A Many-Splendoured Thing

by Margaret Pemberton

  The nightmare was real and tangible. Polly being treated as the trappers had treated the squaws. Polly left to die, her throat bleeding from the knife of a brave. He groaned and buried his head in his knees.

  The strong, calm voice continued. ‘The only person who can help us is the man who will know where the Pawnees are camped. The man who can gain entry and plead for the release of our sister.’

  ‘Where is such a man to be found,’ Jared asked brokenly. ‘Any man approaching the Indians would be killed by an arrow before he even had the chance to state that he came in peace.’

  The Mormon leader rose to his feet. ‘The man we need is on the trail East to St Louis.’

  Jared staggered to his feet. ‘Then give me his name. Let me be on my way.’

  ‘His name is Major Richards, the army man I told you I had spoken with when we first reached Richardson Point.’

  Jared staggered and was caught in the steadying arms of Brother Kimball. ‘You are mistaken, sir. The Major is of a carnal nature. He is not a man who could give us help.’

  ‘The Major is the only man who can give us help,’ Brigham Young said in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘He is half Pawnee himself and if any man can gain entrance to their camp, he can. As for his being carnal minded, I am a shrewd judge of men, brother. The Major may be a man whose private life may not be fitting for a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but to be carnal is to be evil and the man I met and spoke with is not evil, nor ever could be.’

  Jared’s head reeled, unable to accept that the only man capable of saving Polly should be the man he had so totally alienated back at Richardson Point. That he was half Pawnee he did not question. If Brigham Young had told him Major Richards was a full-fledged Indian chief, he would have accepted the fact. But Major Richards was the man who had made free with Polly, distressed her. Why, he had fought the man for Polly’s honour. How could he now go to him for help?

  He stared blindly ahead, seeing nothing—not Brigham Young nor Brother Kimball. Only Polly. Laughing, pretty, Polly.

  ‘Oh Lord, my God,’ he groaned, sinking to his knees on the brushwood. ‘Help me and guide me.’

  The two older men left him to his prayers.

  ‘Send the Adams boys back to Richardson,’ Brigham Young ordered. ‘They can change horses there and tell them to ride hard for St Louis and the Major.’

  When Jared emerged, hollow-eyed and grey-faced, the boys were already on the trail.

  ‘A horse,’ he said weakly to Brigham Young. ‘A fresh horse and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘The Adams boys have already left. All that can be done is being done.’

  ‘No …’ Jared shook his fair hair, his grey eyes hard—those of a man and not a boy. ‘Polly Kirkham was to be my wife. A horse, Brother Brigham, if you please.’

  The boy was exhausted and swaying on his feet. Nevertheless the Mormon leader nodded at Brother Kimball and a saddled horse with packets of biscuits and water cannisters was led towards them.

  ‘It is my place to ask the Major for help,’ Jared said bleakly as they helped him into the saddle. ‘Good day, to you, brothers.’

  Silently Brigham Young and Brother Kimball and the rest of the party watched as Jared rode away in the direction of Richardson, quickly disappearing in the darkness.

  ‘Was it wise to let him go without his resting first?’ Brother Kimball asked tentatively.

  The Mormon leader frowned at him so fiercely that Brother Kimball quaked.

  ‘What else would you expect the boy to do?’ he roared. ‘Of course it wasn’t wise, but it was human. Now let’s pray to the good Lord to give him strength to accomplish his mission,’ and he strode away and offered up a prayer in a resounding voice and as he did so, Jared felt new strength flow into his exhausted limbs.

  The Adams boys had already passed Lydia Lyman and the Spencers on the trail. The weary travellers showed no surprise at seeing Jared riding hard towards them in the early dawn. He barely reined in, and then only for long enough to ask how far ahead of him the Adams brothers were.

  Time began to blur. When he reached Richardson he had been without any sleep, apart from that taken in the saddle, for countless hours. The Adams boys had changed horses and were already riding hard for St Louis. Lucy Marriot thrust a plate of hot food into his hands as he waited for a fresh horse and provisions.

  Josiah Cowley came across to him and said thoughtfully, ‘If I were you I would not follow the Adams boys to St Louis.’

  ‘I shall not rest here like a milk sop and allow others to do my work for me,’ Jared replied angrily.

  ‘Nay, brother. I do not say that you should. Only that three men in one direction is bad policy when that direction is not known for sure.’

  Jared put down his fork. Josiah continued.

  ‘It was the Major’s intention, when we first met up with him, to ride on to St Louis, but I know that after he left, Sister Kirkham felt it possible he had returned to Fort Leavenworth. Or even to California.’

  Jared was beyond asking why Polly should have spent time talking to Brother Cowley on the subject of the hated Major’s whereabouts.

  ‘And do you propose I set off to search the whole of the United States between here and California?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘No,’ Josiah said. ‘I’ll ride along with you to Fort Leavenworth. If he has gone to St Louis, the Adams boys will find him. But he may not have. He might very well be returning to his quarters at the Fort.’

  There was a quiet conviction in Josiah’s voice that could not be argued with.

  ‘We ride across country for Independence and then on to the Fort. It is a trail I know well, for our home was in Independence before we were driven from it and turned to Nauvoo.’

  Jared sat silently for so long that Josiah thought he had fallen into an exhausted sleep. When he spoke he said quietly, ‘You are right, brother. Let us ride towards Leavenworth and pray God we catch him on the trail.’

  Josiah nodded. ‘I see no reason for him to be riding hard.’

  Jared hoped fervently that the Major’s horse had broken its leg, but did not express this uncharitable view to Josiah, who was busy soothing Eliza, convincing her that he would be safe, and that she would be well looked after by friends in his absence.

  Together, Josiah’s arm still in a sling, they left Richardson Point and turned South-westwards in the hope of seeing before them a lone, blue uniformed figure. At Josiah’s insistence they stopped at regular intervals, feeding and watering the horses and themselves, and resting.

  ‘Did you know the Major is half Indian?’ Jared asked Josiah on one of the rare occasions they lapsed into conversation.

  ‘No, but it don’t surprise me. Not on reflection.’

  ‘No.’

  There was nothing else to be said about the Major. He was the last man on earth Jared wished to have to ask for help, and Josiah knew it. Silently they continued on the trail that Josiah could only pray was the one Dart Richards had taken before them.

  For a while the weather held and they made good speed, but there was no blue-uniformed figure in the distance and with every day that passed Jared, as well as Josiah, was forced to recognise that their mission was likely to be in vain. Polly could not possibly still be alive.

  ‘Independence,’ Josiah said grimly, and pulled his slouch hat low over his brow as they rode into the town. Independence had not been kind to him and his fellow Mormons. He had no desire to be recognised, not with one arm in a sling. The rain began again, coming down in blinding sheets, sending those on the street scurrying to the shelter of their homes. The two tired men turned up the collars of their cloaks and wearily cantered down the main street. By now, not even Josiah expected to see a black stallion or an unmistakable broad-backed figure.

  The horse was tethered outside the saloon—a saloon that Josiah, in all his years of living in Independence, had never entered. Saloons were not built by Mormons: nor were they frequented by them.
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  ‘It’s his horse all right,’ Josiah said as Jared hesitated. ‘I’d prefer it if you could conduct your business in there without me. I’m no coward, but my face is known in these parts and yours is not.’

  Jared nodded, a strange reluctance settling over him. His legs felt like lead. To voluntarily face the Major again, the scornful, insolent eyes: to have to plead for a favour from a man he despised. And to what avail? Polly would no longer be alive to save. She would have been raped. Tortured and murdered by savages, blood kin to the man he was going to for help.

  The rain poured down, running in between his cloak and his neck in rivulets. He slammed one fist on top of another. He couldn’t. He could not. His mind ranged back over the years. Polly, pale faced and quiet in the days after they had taken her in. Polly, racing him to the forge. Polly singing in the kitchen as she baked oatcakes and wheatcakes. Polly, her lips parting softly between his in the autumn darkness as she had shyly accepted his first kiss. Polly helping his mother. Always cheerful, always smiling. Polly, with hair so beautiful Brother Carson had declared it was sinful. Polly, sweet-mouthed and sparkling-eyed. Polly, who had leapt without hesitation to his aid when he had fallen from the wagon. Polly, who would not have been taken if it had not been for his stupidity.

  He slid from his horse and walked with a pounding heart towards the wooden doors of the saloon. The moment of entry, when he expected every eye to swivel in his direction, was relatively easy. He had forgotten how near Independence was to the Army Fort. There was more than one man in a blue uniform. There were girls in plenty. Girls dressed as Jared had never seen before: low blouses showing creamy-skinned shoulders and breasts. One black-haired girl stood, a dainty foot on a chair, her skirts over her knee, showing a slim, naked leg. Quickly Jared averted his eyes.

  Lazily the girls looked him over. By his appearance and the quality of his clothes, his pockets would be empty. They returned their attention to the soldiers.

  There was a haze of blue smoke and as his eyes adjusted themselves to it, Jared saw him. He was leaning negligently against the bar, ignoring the efforts of the girls trying to win his attention. His face was set in the brooding, forbidding lines Jared knew so well. Across the room their eyes met. Only a man completely in control of himself could have refrained from showing surprise at Jared’s entry. None showed in the Major’s.

  A girl with cheap bracelets on her wrist caressed the back of his neck. He brushed her away and the girl pouted. This time, as Jared made directly for the figure at the bar, every eye turned.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Dart asked uninterestedly. ‘An introduction perhaps?’ He carelessly removed the girl’s hand from his sleeve and planted it in Jared’s to squeals of feminine laughter.

  The blood boiled behind Jared’s eyes. Cheap perfume clung to him. The girl’s laughter was anathema. He wanted to hit the man in front of him as he’d never wanted to hit anyone else before, ever in his life.

  ‘Polly,’ he said tightly, exerting all the self-control he was capable of. ‘The Pawnees took her.’

  Dart’s movement was so sudden and unexpected that the girl literally fell. He turned so that his back was to the room, his face to the bar. His hands circled his glass of bourbon.

  ‘How long?’ he asked abruptly. ‘How long have they had her?’

  Jared’s exhausted mind refused to work. ‘Five days … A week …’

  ‘Sweet Christ!’ Dart said with such savagery that Jared involuntarily stepped backwards.

  ‘What of the others? Susannah and Eliza and Lydia?’

  ‘Susannah and Lydia are safe. Eliza was still at camp.’

  The Major seemed to freeze. ‘What do you mean? Still at camp. Where were the rest of you?’

  ‘On the trail.’ Jared could not seem to raise his voice above a whisper.

  ‘Who was on the trail?’ The question was like a whiplash.

  ‘Sister Lyman, the Spencers, Polly and myself.’

  Jared had to turn away from the contempt in the older man’s eyes.

  ‘Help us,’ he mumbled. ‘Help her.’

  Dart didn’t drink the bourbon. He pulled on his jacket and seized his cloak and hat. Outside in the rain Josiah waited with dogged patience. Dart strode across to him.

  ‘Where?’ he asked tersely. Josiah told him in as few words as possible.

  ‘Keep him away from me,’ Dart said through clenched teeth, indicating Jared. Then he mounted his horse and without another look in their direction galloped off down the mud-bound street.

  ‘Shouldn’t we go with him?’ Jared asked nervously.

  ‘Not if you value your life,’ Josiah replied drily. ‘We’ll continue on to the Fort and seek further help. We’ll be able to rest up there awhile as well. I’m plum tuckered out.’

  Jared resisted the impulse to follow in the Major’s wake. Josiah had ridden one-armed and the strain had begun to show. Reluctantly he wheeled his horse in the opposite direction to that which Major Richards had taken and, immersed in their own thoughts, they

  rode towards Fort Leavenworth and help from the army.

  Dart had known anger many times, but not the cold, all-pervading fury he felt now. Why the devil had he ever stopped the little wagon train in the first place? Why hadn’t he let it rumble on to its own destruction? He could have continued to St Louis and remained oblivious of Polly Kirkham’s existence and that of her damnable companions.

  He swore volubly and dug his spurs in harder. He had told them they were fools to continue. He had warned them. He had told Nephi explicitly about the scattered bands of marauding Pawnees and still they had travelled on. By the time he had left them at Richardson Point he had formed a grudging admiration for Nephi Spencer and a strong liking for the man, yet, despite all Dart had told him, he had been fool enough to set off across country with a handful of women and children and a hot-headed youth.

  Damn them to hell, but it was a miracle the lot of them hadn’t been killed. Unbidden was the thought that it would have been better if they had been. Better for Polly. Red-Cloud was no lover of the white men or their women. She would get little mercy there.

  A watery sun broke through the clouds and the rain drizzled and finally stopped. Red-Cloud, chief of the Pawnees and the man who had been his closest childhood friend. The man who was his half-brother.

  He left the track and set off across wild country. As a child the land he was now traversing had been thick with buffalo and elk. Wild herds of antelope and deer had roamed in droves. Now, apart from a few stray herds, they had been driven further West, away from the trappers and encroaching settlers.

  He knew where Red-Cloud would camp and he found Indian tracks just before dusk. Tomorrow he would enter the camp, though not as Major Dart Richards of the United States Army. He would enter as the son of a Chief. He would enter as Fire-Dart, the name he had borne for the first eight years of his life.

  Despite the biting cold, his jacket and hat were discarded when he remounted his horse in the early hours of dawn. The cloak would go the minute he saw the tepees and the braid had already been ripped from his breeches. A kerchief circled his head, Indian-fashion, his coarse black hair falling straight like that of his half-brother.

  They had settled in Happy Valley as he had known they would. He smiled bitterly. Happy when he was a child, and the herds ran thick and wild. Not so happy now when braves became beguiled by rough whiskey and weaker chiefs exchanged their lands for worthless bits of paper. He dismounted, unbuckled his saddle, and left it with his cloak beneath a tangle of brushwood. Then, looking so much like a red-man that Charity Merrill would have fainted in a fit, he rode towards the tepees, his black hair flying in the wind, and the whoop he made was one that could not possibly have come from a white throat as he galloped into the camp.

  His manner and bearing, his shouted commands in their own language, deterred the braves who rushed furiously towards him, knives drawn.

  ‘I am Fire-Dart, brother of Chief Red-Cloud,’ he cried, hi
s eyes flashing dangerously.

  The braves hesitated. He wasn’t Pawnee, yet he looked Pawnee. He spoke Pawnee. Beneath his ice-cool exterior Dart’s heart was beating with unfamiliar speed. If he had misjudged the situation and the Chief was not Red-Cloud, then he was a dead man, and he knew better than any the painful ways of death that the Pawnees devised.

  Squaws in beaded and quilted moccasins gathered around, babies on their hips, eyeing him curiously and admiringly.

  ‘Take me to my brother, Chief Red-Cloud,’ he demanded arrogantly, and then, seeing the tepee with the wolf’s ears on its apex, he scattered them as if they were dogs and moved towards it.

  There was no sign of Polly and if the man who emerged from the Chief’s tepee was not Red-Cloud, then it would not matter if she was here or not. He would be unable to save either her or himself.

  As he dismounted the braves and squaws waited and watched. Red-Cloud strode to the opening of his tepee and stared at the insolent intruder. Dart Richards returned the stare.

  A wry smile curved the corner of his mouth as he faced the man before him. The likeness was indisputable.

  ‘So … you have returned.’

  ‘I have returned as I have before.’

  ‘The last time was seven years ago. Seven years is a long time, brother.’

  ‘Not in the life of a man.’

  Red-Cloud knew of his life as a man. That he rode and fought with the enemy, but the bonds of childhood had held fast and when they were together they were Red-Cloud and Fire-Dart, friends of equal status and not Indian Chief and Army Major.

  A slow smile touched the olive-dark face with its frame of magnificent feathers. ‘Come,’ he said and held out his hand.

  His wives flitted round, silver earrings tinkling, bracelets flashing. Together the two men sat on a sofa of furs and skins and Dart knew that not until after the ritual smoking of the calumet could he ask after Polly. To do so would be insulting. Polly. The tightness in his chest was a physical pain. Merely thinking of her was a torment. To imagine her fear made his flesh run cold. He did not, like Jared, have to wonder what the Pawnee brave who had taken her would do with her. He knew. But would he have killed her after he had raped her, or kept her? Squaws did not like white women. Perhaps her body was even now rotting by the side of a creek or wood. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.