Glory (3 page)

Hefting the bedroll, her pack, and the Hawkins over one shoulder, she struck off. She was not sure where she was going, but she knew she couldn’t sit in the middle of the road and twiddle her thumbs. Poppy had headed this direction every spring when he’d gone to town for supplies. To her way of thinking, there had to be people in this direction, and where there were people, there was opportunity to start a new life. A new life was what she needed the most right now.

That and a mule.

She plodded along the faint trail for some time, shifting the pack from one shoulder to the other until hunger made her stop and dig into her meager cache of supplies. She was glad she had fried up the last of the bacon and made that batch of biscuits the day before Amos arrived. She’d have enough food for another day or two if she was careful.

Sitting down on the pack with her rifle across her knees, Glory munched on the bacon and biscuit slowly, trying to make it last. The sun was straight overhead when she heard the creak of wagon wheels. Both excited and apprehensive, she waffled between the choice of flagging down strangers or hiding until they passed.

“Better a ride than blisters on your feet,” she decided, quickly jamming the last bite of biscuit into her mouth. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she peered down the road, waiting for the wagon to come into sight.
She hoped it wasn’t Amos—if it was, she’d bolt like a jackrabbit.

The tall ribs of a prairie schooner with a double hitch of oxen came over a rise. Glory’s mouth went dry. A man—a big man—much younger than Poppy, sat on the driver’s seat; his hat was pulled low over his face.

The mid-July sun was hot, so hot she could hardly breathe. Swallowing, she eased out in the road, thankful that it wasn’t Amos and hoping it wasn’t something worse.

Coughing, Mary Everly leaned forward on the wagon seat. “Is that someone standing in the road?” she asked, squinting.

Jackson Lincoln was wondering that himself.

“The owner of the dead mule we passed a ways back, I’d venture.”

Jackson smiled at the earnest youngster who hovered near his shoulder. He’d had his doubts when he left Westport a few days ago to escort five women to Denver City to be mail-order brides. It was the most unusual assignment he’d ever undertaken. When he’d first seen his charges, he’d almost backed out of the job; they seemed awfully young to be traveling such a long way. They were orphans, too old to be adopted and, therefore, an unwanted liability. The head of the orphanage had allowed the girls to sign marriage contracts with Tom Wyatt, a broker who had promised to secure a good husband for each one of them.

But a couple of days into the trip his worries had been proven false. The girls were pleasant and helpful, passing the time amicably. Mary was fifteen, he guessed. Patience, Ruth, Harper, and Lily—all around the same age. Not one of them was certain about anything except that she had no home unless he could safely deliver her to Wyatt in Colorado.

Jackson suspected why some of the girls had never been adopted. Mary was sickly and pale with a persistent cough. Patience, at sixteen, he figured, was gentle in nature but addled at times. She’d stop talking in midsentence to think about something, and he’d found her more than once conversing with a bird on the limb of a tree.

Harper was a hard one to figure out. Her mother had soured her on all men, leaving Harper tough as leather. Thought to be fourteen, she was the youngest and a clear-cut troublemaker with a razor-sharp tongue. Harper looked out for herself and tended to irritate people. Just the opposite of Patience, who would mother the others, making sure everyone was comfortable before she took to her own bedroll.

Then there was Ruth—the serious, most educated one, who looked on the positive side of the worst circumstance. Ruth was certain a wonderful new life lay over the next rise. Jackson wasn’t so sure of that. Experience had taught him otherwise. Caution made him one of the best wagon masters around, even if there was only one wagon on this assignment.

Ruth’s opposite was Lily, who laughed easily, her eyes dancing with mischief. Jackson strongly suspected that
this fifteen-year-old was bound for trouble before the trip was over. She was too full of life for him to think otherwise.

“Who is it, do you suppose?” Lily leaned out of the wagon over Jackson’s left shoulder, straining for a better look.

“I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.”

Hauling back on the heavy reins, Jackson drew the team alongside the thin youth. Clearly, the teenage boy had outgrown his dirty cotton trousers. The hems crowded the tops of his scuffed leather boots. Jackson’s eyes touched on the faded flannel shirt that was too big across the shoulders. The brim of the battered leather hat hung down over his forehead, obscuring half the youth’s face. One thing for certain: he handled the Hawkins like someone accustomed to having it close at hand. The wagon rolled to a halt, and the boy shuffled his feet.

“Got a problem?” Jackson asked.

The wiry youth squinted up at him, and Jackson noticed his smooth cheeks. He wasn’t even old enough to shave, and he looked almost feminine under all that grime.

“Mule up and died on me.”

“Where’re you going?”

“To town.”

The boy was young; Jackson noticed his voice hadn’t dropped yet.

“Climb aboard, but the rifle goes in the back.”

The stranger hesitated briefly before handing it up. Jackson passed the weapon back to Lily.

The youth fixed him with a stare. “I want it back.”

Jackson met his troubled gaze, then scanned the dirt on the youth’s face. “You’ll get it back once you reach where you’re going.”

The girls didn’t like handling guns, which suited Jackson just fine. Then he didn’t have to worry about their getting hurt. But the boy was another matter. He could be an outlaw, or he could be down on his luck as he claimed. Jackson wasn’t taking any chances.

The boy slung his bedroll and pack up into the storage box and shinnied up beside Jackson, who caught a whiff of the young man and regretted the invitation. The kid stank—smelled as bad as rancid meat. The girls, who had crowded to the open flap at the front of the wagon to eye the stranger curiously, immediately moved farther back. Mary joined them. Jackson hoped he could keep the boy downwind as much as possible.

Slapping the reins over the rumps of the oxen, he kept an eye on the newcomer from the corner of his eye. “Lost your mule, huh?” The loaded wagon slowly traversed the rutted trail.

“Yes, sir. Died on me clean as a whistle.”

“Where’s your family?”

“Don’t have any. Mostly just had the mule and Poppy. Poppy died a few weeks back.”

“That right.”

The boy watched the road. Jackson noticed he was
gripping the seat like it was going one way and he was about to go the other. When the lad noticed Jackson staring, he turned to eye him and asked, “Where’re you heading?”

“Colorado.”

“Colorado. Is that far?”

“A dreadfully long way,” Mary declared from the back of the wagon. “We’re going to Denver City to be mail-order brides.”

The youth turned to look over his shoulder. “Brides? You’re gonna marry someone you’ve never met?”

Mary nodded, a friendly expression in her hazel eyes. “A gentleman by the name of Tom Wyatt is paying our way. Mr. Wyatt arranges marriages for young women. We’ve signed a contract with him, and he in turn will provide us with suitable husbands.”

The boy turned back to look at Jackson, who was working the reins to avoid a deep pothole.

“How far have you come?” Patience asked the boy. The girls all gradually shifted back to the front to join the conversation while keeping upwind of their guest.

“Don’t know . . . left the cabin ’bout two days ago.” The boy kept his eyes trained on the road. “Buried Poppy there . . . dug the grave myself.”

“Poppy?” Harper poked her round, coffee-colored face over Lily’s shoulder. “Who on earth’s Poppy?”

The boy blinked as if he’d never seen a dark-skinned person before. “Don’t rightly know—just a man, I guess.
He found me on the trail when I fell outta my pa’s wagon and took on the job of raising me.”

“Found you?” the girls chorused.

Lily’s eyes widened. “Where are your real folks?”

The boy stiffened. “Don’t know that either. It’s always been just me and Poppy.” The boy shifted as if he’d rather not continue the discussion.

“Then you’re an orphan like us,” Ruth said.

“Don’t know about that, but I’m mighty glad you came along.”

Jackson smiled as he listened to the friendly chatter. The boy was so candid.

“What happened to your Poppy?” Ruth asked.

“Went to sleep and never woke up. Guess that was good. He didn’t suffer, I suppose.”

“You buried him?” Jackson asked. “And started off on your own?”

“Yes, sir. Off to find me a new life.”

“So are we.” Mary scooted closer. “A new life, with husbands and hopes for families and children one day. They told us at the orphanage that more and more people are moving west and building towns with stores and houses.”

“It’s an exciting adventure,” Lily bubbled, “and we can hardly wait to get there. But Mr. Lincoln says Denver City is a long way off.”

Jackson grinned. “A very long way, ladies. With any luck, we’ll be there in plenty of time before the snows.”

Right now, that was Jackson’s main concern—to
complete the six-hundred-eighty-five-mile trip to Denver City before late September, and he wanted nothing to slow them down. What concerned him most was getting through the high divide between the Arkansas and Platte Rivers before snow, even though it was now July and snow seemed a long way off. It was a crucial pass, and wagons were advised to get past the spot as early as possible.

“I’ll just be riding to the next town,” the boy said.

Jackson nodded. “Should be there sometime tomorrow.”

Late that afternoon Jackson pulled the oxen off the road and went another mile before stopping in a grassy field beside a running stream. “Black Jack Creek is a good place to camp for the night. Good grazing for the animals with fresh water nearby.”

“Why, it
is
almost evening,” Ruth said, surprise registering on her flushed features.

The afternoon had passed pleasantly enough. The boy had warmed up to the girls when they’d stopped for a half hour to rest the team and let the group pick the blackberries growing thick along the roadside.

Jackson got out of the wagon and unhitched the team. The boy leapt down nimbly, dragging his bedroll and pack with him.

The girls quickly set about making camp. As they did their chores, the newcomer pitched in to help. Jackson was happy to see the youth was no shirker. The young man
gathered wood, and by the time Jackson had watered the oxen, he had a fire going in a circle of rocks and a coffeepot bubbling to one side.

Jackson staked the oxen where they could graze during the night, then joined the others at the fire. The boy jumped up to pour him a cup of scalding black coffee.

Jackson smiled and thanked him. “I didn’t catch your name.”

The boy glanced away, and Jackson wondered if he was shy.

“Glory.”

The wagon master’s smile slowly faded. “Glory?”

“That’s right. Name’s Glory.” The kid looked straight ahead.

“Glory.” Jackson took a sip of coffee. He hadn’t expected this. “What’s your last name?”

“Don’t have one. Name’s just Glory.”

Lily burst into laughter. “You’re a girl?”

“Of course I’m a girl,” Glory spit out. “What’d you think I am?”

Mary blushed. “Well, your trousers—”

“And the way you look . . . all dirty—”

“Harper!” Ruth scowled.

“You thought I was a
boy
?” Glory sprang to her feet, ready to fight, until Jackson calmly reached out to restrain her. The waif’s eyes moved to the simple gingham dresses the others wore, and she frowned. “I ain’t no boy.”

“We can see that now.” Patience smiled. “We just didn’t expect to find a girl alone on the trail.”

Glory glanced at Jackson, then back at the girls. “Well, I didn’t expect to see a covered wagon with five girls and a man in it either, but I recognized a wagon when I saw one.”