Angel joined him, letting the mare snuffle her scent as she made friends with the animal. “She’s draft, isn’t she?”
Jack nodded, seeming surprised by her knowledge. “Shires, the missus calls ’em, but all I know is, they’re mighty strong. She had ’em imported from England nigh five years back.”
“This must be Juno’s mate,” Angel guessed, moving on to the next stall, where a nearly identical horse thrust its head over the door and eyed her curiously.
“Yep, that’s Jupiter. For all he’s a stallion, he’s gentle ’nough.”
“A good thing, since they’re so huge,” Angel said, wondering as she scratched the horse behind the ears if she could handle the pair of them. She had ascertained these two were the strongest in the stable, and Jack confirmed her suspicions with a disparaging glance at the high-strung gray stamping in his stall.
“That’s Mercury, o’ course. Crazy names the missus picked out, but then, I’m not paid to name ’em, either.”
“I had no idea Mrs. Maxwell was so fond of mythology,” Angel said. “Perhaps I’ll buy her a book on the subject for her birthday.”
Jack shrugged at this information, eager to get on with the tour and show her the rest of the horses and the fine leather tack he so carefully maintained. By the end of the hour, Angel had learned her way around the stable and knew enough about the horses’ individual temperaments to risk the next phase of her plan. She had also made a new friend in the lonely old man most people considered gruff and unfriendly.
It would be hard betraying Jack’s trust, but Angel had given her promise to Holt to go up to the mine. Giving Jack another warm smile and her thanks, Angel left the stable and returned to the house. The hour was growing late.
Soon she would have to put her plan into motion, but she couldn’t move until Jack Miller had left for the day. He lived in a one-room cabin about a mile away, he had told her. Angel didn’t want to travel in the dark, but she had little choice. She would spend the rest of her time upstairs, getting ready for the long, cold journey.
Leaving a message for Clara by way of Dulcibel, saying she had a terrible headache and was retiring early, Angel hurried up to her room and assembled a variety of warm winter clothes. She then took all the blankets off her bed and off those in the adjoining guest rooms. She would raid the pantry later, after the others were abed.
Glancing over and catching her reflection in the cheval glass across her room, Angel raised a startled hand to her face. Her cheeks were flushed rosy with excitement and her neat chignon had come undone, spilling tiny golden curls around her brow. She was actually enjoying this. She, the sensible and proper Angel McCloud-Murphy, was about to rob a larder, steal some horses, and ride off into the dark night like some lowly desperado.
A gurgle of laughter escaped her lips. She could only pray Aunt Clara would understand. Somehow Angel had the feeling her tart little hostess would not only understand, but heartily approve.
Chapter Twenty-one
EVEN THE CREAK OF leather echoed too loudly in the night as Angel finished securing the horses in the wagon tracings and carefully climbed up into the driver’s seat. A glance over her shoulder revealed her hidden hoard in the buckboard, safely covered by waterproof oilskins, and she reached down to touch the reassuring barrel of the long rifle hidden beneath the blankets covering her lap.
It was too risky to light a lantern so close to the house, so Angel had to maneuver the wagon by memory down the rutted snowy lane. There was a thin sliver of moon, which only served to highlight the clumps of firs around the house, changing the dark trees into eerie, gnarled shapes.
For a moment she was sorely tempted to stop this foolishness, return the sleepy Juno and Jupiter to their stalls, and sensibly retire to the warmth and safety of her bed. But Angel knew she’d never forgive herself if she backed out now. Holt had asked her to do this, a precious sign of his growing trust, and though she realized he’d never have asked her if Lily was alive or he knew about the child growing beneath her heart, Angel was too determined to validate his faith in her to consider the risks she was taking.
If she went slow, if she kept herself from becoming chilled, if she took the good road up to the mine, why, it would be as easy as slicing a hot knife through butter, Angel reasoned.
She had dressed in half-a-dozen layers of wool clothing, not counting two horsehair petticoats and the fur wrap she had “borrowed” from Clara’s coat rack, and in view of the brisk temperature she had worn three pairs of gloves and wrapped a woolen scarf around her face beneath a hat so only her eyes showed.
Angel estimated it would take her two hours to get up to the mine, maybe three if she was forced to rest the horses. But the draft animals seemed hale and hearty now, pulling their burden swiftly along as if it weighed little more than a thimble.
Everything seemed to favor her cause by the time Angel reached the main road, branching north and south. There was no wind and she still felt comfortably warm. She stopped the wagon to light the lantern she had brought and hung it securely above the driver’s awning to light the way. The horses waited patiently until she was ready to set off again, then smoothly turned the wagon in the direction of the mine. They hardly strained at the gradual ascent, and Angel was heartened enough to urge them faster.
For a long time they simply plowed through the new snow, the runners hissing softly as they broke a fresh trail. Once or twice Angel thought she heard the low, distant howl of a coyote or dog; surely there were no wolves left, she reassured herself. The horses’ ears flicked in the direction of the sound, but they continued their steady, plodding gait up the trail.
Angel gradually relaxed when she no longer heard anything except the crunching of the horses’ hooves breaking through the thin crust of the snow. She relaxed so much, she fell asleep for an undetermined time, awakening with a start when the horses stopped in their tracks.
Angel blinked her lashes free of snowflakes that fell from tree branches as they’d passed beneath the tall pines. She was surprised and worried to find herself growing cold and numb, her joints aching in silent protest as she fumbled for the reins she had dropped. She clicked to the horses and tried to urge them on, but neither of them so much as moved a muscle. Their ears were tilted forward and they jingled the harness as they shifted nervously in place.
Angel turned her attention forward, trusting the animals’ instincts. She saw nothing, heard nothing, but by the wavering light of the lantern she recognized the dip in the road descending to the mine shaft.
“I made it,” she said to herself with quiet jubilation, but her optimism was snuffed out when she heard Juno snort with surprise and take a step backward. Angel looked over in time to see a hand snag the mare’s bridle and hold her fast. Another hand reached out from the darkness and seized Jupiter’s lead as well, and before Angel could grab for her gun she found herself surrounded by a dozen disembodied faces, all of them watching her with glittering dark eyes.
AS IF IN A dream, Angel saw a man step forward from the shadows of the nearby trees, most of him hidden by a heavy fur robe, but his angular, leathery face clearly visible beneath the lantern’s feeble glow.
Soon she made out long gray braids hanging on either side of his lean cheeks, and she realized he and his friends were Indians. Curiously, she felt no fear; just a calm sense of something about to happen before he spoke.
His low voice rumbled a question, but she shook her head to indicate she did not understand. He repeated the phrase, this time in broken English.
“You are Igasho’s woman?”
Angel shook her head again. “No, I’m Holt’s wife. Holt Murphy. Do you know him?”
The Indian’s teeth gleamed in a sudden smile. “To us, he is known as Igasho.”
Suddenly Angel understood. She did not doubt these people were the ones Holt had intended her to find, the ones who desperately needed the blankets and food, as evidenced by their pinched faces and shabby, moth-eaten buffalo robes. Her eyes had adj
usted to the poor light now, and she saw those with the older man were hardly more than children, young braves with hostile expressions, waiting for their leader to translate her words.
“Holt sent me to find you and bring you these things,” Angel said, gesturing to the buckboard. She managed to keep her voice from trembling. She did not think these men would hurt her, not when she was given a chance to explain.
The elderly Indian nodded regally at her. “I am called Kaga, medicine man of the Langundo Arapaho. The man you call Holt — Igasho — is the child of my natane, you white ones would say ‘daughter.’ “
Angel could not conceal her shock. “You are his grandfather?”
Kaga nodded, looking sad. “When he chooses to honor me as such.”
Angel was moved by his quiet words, and surprisingly angry with Holt when she understood the implication in those words. He had rejected the older man’s relationship to him for some reason.
“Kaga,” she said hesitantly, “I do not pretend to know Holt’s — Igasho’s — mind, but he sent me up here in the deep snows to help you. He knew you would need blankets and food to survive the winter. He cares about you a great deal.”
“Then why did Igasho not come himself?” Kaga asked with a shadow of the stubbornness reflected in his face she saw so often in Holt’s.
“He could not come. He has been put in prison — a white man’s jail.”
“I know of prison,” Kaga said, his dark eyes grave as he swept a hand to indicate the younger braves around him. “All the Langundo know of the white man’s punishment box.”
Angel’s heart went out to the old man and the others. Quietly, she said, “I have many questions, but I’m sure you and your people are hungry and cold. Please, take the supplies now.”
Kaga agreed and then turned to speak to the waiting braves. When he was finished they regarded Angel with mild curiosity, but none of the suspicion they had formerly displayed. They moved quickly and quietly to unload the wagon, carrying the goods toward the mine shaft, where other Arapaho, the young and the old and the ill, were hidden, awaiting the bounty of her precious cargo.
Angel did not hesitate when Kaga invited her down from the wagon. “We must talk,” he said, inclining his head toward the shadowy outline of a teepee in the distance. “What are you called?”
“My name is Angel,” she said as she retrieved the lantern, cautiously dismounted, and picked her way through the deep snow after Kaga’s retreating figure.
“Huh,” Kaga grunted thoughtfully as she reached his side. “I have heard of this white man’s ‘angel’ before, on the reservation. But my head is old now, and I have forgotten. Does an angel bring life, or death?”
His innocent query sent a tremor of emotion through her, but she kept her voice steady as she said, “This Angel brings nothing but mercy, Kaga, I promise you.” When the old man paused to regard her with sober brown eyes Angel spontaneously reached out and touched his wrinkled hand. “I will help your people by bringing more supplies,” she promised. “This is my way of bringing life to the Langundo.”
“It is good,” Kaga said, regarding her with a puzzled, surprised expression. “It is good. But why do you wish to do this?”
“Because,” Angel said, “I want to. But also, I owe it to your great-grandchild.”
“Ah,” Kaga said, and for a moment she thought she saw a twinkle of laughter in the old Indian’s eyes before he looked ahead and resumed walking. “Come with me, Mountain-Angel. There is much we must talk of before the sun eats the darkness again.”
ANGEL WAS SURPRISED BY the fire and warmth awaiting her inside the teepee. She recognized Holt’s possessions strewn about inside the buckskin enclosure, and she looked at Kaga questioningly.
“Igasho spent many moons with the Langundo,” the Indian explained as he settled down amidst the buffalo throws. He gestured for Angel to do the same, and then said in a quiet, measured way, “My only natane — daughter — chose to be a white man’s woman. But Istas was always foolish as a child, more so as a woman.” Kaga shook his gray head sorrowfully. “Istas was young, and — how do you say? — good for men to look upon.”
“Beautiful,” Angel murmured, absently tracing the soft lining of a beaver pelt beneath her, not surprised at all to learn Holt’s Arapaho mother was fair of form and face.
“Istas,” she repeated when the old man fell silent. “What does that mean?”
“In your tongue, ‘snow.’” Kaga groped for words and made the motion of falling snow with his hands. “Not just snow, but ‘snow that melts fast under the sun.’”
“Soft Snow,” Angel said, remembering Holt’s English name for his mother.
Kaga grunted thoughtfully. “Yes, Soft Snow.” He sighed deeply at the memory of his daughter. “Istas was a white man’s second wife. This, you knew?”
By his shrewd look he obviously expected surprise on Angel’s part, but she nodded.
“The first wife was jealous,” Kaga recalled as his old hands kneaded the warm robe across his lap. “White wives are always jealous of second wives.” He shrugged, perplexed by such things. “The first wife was angry. She hated Istas with all her strength. She hated Istas more when my daughter bore Ar-thur a son.”
“Holt,” Angel whispered into the moment of silence.
Kaga nodded. “The white woman also had a son, a seed of her bad blood. She wanted no other sons by Ar-thur to live.”
Angel felt a chill sweep over her at Kaga’s matter-of-fact words. Unconsciously, she reached out and drew a warm fur blanket up to her chin, watching the old man’s face by the light of the glowing coals.
“Ar-thur’s first wife told a story,” Kaga continued, his onyx eyes affixed to the leaping flames, “a story of wanting to forgive Istas and live together in one big teepee, like sisters, and raise their sons to be true brothers. Istas believed the white snake’s words. I did not.”
Angel swallowed hard, her voice a mere whisper when she asked, “What happened?”
“Ar-thur’s first wife said she needed to know where Istas lived, so she could send presents and food. Ar-thur had kept my daughter and grandson hidden, up here at the mine. He was wise then.”
Kaga shook his head at the painful memory. “Istas came to me with this tale and I told her, ‘It is a lie. Do not tell the white snake where you live.’ But she had a good heart. She wanted to believe; she wanted to have a sister who shared her love for Ar-thur. So I made her give me Igasho, until I saw the wounds between the women were truly healed.”
“Where did you take Igasho?” Even Angel thought of Holt by his Indian name now.
“Back to the People. There were women there who cared for him. But back here, the white snake sent some men to find Istas. The men and the first wife went to the cabin, and the first wife made her first son watch as Istas was hurt and killed.”
Angel gasped. Neal was forced to watch Holt’s mother tortured and murdered? By his own mother’s hand? What a terrible burden to place upon a child. She shook her head in horror and disbelief, but Kaga was not finished.
“The white snake was clever. She made it look as if Istas had killed herself, and her body was left in the cabin so Ar-thur would find it. He was a white man, a foolish man, but he loved Istas very much. He was ill in his heart after she died.”
“How do you know all this?” Angel asked.
Kaga was silent a long time, so long she began to think he hadn’t heard her question. “When Igasho went back to the white men years later, he met his brother-by-the-snake. There was a fight. The white snake’s son told Igasho he had seen Istas die, and he had not helped her. Igasho was angry. He said he would never forgive his brother.”
“But Neal was just a child, too,” Angel exclaimed. “He couldn’t possibly stop grown men, and it wasn’t his fault if his mother forced him to watch that monstrous crime take place.”
Kaga looked across the fire and regarded her soberly. “The one called Ne-al also told Igasho he had become a man that day,
with Igasho’s mother beneath him.”
Angel feared she might retch. She felt her head spinning and pressed a hand hard across her lips as she choked back a cry of outrage. Had Neal truly participated in a gruesome rape? He had only been thirteen at the time. Old enough to know better, but also old enough to join in the torture of Holt’s mother if he thought it would gain him Virginia’s twisted, sick approval.
Oh, dear God, she thought, was this the source of Holt’s seemingly “unreasonable” hatred toward Neal? Didn’t it make sense now? Here she was lecturing Holt all this time about the bad blood between him and Neal, not having a true picture of what had happened.
She did not doubt Kaga’s story. A moan escaped her lips as she realized the hell Holt had endured all these years was staggering, especially if he felt obliged to be civil to Neal, considering his half-brother’s sudden “turn around” as a man of God.
Why Holt had not killed Neal in cold blood was a mystery to her, but she suspected maybe Holt wasn’t sure whether to believe the awful story himself. Perhaps he thought it was only a cruel rumor, or he didn’t believe Neal capable of such an act. But the fact Neal had refused to help Istas at all by telling the law or calling his own mother to account for the heinous deed was almost as terrible.
Tears slipped down Angel’s cheeks as she asked Kaga in a trembling voice, “Why have you told me this story?”
The old Indian considered her question a long time. “There is one thing to remember, Mountain-Angel,” he said at last. “The child of a snake is still a snake, no matter the robe he wears.”
She shivered at the words. She remembered Holt saying something similar once. “Then you think Neal is evil, like his mother.”
“I think a snake should be forced to shed its skin,” Kaga said. “I do not think it should be left to hide until spring.”
His words were troubling, and as Angel studied the old man’s glistening black eyes, she realized Kaga still was mourning the daughter he had lost. It was natural of him to want revenge, but what if he was wrong? What if Neal had had no part in Istas’s unfortunate death? All whites were not evil. Angel was determined to prove this much herself.
Mountain Angel Page 27