Glory (23 page)

“Calm down, girls.” Jackson took the rifle from Ruth’s grasp and tucked it under his arm. “Go about your business. Don’t stare. Act like they’re not there.”

The girls tried to comply, but their movements seemed awkward and jumpy. After hitching the team, Glory knelt in the shade beside Mary. The girl began to cough harder, her eyes wide with fright. “It’s okay,” Glory soothed. “Jackson won’t let anyone hurt us.”

Glory rose to her feet and walked to the campfire to get the mug of tea that Lily was brewing for Mary, but Lily’s hands were shaking so badly that she nearly scalded herself trying to pour the boiling water. “I’ll get it,” Glory volunteered, bending to steady the cast-iron pot.

When she straightened, her heart sprang to her throat. The Indians had now dismounted their horses and were walking straight toward them.

“Jackson!”

Jackson stepped into the middle of the road, lifting his right hand, palm in front of him, pushing it forward and back.

The Indians stopped abruptly. Silence settled over the area.

Jackson continued to signal with his hand. “I do not know you. Who are you?”

The lead Indian flashed a succinct signal.

Shaking his head, Jackson raised both hands and grasped them in the manner of shaking hands.

The Indian responded in kind.

Glory sidled up closer to Jackson. “Who are they?”

Placing a hand on each side of his forehead with two fingers pointing to the front, one of the Indians fashioned the narrow, sharp ears of a wolf.

“Pawnees.”

“What do they want?”

“We’re about to find out.”

The oldest Indian, a middle-aged man, stepped away from his two younger companions and moved closer. His eyes looked past Glory at Mary, who was bent double, coughing in spasms.

Glory studied the look in his eyes. Until a few months ago, she had been unable to read or write; she had spoken with few people besides Poppy. Her communication skills had been largely nonverbal. Poppy had taught her to observe closely and trust her instincts. He’d warned her that men could twist their words to mislead, but if observed carefully, they would eventually give themselves away.

“Trust your instincts,”
Poppy had always said, like woodland animals that depend upon their intuition for survival. If a rabbit senses danger ahead, Poppy had said, it doesn’t say to
itself, “Oh, well, it’s probably nothing,” and then proceed—not if it wants to live another day.

Glory observed the Indian—his body language, his eyes, his facial expression—for clues to his intentions. She saw no hostile pose, no aggressive move; his eyes were filled with curiosity and . . . concern. She sensed no danger.

The Indian slowly removed a leather pouch from his belt and extended it toward Glory.

“Glory,” Jackson warned in a low timbre, “take the pouch.”

Glory nodded, stepping closer to meet the Indian.

“Easy,” Jackson said softly.

“It’s okay, Jackson.” Glory accepted the leather pouch in both hands. “They mean us no harm.”

Glory looked straight into the Indian’s eyes, and she saw wisdom and kindness there. With a roll of his hand, he gestured that the pouch was for Mary. Glory peered inside the bag and looked at the Indian with raised brows.

In a lithe motion, the man moved to pick up an empty mug beside the fire. Gently, he took the pouch from Glory and shook out a small amount of the powder from the bag into the cup. He imitated the motion of adding water from the pot boiling over the fire. Glory carefully filled the mug from the pot as the Indian held it out to her.

They moved slowly, carefully, as in a dance, trusting each other in small increments. He handed the mug to Glory. With a swirl of his fingers in the air, he communicated that Glory should stir the brew, which she did with a spoon. With a halting gesture of his palm, the Indian signaled that
she should wait. She sniffed the concoction, figuring that the wait was to let it steep, like tea.

The Indian pantomimed bringing a cup to his lips and drinking from it. Then he pointed to Mary.

“Oh,” Glory said, for the first time unsure. “He wants Mary to drink this.”

Jackson balked. “No one drinks anything until I know what it is.”

The Indian seemed to understand the doubt apparent in their voices. He held up both hands, grasping them in a shaking manner, as Jackson had done earlier. Every eye rested on him. He pointed to Mary, then clutched his own throat and pretended to cough—harsh, racking coughs like the ones that had come from Mary all day. Then he pointed to the mug in Glory’s hands and then to Mary. He pretended to drink from the mug. Then he stroked his throat in a soothing manner and inhaled long, slow, audible breaths and exhaled them with ease.

“It’s for Mary,” Glory announced, “to make her feel better.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said cautiously, “but I still don’t know what’s in that powder. Maybe medicine, maybe not.”

Glory looked at the Indian, pointed to the leather pouch, and shrugged, lifting her palm in the air, trying to ask him what it was.

The Indian nodded and moved to one of his companion’s side. He opened a bag strung over his companion’s shoulder. Carefully, he removed a dried flower with its root still
intact. He pointed to the root, imitated a grinding motion, and then to the pouch.

“What is that flower?” Glory asked. “Looks like a daisy, only it has a bigger center.”

“Coneflower,” Jackson said. “The Indians grind the root and use it to ward off illness, especially breathing ailments. They’ve used it for years, trading it from tribe to tribe. I’d forgotten about it.”

“Then I think we should give it a try,” Glory said.

“Not so fast.” Jackson restrained her. “Mary hasn’t had solid food for days. She’s weak and exhausted. What if this medicine gives her a bellyache or worse? I can’t risk that.”

The women nodded their agreement at the wisdom in his caution.

“We don’t know these men,” Ruth warned.

“How do we know they really mean to help?” Harper seconded.

Glory looked around, taking in their fixed expressions. She shrugged, figuring it was the least she could do for these folks who’d done so much for her. “You’re right,” she announced. “We should test it.” She raised the mug to her lips and took a long swallow.

“Glory!” Jackson snapped, knocking the cup aside. “You are the most impulsive,
stubborn
—do you realize what you may have just done?”

“I helped my friend,” Glory retorted defensively.

“You should have asked me. There’s nothing I can do now. If something happens to you . . .”

The women looked at him, startled. Ruth looking curi
ously from Jackson’s distraught expression to Glory and back again. “Seems if she wanted to put herself at risk, it’s her choice, Jackson,” Ruth whispered.

“She should have
asked
me.” His gaze scanned the group. “We should have voted on it, at least. I’d be worried if
any
of you had decided to do a fool thing like that.”

“Hmmm,” Ruth said, lifting a brow. “Do tell.”

Uncomfortable with the tension rising around them, Glory blurted out, “Well, no harm done. I’m fine, feel better than ever. Seems like a safe medicine for Mary to try.”

“I don’t know,” Jackson said.

“I do,” Mary said in a small voice, beckoning the Indian to come to her.

Glory met Jackson’s scowl with lifted brows. She didn’t want to lead the Indian to Mary and then to have Jackson shoot him. Jackson released his breath in a long, defeated-sounding sigh and nodded.

Glory refilled the cup with the powder and water and let it steep for a couple of minutes. Motioning for the Indian to follow her, Glory led him to Mary and handed her the cup. Mary tipped the cup to drink, looking into the Indian’s eyes over the rim.

When she finished, she set the cup aside and held out her wrist. With her other hand, she untied the rawhide that held the new bracelet with red beads and an eagle feather. She gestured toward the Indian’s arm in a request for him to extend it. He leaned down, bringing his arm close to her hand. With a small smile, she tied the bracelet around his wrist.

The Indian’s eyes lit up. He touched the shiny beads with reverence, then nodded to her.

As the three men turned to leave, Ruth approached them, carrying a five-pound sack of sugar. She extended it to them with a murmur of appreciation. They nodded as they accepted the token from her.

The ladies broke camp quickly, and when they returned to the trail, the Indians were nowhere in sight. And though no one mentioned it, Mary’s cough seemed to have subsided.

Chapter Thirteen

That evening the group camped on a small plateau. The air was windless, the sky full of stars, except for along the north, where a long bank of growing clouds glowered.

“Storm’s brewing,” Jackson muttered. Scanning the valley below, his gaze pinpointed a narrow wisp of smoke rising from a campfire less than a mile away, and his heartbeat accelerated. Whoever had been trailing them was closing in. Many a morning before dawn, Jackson had doubled back to corner the culprit, but instead, he’d always discovered a doused fire and an empty campsite. He needed to take care of business now, before any storm hit and they became more vulnerable.

Tonight he was going to ride under the cover of darkness and surprise the intruder. Was it Amos? He felt sure of it.
He’d catch him off guard and get the drop on him. He knew he needed the advantage that darkness could provide. By day, his group was too cumbersome to flee, and there weren’t too many places ahead where he could avoid an outright ambush.

The girls didn’t seem to notice him saddling his mare that evening. Some were busy fixing a late supper; others were beside the campfire, reading and mending. He slipped his rifle into his scabbard, checked his Colt pistol, and strapped on his holster. He’d had a bellyful of Glory’s uncle, and tonight he intended to finish this once and for all. He’d send Amos on his way and be done with it.

Glory didn’t need the crazy old coot on her trail for the rest of her life. He’d leave camp and return before anyone missed him. Quietly he led his mare out of the camp, keeping to the far side of the wagon, so as not to be seen.

“Where you headed at this hour? Storm’s a-brewing,” Glory reminded from not three feet behind him.

Jackson jumped and spun around, his hand resting on the butt of his Colt. “Don’t go sneaking up on me like that!” His heart was pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Hearing her voice right behind him scared a year off his life. He’d better be more adept at sneaking up on Amos than he’d been at slipping away from her.

Her eyes widened. “What’s going on? I’ve never seen you wearing a sidearm.”

Jackson looked the other way. “I’m going for a little ride, Miss Nosy.” He reached inside the wagon, grabbed his
shotgun, and handed it to her. “Look, I didn’t want to upset anybody here, so I was hoping I could come and go without an interrogation.”

“What’s that big word mean?”

“It means you ask too many questions.”

“You don’t have to get so cranky about it,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “You’ve told us to stay alert. I was just following orders.”

“Oh yes,” he murmured, “you’re good at following orders all right.” When he saw the hurt look on her face, he softened. “Look, I need your help.” He noticed that she immediately brightened. “I need to check on something. Do me a favor: Stay here and guard the camp with my shotgun. Only please don’t upset the others. They’ll never get to sleep if we get them stirred up, and Mary needs all the rest she can get.”

“You got it,” she said, her eyes bright even in the low light. “Where are you—oh, that’s right. I’m not supposed to know where you’re going.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in an involuntary smile. “I shouldn’t be too long,” he said, turning away. Then spinning back around, he added, “But no matter how long I’m gone, you stay here. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave him her best rendition of a salute.

He shook his head and swung into the saddle. One touch of his heels, and the mare took off in a soft trot.

He was careful to approach the campsite from the woods. He tied his mare to a tree and walked the last quarter mile, staying low and moving stealthily. When he neared the
campfire, he stayed behind a low bush, from where he could spy one man, squatted low, pouring himself a cup of coffee. There was only one bedroll on the ground and one horse tethered nearby.

Slowly, Jackson drew his Colt from his holster and waited. Ten minutes passed as he waited to make sure there was no one else around.

The man looked to be around thirty, slim and broad-shouldered. Jackson focused on his gun belt. Somehow, he didn’t think this man fit Glory’s description of Uncle Amos, but the girl tended to exaggerate at times, and Jackson was taking no chances. He waited till the stranger had both hands busy, his coffeepot poised in the air ready to refill his cup.

“Put your hands in the air nice and easy,” Jackson called solemnly from the underbrush as he cocked his pistol. “Try something foolish, and I’ll shoot.”

The man set his cup on the ground and the coffeepot beside the fire. His eyes narrowed. “You might join me for a cup and a chat,” he said in a measured, even tone, slowly unbuckling the belt of his holster and removing it. He tossed it aside a few feet. “Might be, we could straighten things out before somebody gets hurt.”

“Could be.” Jackson lifted his head and scanned the clearing. “You alone?”

“Usually am. Tonight’s no exception.”

Jackson paused, listening intently. Hearing no sign of anyone else nearby, he stood and slipped through the underbrush into the clearing. “We’ll start with your name.”

The man raised his hands and looked Jackson up and down. “Name’s Dylan McCall.” He paused for a beat. “U.S. marshall.”

Though he tried to maintain a neutral expression, Jackson knew his eyes registered surprise. “Don’t see a badge. Wouldn’t have proof of that, would you?”

The corner of the man’s mouth lifted a fraction. “Right here,” he said, dipping his chin to his left, “in the pocket of my vest.”