremayne, and no one wanted that.

  Fifteen minutes later Charterhouse straightened up, for two shots, very close together, had sounded. He remounted and galloped ahead, leading Tremayne’s roan behind him. When he reached the edge of the woods, he paused and called out, “Where are you, Casey?” He heard a faint reply and then made his way through the brush. He called twice more and finally reached Tremayne.

  “Had luck, Elsworth. Got two of them. A buck and a doe.”

  “We going to haul them back to camp?”

  “I’ll dress these out and we’ll go back to the train.”

  Elsworth nodded at once and pulled a book from his inner pocket. “I’ll just broaden my knowledge a little bit while you’re busy.”

  Tremayne grinned at his friend. “You need to suffer more. Isn’t there something in the Bible about that—‘whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth’?”

  “Ah, that’s true enough, but as Seneca said, Plus dolet quam necesse est, qui ante dolet quam necesse sit.” He added quickly, “He suffers more than is necessary, who suffers before it is necessary.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It sounds wise though. It’s the secret of my success, Casey. Always sound wise, and people will think you are.”

  Tremayne laughed. “I’m glad I brought you on this trip. If you’re going to ever get any education, you’ll have to get it from me.”

  “I have an education.”

  “You haven’t really been educated until you face a Sioux war party. That’ll teach you a few things.”

  Tremayne went to work on the meat. Charterhouse sat down and put his back against a tree. He began to read and at once was lost in the world of Seneca.

  * * *

  THE TRAIN WAS ALREADY drawn into a circle when Tremayne pulled up his horse in front of the Gypsies’ wagon. He had been interested in the trio, and now he stepped down and said to Stefan, “Had good luck. Brought you a quarter of a deer.”

  “Thank you,” Stefan said politely. He took the quarter and turned to Zamora. “Look, a gift from Mr. Tremayne.”

  Zamora was wearing a colorful scarf around her head, and her dress also caught the fading sunlight. She said, “That is good. I will cook some of it for the crew if you would like.”

  “They’re a pretty rough crew,” Tremayne said.

  Zamora gave him an odd look. “I’m used to rough treatment.”

  Her statement intrigued Tremayne, and he said quickly, “If any of them bother you, you let me know.”

  Zamora smiled. Her teeth looked very white against her olive skin and red lips. She reached deep into a hidden pocket in her skirt and came out quickly with a six-inch knife. “Tell them I’ll cut their throat if any of them tries to touch me.”

  Tremayne grinned. “You got my permission. Just don’t kill them. I need them to get this train through.”

  Putting away the knife, Zamora said, “I’ll soak some of this venison in salt water. It makes it good and tender for our grandmother.”

  “I’ve got something better than that.” Tremayne turned to the saddle bag and pulled out a piece of canvas that seemed soaked with blood. “I thought about your grandmother, and I took the livers. Let me cook her up something tender and delicious.”

  Zamora’s eyes narrowed. She was suspicious of men, Tremayne saw, but there was nothing he could do about that. Nevertheless, he tried. “I’m going to just cook a little stew for your grandmother. You don’t have to be afraid of me, Zamora.”

  “I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of any man,” she said, her eyes locked with his.

  “That’s good. Lareina is your grandmother’s name. What does that mean?”

  “It means ‘the queen.’”

  “Couldn’t get a better name than that. Give me a pot, and we’ll get started on this liver. You have to cook it until it falls apart. That’s when it’s really good.”

  Zamora turned to the wagon and came back, and the two of them got a fire going, and she watched as he sat in front and, from time to time, requested salt.

 
; “I have some herbs that will make it tasty.”

  “Throw them in. Liver is pretty good by itself. When we get some buffalo, we’ll eat the livers raw.”

  “Not me. I like my meat cooked.”

  * * *

  CHARTERHOUSE ALSO TOOK A quarter of a deer to the Morgan wagon. “We had good luck. Here’s a quarter. I’m not much good at dressing them, I’m afraid.”

  Meredith came forward and turned her blue eyes firmly on him. “What are you good for?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Why do you talk so funny?”

  “Don’t be impolite,” Charity admonished.

  “I’m not impolite. He does talk funny.”

  “She’s right, Miss Charity. I do talk funny. Well, Miss Meredith, I talk funny because I come from another country far away from here.”

  “Does everyone there talk funny like you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Evan was examining the venison. He nodded to Charterhouse and said, “You must have had good luck.”

  “Not me. Tremayne knocked them both down. He’s a wonderful shot.”

  “I guess he sharpened his skills all those years on the frontier.” Evan pulled him to one side and said, “Sit down. We’ll have some coffee. I want to ask you about England. What kind of farms do you have there?”

  “Oh, most of the farms are rather small. There are some large properties, but they’re mostly for grazing sheep and cattle.”

  “Is it good farming country?”

  “Oh yes. In the summertime the grass is so green it hurts your eyes.” He went on talking about the fertile soil, and finally he said, “You want to be a farmer, do you, Evan?”

  “Yes, I do. Why did you leave England?”

  “Lack of good sense, I suppose.”

  “You could go back.”

  “There might be some objection to that.”

  Evan was curious about the Englishman. “Did you get in trouble with the law?”

  “Not so serious with the law, but I displeased my father. I was a younger son, you know.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Well, in England the oldest son usually inherits everything. We younger boys have to root around and do the best we can.” His eyes grew thoughtful. He reached down and drew a figure in the dust. “I wouldn’t be too much of a welcome addition if I went back.”

  * * *

  CHARITY HAD NOTICED TREMAYNE cooking at the Gypsies’ wagon. She walked over and saw something in a pot. “What are you cooking, Tremayne?”

  “It’s liver for Lareina. Zamora has put more spices in. I don’t know what it will taste like, but it’ll be a lot easier to chew than that tough steak. Here try it.” He carefully spooned some of the mixture out. He held it out and she tasted it.

  “Why, that’s very good.”

  “Liver is pretty good. When we get some buffalo, I’ll let you have a chunk of the liver and a piece of the tongue. That’s the best part, I think.”

  “Will we be seeing large herds?”

  “Some of them so big you couldn’t believe it. I got caught once in the middle of it, just me and my horse. It must have covered ten square miles.”

  “The Indians must like that.”

  Tremayne looked out over the plains. As always, he was alert. He seemed to be more aware of his surroundings than any man Charity had ever seen. “Well, they don’t like it because we’re coming in. Buffalo don’t stay where they’re hunted, not too often, so they’re headed more into the north country now.”

  “Where are the Gypsies?”

  “Lareina was here a moment ago. Stefan is helping guard the herd tonight, and Zamora is cooking for the crew.”

  “Isn’t that a little bit dangerous?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, these men, they’ve been without women for a long time.”

  “They won’t bother her. They know what would happen if they did.”

  “Well, what would you do?”

  He smiled at her. His alert form revealed his tough, resilient vigor and physical power. Discipline lay along the pressed lines of his broad mouth, but there was a rash and reckless will in his eyes that struggled against discipline. She saw it clearly. His cool reason would never betray that discipline but a latent storminess could make him dangerous to others.

  “What was it like living with the Indians?” she asked abruptly.

  Tremayne laughed. “You’ve got a mind like a grasshopper. Changes from one subject to another.”

  “Well, what was it like? It was hard, I suppose.”

  “Well, it’s not so bad if you’re very young. The older people who were captured couldn’t adjust. Most of them died.”

  “What are they like? All I can think of is they’re merciless and bloodthirsty.”

  “They’re like us,” he said.

  Charity stared at Tremayne with surprise. “What do you mean like us?” she asked.

  “They laugh at funny things.”

  “I never thought of them having a sense of humor.”

  “You’d have to live with them. They do though.”

  “But aren’t they cruel?”

  “They do things that we don’t agree with. In war they’re cruel, but they’re very generous. If you admire something one of them has, he’s likely to give it to you. It wasn’t a bad life.” His eyes grew cloudy. “I’ve had worse since I left the Indians.”

  “I hope we don’t meet any.”

  “I expect we will. Some of them won’t be any trouble. It’s the Comanche or the Kiowa we have to watch out for, and maybe the Cheyenne if we go farther up north.”

  Suddenly a movement caught her eye, and Charity turned to see the old Gypsy woman. She was not tall, and she was thin, but she stood very straight. It was impossible to guess her age, but the wisdom in her eyes and a settled determination in her dark features were impressive.

  “You have come to visit the Gypsy?”

  “Well, yes,” Charity said, a little flustered. Somehow the old woman’s gaze seemed to look deeper than most. It did not merely examine things on the outside but scrutinized inner feelings.

  “Mr. Casey Tremayne is fixing me a special meal. He is a very kind man.”

  “There, Charity, I got a good recommendation.”

  “You are kind. You want me to tell your fortune, Tremayne?”

  Tremayne smiled. He held out his hand, but she ignored it. She came over to where he was sitting, knelt down, and stared at him full in the face.

  “The fortune isn’t in the hand. It’s in the face, in the eyes,” Lareina said.

  Charity watched as the old woman stared into Tremayne’s face. He was also caught by the intensity of Lareina’s gaze. Something about her made him feel apprehensive. It was not a physical fear for she was old and frail, but her expression, her eyes, and her demeanor kept him very still. He heard the fire crackling and far off, a dog barked, but he was conscious mostly of the dark eyes that seemed to be boring into his.

  “You have been alone too much, Tremayne.”

  “That’s right.”

  There was a long silence, and then she smiled. “You will not always be alone.”

  “How many wives do you see? Three or four ought to do me.” He smiled, but Lareina didn’t return the smile.

  “You will find one someday. There’s an old Gypsy tale,” she said. “It’s a myth, of course, but I always liked it. Do you like stories, Tremayne?”

  “Sure do.”

  “This is a story about how the great God made a creature, and something very sad happened. It was torn in two so there were two where before there was only one. One was called man and one was called woman. They were scattered throughout the earth like two pieces of paper.”

  A silence fell over the three, and they seemed to be held together by a strange force. “The one called man and the one called woman had been torn in two, and where they were torn there was a jagged gap, but there were others that were torn in two, yet only the one s
he was separated from would suit this woman, and only the one that fit his torn side would fit this man. So they spent their lives looking throughout all the world—through the woods and through the forests and across the sea. They found many others who had been torn, but none of them fit, and then one day, the story goes”—Lareina smiled slightly—“they encountered each other in the deep woods. They came together and saw that the torn place on his side exactly fit the torn place on her side. So they found each other, and they were joined together and became one again as the good God had intended it.”

  Charity was moved. “That’s a wonderful story, Lareina,” she said.

  “Do you believe that story?” Lareina asked Charity. “Do you believe it, Tremayne?”

  Charity offered, “Are you asking whether I believe that there’s only one man who will be right for me in all the men in the world?”

  “Yes. Do you believe that?”

  “It may be so,” Charity said. “The Bible says the steps of a good man, and I suppose a woman, are ordered by the Lord. So if God thinks on us, He may pick out one particular man for a woman.”

  “And what do you think, Tremayne?” she asked, and there was a sharpness in her birdlike eyes.

  “I never think much about those things. Here, try this soup.” Lareina allowed him to pull her down to sit on a box. He spooned some of the soup into a bowl. She tasted it.

  “Is very good. You are a thoughtful man.”

  Charity found the contrast between the two interesting and fascinating—the tall, lithe, and muscular frontiersman, and the diminutive Gypsy woman. Her skin and eyes were much darker than his, but Charity saw that Tremayne liked the Gypsy woman, and she respected him for that. It soothed her to see him go to the trouble to fix a meal for this woman, and she knew that she would think of it often.

  “I must get back and do my own cooking,” Charity said.

  She had walked only a few steps when Lareina called out, “Be watchful. Somewhere there is a man who will match you perfectly, Charity Morgan.”

  Charity looked back quickly and saw that the old woman was staring fixedly at her. “I’ll be watching,” she said. Then she turned and went back to her wagon.