Trail Angel (32 page)

He remembered every word of a favorite poem, every detail of long-ago battles, but he forgot Mrs. Carrington's first name or the names of her boys, even after she completed an amusing story about them. When Annabelle and Colonel Carrington laughed, Josey laughed, too, though he didn't know why.

Annabelle watched him, but she looked away when he noticed. She called him “Mr. Anglewicz,” emphasizing her correct pronunciation. Another time, a look passed between Annabelle and Mrs. Carrington, but Josey wasn't sure of its meaning. He fought the urge to retreat from the room.

A gentle pressure on his arm brought him back. Mrs. Carrington looked to him expectantly.
How long have I been out?
Josey hardly knew how they came to be at the table, vaguely recalling two privates in clean uniforms serving a bubbly wine the ladies called Madame something. Over a soup made with canned lobster, Colonel Carrington spoke of Wyoming being a likely name for the new territory. Mrs. Carrington disagreed, but Josey hadn't followed why. He nodded dumbly.

“Exactly,” she said. “ ‘Wyoming' might do very well for a county in—” she paused as she thought about it “—Pennsylvania. But it has no claim for application to the stolen land of the Crows.”

“Surely, dear, the land is too big to be a part of Montana or Dakota.”

She nodded between spoonfuls of soup. “It should be called ‘Absaraka.' That means ‘Home of the Crows' in their language,” she added, seeing Josey's confusion. “The Crows deserve better treatment. They maintain the proud claim never to have killed a white man but in self-defense.”

“They are also quite proud of their skills at horse-stealing,” Colonel Carrington added, chuckling at his quip. The Carringtons continued like that, their verbal play a well-practiced dance that dizzied Josey.

The privates brought fresh elk steaks, salmon garnished with tomatoes, sweet corn and peas. More than once Josey sensed Annabelle watching him, but he no longer looked at her. He tried to follow the Carringtons as they went on about the Indian wars.

When the conversation turned to the events at Crazy Woman Creek, Josey grew warm. Carrington praised him, sharing with the women details of the battle drawn from his officers' reports and then hailing Josey's modesty after he declined to embellish the account. It wasn't modesty that held Josey silent so much as good manners in not wishing to contradict the fort commander with the truth of his cowardice.

Josey relaxed when an opportunity to change the subject came as one of the privates served a chokecherry pie. Soon, the women were joking about the army's lack of creativity in having two fort Kearnys on the western frontier, forcing Colonel Carrington to explain that the Nebraska fort took its name from the Mexican War General Stephen Kearny, while their fort was named for his nephew, the one-armed hero of the Battle of Chantilly, “Fighting Phil” Kearny.

Looking at his plate, Josey saw the pie gone. He hadn't remembered eating it. Then everyone looked at him, an expression of curiosity on Mrs. Carrington's face, on Annabelle's one of rising anger.

“I'm sorry—”

Carrington rescued him. “Well, of course I told the boy he would have to see the wagons to Virginia City first.”

Annabelle's mouth had fallen open, a question left to Mrs. Carrington to pose. “And then you intend to return?”

Josey watched Annabelle closely. “I haven't decided.”

Carrington sensed his discomfort. “As I said, he must see to his responsibilities first.” He cleared his throat. “How far is it from here to Virginia City?”

“We should be in Virginia City in another few weeks,” Josey said, still watching Annabelle.

The privates cleared the plates, the dinner concluded, but Annabelle remained seated. She met Josey's gaze. “And you think then your responsibilities will be completed?”

Early the following morning, Annabelle found her way to the hospital tent. The Colonel's eyes were closed. Annabelle pulled the empty cot next to his closer and sat on the edge. His weathered left hand rested on his chest, the skin speckled with brown spots and loose like an ill-fitting glove over the bones. She told herself the wounds made him look so wan, but she couldn't look at him in repose without being reminded of a corpse in a coffin.

“Are you an angel?”

A hint of mischief in the Colonel's eyes informed Annabelle he wasn't hallucinating. “I came to fetch you. We are leaving soon.”

Too weak to move his head, the Colonel cast his eyes about his surroundings. “I fear it is my fate to remain here.”

“That is not acceptable.” She spoke in clipped tones to ward against the tremble in her voice. “You were paid to see my family to Virginia City.”

“Josey will look after you.”

“And who—” She used one of Margaret Carrington's handkerchiefs to cover her mouth, as if it were a cough that stopped her. “Who will look after Josey?”

“That task is yours now, child.”

The Colonel hadn't moved, but his image blurred in Annabelle's eyes. She looked away, blinking hard to clear them. “He doesn't want me.”

That had become clear enough the previous night. She had believed Josey when he said he didn't care that she was barren. She should have known better than to believe anything a man says in bed. Now he revealed his true feelings. Josey hardly looked at her.

After dinner, Josey had offered to escort her to the wagons. Margaret Carrington spared him that, having arranged for Annabelle to stay overnight in the fort. Margaret's words echoed in her head now.

“It's clear to any woman with eyes that boy still loves you,” she said after Josey made his hasty retreat.

“Lustful looks aren't love.”

“It wasn't lust I saw, not only lust, at least.” Margaret smiled at her jest, but Annabelle was unmoved. Embracing Annabelle, she patted her head, a sister's comfort. “Battle does things to a man's mind. I've been lucky my Henry has never faced these demons, but I've seen it in other men. You must be patient with him.”

Annabelle nodded, but she wasn't as confident as her friend.
I can't let him hurt me like this. I can't let
anyone
hurt me again like this.

Now Annabelle felt the Colonel's hand over hers. Somehow he had found the strength to sit up, his hand clasping hers so tightly she winced.

“You must promise me you will look after him.” Still not trusting her voice, she nodded, just to appease an ill man, and he fell back. They sat there, looking at each other, both trying to steady their breath. “I've never seen him more alive than when he is with you.”

“Sometimes he can't even talk to me.” The Colonel grew blurry in her eyes again. “He won't let me help him.”

“You already do.” The Colonel closed his eyes.

“Maybe I should go.” Annabelle started to rise, but he motioned for her to stay.

“A year ago I wasn't sure he would live this long,” he said, his eyes still closed. “He drank then. Couldn't keep the bottle away from him. He would get into brawls. He's not a large man, but he fights like a demon when he's drunk or angry. We had to leave the states, head into the territories.”

“I guess he prefers to be alone.”

The Colonel's eyes snapped open. “Not at first, he didn't. At least in the bars, when he got stirred up, he had someone to hurt other than himself. Alone with me and Byron, he couldn't be rid of his dreams. Then I think he came up with a way.”

The Colonel looked past her, his eyes moist in the growing light. “I took his guns from him. I don't know what scared me more, taking them or seeing that he would let me.”

Annabelle remembered how Josey rode at the road agents. “Do you think he wants to be killed?”

“A man so filled with shame and guilt doesn't think he's worthy of living, much less being loved. You are Josey's angel.” He reached toward Annabelle and she gave him her hand. His voice was hoarse. “You need to go. The wagons will be ready soon.”

She kissed his sandpapery cheek, wondering if she would see him again. She wanted to thank him, thought to say farewell, but she feared choking on the words. As she rose and turned from the Colonel's cot, Annabelle recalled something else Margaret Carrington said, a notion with which she believed the Colonel would concur.

“You have a few weeks together until you reach Virginia City,” Margaret had told her. “Let nature be your ally.”

Little more than a week after leaving Fort Phil Kearny, the wagons came upon Fort C.E. Smith, the last of the three forts under Colonel Carrington's command. The soldiers had arrived only a few days earlier, so Fort Smith was little more than a camp of tents guarding the pass across the Bighorn River.

Annabelle didn't sense the same urgency in the construction of this fort that she'd seen at Phil Kearny. That didn't stop the men in the wagon train from carrying their guns in readiness. With the group on its own again, everyone felt the strain of vigilance. In their minds, sharp bluffs became watchtowers. Thick forests shielded Indian ambushes.

As they approached Montana Territory, they crossed cool, clear streams fed by snowmelt from the mountains. Caleb Williams and Willis Daggett caught enough trout to feed the entire camp one night. Signs of wild game became increasingly abundant, too. Every night they heard wolves howling, their number too great to count. Once Lord Byron pointed out grizzly bear tracks, Annabelle hoping she never saw up close the animal that left signs so big.

Then she saw her first buffalo. At a distance, they looked like great shaggy bulls. Some of the men wanted to ride after them, but Lord Byron convinced them they didn't have the horses to give chase. Josey shot one while scouting, but the carcass proved too big to bring to camp. He skinned it and cut away enough meat to feed the entire camp. The beef tasted lighter and sweeter than a cow. Josey gave the skin to Annabelle's mother, who intended to make a blanket for winter.

Even the stock seemed rejuvenated by the landscape, drinking their fill and growing fat on the abundant grass. Flocks of little brown birds Byron called buffalo birds alighted onto the backs of horses and oxen, picking off the flies and gnats that bothered them. The birds were so tame Annabelle's cousin Mark captured one with his hands, though her aunt Blanche convinced him to set free the terrified creature.

“This is God's country,” Lord Byron told Annabelle one day as she rode beside his wagon. It was an unusual burst of loquaciousness for the big man, and she couldn't contradict him.

She'd felt awkward around Lord Byron at the journey's start, resisting the urge to tell him how well her family's slaves were treated. What little she knew from the Colonel and Josey of his past as a field hand in Georgia bore no resemblance to the experiences of household slaves in Charleston.

Now Annabelle drew comfort from his solid presence. Lord Byron had never looked at her with hostility, though she shuddered to see the scars around his wrists as he drove the oxen, grateful the long sleeves on his cotton shirt concealed more evidence of his tortured past. She wondered if she would ever overcome her shame to ask him about that life.

The wagons came together at a distance from Fort Smith to find good grass. The Bighorn River was nearly as wide as the Platte and too deep to cross safely without a ferry. Another wagon train camped ahead of theirs, waiting its turn, and it wasn't until the following day that Josey secured their passage. The ferry was just a roughly built, flat boat. The fort sutler charged five dollars for each wagon. As fast as the current moved, no one risked crossing on their own to save the money.

When her turn came, Annabelle stood beside the wagon with Paint, keeping the horse calm while off-duty soldiers rowed them across. Most of the other wagons had already crossed, and another wagon train moved into position to be next.

Shielding her eyes from the morning glare, Annabelle watched a large number of riders arrive with the wagons. One of the riders dismounted and stood at the river's edge. He was a tall man and well dressed for a traveler. He strode off before she saw much more, but something in the way he moved sent a shiver along her spine, as if she'd been splashed with cold river water.

She eased to the boat's edge, seeking another glimpse of the man, but his face was lost to her amid all the other horsemen. Annabelle crossed her arms. The morning chill had melted away under the rising sun, but a coldness spread through her that she hadn't experienced for years.

After a restless night, Annabelle found Caleb Williams greasing wagon wheels. Twice the previous day she'd approached him, only to stop herself, convinced he would believe her mad once she gave voice to the suspicion that took root as they crossed the river.

When both a planting season and harvest passed without a letter from her husband, Annabelle began hearing whispers from those who feared for her well-being. She believed herself free of her husband only after Caleb returned to Charleston and confirmed that he'd been with Richard when a Union patrol shot and killed him.

All night she'd tried to think of a reason why Caleb would have deceived her. Finding none, she worked on convincing herself that she'd been mistaken in what she saw. The sun's glare off the water was in her eyes. . . . The distance was too great to be certain. . . . So much time had passed she couldn't know what her husband would look like now. All were true, yet all had the ring of a lie told to ease the mind.

Caleb seemed surprised but not displeased at her greeting. Removing his hat, his hair flat and sweaty against his head, he began an awkward reply that she interrupted.