by Vivi Holt
“How’s she doing?”
Thomas’ voice startled her out of her reverie and she jumped up. “You scared me,” she said, her hand at her throat.
“Sorry. I was just checking on our girl here and didn’t know you’d be with her.”
“You check on her?”
“Well, she’s worth a bit of money to me, that’s all.” The glint in his eyes as he squatted to pat the calf’s side revealed his lie and Genevieve’s heart skipped a beat. She could feel the heat of his body so close to hers and her skin goose-pimpled and prickled, longing to feel his touch.
She swallowed hard. There was no point in thinking that way – she was married and he was her employer, and that was the end of the story. He didn’t see her in a romantic light and anyway, her experience of men had taught her that distance was always a good thing. She’d be better off on her own. He seemed so warm, kind, caring and responsible now, but that would no doubt change in time. She felt the way she did for him now because she didn’t know him well enough, that’s all it was.
She pushed her feelings to one side – she’d get over him in time, she was certain of it. “She’s doing well – now that I’ve gotten the hang of milking, that is.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I’d never milked a longhorn before, but Dusty showed me how. They’re a little more feisty than the old Guernsey Fred bought at the county fair years ago.”
“Dusty showed you?” She could see his eyebrows arching in the bluish glow from the moon. Was he jealous?
“Yes, he’s very kind.”
“Oh. Well, you know you could have asked me. I would’ve helped you.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“I don’t mind at all.” He stood and stretched his arms over his head with a yawn. “Do you have everything you need?” He seemed to be looking for an excuse to stay and speak with her.
“Yes, thank you.”
“So are you going to tell me yet why you’re running from your husband?” He placed his hands on his hips and stared at her.
She hung her head. “No.” She whispered it and heard him suck in a deep breath. He seemed determined to draw the truth out of her.
“Will you be going back to him then?”
“No!”
“You seem sure about that.”
“I’m sure.”
“So what will you do?”
“I’m meeting my aunt in California, as I said.”
He shook his head, as though he still didn’t believe her lie. “Well, good night, Genny.”
“Good night, Tom.”
She couldn’t help wondering why he continued asking about her husband. Was he concerned for her as a friend? Did he worry that Quincey would return and cause him more trouble? It couldn’t be that he was jealous and didn’t want her to leave. He’d never shown her any indication that he cared for her as anything more than a friend or employee. Granted, he’d always been very kind and polite to her, but that was all.
She had to get Thomas O’Reilly out of her mind. He would never be interested in her – she was a married woman, with a varmint of a husband, no money to her name, skinny and dressed in raggedy clothing. Why would he care about her? It was time she thought about her future and what she would do once they got to Montana Territory. Whatever the future held, she was sure that Thomas wouldn’t be a part of it.
Chapter Eleven
Quincey Ewing buttoned his trousers and wandered back to where his rangy sorrel mare stood grazing. Fred lay prone in the grass with his hands across his eyes and sucked on the wad of snuff he had stuffed into his bottom lip.
“We goin’ yet?” asked Fred.
“Yep. Let’s mount up.”
“When are ya gonna just let it go? She’s not comin’ home – ya gotta accept it. I don’t wanna follow this cattle drive all the way to Montana Territory. I wanna go home and sleep in my own bed.”
“Quit yer whinin’,” Quincey sneered at his friend. “She’s with ‘em, I know she is. We just hafta tag along until we see her, that’s all. I’m not givin’ up yet.”
The two men climbed onto their horses, Fred with a heavy sigh. Quincey kicked his mare in the side and she charged forward. The tall yellow grasses sped beneath her hooves and he leaned forward over her neck with a loud whoop.
He didn’t see the three men flanking them on painted ponies until they pulled up in front of him with solemn, dark faces. “Whoa,” he said to the mare and to Fred, who tailed him.
“What’s all this?” asked Fred.
“I’m guessin’ we’re in the Injun Territory.”
One of the men began to speak, but Quincey couldn’t make out what he was saying. They were warriors, each with a bow slung across his shoulders along with a quiver of arrows. Their chests were tanned and bare, their legs clothed in leather. The speaker lifted his hand, showing them something that he held between his fingers.
“What’s he holdin’?” asked Fred, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the bright sun.
“Dunno.” Quincey shook his head and dropped his hand to hover above the holster on his hip.
The horse beneath the warrior who was speaking took a step toward them. He was still talking and holding up the small thing between his fingers. He pushed it toward them. Just as he did, Quincey yanked the pistol from its holster. Before he could raise it, an arrow wedged deep through his heart. The brave who’d shot him lowered his bow and quickly fit another arrow.
Fred yelped and tried to spin his horse around, his arms flailing and his legs kicking, but he’d barely moved before the brave unleashed another arrow and Fred dropped to the ground beside Quincey. The two men lay still, side by side, their blood soaking into the prairie around them.
The braves stood over them for a moment, then rode off, following the trail of three thousand cattle, two dozen horses and two wagons. Within moments they were joined by a larger group of men who fell in beside them in silence. The spotted ponies thundered on, the men sitting straight and tall on their bare backs.
***
Holden Sommerfeld was on a mission. His aunt lived in Kansas and she was dying. His mother in Texas wanted to see her sister one last time before she died, but was too unwell herself to make the journey. Her only consolation was that Holden go in her stead. If he could see his aunt before she died, his mother would feel some comfort – and Holden always did everything he could to bring comfort to the woman who raised him.
He’d followed the Chisholm Trail for miles, noting the fresh cattle tracks and indentations from wagon wheels. There must be a cattle drive ahead.
Perhaps I can stop in and spend the night by their campfire. It’d be a heck of a lot more inviting than the lonely night he had planned. He urged his horse onward, hoping to catch the herd before the last light of the day drifted off over the distant horizon. No one, not even the friendliest of cowboys, liked a stranger to approach their camp in the dark.
Just then, he noticed two horses grazing freely in the center of the rolling valley. They were saddled and wore bridles, yet there were no riders in sight. He galloped toward them. When he reached them, they lifted their heads with a snort and wandered over to touch noses with his mount. He dropped from his horse’s back and ran his hands over their mangy coats. They weren’t well cared for, or in the prime of their youth, but looked to be unhurt. Where were their masters?
He scoured the area and before long saw the shafts of two arrows protruding above the grass. He ran over to them, then pushed his way through a clump of tall grass to find two men, both on the ground. Both dead. He removed his hat from his head and stared at the pair for several minutes. He searched for a while, hoping to find some way of identifying the men, looking through pockets and saddle bags. All he found where some sullied clothing, dried strips of beef, canteens and a tattered deck of cards. Looking up, he noticed the carrion birds circling above.
He turned, slipped the hat back into place and mounted his horse to continue north, pulling the
two abandoned horses by the reins behind him. He’d have to report the deaths to the authorities in the next town. Perhaps they could return the horses to the mens’ families. The sun was dipping down toward the shadowy horizon, reflecting oranges and pinks in shafts of brilliant light to the earth below. He hoped he’d catch up with the cattle drive before sundown. He didn’t wish to be alone tonight, not with Indians laying in ambush around the place shooting folks with arrows.
***
The men were settling the cattle for the night, and Genevieve lifted the heavy black kettle to its place over the fire. She loved brewing coffee. The smell of it drifted out like a rolling wave, surrounding the campfire with goodness and warmth. She’d never drink coffee again without it spurring a memory of the campfire circles on the Chisholm Trail.
Cookie stood behind the chuck wagon, kneading sourdough on the table. He was making biscuits for supper, and Genevieve’s stomach growled at the prospect. His biscuits were always good, rich and flaky. Cooked in the Dutch oven, they were crisp out the outside and soft in the center. Sarah stood on the other side of the table, slicing onions and potatoes to fry. She smiled at Genevieve, her eyes red with tears from the onions.
Genevieve grinned back, pushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead and placed her hands on her hips. She hadn’t felt this happy or content since Ma died. That had been six years ago. She was only twelve at the time and had cried until she thought there must be no more tears left in all the wide world. But she was wrong. She’d learn in the years to come that there were plenty more things to cry about, and Fred Bilton gave her a chance to discover many of them at his hand.
He was her stepfather, so he didn’t have to love her – a fact of which he constantly reminded her. He’d beaten her, starved her, locked her away when she acted a nuisance. He forbade her to go to school, and when she hiked the five miles each day to town anyway, he’d strap her when she came home.
She’d cooked and cleaned for him, took care of him when he passed out drunk on the porch five nights a week and put up with the advances of his best friend Quincey Ewing. But Fred looked like a choirboy to her when compared with Quincey, whom she could see stomping through his yard out her bedroom window when the curtains were pulled back. His shack was across the way and she’d witnessed him treat everyone he met with violence and contempt, including his dogs. She shivered at the memory.
Quincey was an ugly man, too. Tufts of gray hair sprouted from his nostrils and ears. Deep lines gouged across his forehead and around his eyes like on the walls of a quarry. And his eyes were small and piggish, squished together in the center of his face as if they were hiding from something.
So when she discovered, too late, that Fred had promised Quincey her hand in marriage, she was terrified. They were already on their way to the church together when he said it, and she threw up on the floor of the wagon. Fred cursed and got out to wipe his feet clean on a tuft of grass. Quincey had chuckled and patted her on the back, but told her that kind of behavior wouldn’t be tolerated once they were married. If she were sweet and minded him, they’d get on well enough, but if she misbehaved, she’d suffer the consequences …
“Evenin’,” called a voice from the waning light of the prairie beyond the chuck wagon.
Genevieve started, dropping a coffee mug on her foot with a clang. “Who’s there?” called Cookie, leaving the biscuit dough on the table and hurrying to investigate with a frying pan raised high in one hand.
“Name’s Holden Sommerfeld, sir. Just passing by and noticed your wagon set up here. Was hoping I could set by the fire with you a while, if you don’t mind.”
“Yessir, ya sure can. Coffee’s almost brewed – yer welcome to a cup if ya like.”
“Thank you – yes, I would.” Genevieve could see the outline of three saddled horses in the darkness beyond the glow of the campfire. Holden hitched them to a stake he pulled from a saddle bag, then walked over to the campfire and shook hands with Cookie. He smiled at Genevieve.
“I’m Genny, and that over there is Sarah.” Genevieve held out her hand for him to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sommerfeld.”
“And you, Genny, Sarah.”
Sarah waved and nodded a greeting and continued her slicing as she watched him from the corner of her eye.
“I’ll get you a cup.” Genevieve returned to the chuck wagon.
“I tell you what, I sure am glad to see you folks. Seems the natives are restless today.”
“Oh?” Cookie resumed shaping the sourdough into small biscuit-shaped pieces.
“Yessir. I just passed two poor fellows face down in the dirt, arrows through their middles … ahem.” He glanced at Genevieve and coughed into his hand. “Sorry, Miss. I’m sure we’ll be fine out here, though.” He smiled a forlorn little smile that Genevieve didn’t believe for a moment.
Her heart began to race. Thomas had said they’d be passing through Indian Territory, but he made it sound as though it was safe and she shouldn’t worry. She scanned the darkening surroundings looking for any sign of life, but saw none.
The cowboys had finished settling the cattle and bedding down their horses. They came to the campsite now, some laughing and joking together, others too tired to speak. Thomas was with them, his face solemn and streaked with dirt. He removed his hat and slumped down beside the fire with a smile at Genevieve. “Evening, Genny.”
Why was it that every time he smiled and that dimple appeared in his left cheek, her knees felt weak? “Good evening, Thomas. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please. And who’s this?” He directed his last comment to the stranger, sipping coffee beside him.
Holden stood and offered Thomas his hand. “Name’s Holden Sommerfeld. I was just passing through on my way from Texas to Kansas to see my sickly aunt when I saw your inviting fire. I hope you don’t mind if I join you for a bit.”
“By all means,” Thomas shook his hand and took the cup of steaming coffee offered him by Genevieve. “Thank you.”
“I was just telling the others I saw two poor fellas shot in the back with arrows, not far back on the trail. Dead as doorposts … sorry again, Miss.”
“Is that so?” Thomas arched an eyebrow and gave the stranger his full attention. “What do you think happened?”
“Can’t say for sure. One was shot in the front and one through the back. Both had horses, and the animals were standing by grazing as though nothing was wrong in the world. So whoever it was didn’t stop to take the horses with ‘em, which concerns me some. I brought the creatures with me. They don’t amount to much, but I didn’t have the heart to leave them there to fend for themselves. Couldn’t find anything in their pockets or the saddlebags to say who the men were. I’ll report it and return the horses first chance I get.”
“Why would they have left the horses, do you think?” asked Genevieve.
“Means they had other things on their minds, I’d say. I wish I could tell which way they went, but your herd left so many tracks anyone would be hard pressed to tell theirs apart from yours. They might have followed you, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
Thomas rubbed a hand across his growing beard, his eyes full of concern. “We’re in Indian Territory now – the Five Nations have settled here, and there’s no telling what they might do. From what I could gather in Fort Worth, they’ve been mostly peaceful. No one seemed to know of much trouble from the tribes lately, but nothing’s certain, I guess.” He took a sip of coffee and glanced at Genevieve, whose face must have betrayed the fear she was feeling. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, though.”
Thomas scanned the group before him, all watching the exchange intently as they warmed themselves by the fire with mugs of chicory coffee. “One thing’s for certain – if we see any braves, we’ll not be the first to draw weapons. Does everyone understand that? We can’t afford a fight with the tribes – we wouldn’t win. Keep guns in holsters and act peaceably. Got it?”
Everyone nodded in silence and stared int
o the fire. No one wanted a showdown with the Five Nations.
“I could take ‘em,” said Chipper, slipping his pistol from its holster and checking the chamber. “This here gun could take down a whole string of ‘em at once.” He grinned and spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt at his feet.
“Nevertheless, guns stay in holsters.” Thomas was firm.
“Yessir.” Chipper sulked, but held his peace.
“Our only goal is to get these cattle to Montana, with all of us still alive and kicking. Let’s not rile up the locals.” He faced Holden. “You’re welcome to bed down by our fire tonight if you wish.”
“I’m mighty grateful to you. I’ll be gone first thing.”
Chapter Twelve
The line of warriors on painted ponies seemed to stretch from one side of the prairie to the other. They blocked the herd and the string of cattle bunched up in front of them, wandering in an aimless circle. Dan, as trail boss, was in the lead, and he sat on the broad back of his bay quarter horse, waiting for Thomas and the others to catch up to him.
Thomas spurred his stallion forward, hurrying to Dan’s side. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, and he felt a trail of sweat beading on his forehead and running down the sides of his face. Things looked bad, about as bad as they could get on the trail. They were outnumbered at least three to one. What did these warriors want? Surely they had nothing to gain by slaughtering the entire group. Although it was possible they wanted the herd …
“Have they said anything yet?” he asked as he reached Dan.
Dan shook his head, his eyes never leaving the braves standing stiff and tall fifty yards ahead of him, their faces impassive.
***
Genevieve shivered, and sat still and straight in the chuck wagon beside Cookie. Ahead of her, the entire heard of cattle milled around. In the distance, she could see a straight line of Indians stretching wide, blocking their way forward. Thomas and Dan rode out to meet them. Fear rose in her chest. They’d already killed two men on this prairie the day before – perhaps all of them were next.