Angel Train

by Gilbert, Morris

  Tremayne had heard about Billy’s injury, and he had stopped by to ask him, “You feeling all right now, Billy?”

  “Oh, sure. Just a cut.”

  “I hear the fellow was a pretty rough cob.”

  “That’s what the bartender said.” Billy swallowed hard. “He’s over there. That big man with the fur cap.”

  Tremayne had already spotted Wiley Tate. He didn’t know the man’s name, but he could tell he was a born troublemaker. Tremayne wanted no trouble. “I guess I’d better keep an eye on him.”

  The trouble did come. Not ten minutes later Tate spotted Ringo Jukes. Evidently, someone pointed Jukes out as the man who had put him down. Tremayne saw Tate move until he stood squarely in front of Ringo and began to curse him. Moving easily and quickly, Tremayne put himself where he would be available if trouble started, but it came quicker than he anticipated.

  Tate suddenly reached for the gun he kept in his belt, but he paused even as he grasped the handle, for a gun had appeared almost magically in the hand of Ringo Jukes. It was the fastest draw Tremayne had ever seen. The pistol was lined up on Tate’s chest and the big man cried out, “I ain’t drawing!”

  Tremayne moved quickly. He stood beside Ringo, and his eyes bored into Tate. “Get out of here! We don’t need you.”

  Quickly Major Simms, in charge of the military command, stepped forward. “Guards, arrest him. Take him to the stockade.”

  Two soldiers immediately were beside Tate. One of them pulled the gun from his belt, grinned, and said, “Come on, Wiley. We got a nice suite at a fine hotel for you.”

  Tate’s eyes burned as they took in Jukes and Tremayne. “This ain’t over,” he said.

  “It better be,” Jukes said mildly as he replaced his gun in the holster.

  “He’s a rough one, Ringo.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  Tremayne would have said more, but Major Simms wanted to get past the ominous moment.

  “All right,” Simms announced, “we’re going to have a dance now. Come, my dear, we’ll start it.” He turned to his wife, a heavy-set woman with a cheerful look, and the two began dancing to the music. The music was bad, but it was all they had.

  Helga Studdart had dressed up, knowing there would be a dance, and her father stepped to her side. “I’ll be watching you tonight, Helga. You’re too free with some of these men.”

  Helga said impatiently, “Oh, Papa, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just a dance.” She left, and Studdart noticed she went straight for Ringo Jukes, who had smiled at her, and the two began dancing.

  “You need to be more gentle with her.” Freida Studdart spoke quietly but with firmness.

  “Freida, she’s got it in her to get into trouble.”

  “We all have that in us.”

  “Not you,” Studdart said, his eyes wide. “You were never in trouble.”

  “I came close a few times. Come along. We can watch her.”

  * * *

  CHARITY DANCED WITH MAJOR Simms and found that he was interested in the people of the Angel Train. He asked her several questions about their past. “It’ll be a hard time for you. Nothing but a wilderness out there.”

  “But God is taking us that way. He’s made the way clear.”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel that way.” He observed Zamora dancing with one of his officers. “That’s a beautiful young woman. A Gypsy, is she?”

  “Yes. I’ve never known any Gypsies before, and, yes, she is very beautiful.”

  After she finished the dance, Charity started to return to her family, but Tremayne stopped her. “Could I have this dance, Charity?”

  “Why, yes. I suppose you may.”

  “That’s not a very good band,” Tremayne said, “but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Yes, it’s a break in our journey. I guess we need to be a little foolish.”

  “I’m surprised you’d say that.”

  “Why should you be surprised?”

  “Your people don’t give themselves to foolishness.”

  “There’s a great deal of joy among our people. We have our hard times, but people who know the Lord have a reservoir to grow on.”

  He was silent for a while, and after the dance he said gravely, “Thank you.” She turned and said, “You’re welcome.” She hesitated and then walked to her family who had been watching.

  “I wish I could dance with somebody,” Bronwen said.

  “Your turn will come,” Gwilym said. “Now it’s your turn for watching.”

  The family watched and the evening passed quickly. There was a new supply of food and drinks, and when the dance broke up, there was some disappointment that it was all over.

  Zamora started back toward the wagons and looked up to see Tremayne slightly ahead of her. “Casey, walk me back to the wagons.”

  Tremayne paused and smiled at her. “You afraid you’ll get lost? They’re right over there.”

  “No.” She took his arm, and they moved slowly. Others were moving in the darkness, and she pulled him to a stop beside her wagon. “It’s a long way, isn’t it, Casey, to Oregon?”

  “Pretty far.” The moon was silver and cast a glow over her features. Her dark eyes were fixed on him. Tremayne was attracted to her. “What will you do there, Zamora?”

  “I don’t know. What I’ve always done, I suppose. What will you do?”

  “I guess I’ll look at the ocean.”

  “You can’t look at the ocean all your life.”

  Zamora found their conversation pleasant. She liked looking up at him because he was so tall. She asked, “Will you have a family and grow old there?”

  “No man knows about things like that.”

  “Would you like to have a family?”

  “Every man wants that. You know, sometimes back East when I was riding at night, and I saw a house and passed by it, there were lights and voices and the family was inside. Those people have everything, Zamora.”

  “I didn’t know you thought like that. You seem so alone.”

  “I have been,” he put his hand on her shoulder. “I wish you well, Zamora, you and Lareina and Stefan. It must be hard with none of your people around.”

  Zamora was very conscious of the strength and warmth of Tremayne’s hand, “I do get lonely sometimes.” She waited, knowing that most men would have taken that as an invitation to touch her, to kiss her.

  But he responded, “You’ll find a man someday, and you’ll have a family of your own.”

  “Not many men want a Gypsy woman, but I’ll find one who does.” She moved toward the wagon. Her grandmother was waiting there. Lareina saw at a glance that Zamora’s eyes were filled with excitement.

  “You’ve been with a man.”

  “Just talking, Grandmother.”

  “The tall man.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he might be your man?”

  Zamora didn’t answer for a time. As a matter of fact, she didn’t answer at all. “Go to bed, Grandmother. It’s late.” She helped her grandmother into the wagon, and she herself prepared for bed. She stood looking up, before going to bed, at the stars across the heaven and thought about her meeting with Tremayne. It stirred her. She was an honest young woman and knew she was interested in him. But whether he was interested in her she couldn’t tell. With a sigh she got into her bed, closed her eyes, and went to sleep almost at once.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE DAYS AT FORT Kearney had been a break in the monotony of trail life. The Angel Train left the fort on the morning after the dance and had been steadily following the Platte River northwesterly. One morning Evan Morgan had gone out with the hunters and shot an antelope, which pleased him. Tremayne had praised his shot, and the words of the tall man were especially encouraging. Evan, now taking his turn in the rear where the dust rose, was glad the train was spread out horizontally instead of being in a straight line. The dust was still bad, but not as bad as it had been. Overhead the sun blazed white with
nearly unbearable heat. After Pennsylvania, this was hot weather he had to learn to endure.

  Suddenly he saw Zamora riding up on one of her brother’s horses, a beautifully built mare of a blue steel color. She pulled up beside him, and her face was flushed, her dark eyes filled with excitement.

  “This is my favorite horse. Her name is Princess,” she said.

  “Beautiful animal. You ride well too.”

  Zamora paced her horse next to Evan’s mount. He liked the dark, beautiful young woman and her fiery spirit, which most women of the Way lacked. He had noticed that despite her self-sufficient nature, she was always on guard.

  “Are you tired of the trip, Zamora?”

  “No, I like it. I like that there’s something new every day. I like a change.”

  Evan smiled. “Not much change. Same old flat country.”

  “Tremayne says it will be different when we get to the mountains. I like those too. What about you? You looking forward to getting to Oregon?”

  “Yes, I am. I wanted to get away for a long time.”

  “Get away from what?”

  “Get away from the coal mines. As I told you before, I hated it there, and it seemed like I spent all my life digging in the dark, waiting for the earth to cave in on me.”

  Zamora studied him more carefully. He was a lean young man with flaming red hair and the most amazing dark blue eyes. “How old are you, Evan?”

  “Seventeen. How old are you?”

  “I’m seventeen too. It’s a good age, seventeen.”

  Evan grinned at her. “Not when you’re in a coal mine, but out here it’s all different.”

  “You have red hair.”

  “Why, yes, I do. Runs in my family as you have noticed.”

  “I’ve always heard that redheaded people have hot tempers. Is that so?”

  “Why, no. It’s foolishness. I don’t have a hot temper. Neither does my father. He’s the calmest man in the world.”

  “Well, I think I ought to tell your fortune.”

  “I told you I don’t believe in such things.”

  “Sometimes it’s true.” She moved her mare closer, reached out, and took his hand. “Ah, I see you have a long lifeline.” She was teasing him, and he knew, but the touch of her hand was stirring. “I see a dark woman in your future. You must beware of her.”

  “Maybe it’s you.”

  “Maybe it is. I may be the temptress who’s going to lead you away from your religious beliefs. Beware of dark-haired women, Evan Morgan.”

  He laughed. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “I am a little bit, I suppose.” She released his hand.

  “I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

  “You never saw a Gypsy?”

  “A few, but none as pretty as you.”

  She suddenly turned and laughed at him. Evan liked Zamora although he knew her bold, headlong qualities were enticing and could be dangerous, even forbidden.

  “I think every man on the Angel Train has flattered me. All except you and Tremayne, of course.”

  “But I wasn’t—”

  “You weren’t trying to flatter me so that you could kiss me? You’ve had sweethearts, Evan.”

  “I never have.”

  “Not one?”

  “No, not one. Not really.”

  “Well, the next dance you can dance with me. That’ll make some of the women in your train jealous. There must be some you’ve looked at in that group.”

  “No, never.” Evan was out of his depth with this woman. He had done nothing but dig in the darkness of the earth, and she had had a life of sunshine and had traveled. He enjoyed her immensely, and after she rode off, he felt something was missing. “I don’t care what she says, she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen,” he said aloud. His horse tossed its head, and Evan muttered, “I’m talking to myself now. I guess the next stop is the insane asylum!”

  * * *

  “THAT FELLOW TATE. HE’S a dangerous man, isn’t he?” Charity had not talked to Tremayne for three days. He left early with the hunters and usually came back late. This day he didn’t go out, and she had mounted her horse and gone with him as he forged ahead. She had merely brought up Tate as an excuse to speak with him.

  “Yes, he’s a tough fellow.”

  “What about Ringo Jukes?”

  “He’s got something in him that most men don’t. Did you see how quick he got his gun out?”

  “Yes, I could hardly see his hand he moved so fast. He could have killed Tate.”

  “But he didn’t. That’s in his favor. Maybe he’s learned something from his time in prison. Most of us did.”

  “You’ve had a hard life, haven’t you?”

  “No worse than some.” He didn’t want to talk about himself, and he pointed ahead. “Look, there’s Fort Laramie.”

  “How long will we stay there?”

  “We need to move on as quickly as possible.”

  “You’re always in a hurry, Casey. Why is that?”

  “I don’t want the winter to catch us in the mountains. That would be tougher than anything we’ve seen so far.”

  She wanted to continue talking with him, but he seemed to avoid any comments on his personal life. She fell back and watched as he put the wagons into a circle, and then she drifted to where her family was getting out of the wagon. She got ready to prepare the evening meal, but it was still early in the afternoon.

  “Come on, Sister, let’s go look at the town,” Bronwen said.

  “All right.”

  “I’m coming too.” Meredith joined the others, and they moved toward Laramie.

  “Look, there are Indians,” Bronwen said.

  The Indians had pitched their tepees—some of them white, some tan and aged—near the fort. There were men and women in the Indian camp and many children, it seemed. Their dogs moved about, and farther away their horses grazed as the afternoon cooled.

  The Morgans encountered Tremayne and Charterhouse apparently on their way to the fort.

  “This is a little better than Fort Kearney,” Charity said.

  “I guess so.” Casey scanned the scene in front of him and murmured, “When I first saw this place, there wasn’t a post on it. Weren’t any tame Indians either. Buffalo and beaver. Beavers are all gone now. Buffalo too. One day all this country will be nothing but towns.”

  Charterhouse stared. “Does that bother you, Casey?”

  “I guess it does.”

  “Well, some poet once said, ‘God made the country, and man made the town.’”

  “What other country will we see?” Charity asked.

  “Further on, out of sight, is the Sweetwater,” Casey said, “and farther still, there’s the South Pass. You’ll see that.”

  “Father says we’re going to have a service tonight if the commanding officer will permit it.”

  “He probably will.”

  “Would you come, Casey?” She was slightly awkward using his first name, but there seemed a formality in always calling him Tremayne, although most people did.

  He hesitated a long time, and then he nodded. “Yes, I will.” He noticed the surprise in her face. “I’m not totally a lost cause, I hope, Charity.”

  “I don’t like to think of anybody as a lost cause.”

  They entered the frontier fort, and he mentioned again what it had been like when he had first seen it. Charity noticed it troubled him, and finally he said, “Everything changes.”

  “No, some things don’t.” She felt his gaze as he turned to look at her and added, “God never changes.”

  “I reckon that’s so.”

  “Love doesn’t change.”

  “I’ve not noticed that.” There was surprise in his tone, and he shrugged slightly. “I’ve seen people stop loving each other.”

  “Then they never really loved,” Charity said. “Shakespeare wrote a poem about that once.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Oh, I can’t quote it all, but
one line of it has been with me for a long time. ‘Love is not love, when it alteration finds. Oh, no, it is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is not shaken.’”

  As she spoke, Casey was staring at her. “You really believe that love never changes?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m glad you feel like that,” he smiled faintly and then shook his head as if in doubt. “I hope you always do, but I don’t think I can handle it.”

  “Come to the service,” she said. “You may like it.”

  * * *

  THE CREW WAS GETTING ready to go to the fort. Jack Canreen had been appointed the spokesman by the crew, for he said, “How about a little money for us to have a drink or two, Tremayne?”

  Tremayne had been sewing a rent in his shirt, and a fancy struck him. “Jack, you ought to go to church like me.”

  The others gathered around, and Doucett said, “You ain’t a church man.”

  “Well, I am today.”

  “Come on, don’t be that way,” Canreen said. “We’ve worked hard, ain’t we?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, you have.” He put the shirt aside, and a glint of humor came into his eyes. “You a gambling man, Jack?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about if we make a bet, you and me? If you win, I take you all to the saloon and buy all the drinks you can safely handle. If I win, you go to church with me.”

  Canreen was a gambling man; his eyes glittered with excitement. “Cut the cards?” he asked.

  “No, I figure we might do a little arm wrestling.”

  Canreen stared at him in disbelief. He had beaten everybody in this old game. His bulky muscle spoke of tremendous strength in his arms.

  “All right,” he said. “That all right with you men?”

  “Sure,” Frenchy Doucett grinned. “You ain’t never been beat, have you?”

  “Never have. Don’t intend to start now. Find us a table.”

  A table was located and two chairs. Canreen took his seat, and Tremayne sat opposite him. Word spread, and a crowd from the train and even a few soldiers gathered to see the contest.

  “You know the rules,” Tremayne said.