Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (31 page)

“Second trip. Ain’t goin’ to go on no more, that’s certain.”

“Why is that?”

“Don’t like a city or city folks. Too many of ’em. Purty country around here, but ain’t no place purtier than home.”

*  *  *

John was leading the train in a wide loop around Van Buren when Buffer Simmons came up through the trees to ride alongside him.

“Gawdamighty! I’d not’ve known you if not for that turned-up brim. Your damn face is as bare as baby’s butt.”

“Ya didn’t know I was purty, did ya?” Buffer rubbed his fingers over his smooth cheeks. His thick brown hair had been trimmed, and he wore a new shirt beneath his cowhide vest.

“You’re about a pretty as the north end of a southbound mule.” Buffer was younger than John had thought him to be. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you down there getting the judge ready to head out?”

“I quit. I guess I ort to tell you why—’cause I want to sign on here and work my way across.”

“Because of Trisha?”

“Why’d ya say that?” Buffer’s face lost its friendly smile.

“Hell, I’m not blind. When you’re near her, you moon around like a dying calf.”

“If ya don’t like it, now’s the time to say so.” Buffer’s tone was sharp.

“Pull in your horns. It isn’t up to me to like it or not.” John’s reply was equally curt. “Say your piece.”

“I didn’t quit Van Winkle because of Trisha. I could still see her if the trains ran together. Truth is, that stupid son-of-a-bitchin’ judge wants to go on ahead. I could tell right off he didn’t hire me to hunt, he hired me to scout. Christ on a horse! It’d be like throwin’ a babe to a pack a wolves.”

“You told him that?”

“Damn right. I told him he’d be easy pickin’s, and I told him what’d happen to that woman if he was overrun. Old fart didn’t turn a hair. Called me a yellow coward and told me to get out. I’d-a cleaned his clock then and thar, if he’d not been so damn old.”

“A remark like that can get a man killed in the country where he’s going.”

“He’s a mouthy old bastard. I was quittin’ even ’fore he told me he wanted to strike out alone. He come right out an’ said the soldiers was runnin’ thin’s. I was to report to ’em. Hell, Tallman, ya should’a seen ’em. They’re dumb enough to kick fresh turds on a hot day.”

“What’s he gonna do?”

“Hell. Yore guess is good as mine. I never saw such a outfit. Wait’ll ya see it, an’ tell me if it ain’t the dangedest sight ya ever did see.”

“How long have you been out of the Nations?”

“Couple months. Wintered down on Wolfe Creek in Oklahoma Territory. Texas is fillin’ up fast with homesteaders. The Indian Nations and the territory is fillin’ up with outlaws lookin’ for easy pickin’s. They do their meanness and blame it on the Indians.

“I come over to Boggy Depot, then up the Shawnee Trail. Cattle outfit I was with took the east trail to North Fork. By then I’d had my fill of chasin’ wild steers and come on into Fort Smith. Feller I knew there told me the judge wanted a hunter. They said the pay was good. I got me a little poke, but could always use more.”

“I’ll not match Van Winkle’s pay.”

“Ain’t askin’ ya to. No pay is ’nuff fer me to kowtow to them army bastards. If I’d-a wanted to a-done that I’d-a signed on to their war.”

“We needed two more men. Go tell Cleve we’re hired one of them.”

In a grassy meadow, a half-mile beyond the Van Winkle camp, John formed his wagons in a semicircle. The teams were unhitched and the oxen unyoked. The equipment was placed in the center, preparatory to hitching and yoking up in the middle of the afternoon. After the stock was driven to water, they were herded to a place where they could graze. Each man tended the animals assigned to his wagon. Not until Huntley led away the team of gray mules did Addie allow the children to leave the wagon.

Bill Wassall and Paco immediately began to cook the first meal of the day. A large sheet of cast iron was placed over the fire and slabs of meat began to sizzle. Paco stirred while Bill mixed the ingredients for flapjacks in a large vat. Addie could smell the meat frying while she was still trying to start a cookfire.

John and Dal Rolly came walking down the line inspecting the wagons and the loads. Dillon ran toward John, shouting: “Mr. Tallman, Trisha says—”

“Dillon!” Addie hurried to head him off before he could reach John. “He’s busy now.”

“I’m not that busy. I’ll be down to the supply wagon shortly, Dal. Come here, tadpole, what’s this important news you have to tell me?”

“Trisha said you’re my papa. I ain’t never had a papa before. Muvver said I had one, but he didn’t come back from the war. Them damn Yankees shot ’im.”

“Dillon, for heaven’s sake! He picks up everything he hears.”

“That’s how he learns.” John lifted the boy to sit him on his arm. “Trisha’s right. When I married your mother, it made me your papa. Is that all right with you?”

“Yeah! You ever had a boy?”

“No, but I’ve got one now. As a matter of fact, I’ve got two boys—you and Colin.’

Jane Ann tugged on his hand. “Have ya got a little girl?”

John looked down into the child’s face, her eyes full of yearning. He stooped and raised her to sit on his other arm.

“I have now. Her name is Jane Ann.”

Jane Ann put her arms around John’s neck and her lips to his ear. “Can I call you Papa, too? Colin said not to ask.”

“I’d be proud if you called me Papa—all of you.”

“Trisha, too?” Dillon asked.

“If she wants to.” John set the children on their feet.

“I’ll tell Trisha. She went to the bushes,” Jane Ann shouted over her shoulder and ran toward the bushes that lined the clearing.

“Well, that’s settled.” John went to stand beside Addie. He was still astounded by the force of his desire to be with her, to touch her. Life had taken on a new meaning for him since he had met her.

She turned to look up at him. Tears shone in her violet eyes. “You’re a wonderful man.”

John smiled, his mustache lining his wide, firm mouth.

“I think so too.” His words had the effect he’d intended.

“Oh, you!” Addie laughed and poked him in the ribs with her forefinger.

“Bill thinks you’re out of sorts with him, and that’s the reason you don’t go up to the cook wagon.”

“I’m not out of sorts with Mr. Wassall. I’m—”

A piercing scream cut off her words. Another scream followed. John and Addie ran to the side of the wagon as Jane Ann came running from the bushes, screeching at the top of her voice.

“Tri . . . Tri . . . sha! Pa . . . pa! Tri—!”

John reached the child yards ahead of Addie and grabbed her shoulders.

“What about Trisha?”

“Back—back . . . there—”

“Go to the wagon, honey.
Now!
”

John plunged into the bushes. By the time Addie reached him he was in a small clearing, kneeling beside the unconscious girl. He lifted her and quickly unwrapped the thin, tight strip of leather from around her neck. Her face had started to darken; blood flowed from a gash above her temple, and her arms, legs, and face showed marks from a whip.

“Oh, dear God! Dear God! Dear God!” Addie couldn’t take her eyes off Trisha’s face.

John threw the whip aside, straddled Trisha, and began to lift her arms up over her head in an attempt to pump air into her lungs.

“Please, please, God . . .” Addie wasn’t even aware of what she was saying. She dropped to her knees and pulled Trisha’s dress down over her legs, which were crisscrossed with bloody whip marks.

“Who would do this? Who would do such a thing?” Addie murmured over and over.

“She’s breathing! She’s breathing! Thank God.” John ran his fingers lightly over Trisha’s throat. “We got here just in time.” He lifted her hair to look at the gash on her head. “It’s bleeding a lot, but head wounds usually do. She was whipped as she lay on her side after being struck on the head. The son-of-a-bitchin’ bastard!” he mumbled through clenched jaws.

“Trisha would have fought him like a wildcat. He must have sneaked up on her.”

Buffer Simmons came charging through the brush like an enraged bull. Cleve was a few steps behind him.

“What the hell? Jane Ann said—” Buffer dropped down beside the girl on the ground. “Who did this?
Who the hell did this?
”

“We don’t know. We’ve got to get her back to the wagon so Addie can take care of her.” He turned to Cleve. “Does the whole camp know about this?”

“Simmons and I come to find ya. The little girl told us you were here. I don’t think anyone else knows.”

Buffer gently lifted Trisha in his arms. Addie hadn’t recognized him until she saw his cowhide vest. She led the way back to the wagon. John picked up the whip. He and Cleve carefully scanned the ground for tracks, then followed.

“I’ll need hot water,” Addie said, after Buffer had eased Trisha down on the overjet.

“Will she be all right, ma’am?”

“The cuts from the whip will heal, but I don’t know how serious this cut on her head is . . . or if the lash around her neck did damage to her throat.”

“A lash around her neck?”

“John got it off so she could breathe. He said we got there just in time. We can thank God that Jane Ann went looking for her.”

Buffer picked up Trisha’s hand and held it in both of his.

“I’ll kill the man who did this to you,” he whispered to her, then quickly left the wagon.

John pulled the two young children out from under the wagon. Jane Ann was sobbing. She wrapped her arms around his leg. Dillon was crying because she was.

“Jane Ann, honey. Did you see the man?”

“I . . . was callin’ Trisha—and listenin’ for her to say somethin’. But she was falled down dead.”

“She isn’t dead. Did you see anyone?”

“Just Trisha. She looked dead!”

“She isn’t. She’s going to be all right. Don’t cry. You did just right. You came for help. That’s my girl.” John lifted the hem of Jane Ann’s dress and wiped her eyes. “Buffer is starting a fire. You and Dillon see if you can help.”

Buffer set the children to gathering sticks for the fire but cautioned them to stay close.

“Look at this whip, Cleve. It’s not a bull whip.”

“Overseer on a plantation uses a whip like this. It didn’t come from this camp. I know every man jack that’s signed on except Simmons. None of ’em ever used a whip like this.”

“Buffer’s so moony-eyed over the girl, he can’t see straight.”

“He was with me. That leaves someone from the Van Winkle train or from town.”

“Pass the word quietly to the men. Tell them what happened and ask them to keep their eyes open. It’s clear the son of a bitch was watching the wagon and waiting for a chance to get one of the women. He got his opportunity when Trisha went to the bushes.”

“Get the women a slop jar.” Cleve met John’s surprised look. “I know ’bout womenfolk. I had one once.”

“I know ya did,” John said gently, remembering Cleve’s slain family. “Somehow I’m thinking it was Trisha the man was waiting for.”

“Why?”

“There’s things about the girl you don’t know, Cleve, things beyond her control. She’s a good girl. Addie has vouched for that.”

Cleve shrugged. “Simmons told me you took him on.”

“Where do you want to use him?”

“Me and him can take turns scoutin’ and ridin’ tail. That’ll keep you close to the train.”

“I was thinking something like that myself. I doubt if any of us know the territory like he does. He should know what to expect and where it’s coming from.”

“Tallman!” Buffer called loudly. “Yo’re bein’ honored by a visit from them brayin’ jackasses what calls themselves fightin’ men.”

John turned to see the Union soldiers approaching; backs stiff, elbows in, boots shining, saddles gleaming. Their belt buckles were polished and their hats set at the regulation military angle. The Thoroughbred horses they rode looked as if they had just been washed down and curried. Their long flowing tails were free of even a dried blade of grass.

The bull-whackers had stopped working to gawk at the spectacle. Well aware of the attention they were creating, the two soldiers held a tight rein to force their mounts’ heads up, causing them to prance and sidestep.

“Gawdamighty,” John said. “Look at that. Betcha two bits I can see my face in their boots.”

“Ain’t they a sight?” Cleve chuckled, something he seldom did. “They jist got done with one a them military schools for boys and is showin’ off.”

John stepped away from the wagon. He stood with his legs spread wide, his arms folded across his chest, his hat pulled down low on his forehead. The soldiers pulled their mounts to a halt.

“Are you the man in charge here?” one asked crisply.

“I am.”

The soldier alighted from his horse and handed the reins to his companion. As he approached John, he removed his wide-cuffed gloves, placed the palms together, and secured them under his arm. He stood at attention before John, his body ramrod straight, his head back.

“Lieutenant Bradford Shipley with a message from Judge Ronald Van Winkle.”

“Spit it out.” John looked the man in the eye and wondered how in the hell the North had won the war.

“Judge Van Winkle sent his request in writing.”

The lieutenant drew a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to John. John scanned it and handed it back.

“Tell the judge that I’ll be here until three this afternoon.”

“The message states that the judge requests a meeting at his camp site at thirty minutes past one this afternoon.” Shipley spoke as if he was sure that John had been unable to read the message.

“I guess you didn’t hear me, mister. I said I’d be here until three this afternoon. At that time we’ll be pulling out. Tell the judge that if he wants to be a part of this train, he is to have every member of his party here at exactly thirty minutes past one. As wagon boss, I’ll be making a few things clear, such as laying down the rules and establishing the punishment for those who break them.”

As John spoke, the lieutenant’s eyes began to blink, his lips to twitch, and his face to redden. By the time John had finished, the young man was so enraged he could barely unclench his jaws to speak. He opened his mouth to make an angry retort, but looking into the dark blue eyes beneath the brim of that leather hat was like looking into the double barrel of a shotgun. The lieutenant’s face was tight with fury, but some vague intuition cautioned him to speak calmly.