Prairie Song

Texas, 1866

Train tracks ribboned the West, tying mankind together as they cut the land into bite-sized slices for civilization to digest. With the Civil War over, this was a time for new beginnings, for both Texas and Cherish Wyatt. She’d seen enough suffering to last a lifetime, and now, at twenty, she planned to drink her fill of happiness. Cradled inside her Pullman sleeper, she closed her eyes and drifted into a sound slumber. The roll of the train and the smell of a coal-oil lamp outside her compartment lulled her into a sense of safety as the train raced through the night.

Before the moon had completed its path across the inky blackness, Cherish was jolted fully awake by the sudden weight of a body falling across her. Without warning, the odor of blood and dirt assaulted her senses even as the mass of muscle pushed her into the bed. Instinctively, she shoved against her intruder and clawed across the covers for her gun. Though slight in build, she could hold her own in a fair fight. This thief would draw a full measure of resistance for his attack.

A gloved hand clamped over her mouth with a slap that echoed the cracks of lightning outside. “Scream,” a low voice whispered, “or make another move, lady, and it’ll be your last.”

Cold steel slid along her ribs, hesitating over each bone as if calculating the easiest point of entry. Cherish felt the point of a knife, sharp enough to run her through, and knew this would be no fair fight. With each rock of the train, the blade punctuated danger.

Cherish froze. The sleeper space that had only moments before cocooned her now closed in like a coffin of blackness.

“That’s better.” The stranger’s low words brushed her ear. “I need some answers and fast. When I lift my hand, if your voice is above a whisper, you’ll be screaming in pain. Do you understand?”

Nodding, she gulped for air as the leather glove moved an inch away from her mouth. Though her eyes strained against the darkness of the sleeper, she could define only the outline of the man above her. But she could feel his lean, powerful body and smell the rage that oozed from him like salty sweat from a whipped horse.

“Who are you, lady, and what are you doing here?”

Anger swept over her fear and, as always, her temper came to the defense of the weaker emotion. “I was sleeping. That’s what people usually do in these new things.” She ignored his first question.

“I thought this sleeper was empty.” he countered.

A moment of relief washed over Cherish as she realized the dusty stranger hadn’t come to rob or rape her. Her voice came in nervous gulps. “I booked a ticket at the last minute.”

Suddenly the train slammed to a stop and Cherish felt the intruder’s weight lower over her. She could sense how large he was, and as his long, tight muscles rested on her, fear climbed into her heart. She was strong for her size, but this man could snap her in half.

The stranger muttered an oath of pain as he lowered his head against the pillow by her ear. The knife at her side pulled back an inch, but his leather-clad fingers slid around her throat to assure her that he was still in control.

He seemed to need a moment to think, as he relaxed against Cherish, imprisoning her completely with his body. His chest pressed into hers and Cherish felt a warm, wet pool between her breasts. Blood! She could smell it, feel it dripping on her gown until the material clung to her skin. With each pounding of his heart against her, his blood pulsed out onto her.

Cherish twisted slightly and heard him swear again as she whispered, “You’re bleeding on me.” The disgust in her voice was apparent. The thought of another man dying brought bile to her throat as it had so many times during the war when there had been little medicine and men seemed to die by the hundreds around her. If she’d been ten nurses she couldn’t have eased all their suffering.

With a grunt of effort, he pulled an inch away, molding his body between hers and the back of the berth. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” Laughter mixed with the pain of his whisper. His gloved hand moved slowly down to the pool of blood between her breasts. “But if I must spill my life’s blood I can think of no softer valley for it to fall in.”

As his knuckles brushed the damp material in the space between her soft globes, Cherish was shocked by his words and movements. Never had anyone dared touch her so.

A thin light shone through from the passageway and the stranger’s shadow materialized. The outline of a strong jaw and dark straight hair falling across his forehead were her only clues to his identity.

Footsteps shuffled at the far end of the car. Cherish heard the unmistakable sounds of gun hammers being pulled back to full cock.

“Search everywhere, men! That son of Satan couldn’t have gone far with the bullet I planted in him.” A man’s voice shouted orders that rang through the car as hollow and frightening as a coyote’s howl through a box canyon. “To hell with an arrest. We’ll see him hang before dawn!”

The knife moved once more against Cherish’s ribs. “I have no desire to hang … nor to harm you.” His voice was only for her ears, but the emotion touched her. It seemed a plea, not for his life, but to permit him to spare hers.

Nodding, Cherish felt the stranger’s breath let out slowly against her cheek. “Roll behind me,” she ordered as she reached beneath her pillow, bypassing her Colt to retrieve her handkerchief. With shaky hands, she pressed the cotton against the center of his chest, only guessing where the wound might be. Warm blood seemed to be everywhere.

Gloved fingers stopped her progress. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding!” She pulled her fingers from his and pressed the cloth once more against his chest.

For a moment he seemed unable to speak. “It’s not deep,” he finally whispered.

“Well, press this over the wound or you’ll bleed all over my bed.”

A low laugh rumbled in her ear as the sounds of footsteps warned of men approaching.

Vainly twisting her petite frame to try and cover his, she pushed him against the wall. The knife stayed at her ribs, less threateningly now, but his free hand circled her waist, pulling her into the outline of his body.

With trembling hands, Cherish slid the velvety curtain a few inches aside and blinked into the lantern light of the corridor. “What is it?” The terror in her voice was valid, but didn’t seem unlike the shouts from all the other passengers.

A large man removed his hat to reveal a head as hairless as an onion. He leaned forward and the badge on his vest caught a glint from the lantern. “We’re looking for a murderer. We thought he dropped in here, but he must have just passed through the car. He has to be here somewhere. But don’t you worry, miss. Before we pull into Bryan, he’ll be meetin’ his Maker.”

As Cherish hesitated, strong fingers pulled her back, making her drop the curtain. The hidden intruder’s heartbeat pounded against her back as his hand drew the material of her gown into his fist. Cherish lay stone-still, afraid to breathe. The anger, the power of
this
man frightened her as none other could, not even a wild Comanche or a hell-bent Yankee.

“Well, good night, folks.” The lawman’s voice faded away as he and his men shuffled out of the car. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Moments crawled by in silence as the stranger held Cherish to him. She could feel his breath near her ear. His fingers pressed her solidly against him each time she would have moved away. Slowly, as the other passengers settled back into sleep and the train jerked to a start, the knife against her side eased its vigil of threatened death.

Finally, she could stand the tension no longer. She pressed her cheek against his and whispered, “I didn’t give you away. Now go.”

The stranger shifted until he was once more above her, but he wasn’t resting his full weight against her. “Thanks,” he whispered. The single word seemed hard for him to say.

Anger heated her cheeks in the blackness, for Cherish suddenly only wanted him gone. “I want no thanks for keeping quiet and not getting a knife slashed through my insides. Who is it you’ve killed? Another reluctant berth partner?”

The stranger laughed. “I’ll bet you’re quite a woman in the light. If you look half as good as you feel and smell, I wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with you again some time.”

“Try, and I’ll be the one who spills your blood.” She resented his tone. He acted as though she were a loose woman of the streets who was in the habit of having men drop into her bed. “Don’t mistake my silence for weakness. Knife or no knife, if I hadn’t detested the thought of watching a bleeding man hang, I would have turned you in. So, go! Bleed to death somewhere else and save the use of a good rope.”

Low laughter was his only reply as he shifted and bit off his glove. With a violent movement, he gripped her face in the darkness, his fingers moving in strong bold strokes across her cheek. “If I am going to die before sunup, let me do so with the taste of you as well as the feel.”

Without hesitation, he lowered his mouth over hers, silencing any cries of protest. His lips were hard and demanding; his hand held her face, allowing no escape, as his kiss deepened into an outlaw passion she’d never known. No stolen kiss she’d allowed in the shadows had demanded and given so much at the same time. His need was like a liquid fire that raced through every inch of his body and spread over her, warming her from an undiscovered chill.

With a sudden moan he broke the kiss, as though it would have been too painful for him to continue. His breathing was ragged and with a shock Cherish realized his stolen kiss had affected him more than he’d planned.

The darkness might hide his face, but she didn’t miss the slight tremble of his fingers as he touched her bottom lip for an instant, then pulled away. “Until we meet again—in the light,” he whispered.

Jerking her head sideways, Cherish felt rage both for his advance and for her own reaction to his kiss. “When we do, I’ll take great pleasure in slapping your face. I swear if you ever dare touch me again I’ll see you dead.”

The stranger lifted his body from hers. “It would almost be worth the price.”

A moment later he was gone, pulling the knife through the curtain behind him. Just for a flicker, the oil light in the corridor shone on his right hand and the wide bowie knife held tightly in his powerful grip. In the time of a blink, Cherish saw a scar above his wrist and committed the mark to memory.

The constant clattering of the train muffled the patter of rain streaking the window, but did nothing to ease Cherish’s mind. With a stamina born from years of nursing, she forced her tired muscles to move with slow, silent skill. Long ago she’d learned that fear was no excuse for neglecting what had to be done. She stripped the sheets from the bed, washed her bloody gown, and dressed, even though the hour was not far past midnight. There would be no more sleep tonight. The wounded stranger had put an end to any peace. Just knowing that he was probably somewhere on the train with blood still seeping from his chest and a posse of hanging-hungry men after him made the hair on the back of Cherish’s neck stand up. It was the same feeling she used to get when a doctor cut into some soldier’s leg and the sickly sweet smell of gangrene filled the air.

Her ears strained with every muffled sound for gunshots. He couldn’t survive for long, and jumping from a train at this speed would surely rip the wound beyond healing.

After pulling her mass of blond hair beneath the hood of her navy blue cape, Cherish snapped her bag closed and silently walked the length of the sleeper. She opened the car door as quietly as possible and stepped onto the tiny platform. The wind whipped rain into her face as if taking desperate slaps at her in her moment of exposure. Cherish twisted the icy lever of the next car’s door and hurried toward the light. She didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not after what had happened.

The interior of the passenger car she entered was lined with worn red seats occupied by those who couldn’t afford a private berth. Cherish slid unnoticed into a seat across from two sleeping children and relaxed. For a few hours, the mismatched travelers were like a small city, kindred in their journey. Classes of people who would never think of conversing in other circumstances smiled and nodded as they passed one another in the tiny aisle. Earlier, she’d watched them unwrap food and share supper as well as cigars and war stories. Now, most were sleeping, but a few men still talked together as if unwilling to allow the others to see them disarmed in sleep. They told stories of the war that had ripped the nation and touched every life. A few even colored the dusty night air inside the car with tales of the hard times in Texas when the army was gone and Indians and cattle ran wild.

Cherish sat quietly, studying each member of the car. They were blended like marble among the seats: farmers still in their sod-reddened clothes, gamblers down on their luck, women in the black of mourning with children sleeping in their arms—all rambling across Texas toward new hopes and faded dreams. As always, she could feel a part of each one she met. Somehow, she’d been touched by all the people in her life but had been close to none. Her heart poured out to them, but never embraced a single one. It was as though everyone else in her life were part of a play and she alone hadn’t been given a part. She seemed always at the footlights, watching as everyone else lived out their roles.

Squinching down in the seat, she frowned, thinking of how she loved people and wanted to help them, care for them, mother them, yet she seemed incapable of receiving love. For her there had never been a man to hold her, comfort her, love her.

“Margaret,” Cherish whispered, remembering her aunt. Although Margaret was only eight years older, she’d dedicated her life to standing at Cherish’s side, but that wasn’t the same as the kind of love between a man and a woman. Even Margaret had had that kind of love once. He’d held her in his arms only one night before he’d ridden off to war and left her a widow, but the memory of that one night seemed to be enough to last her a lifetime, for Margaret had never remarried.

Cherish pulled her woolen cape closer around her and moved her head from side to side to release the tension. She’d been attacked an hour before by a man who had held her at knife-point and threatened her life. He’d touched her and kissed her as no one had ever dared; yet she sat silent. Even now she wondered why she didn’t tell someone. Was it because her nurse’s training went out to a dying man and she wanted no part of causing him more pain? Or was it because she’d have to admit to herself feelings she had never accepted? Had he jolted her from her observer’s perch? For one moment had she been totally alive and not just watching others live?

Suddenly the train began to brake and people shifted like supplies in a wagon bed. As everyone settled back into place, an old man, looking like a bundle of rags, rushed into the car. He gulped to catch his breath and shoved his long, matted hair from his face.

“They caught the murderer!” he shouted. The old man slammed the door closed. “We’re stoppin’ ta take on water, an’ they’re gonna decide what ta do with him.” He smiled a gum-lined grin. “Looks like we might have us a hangin’ right off the water tank.”

People scrambled to their feet as though free tickets had just been announced.

The barker smiled to himself. “I figured none of you’d want ta miss it. What a sight it’s gonna be. A hangin’ in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be somethin’ ta tell.”

Cherish hugged herself as she fought the urge to vomit. The woman across the aisle awakened her children as joyously as if it were Christmas morning. A few of the men in back began to make bets on whether he’d jerk for a while or drop straight with his neck broke.

All at once the old man was an expert, passing among the crowd, talking and laughing and being thanked for spreading the news.

As he neared Cherish, he sank to one knee. “Ain’t nothin’ ta be afeared of, miss. He’s just gettin’ what he deserves. I hear tell he’s sent many a man ta meet his Maker.”

“I don’t want to see him die,” she managed to whisper.

The old man patted her shoulder as though he were her father. “I understand that. I felt much the same way the first time I saw a hangin’. Two black bucks, back ‘fore the war, swung from the same branch. They was accused of attackin’ a white girl. Town got so upset, they didn’t even wait till sunup. Since then I’ve seen my share of hangin’s and they do tend ta sober a man up.”

He looked toward the woman across the aisle who was pushing her sleeping son’s arms into a coat. “You let that boy see this, ma’am, I promise ya he’ll never step outside the law. All it takes is one hangin’ ta put the fear of the Lord in a boy.” He patted her child on the head. “Don’t stand too close, son. When they die, they lose all control of their vitals.”

Cherish jumped up and ran from the car. She could stand no more of the old man’s talk. Welcoming the cold air against her burning face, she leapt from the step as the train pulled to a stop. The night was cloudy but the rain had halted, and darkness spread like a black quilt over the earth. Either the train had frightened off any creatures of the night, or they too sensed the impending death in the air.

Staring into the shadows, she remembered how excited she’d been only hours before when she’d boarded with a telegram from Margaret. It read, “Tobin’s will was found. He left me the house he told us about. Meet me as soon as possible where we planned.”

Now, before the train would take her any closer to her new life, a man would die. Somehow the grand house in Fort Worth didn’t seem so wonderful.

“Better hurry, miss,” the old man yelled, “or you’ll be too late.”

“Too late!” Cherish lifted her skirts. She had to hurry, not to see this hanging, but to stop it. Somewhere among all these people must be a man of reason. There must be someone who realized a man’s life was worth more than a midnight intermission on a train ride.

Pushing her way through the crowd, Cherish spotted the bald deputy standing on the first step of the last car, his rifle crossed over his chest and cradled into the bend of his arm as he guarded his captive.

Cherish calmed her breathing, knowing this man would respond to no words of reason about the value of life. His mind was probably set as firmly as the wrinkles across his forehead, but she had to try. “I’m a nurse. I understand the prisoner is wounded. If you’ll take me to him I may be of some help.”

Several men laughed with the bald man. “I reckon he is wounded, miss. It was my bullet that plugged him. That was probably what slowed him down. He’s pale as a ghost from loss of blood. But I can’t see no use in you fretting over his wound when he’ll be dead in a few minutes from a rope.”

“But I must see him; he’s dying,” Cherish pleaded. “I could patch him up and maybe he’d live to make it to the next town where he could have a trial.”

Again all the men laughed. “Don’t see no use in that. Wouldn’t want to disappoint all these folks after waking them up. He’s in pretty bad shape, but he’ll make it a few feet more.”

Cherish thought of trying to push her way past the man but he outweighed her threefold. Her Colt would be useless against so many.

“I insist on seeing him.” She lowered her tone as if she could order him to stand aside. “It makes no sense to hang a dying man.”

“Better he gets what’s coming to him before he leaves this world. You’ll see him, miss, when everyone else does. As soon as the priest finishes with him, we’ll march him right over to that tower.”

All eyes followed his pointed finger to the shadow of the water tower looming above the trees. Even now a man was climbing the wooden structure with a rope slung over his shoulder.

Moving closer to the step, Cherish demanded, “Who is in charge? I will speak to him before this insanity goes any further.”

“The man in charge, miss”—his hot breath stung her cold cheeks—”was killed a few hours ago by the man you’re trying to save. Maybe if someone had hung this bandit a long time ago, the sheriff would still be alive.”

“But are you sure you have the right man?”

The deputy laughed. “I was sitting in the office when he came in. Sheriff Moore was in the back. This killer walked right past me. The next thing I know, there’s gunfire and he’s running out.” The deputy raised his voice for all to hear. “We were on his trail in minutes. He rode till his horse was played out, then jumped the train. He was either damn lucky, or he knew the time of this train, the way he seemed to ride toward it.”

He motioned to the half-dozen men around the car. “We all voted, just like a jury, to hang this killer tonight. If we wait till morning, he might get his strength back and like a snake brought in the house to warm, he’d turn on us and maybe kill again before we could stop him.”

A priest stepped from the car and all hope of delay died. She felt as she had so many times during the war when men were killing one another faster than she could save them.

The deputy nodded in respect and stepped aside for the priest to pass. “Thanks for offering him last rites. I know it weren’t easy for you, Father, after being there when the sheriff was killed. But we wouldn’t want to do anything that wasn’t on the up-and-up.” He glanced at Cherish, smiling as if he’d won the argument.

The people rattled like paper tied to the tail of a dust devil. The priest stood on the last step of the car and pointed toward the rope now swinging in the wind. “God’s will,” he shouted as all except Cherish turned to watch the rope.

She only stared at the hooded brown robes hiding the man of God. How could he be party to this injustice? Surely he lived by some code. As she watched, he turned and slowly lowered himself to the ground. For a moment his robe’s sleeves pulled almost to his elbows. Cherish saw his knuckles whiten as though the two-foot drop to the ground had been a great effort. She saw the dark stains of blood on his hands and knew the stranger inside the car must still be bleeding.

Then, in the light of a dozen torches, she saw the scars on the priest’s right wrist: scars silently telling of a man past pain, scars betraying the true identity of the man beneath the robes.

Cherish almost shouted aloud at her discovery. Then she bit her lip, sealing her mouth against betrayal. She glanced at the deputy. He was picking which men would go into the car and bring out their prize. When she glanced back to see the man in priest’s robes, he had vanished into the velvet night, his robes blending with the tree trunks and the tall brown grass.

Deputies marched up onto the platform, waving at the crowd as if they were performers in a sideshow. The bald man took a few moments to deliver a speech as though he were running for office. All the deputies crowded around, their guns lifted high in salute. The bald self-appointed leader raised his hand, playing his moment of glory to the hilt. “This is a time of justice!” he shouted. “Now let justice’s hand rule.”

He moved into the car, both guns drawn as if he were storming a well-armed fortress. All his men hurried after him. In the span of a hungry wolf’s howl, shouts echoed from the car to the waiting crowd. The people held their breath as more men rushed into the car, ready to hail some unheard bugle’s call to battle. Women clutched their children. Gamblers and farmers alike pulled guns from concealed places and took a step forward.

Cherish stepped back, unable to hide the smile on her face and not wanting the others to see her joy. The jackals would have no prey to pull apart tonight.

She caught the glimpse of a lone figure lifting himself up atop the car. His white shirt was milky in the night, and his black trousers clung like a second skin against his thin thighs. She studied the figure as he moved as silently as a shadow along the length of the car. No wounded man could have moved so, and the constant tilt of his head toward the car, where all the deputies were, told her he must be the priest who traded places with the bandit.

Soundlessly, like a cat, he jumped from one car’s roof to another and disappeared into the sleeper. Silently, Cherish applauded the friar, for he had succeeded where she had failed. He’d saved a man’s life when she’d only talked.