Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (37 page)

Without uttering a word, Addie lifted Dillon from John’s arm and set him on his feet. Taking his and Jane Ann’s hands, she went around the long, high vehicle and hurried down the line to where Colin and Trisha were sitting in the shade of their wagon.

“I’m confident the captain’s patrol, backed by my men, can see to our safety,” Van Winkle said, taking up the conversation as if it hadn’t been interrupted.

“Get to the point, Judge. Is that all you wanted to tell me?” John said impatiently. His mind was on the stricken look that had come over his wife’s face when she had seen the captain.

“We’ll go with you to the fork, then follow the Arkansas River to the fort.”

“Suit yourself.”

“But—”

“Yes?” John had turned away, but he turned back.

“I insist that our wagons be brought up from behind. We’re being stifled by your dust.”

“You insist?” John straightened to his full height and folded his arms over his chest. “You have no right to insist that I do anything.”

“You’ve had the same two wagons at the head of the line since we left Van Buren.”

“I’m not obligated to tell you this, but I will,” John said, holding a tight rein on his rising anger. “The first wagon in my line sets the pace.” He spoke in harsh, clipped tones. “It is driven by a man who has been over this trail six times. The second wagon carries
my
family. I will remind you once again that you are free to take off on your own any blessed time you choose.”

“It isn’t fair to put us to the rear. My niece is very distressed—”

“What in hell do you want me to do about your distressed niece?”

“I want our wagons brought to the front of the line. We’ve been at the back for almost a week. We should be at the front for the next few days.”

“No! I will not break up my train to accommodate you.”

The judge’s face turned a dull red, and his jowls quivered.

“Don’t you talk to me like that . . . you bas—”

“Watch yourself, Judge. You call me that name and I’ll flatten you like a pancake, I don’t care how damned old you are.”

“I’m the highest government official in the territory and I demand respect.”

“Demand? Hell!” John’s temper made his voice oddly soft. “I don’t care if you’re Christ on a horse,” he said, borrowing Buffer’s favorite expression. “A man doesn’t demand respect. He
earns
it.”

“You’re being unreasonable and dictatorial because you have the men to back you up. It’s no more than I should have expected from your kind.”

“Call it what you want. Dust is always a problem on a train. If you didn’t know that when you started, you do now. You can move off to the side, you can go ahead, or you can lag farther behind. It makes no difference to me. I’ll not have your wagons mixed in with mine. That’s all I have to say about it.”

The judge was so angry he looked like a puffed-up bullfrog.

“You’ll regret these insults.”

“They’re not insults. They’re common sense. Your dray animals and mules do not set the same pace as my oxen. Plain and simple—they won’t mix.”

The judge turned to his horse. “This isn’t the last you’ll hear of this. I have influence and I’ll use it when I get to Santa Fe.”

“At the moment, I have doubts you’ll ever get there,” John commented dryly.

At that instant Addie stepped around the end of the wagon and faced the captain. Determination was etched in every line of her face. She had watched and waited for the right moment to call out to him.

“Kirby! Kirby Hyde!”

The captain put his foot in the stirrup and mounted.

“I know it’s you, Kirby!”

“Are you speaking to me, ma’am?” the captain asked calmly.

“You know damn good and well I am. You’re Kirby Hyde.”

“I’m Kyle Forsythe, Mrs. Tallman. You’ve confused me with someone else.”

“What’s this? What’s this?” the judge sputtered.

“The lady has mistaken me for someone else.” The captain put his fingers to his hat brim. “Good day, ma’am.”

Judge Van Winkle frowned down at Addie before putting his heels to his horse.

Addie stared after them, her fists clenched, her eyes too dry for tears. She was more convinced than ever that Captain Kyle Forsythe of the Union Army was Kirby Hyde, who had ridden away from her farm to join the Confederate Army.

“Addie . . . honey—” John was beside her, his arm around her. “What’s this about?”

“Oh, John! I’m sorry! I’m . . . so sorry!”

“About what?”

“Everything. I’ve made such a mess—”

“Nothing we can’t handle. What’s this about Kirby Hyde?”

Addie’s mouth opened and closed, then opened again. Before she could utter the hateful words, the sound of a shrill whistle commanded John’s total attention. Waving his hat, Cleve rode toward them on his big gray horse. He pulled the animal to an abrupt stop beside John.

“A party of thirty or forty headed this way. They’re a mile, maybe a little more, behind that rise.” John’s eyes followed Cleve’s pointed finger.

“Indian or white?”

“Indian.”

“What tribe?”

“Couldn’t tell. They were too far away.”

John turned to Addie and kissed her hard.

“Honey, get the children and stay in the wagon out of sight.” He issued the order crisply, jumped over the wagon tongue, and ran for his horse.

Cleve put his fingers to his lips and whistled a long blast followed by two short ones. A few seconds later, he repeated the signal. Men rolled out from beneath the wagons where they had been resting. Bull-whackers shouted, and their long whips began driving the stock into the semicircle made by the wagons. After sending a man to advise Van Winkle to gather his stock and set up a defense should one become necessary, Cleve rode the outer circle giving orders to string chains between the wagons to tighten the corral.

Both camps were suddenly alive with activity.

Astride his horse, John paused beside the wagon where Colin stood with Trisha’s rifle in his hand. The children were inside and Addie was handing up the water bucket to Trisha.

“Just because they’re out there doesn’t mean they’ll ride on us. They could be friendly. Addie, you and Trisha and the children stay out of sight. If you hear gunshots, lie down on the floor of the wagon.”

“John, be careful, and don’t worry about us.”

“Take care of our women, Colin.”

John was gone before the boy could answer, but Addie saw the pride on his young face, and she had yet another reason to love John Tallman.

*  26  *

L
eaving Buffer and Rolly to see to the defense, John and Cleve rode out from the camp. They galloped to the rise, where they stopped and John lifted the glass to his eye. Indians, no more than a half-mile away, were studying tracks. A few had dismounted and were walking their ponies; the others followed well to the side so as not to disturb the sign should the trackers want to backtrack. As John watched, the trackers mounted up again and the party headed their way.

“They’re Comanche.” John handed the glass to Cleve. “One of them is called Wild Horse.”

“Friend a yores?”

“Not exactly, but not an enemy either.”

“It ain’t no huntin’ party.”

“We might as well give them a greeting.” John waved his rifle over his head, acknowledging their approach, then shoved it back in the scabbard.

He counted more than thirty young warriors riding small, swift horses. He recognized Wild Horse as the brave he had seen once with young Quanah Parker, subchief of the Quohada band of Comanche. Parker was becoming known not only for his leadership but for his raids on cavalry camps. The Comanche’s hatred for the horse soldiers was well known.

“They’re lookin’ for someone, that’s sure,” Cleve murmured.

The Indians approached at a gallop. As they neared, Wild Horse held up his hand. The braves stopped. Most of them were young. Their dark eyes were alive with suspicion, and they looked long and hard at John and Cleve.

Alone, Wild Horse walked his horse to within a few yards of where John and Cleve waited. Long white feathers hung from the Indian’s thick braids, which had become streaked with gray since John last had seen him. A large round amulet hung from a thong around his neck.

“Wild Horse.” John held up his hand, palm out.

“Spotted Elk.” The Indian returned the greeting. “You pass over Indian land with your wagons.” His English was better than John remembered.

“My father, Rain Tallman, pays your people with cattle, food, and medicine for the right.”

“It is known to me.” The Indian’s eyes honed in on Cleve. “You are known as Bloody Knife. Stone Hand say you friend of Comanche but not of Apache or Kiowa.”

“That is true.”

“Stone Hand is with Quanah on big hunt.”

John smiled. “My brother, Stone Hand, is a longtime friend of your young chief.”

“Stone Hand say you pass this way. He say Spotted Elk give Wild Horse bullets and tobacco.”

“I will honor my brother’s promise.”

“We look for white men who steal our horses, kill two of our women, steal two more. They come this way.”

“They may have. But we have seen no man.”

A murmur of disbelief rose from the riders grouped behind Wild Horse. He turned, spoke a sharp word, and the grumbling ceased. When he spoke again it was to the braves.

“Spotted Elk, Stone Hand, and their father Rain Tallman do not lie. He says he sees no man. He sees no man.” He turned back to John. “Young braves. Hot blood.”

John nodded his understanding. “We will smoke and talk while my friend”—he nodded toward Cleve—“gets tobacco and bullets from the wagons.”

Wild Horse nodded and, to John’s surprise, kicked his horse and led the way toward the freight camp. He glanced at Cleve, who had been in enough tight spots to reveal nothing of what he was thinking.

John had begun to plan how he would keep the band of warriors outside the circle of wagons, when the Indian leader stopped on the flat prairie a few hundred yards from the freight camp. He spoke rapidly in Comanche to his braves. John understood enough to know he was telling them to stay and build a fire, and that when he returned with Spotted Elk they would smoke. The young braves dismounted immediately and Wild Horse continued on toward the freight wagons with John and Cleve.

John’s eyes scanned the camp. Buffer or Rolly had seen them coming. Some of the men leaned casually against the wagons, while others appeared to be working on a wheel or a tongue. To John’s relief, there was no show of firearms.

Wild Horse took in the scene inside the circle where horses, mules, and oxen milled about.

“You think we steal your horses, Spotted Elk?”

John caught the look of amusement in the Indian’s eyes.

“We didn’t know you were friends, Wild Horse. You could have been horse soldiers dressed as Indians.”

The Indian’s mouth didn’t smile, but his eyes did. “It is wise to be ready.”

As they rode down the line of wagons toward the one that held goods for occasions such as this, Rolly, bouncing on the back of a horse, came toward them. It was unusual to see the big man on horseback. He hated riding.

“Dal, this is my friend, Wild Horse, of the Quohada Commanche.”

“How do?” Dal held out his hand. The Indian grasped it and gave it a downward shake.

Dal wasn’t sure how much English the Indian understood, but what he had to tell John had to be said.

“I’m havin’ a hell of a time with them half-ass Yanks in the other camp. Better get over there, John. They’re fixin’ to mount up and ride on the . . . enemy.”

“Enemy?” Wild Horse caught the last word. “Spotted Elk got enemy? We help you kill.”

“The men of whom we speak are their own enemy. They are stupid men who do not know our ways,” John explained.

Then he groaned inwardly as he saw the Yankee patrol, followed by a dozen armed men, ride out from the judge’s camp and head toward Wild Horse’s hot-blooded young braves. Seeing the soldiers, the braves ran for their horses.

“You have horse soldiers!” Wild Horse spat the words.

“They’re with the other camp. I will stop them.”

John gigged his horse and Victor sprang forward. At the same time, another horse jumped a wagon tongue and sped toward the patrol. Buffer Simmons, too, was trying to head off the disaster.

Buffer skidded his horse to a stop in front of the captain’s high-strung mount.

“What the hell are you doing?” the captain shouted angrily after he got his mount under control.

“I’m stoppin’ ya from startin’ a ruckus with the Comanch that’ll get ya kilt. I ain’t carin’ ’bout ya, I’m carin’ ’bout the other folk of this train.”

“Get out of the way. I’ll have you clapped in irons for interfering with an officer of the United States Army.”

“It’s plain ya’ve never fought Indians. They’ll flank ya and half of ya will be down ’fore ya can swaller.”

John rode up and jerked Victor to a halt.

“You gawddammed fool! Get your men back to that camp and stay there before you get them killed,” John snapped.

The captain’s face was a dull red. “You’ve no authority here. Move out of my way, or I’ll order my men to remove you.”

“Try it.” Buffer snorted. “Hell. Ya couldn’t haul a sick whore off a piss pot.”

“The judge is in charge of Indian affairs—”

“Not here. They’re on their own land, you stupid jackass. Conducting their own business. They would like nothing more than for you to fire on them. It would give them an excuse to wipe you out.”

“Let them try. They’re nothing but a bunch of savages.”

“They may
look
like savages, but they’re shrewd fighters, Forsythe. I could put all the brains you’ve got in a gnat’s eye.” John pulled his rifle from its scabbard and placed the barrel an inch from the head of the captain’s horse. “Unless you want me to blow the brains out of this high-prancing fancy horse the judge is so proud of, get your patrol back to your camp and stay out of sight.”

“You’ve no right to interfere. This is army business.”

“It’s my business when it’ll mean my men will have to try to save your ass!”

John turned to Buffer. “Tell the captain’s men what they’re in for.”