Trail Angel (33 page)

“I saw Richard.”

The doubts Annabelle harbored about her sanity disappeared in the shadow that crossed Caleb's face. He began to stammer but she interrupted again. “Don't lie to me. I'm not mad. I saw him at the Bighorn crossing. He was with some other riders.”

Caleb's eyes grew wide. He looked about, as if worried someone might overhear, and guided her away. Annabelle nimbly stepped out of reach of his greasy paws.

“Keep your voice down,” he urged in a harsh whisper. He led her among the trees growing close to the road where they wouldn't be seen. “How many riders did he have with him?”

“So you knew.” Caleb looked away from her. “Don't lie to me. Not again.”

His thick shoulders sagged and he fell to the ground, his back against the trunk of a pine tree, looking to the sky through the canopy of spindly branches. “I didn't lie. I told you what I thought was true.”

“You told me you saw him die.”

“I heard the shots. I believed him dead. The rest—” He looked at her, more sad than angry. “I told you what I thought you wanted to hear.”

Annabelle didn't argue the point. She fell in beside him. “How long have you known?”

“The road agents. I recognized some of the dead. I knew Richard must be with them.”

“Why would he attack us?”

Caleb allowed a sad smile to crease his face. “That's what he had us doing, during the war. We wore uniforms, at least at first, but before long we were nothing more than bushwhackers. We were supposed to be hunting Union patrols, runaway slaves, deserters. He just took what he wanted. We didn't need much convincing. We called him Captain Bastard behind his back, but there were no heroes among us.”

It hurt to hear his words, but Annabelle didn't doubt them. She could imagine Richard as the leader of partisan raiders more easily than as a war hero.
Captain Bastard, indeed.
No wonder he chose not to write to her about his duty. Perhaps he had never intended to come home. “But why attack us?”

Caleb shrugged. “You're a beautiful woman. Maybe once he made his way home and found you gone, he decided to follow.” Annabelle would have laughed at the suggestion if her stomach weren't roiling. Richard hadn't wanted her before the war. Following her now made no sense. “Maybe you hurt his pride by leaving,” Caleb offered. “Maybe he wants to punish you.”

That
made more sense. Still, parts of this news Annabelle couldn't follow. She believed Caleb when he said Richard had been shot. Maybe Richard's wounds prevented him from coming home, or maybe the men he'd been running with wouldn't allow him. She recalled the men in Omaha who'd shown up again with the road agents.
Had Richard been following her that long?
“If he wanted me, why not come after me in Omaha?”

“If he caught us on the trail, he could take everything we had—and leave no witnesses.”

The goods they carried held value but hardly enough to justify such risk. Annabelle wouldn't believe love had moved Richard to follow her, but other emotions motivated a man almost as powerfully.
Did he want to hurt me that badly?
She shuddered to think what would have become of them if the road agents had overrun their camp. Richard had been forced to modify his plans, perhaps bide his time for another opportunity.

“I suppose he didn't count on Josey.”

After crossing into Montana, the wagons came to another stretch of barren, rough country, abounding in sagebrush, chaparral and prickly pears. The August heat punished the emigrants, and they saw fewer trees and little shade. Water grew scarcer and often tasted of alkali.

The train's pace slowed as they encountered rough hills and narrow ridges just wide enough for a wagon. Some sloped so steeply the drivers needed ropes to pull up and ease down the wagons. Near the east fork of a creek, Caleb saw rock outcrops that stretched for miles, as if a vast river of burning lava had once passed over the country.

The mosquitoes swarmed in thick, black masses. At night, the emigrants built smudges in hopes of driving them away, but the smoke provided little relief. After traveling in such close quarters for nearly three months, everyone's temper grew foul. Weary of the journey, they enjoyed no more nights of music or storytelling.

Since speaking with Annabelle about Richard, Caleb didn't mind the slow pace. Like a child who pushes a broken plate under a table in hopes it won't be discovered, he had put Richard from his mind. Caleb had promised to retrieve the gold and bring it to the bastard without the emigrants' knowledge, but Richard and Harrison had taken their desire for
verisimilitude
— the word still sounded like a song in Caleb's head—too far.

They had nearly killed Caleb. Riding under the protection of so many soldiers, Caleb had almost convinced himself the road agents had turned back once the threat of Indians became real. Annabelle's account made it sound like the riders had found safety by joining a sizeable wagon train. Caleb should have known. Richard Holcombe would never relent so long as he drew breath and Caleb had the gold.

Turning Annabelle's suspicions back on herself had been a clever move. Just like the vanity of a beautiful woman to believe a man would follow her more than two thousand miles, either for love or for hate.

Something she said brought to mind a plan Caleb had been turning over since his beating. Richard wouldn't stop so long as he lived, and Caleb had no intention of taking on the bastard himself. There was no need to so long as Caleb rode with a man as deadly as Josey Angel. If Caleb wanted to live
and
keep the gold, all he had to do was ensure one man's path crossed with the other.
It shouldn't be hard to arrange that.
He simply needed to exploit the one thing the two men had in common.

After leaving the badlands and making the turn west, the emigrants found the Rocky Mountains growing larger on the horizon. Seeing their destination—or at least some marker of it—brightened the mood among the company, though Annabelle worried the end of their journey couldn't come fast enough for Josey.

She hadn't exchanged more than a few words with him since leaving Fort Phil Kearny, and he looked worn down, staying so busy he borrowed her Paint to spell his own horse some days. No one spelled Josey. Annabelle's anger had turned into a hurt she knew would only become permanent once they arrived in Virginia City and he rode off to rejoin the Colonel.

After learning Richard still lived, she nearly went to Josey. If Richard meant them harm, Annabelle had to tell the others. But she hadn't seen Richard with the road agents. It was only Caleb's guess that Richard had been with them. And those men had made no move against the wagons after their failed attack on the prairie. In the absence of a certain threat, the idea of confronting Josey with news of her husband seemed like a desperate plea for attention—and the last sure way to drive him off forever.

As August drew to an end, the wagons crossed innumerable streams and climbed even more hills as they followed the Yellowstone River. It was hard work for everyone. Even the older women and children walked beside the wagons when the hills grew too steep. Parts of the trail were so stony the men needed pickaxes to clear the way for wagons.

With the threat of hostile Indians behind them, the miners chose to risk a brisker pace, and their train dwindled to almost half its number. Henry Miller, nearly recovered from his wounds, led the group in settling with Josey and Lord Byron for their remaining share of the scouts' services. For all his bluster and complaining, Miller seemed reluctant to part, needing Josey's assurances that it would create no bad feelings. Miller lingered a moment while the others started off, looking at Josey as if he had something more to say, then abruptly embracing the scout like a long-absent brother. Josey seemed as surprised at the gesture as Annabelle.

The train crossed the Yellowstone at a ferry operated by John Bozeman, one of the men who first blazed their trail. Bozeman lived in a small cabin on the side of the river. Annabelle imagined him as some larger-than-life figure, another Jedediah Smith or Kit Carson. She was to be disappointed.

Bozeman was a blond, apple-cheeked man who even while laboring wore a suit coat now that he was a businessman. Though Southern-born, he had forgotten the manners of his homeland and spoke with the oily glibness of a confidence man. He wanted ten dollars for every wagon and an additional fifty cents for each extra horse or cow that crossed on his ferry.

The impatient miners paid the fee and forged ahead. Josey rode along the river, determined to scout another crossing point. Only once he returned and started leading the wagons away did Bozeman bring his price down to five dollars. Josey agreed but had no kind words for the man he said was out to fleece the tenderfeet who followed a route so dangerous Bozeman had given up leading wagon trains himself.

It was late in the afternoon by the time they crossed. The ferry was a large boat with a rope strung over the river and connected to a series of pulleys. Annabelle made sure to be among the first to cross this time. Looking back, she feared she might see the same riders again, but no one came. On the opposite side of the river she found a tree where the bark had been peeled off. The names and dates of trains and individuals who had passed were written in pencil.

“Are you going to add your name?” Caleb Williams asked. She had come across with his wagon to be first on the other side.

“I don't think so.”

“We're not being followed, if that's what concerns you. Not anymore.”

In no mood for false comforts Annabelle asked, “How would you know that?”

Caleb seemed edgy. He looked about as if to make sure they wouldn't be overheard, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “Not here.” He stepped back from the river, bidding her to follow.

“No one is going to hear us. They're all on the other side.”

The bank rose sharply at the crossing, and Annabelle struggled to follow him uphill even in her riding pants. Caleb didn't wait, moving off into the thick forest redolent of pine. He was out of sight by the time she crested the riverbank.

“Caleb? Where are you?” Seeing a deer track into the trees, she followed after him through the thick brush, growing annoyed with the man. About twenty paces into the trees, she prepared to turn back, when she saw a man.

It wasn't Caleb.

Annabelle was alone in an old army tent, large enough for two cots, though only one sat in the middle of the dirt floor. Annabelle pondered slitting the canvas on the backside of the tent and sneaking away into the night. First, she would need a knife. Next, she would need to cut the rope that bound her hands behind her back.

She no longer felt her fingers. Her shoulders throbbed from her arms being stretched behind her for so long. More angry than scared, she chided her foolishness at following Caleb, never suspecting he would betray her. Harrison had been waiting in the woods, wearing the same grin she'd seen when he challenged Josey in Omaha and negotiated with the Colonel before the road agents attacked.

“Mrs. Holcombe,” he said in greeting, the name sounding like a slur from his mouth. The man couldn't smile without appearing to leer. Annabelle looked about for an escape or an ally.

“Don't make me draw my weapon,” he said. “I know you can ride. I have a horse all ready for you. There's someone who would like to see you.”

With a sweeping gesture, he directed her farther down the path to a glade where three horses waited. Caleb was already mounted on one. He wouldn't look at her. Harrison moved to help Annabelle mount, but she swatted his hand, stepping into the stirrup and hopping up easily. For a moment she considered making a dash, but the man held her horse's harness tight.

“He insists on your attendance.”

Annabelle realized with a sinking feeling it was unnecessary for Harrison to identify her host.

As they rode, she tried to memorize every detail of the landscape so she could find her way back, but the more she concentrated, the more difficult it became to recall anything. All the pines looked alike. The hills they climbed and descended were nearly indistinguishable one from another. Questions swirling in her mind muddled her focus.
What did Richard want? Would he try to claim a stake of her family's new business?What was there to claim?
Annabelle didn't fear for her well-being. If Richard wanted her dead, this gunman would have killed her already.

She lost track of time, but they couldn't have ridden far because it was still light when they reached a campsite at the bottom of a ravine. Harrison prodded her toward the fire where a circle of about eight men sat. She recognized the big man in the Confederate coat who had been with Harrison in Omaha. A mulatto boy, maybe twelve, sat near the center, his eyes red in the reflected firelight. It was the tall man beside him who commanded her attention.

“Ah, Annie.”

He came to her, looking cleaner and more handsome than any man had a right to on the trail, and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. He stood back and smiled broadly, his thin mustache flattening to a dark smudge. “So glad you could join us.”

Her reunion with Richard was blessedly short, though it left Annabelle as confused as ever. Without so much as a question or explanation, Richard ordered her tied up and hustled off. He seemed more interested in Caleb, and it had grown dark while she waited alone in the tent for someone to explain what was happening.

A sound alerted her to someone's approach. Harrison appeared at the tent's opening, pushing a trussed up man before him. He had been beaten so savagely, she almost didn't recognize Caleb. He collapsed beside the cot at the slightest nudge from Harrison, who left without a word to her.