Wilderness Double Edition 27

by David Robbins

  ‘Father,’ Peter said.

  ‘He will be all right.’ Felicity would like to go warn Simon, but she did not dare leave their cabin untended. There was no telling what the strangers might do.

  ‘I see a lady.’

  So did Felicity, on the seat of the first wagon, her flaxen hair shimmering like straw. That reassured her. Cutthroats seldom traveled with women along. Still, she held her rifle ready to fire it if need be. Not that it would help much if they were up to no good; there were too many. She counted twenty riders, five wagons, and something else.

  The something else interested Felicity the most. It was a carriage, a genuine by-God fancy carriage, the likes of which only the rich could afford, pulled by a team of superb white horses. The driver was attired in a red uniform. He wielded a thin whip, cracking it over the heads of the white horses. The whole outfit, riders and wagons, were moving briskly along as if they were in a hurry to get somewhere.

  ‘Pretty horses,’ Peter said. He was behind her left leg, peering past her dress.

  ‘That they are,’ Felicity agreed. All the horses were as superb as the whites. She was no judge of horseflesh but she knew enough to recognize superior stock when she saw it.

  ‘What they want?’ Peter wondered.

  ‘What do they want?’ Felicity corrected. ‘We will find out shortly, I should think.’

  The caravan was coming toward them. Six of the riders, in pairs, were out in front. Each man was well armed. They wore short-brimmed hats and riding outfits and black boots that came almost to their knees. Lowering her rifle but still with her thumb on the trigger, she took a few steps and smiled in friendly greeting.

  One of the lead riders, a square block of a man with muttonchops, returned her smile and waved.

  ‘How do you do?’ Felicity called out.

  ‘Never better, thank you, mum,’ the man answered in a distinct accent she took to be British. ‘This would be the Ward farm?’

  ‘Yes,’ Felicity confirmed, still having to holler. ‘Who might you be?’

  The man did not reply. Another did, a tall individual with a severe face and an aloof demeanor, as the party came to a stop. They looked about them with interest. ‘My name is Severn. This friendly fellow is Mr. Bromley.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Felicity said.

  ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ward,’ the cheerful man said.

  ‘We are in the employ of Lord Kilraven,’ Severn declared, much as someone might say they were in the employ of God Almighty.

  ‘Oh my,’ Felicity said, and glanced at the carriage with its glittery trappings. ‘You work for royalty?’

  ‘His lordship is a baron,’ Severn said. ‘I oversee a lot of his day-to-day affairs.’

  ‘Puff yourself up, why don’t you?’ Bromley laughed.

  Severn’s hard face grew harder. ‘His lordship relies on me to attend to many matters.’

  ‘You make a fine spy, I will say that for you,’ Bromley retorted. ‘Why did you ask this lady if this was the Ward farm when you bloody well know it is?’

  ‘Watch your tongue,’ Severn said harshly.

  A man behind them coughed. He had drooping jowls that lent him a perpetually sad expression. ‘Both of you had better watch them or his lordship will hear about your little spat.’

  Severn seemed disposed to argue, but a yell from the flaxen-haired woman on the first wagon threw a bucket of water on his fiery temper.

  ‘What is this, then? Are you going to sit there talking all day when Lord Kilraven has made it clear he wants to pitch camp by four o’clock?’

  ‘We better push on,’ Severn said.

  Bromley touched his hat brim to Felicity and smiled. ‘Our apologies, mum. We do not mean to be unsociable, but we must press on or there will be the very devil to pay.’

  ‘I hope my husband and I will get to see all of you again,’ Felicity said in earnest. She did not like the cold look Severn shot her or understand its significance.

  ‘There is no doubt of that, Mrs. Ward,’ Bromley said. ‘There is no doubt of that at all.’

  One by one the wagons and the carriage rattled and creaked past. Felicity hoped for a glimpse of his lordship, but the curtains were drawn against the heat and the dust. She had to settle for a nod from the driver in red.

  ‘Are they good people, Mother?’ Peter asked as the riders who brought up the rear went by. The last man held the lead rope to a long string of pack animals.

  ‘I am sure they are,’ Felicity said.

  Simon Ward had been toiling for hours now. Stripped to the waist, his rifle and pistols on a stump bordering the field, he bent to the plow and shouted at his plow horse, ‘On, Dancer, on!’ Simon had named him Dancer because of the way he pranced when he was excited, as when Simon treated him to a carrot or sugar. Dancer was a Belgian draft horse, a breed noted for their huge muscles and prodigious strength. A giant, Dancer measured sixty-five inches at the shoulders and weighed in excess of seventeen hundred pounds. And he was worth every ounce in the amount of work he did without tiring.

  It was pushing two in the afternoon, judging by the position of the sun, when Simon happened to glance in the direction of his cabin and bam. He was thinking of Felicity and their son, of how much he loved them, of how in all the world, they meant the most to him. He could not see the buildings; they were too far off. But he did behold a sight that nearly startled the wits out of him.

  ‘What in the world?’ he blurted.

  Simon stared in amazement as a wagon train came winding up his valley. So many people. So many wagons, and even a carriage that reminded him of some he had seen in Boston, where he was born and raised. He was so amazed that he almost forgot about his rifle and pistols. Almost. The lead riders were two hundred yards away when Simon went to the stump, donned the shirt Felicity had crafted for him with her own hands, and armed himself with his rifle and pistols. Then he stood by Dancer and the plow, and waited.

  Of the four lead riders, only one seemed hostile and did not smile when a man named Bromley introduced them.

  ‘You are English, unless I miss my guess,’ Simon said.

  ‘We are Brits,’ the hostile one, Severn, said. ‘Any twit could tell that.’

  Bromley shifted in his English-style saddle. ‘Enough, if you please. His lordship has not given permission for you to vent your spleen quite yet.’ He smiled down at Simon. ‘I am sorry. He tends to speak his mind without thinking.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Severn said.

  ‘Where are you bound, if you do not mind my asking?’ Simon was curious to learn. ‘West of here is nothing but wilderness and more wilderness.’

  Bromley pointed at a large flat-topped hill at the west end of the valley. ‘We reckon to camp there for the night.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Each day takes care of itself, eh?’ Bromley said enigmatically. ‘I am sorry, but we really must be going. We have tents to pitch and fires to make.’

  ‘Nice meeting you,’ Simon said.

  Severn laughed.

  They rode on, and after them lumbered the wagons. A woman with yellow hair gave Simon a polite nod. Few of the men so much as glanced at him. Then came the expensive carriage. It was abreast of him when, on an impulse, Simon yelled, ‘Lord Kilraven! Do you have a moment?’

  Apparently he did not because the carriage went on by. The driver in red glanced at Simon and then at the side of the carriage as if awaiting a command, and when none came, he shrugged and flicked his long whip at the team of white horses.

  Simon was disappointed. He would have liked to meet a British lord. In Boston the British Parliament and royalty were often mentioned in the newspaper. He had been taught a little about the British system of government in school, but he would be hanged if he could remember much of it.

  The last of the riders faded into the dust. Simon took off his shirt and placed his weapons on the stump and went back to work. There was plenty of daylight left and he had a lot mor
e ground to till.

  As he worked, Simon wondered about the gentleman in the carriage. He supposed the lord was doing what many of the rich and powerful were doing those days, and had ventured West for a few weeks of adventure and thrills. Nate King had mentioned a senator who showed up at Bent’s Fort on a buffalo hunt, and there had been a wealthy plantation owner from North or South Carolina who came to the Rockies to hunt mountain sheep, of all things.

  To have more money than Midas, that was the life, Simon reflected. He’d never had much money, himself. His job as a clerk at a mercantile had barely paid enough for the necessities, let alone luxuries. But he had scrimped and saved, and combined with the bit of money Felicity had socked away, they had sufficient funds to buy a wagon and come to the frontier. He could never thank her enough for that. Without her, his dream would still be just that.

  His family had been against the idea. Felicity’s, too, at first. They would be killed, everyone warned. Hostiles were everywhere, and the land was overrun with wild beasts. But as in most things in life, people exaggerated. Yes, there were hostile tribes, but there were a lot of friendly tribes, too, and so long as a man knew who was who and shied away from territory roamed by the hostile variety, he did not need to worry much about losing his hair. And yes, the wilds teemed with beasts of all kinds, but the predators mostly did their hunting at night. Mountain lions and wolves tended to leave people alone, and black bears almost always ran at the sight of a human being. That left grizzlies, the lords of the mountains and plains. Simon had been fortunate in that he had encountered only a few, and those few had no interest in devouring him.

  He was fortunate in another regard, as well. Nate told him once that back in the early days grizzlies were everywhere. A man could not turn around without bumping into one. The trappers who followed the waterways deep into the mountains after beaver plews were frequently attacked, and paid for their temerity in invading the grizzly’s domain with maimed bodies and crippled limbs. A lot of those grizzlies had been killed off.

  Dancer’s lengthening shadow brought Simon out of his reverie. The sun was dipping toward the western horizon. Shielding his eyes with a hand, he saw that the wagons had reached the flat-topped hill. Antlike figures were scurrying about, setting up camp.

  Only then did it occur to Simon that Lord Kilraven had not asked his permission to cross his valley Unless, Simon reflected, Kilraven had asked it of Felicity.

  Felicity. Simon gazed to the east. Suddenly he wanted to be home, to see her and hold her, and be with Peter. He unhooked the plow and left it there. No one would bother it. Indians had no use for plows, and the only white men within miles were the lord’s party. They hardly had use for it, either.

  Leading Dancer, Simon started back. ‘You did good today, my wonderful Samson,’ he said. ‘You are the best investment I ever made.’ He meant it. Without Dancer’s tireless efforts, the farm would not be half as big as it was. A lesser plow horse could not have done nearly as much.

  Now, gazing out across acre after acre of tilled soil, the crops growing green in the rosy glow of the setting sun, Simon swelled with pride. Long, hard hours had gone into wresting a living from the unyielding earth. He had known from the outset how hard it would be, far harder than making his living as a clerk. But anything worthwhile, as his mother liked to say, was worth extra effort.

  Simon glanced over his shoulder and frowned. He did not have it easy, like that lord. He would never have it easy. But he would not trade his life for all the finery in Merry Old England.

  Simon was happy. He was content. All was well with his world, and he prayed it would stay that way.

  Three

  Felicity was chopping green beans and dropping them in a pot she had set on the stove to boil. Simon was in a chair at the table, bouncing a giggling Peter on his knees. Hoofbeats caused both of them to stop and perk their ears.

  ‘We have a visitor,’ Felicity stated the obvious.

  ‘Only one rider,’ Simon said. He held Peter out and she quickly came and took him, freeing Simon to arm himself with his rifle and open the door a few inches. He was careful not to show himself.

  ‘Hallo, the cabin! I come in peace.’

  Simon opened the door wider. In the gathering twilight he recognized Bromley, the friendly one. ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘On behalf of Lord Kilraven, I am to invite you to supper at our encampment,’ Bromley requested. ‘He apologizes for the lateness of the hour and the tardy invitation, but it took longer than we anticipated to set things in order.’

  ‘It is late,’ Simon said, and glanced at Felicity. They rarely went abroad after dark. ‘What do you say, dearest?’

  Felicity had already taken the pot off the stove. ‘Need you ask? Pass up a chance to meet a real lord?’

  Bromley laughed. ‘His lordship is looking forward to having words with you two, as well.’

  Simon hitched up the buckboard. He had bought it the year before, and relied on it almost as much as he did Dancer. It was ideal for hauling everything from the rocks and boulders he dug out of the ground, to harvested crops. He folded a blanket and placed it on the seat for Felicity’s benefit, then brought the buckboard from the barn to the cabin.

  Felicity was ready to go. She had on her best dress and her best bonnet, and was holding Peter. ‘Mr. Bromley was just telling me about their voyage to America, and how they spent the better part of the last two months in St. Louis.’

  ‘Why there?’ Simon asked the Brit.

  ‘We were awaiting word in regards to a certain enterprise his lordship has in mind,’ Bromley said. He glanced toward the lights atop the distant hill. ‘I don’t mean to hurry you, but Lord Kilraven will be waiting.’

  Simon held Peter while Felicity climbed up; then he handed Peter to her and swung onto the seat. Out of habit they had brought their rifles. He leaned his against his leg and worked the reins. ‘Get along there!’

  Bromley brought his horse alongside. ‘Do you like it out here, Mr. Ward?’ he asked.

  ‘I would not live anywhere else,’ Simon answered.

  ‘Living all alone as you do?’ Bromley said. He idly tugged at a muttonchop. ‘I don’t know as I would. Not with a family. There is a lot of danger, is there not? We have heard a lot of stories about the savages and the vicious beasts.’

  ‘Anywhere you live has its dangers,’ Simon countered. ‘You can be run over by a wagon in the heart of any city. Or be knifed or shot.’

  ‘True,’ the Brit conceded. ‘But the odds of that are small. Out here, painted devils are common, I hear, and animals are everywhere.’

  ‘We have lived here six years now and are still alive.’

  ‘That long? I did not realize.’ Bromley was quiet a bit, then, ‘Still, it would be better for your family, I should think, if you were back in civilization.’

  Felicity cleared her throat. ‘Speaking on my own behalf, I am perfectly content to live out the rest of my life right where we are. I could not imagine a more glorious life.’

  Bromley looked at her. ‘Glorious? Isn’t that an exaggeration?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Felicity said. ‘Oh, the work is hard. I don’t deny that. But by glorious I mean having the freedom to live as we please, with no one telling us what to do.’

  ‘You sound like Nate King,’ Simon teased.

  ‘What about the culture civilization has to offer?’ Bromley pressed them. ‘The theater. Places to dine. Being able to buy whatever you need at the market. Don’t you miss any of that?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Felicity assured him.

  Bromley sighed. ‘I am sorry to hear that. I truly am.’

  ‘Why should you be sorry?’ Simon wondered.

  ‘Oh, no reason. Except that it has to be rough on your wife and the lad, no matter what she says.’

  ‘I do not make a habit of lying,’ Felicity told him.

  ‘I am sure you do not. No insult intended, Mrs. Ward,’ Bromley said. He clucked to his horse and rode on ahead, fo
llowing the rutted tracks left by the wagons, which were plainly visible in the light of the full moon.

  ‘A gorgeous night,’ Felicity said, admiring the celestial spectacle.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Simon agreed. But he was not looking at the stars. He was thinking of what their escort had said.

  Campfires blazed atop the hill. The kind of campfires Nate King would call a white man’s fire. ‘You can usually tell who has made a fire by how big or small it is,’ he imparted to Simon years ago. ‘Indians make their fire small so it will not be spotted by their enemies. White men make a big fire because they are scared of the dark.’

  Simon had chuckled and said, ‘Be serious. Men our age do not live in fear of hobgoblins. We build big fires because we like to see what we are doing, and for the heat they give off.’

  ‘Tell that to the Blackfoot who lifts your scalp.’

  The climb up the hill took a while. The slope was steep until near the top, where a fluke of geology had resulted in a flat crown some four acres in extent. The wagons were parked in a semi-circle, a barrier, such as it was, between the lord’s party and whatever lurked in the inky wilds beyond. The carriage was next to a large tent. Other tents had been erected a stone’s throw away.

  Simon was impressed to see that sentries had been posted. One came out of the dark and watched the buckboard go by.

  ‘You are very well organized,’ Simon said to Bromley.

  ‘His lordship would not have it any other way.’

  A long table had been placed near the fire closest to Lord Kilraven’s tent. Chairs had been set out, and silverware and glasses arranged.

  ‘My goodness!’ Felicity marveled as Simon brought the buckboard to a halt. ‘You had all that in your wagons?’

  ‘And a lot more,’ Bromley replied.

  A man in an apron was busy cooking. A pert brunette in what could only be a maid’s uniform was carrying a pitcher of water to the table.

  ‘He even brought his servants?’ Simon said as he helped his wife down.