Lauraine Snelling - [Wild West Wind 01] (4 page)

Cassie thought for a moment. “There used to be, but I didn’t look in all the cabinets.”

He thrust a frying pan and a cast-iron Dutch oven into her hands and then added a coffeepot. “The plates, cups, and utensils are over there.” She went to the shelf and took the essentials. So instead of food in her bags, she returned to the wagon with household gear.

Chief grunted when he saw her. “Micah?”

“Raiding the cook tent.”

The old Indian strode off in the direction of off-key singing and shrill laughing. The party was definitely deteriorating.

Cassie thrust her booty into the lower cabinets of the wagon and checked each of the doors and drawers to see what else they needed. Candles and matches in one drawer sent her on a search for kerosene for lamps. A half-full can hung on a hook under the wagon, along with a couple of pails and a water barrel.

When Micah carried supplies up the stairs, she asked, “What about grain for the horses?”

“They’ll have to make do with grass. This bucket has eggs. I used kitchen towels to cushion them. Meat’s in the other sack.”

“I’ll stow the supplies. You and Chief get whatever else you think we need.”

“Do you have ammunition? Knives?”

“Not much. Un—” She stopped herself. “Jason always brought the ammunition to me. I don’t know where he kept it.”

“Chief knows everything. Ask him when he returns.” With that, Micah faded into the darkness.

Why were the cooks not on duty? Had they left with their pay in hand like the others? She heard glass breaking and wild laughter. Without more contemplation, she buckled her holster belt in place and dug two revolvers out of the bag she kept them in. She already had bullets on the gun belt, but she stuffed a couple more into her shirt pocket.

She’d just finished finding places for the supplies when she heard a gunshot. Without a thought she slammed the door shut and leaped down the steps. The crash of things breaking came from the dining tent, where the laughter had turned to shouting. Two men slugging it out stumbled from the tent opening.

“Hey, how ’bout the pet here?”

She headed for the voice and saw two men holding Micah by the arms while a third slugged him in the belly. Stepping into the tent, she drew both guns and cocked the hammer. “That’s about enough, boys.”

The slugger threw another punch, and she shot a round into the dirt beside his right foot.

“Hey, watch what yer doin’.” He swung around, fists raised, and then his face blanched. “Come on, princess, we don’t mean nothing by this.”

“Then leave right now before someone really gets hurt.”

He narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. “You don’t shoot people. You just aim for targets.” His hat flew up as the revolver cracked.

“One more step and the next shot will be in your foot. Hard to find work with a shot-up foot.”

He stared at her, trying to judge if she was bluffing.

“Come on, man, let’s get out of here.” The two holding Micah’s arms faded away, and the third man decided retreat was a better idea than pushing Cassie again.

“We was just havin’ a bit of fun.”

“Take your fun down the road. Next time it won’t be just your hat.”

Micah tried to take a deep breath and bent over coughing. “S-sorry.”

“Let’s get our things and head out. Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” He turned around and grabbed two sacks that had fallen to the ground. With a grunt of pain, he stumbled toward the outside of the tent.

Feeling a touch foolish, she kept her guns drawn and followed him, wishing she had eyes in the back of her head. What if the
players
were waiting just beyond the edge of the light?

No matter whether they had all they needed, they were leaving now, not waiting for first light as she’d intended. Why had she not planned for such a contingency as this? Why would she even think she needed to plan for things like this? Nothing was in any plan or dream of hers since Jason announced the end of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show.

T
hank you.”

“You are welcome, Micah. Sorry I didn’t think ahead and prepare for such as those three.” She inclined her head toward the drunken men now skedaddling down the road.

“You can’t—” he coughed again and gasped for a breath—“th-think of everything.” Micah set the bags down beside the wagon steps. “Where you want these?”

Cassie touched his shoulder. “Are you seriously hurt?”

He shook his head. “Bruised and the breath knocked out. Thought they was friends.”

“Liquor does strange things to people.” She started to reach for one of the sacks, and he gently pushed her to the side.

“I’ll do it. Put them where?”

“Under the bunk. Wish we could put the food in barrels, but there’s no room for that.” She climbed the steps and entered, at the same time watching carefully for intruders. If someone thought she had money, he might be waiting for her. But the wagon was clear, so she beckoned Micah in and breathed a sigh of relief at the same time. Good thing Othello was on watch or she’d have missed the supposed
fun.
And Micah might be dead or at the very least severely injured.

She was now responsible for not only herself but two other people. And a small herd of animals. She who had never had responsibilities beyond her own act in the show. The thought hit like a punch in the solar plexus.

Othello rumbled a deep growl and then whined when he heard Chief’s gentle voice. Cassie’s heart settled back from leaping into her throat. She heard a knock at the door and Chief’s whisper of introduction.

“Come in.”

Chief, wearing his standard black felt hat and vest, fur side out, over a faded red shirt, paused in the doorway, took one look at Micah, and closed the door behind himself. “Visitors?”

“Yes, you might say.”

Chief glanced at her. “Your guns?”

She nodded. “I didn’t like their games. If you could call three against one a game.”

“I see.” A glint of a smile lit his dark eyes. “We go tonight?”

“I think we’re going to have to. Don’t you agree?”

The chief nodded.

She stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the wagon.

“More supplies?”

She shook her head. “We’ll make do with what we have. Can you think of anything else?”

Chief emptied his pockets onto the bed where the bullets bounced on the quilt. He set a box of shotgun shells beside the booty. “No time to find more.”

“I have some, so we should be okay.” After all, what did they need bullets for? This was no longer the days of the Wild West, when a man’s gun was the law. She’d heard tales of the early days from listening to her father swap tales with other performers, mostly the men.

Both men stared at her, shook their heads, and settled their hats more tightly on their heads.

Cassie thought a moment before turning and pulling one of her rifles from the show pack. “Take this with you, in case we need it.”

Chief took the proffered gun and checked the magazine. “Full.”

She nodded. “I’m sure you know how to use it.”

The look he gave her questioned her intelligence.

“Just checking. Micah, have you ever shot a firearm?”

He shook his head.

“We’ll rectify that down the road.”

“I get livestock ready,” the chief said. He hurried down the steps, Micah behind him.

Cassie glanced around the wagon and blew out the lamp. Surprised at herself, she locked the door behind her and tucked the key into a pocket of her leather jacket. The roll of bills Jason had tossed her gave her a cushion of comfort. At least they had something to start out with.

When the livestock were ready, she swung aboard Wind Dancer and followed Micah to the corral where Chief had sequestered the stock they were taking. Her old friend, George, snorted when Micah slid open the bars on the gate, but he trotted out the opening, followed by the rest of the herd. With the Gypsy Wagon in the lead, the entourage slipped as silently as possible out of the lot. One of the cattle bellowed, and another from the remainder of the herd answered, but none tried to turn back.

Cassie swung her open loop and kept her focus on the small herd as they made their way down the road heading south from the sleeping town. Only a sliver of a moon hung in the western sky, but the starlight grew brighter as they left the buildings behind. They crossed the train tracks, the wheels clattering a mighty racket.

She hung back, watching to see if anyone showed up to question their exit. A dog barked but Othello never answered, trotting along just ahead and to the side of Wind Dancer’s prancing feet. The thudding of cattle and horse hooves and the creak of the wagon all sounded loud in the stillness.

They kept at a steady pace hour after hour until she realized the sky was indeed lightening and a widening band of pale yellow cracked the eastern horizon. She trotted up to the wagon and rode beside Chief. “We better stop and water them, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ll find us a place with water and grass, and we’ll let them rest.”

“All right.”

“Tell Micah to trade places with me.”

Cassie nodded and reined her mount away from the wagon. She dropped back and gave Micah the message.

Hills and rocks came into view as the daylight woke the birds and set the crows to announcing their passage. They passed a road that turned off to the right.
Bar S Ranch
was carved into the top half log of a three-log sign. As the dust from the hooves floated westward through the gate, she wondered how many ranches they’d passed in the dark. The ranch road curved between two hills, leaving her pondering who lived there and how far they were from town now. About an hour later, with the sun climbing well above the horizon, Chief returned from his place in the lead.

“Good place to stop a mile or so ahead.”

“Good.” While she’d not mentioned it, her legs, so used to quick rides and flashy moves, were grumbling at this new protracted riding. While she was not sure what time they’d left the show grounds, her body was telling her she’d been in the saddle far longer than it was used to.

With daylight, she counted the herd. Three buffalo, eight head of cattle, and two horses, besides the team pulling the wagon and the two they were riding. Fairly sure she’d not requested more horses, she figured Chief had a reason for bringing them. If only she had her father’s stallion, Lobos, but he’d been put down sometime before her father died.

Cassie shifted in the saddle. Discomfort was quickly escalating to actual pain.

“Up ahead and to the right. There’s a gully to shield us from the road.”

She followed Chief’s instructions and brought up the rear. Her lack of endurance was quickly becoming evident when she tried to dismount and could barely swing her leg over the saddle. When her feet hit the dirt, she crumpled, her dignity saved by hanging on to the stirrup leathers.

Micah came up behind her and, putting an arm around her waist, helped her over to sit on a rock.

“Thank you.” She let out a puff. “I’ve never had that happen before.”

“You never rode this long.”

Chief sat on his horse, watching the cattle and buffalo drink from the stream and then set to serious grazing. “I watch. You rest.”

“But . . .” Sometimes taking advice was the better part of wisdom. This time when she tried to stand, her feet came back to life and carried her over to the wagon and even climbed the steps. She collapsed on the lower bunk bed, with only her hat coming to a rest on the table.

A knock on the door brought her out of a dead slumber. She stared at the wall across the narrow room where the horizontal door had been raised to let in fresh air. Not knowing where she was for a moment set her heart to racing, but with a deep breath, all the events of the night before came roaring back to her awareness. Her stomach grumbling sounded louder than the creek outside. What day was it? Had she slept through the day as well as the night? Throwing back the blanket, she tried to remember if she had covered herself, but nothing came to mind.

She sat up, careful to keep from banging her head on the upper bunk. Bare feet. Either Micah or Chief had taken her boots off and covered her. Her hips and knees groaned when she stood up. Her mouth felt like George the Buffalo had tromped through. When she opened the door, the dew sparkling on grass and rocks told her the light meant morning, not evening. No wonder her stomach was complaining. She’d slept the clock around.

Clamping her hat on her head, she sat down on the steps to pull on and lace up her boots. She knew exactly where her other boots were, her practical ones rather than these designed to go with her riding and shooting costume, but right now she didn’t have time to dig them out. Chief had meant for this to be a brief stop, not a twenty-four-hour one.

The fragrance of coffee and bacon made her stomach rumble again. Following her nose, she found a campfire on the other side of a couple of boulders with Chief turning bacon in a skillet and the coffeepot steaming on one of the rocks set in a circle to hem the fire in.

“You feel better?” he asked.

“Thank you, I do. I thought we were moving on last night.”

“Temperature is dropping.”

“I can tell. Where’s Micah?”

“Out with the stock. Eat and we saddle up.” He handed her a plate of bacon, two eggs, and a piece of toast. “Coffee’s ready.”

“Where did we get eggs?”

“Mess tent.”

Cassie remembered the basket of eggs Micah had brought out. But she had a feeling Chief had managed to pack more things than she realized. At that point, she wasn’t prepared to argue, settling herself on a rock to inhale the plate’s contents. He handed her a cup of steaming coffee before fixing his own plate.

“Good day for travel.”

She nodded, her mouth too full to answer.

Micah strode around a rock. “Othello has them bedding down. I could smell the coffee on the way in.” He picked up the third tin plate, dished bacon and eggs out of the frying pan, and leaned against a taller rock to eat.

“Thanks to whoever tucked me in.” Cassie looked from one to the other. Micah stared at his plate, a flush of red climbing his neck.

“I’ll get the team harnessed while you clean up.” Chief nodded to her. “Make sure the fire is out.”

For a moment Cassie wondered who was in charge here but kept from responding. The one with the most experience needed to be in charge—at least for the moment. “Yes, sir.”

Micah snorted and then coughed as food lodged in his throat. He bent over, but Cassie wasn’t sure if he was laughing or choking, especially when he straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Mischief danced in his eyes.

“I’m glad someone can see the humor in this situation.” She stood, stretched, and then looked around for a pot of hot water to wash the dishes. Bacon grease in the frying pan—what to do with that? She set her plate and fork down on a rock and stared around. A wooden box sat off to the side. Checking that, she found kettles, the basket of eggs, and other supplies. Surely she shouldn’t put dirty dishes in with the clean. Did they have any soap for washing?

“Ah . . .”

Micah brought his plate and utensils to the fire. “I’ll saddle the horses.”

She nodded, studying the contents of the box.

“You wash things in the creek, scrub with sand,” Chief said as he walked up behind her.

She tried to smile. “I do?”

“Pour the grease into a mug or jar if there is one.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“I grew up traveling, and I pay attention.”

She did as he suggested, scouring the grease off the plates and frying pan with sand and small rocks from the creek, flinching at the grease on her fingers. Setting the frying pan filled with tin plates on a rock to dry, she hauled water in the cast-iron kettle to drown the fire. The steam made her step back, realizing she needed to make several trips. She should have grabbed one of the pails hanging under the wagon. The smoke and steam made her eyes run, her nose chasing the former.

How to feel dumber than stupid in the space of minutes. They should have brought some soap along. Perhaps she had some in her toiletry bag, at least for a bath—if she ever got to a place that had a bathtub again. Scrubbing dishes and pans with sand. Had her mother ever been forced into such primitive behavior? Did it matter? Why did he tell her to save the bacon grease?