Clay (11 page)

“Clay, how long before we reach Fort Laramie?”

“Probably in another couple weeks,” he said, climbing into his bedroll a few yards away.

“Is that the halfway mark?”

“Close to it, according to Scotty,” he murmured in a voice husky with drowsiness. “Good night, Becky.”

“Good night,” she replied, and closed her eyes.

It was the first time they’d ever exchanged the felicitation.

The sandstone hills had gradually become higher, the terrain a little rougher, but the going still wasn’t too difficult. They’d been following the south side of the Platte and had reached South Fork, where the river split and forked off south toward Colorado, or north toward Wyoming. In the morning they would cross back to the north side.

Rebecca and Henrietta were sitting side-by-side listening to several men who’d been entertaining them with songs, Thomas Davis among them. In a pleasing tenor voice he began singing the haunting ballad “Shenandoah.” One didn’t have to be from Virginia to feel the poignancy of the words.

Rebecca stole a glance at Clay and Garth, and felt a stab of sympathy for them. Homesickness and heartache were written all over their faces as they listened to the moving words.

“Hey, don’t you know somethin’ different?” Jake Fallon yelled out. “I heard all I wanna hear of that Reb song. Do you know ‘Marching Through Georgia,’ boy?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, Mr. Fallon.”

“You ought to: We Yankees sang it enough times as we whupped your asses, when we marched through the damn South. How about ‘Rally’ Round the Flag?’ Let’s hear it, boy.”

Fallon began singing, “ ‘The Union forever. Hurrah, boys. Hurrah.’ ” He paused when no one joined him, and his face twisted into a snarl. Drawing his sword out of its scabbard, he pointed the weapon threateningly at Thomas. “You heard me. Start singing, Reb.”

“I like the song he was singing, Fallon.”

Rebecca turned around in surprise at Clay’s voice.

Etta gasped and clutched Rebecca’s arm when Clay stepped forward. “Uh-oh, Becky. This looks like trouble,” she whispered.

Fallon waved the weapon at Clay. “Then how about you volunteerin’ to sing what I wanna hear, Fraser?”

Garth stepped up next to Clay. “My brother said he liked the song the boy was singing. So do I.”

“Don’t cut yourself in on this, Garth,” Clay said. “I can handle this weasel alone.”

Fallon snorted. “I killed enough of you Rebs during the war. A couple more of ya ain’t gonna matter none.”

“Must have been because their backs were to you, Fallon,” Garth said.

Fallon’s black eyes glowed with rage. “I’m gonna enjoy running this sword through that gut of yours, Fraser.”

“Fallon, sheath that weapon at once,” a stern voice demanded. All eyes turned to Mike Scott, who had arrived on the scene with several of his riders, rifles in hand.

With a glare at Garth, Fallon replaced the saber in the scabbard. “I wouldn’t have hurt ’em,” he grumbled.

“You’ve got that right,” Clay said.

“What went on here, Clay?”

“Just a difference of opinion in the choice of music, Scotty.”

“I made it clear in Independence that there was to be no refighting the war. And Fallon, if you ever draw that damn sword again on anyone here, you’re off the train. Now get the hell back to your wagon.” He turned to Rebecca and Henrietta. “My apologies, ladies.” He gave Clay and Garth a stern look. “I’d appreciate you boys staying out of trouble.” Then he and his entourage departed.

The scene had spoiled any further desire for entertainment, so everyone returned to their wagons and bedded down for the night.

Rebecca was too disturbed over the confrontation with Jake Fallon to fall asleep. If Mr. Scott hadn’t shown up, that horrible man probably would have used that sword on Clay or Garth. The thought was horrifying. Despite their differences, she certainly didn’t wish Clay—or Garth—any harm. Both of them put their lives on the line every day when they rode out alone, not knowing what they might encounter. Besides that, she owed Clay her gratitude for saving her life.

She sighed and rolled over. Even though she didn’t understand it, she knew her feelings for Clay had nothing to do with gratitude. Despite all their posturing toward each other, there was something between them. And maybe, whether they admitted it or not, they’d begun to take their spouse roles to heart.

By the following morning, word of the incident between the Fraser brothers and Jake Fallon had spread through the camp. Until then there had been a feeling of cheerful camaraderie among them, but this morning everyone appeared more subdued.

Instead of starting the crossing bright and early, as they all anticipated, Mike Scott called them together for a meeting.

“You think he’s going to talk about last night?” Etta whispered.

Rebecca nodded. “That’s probably what he’s got on his mind.”

“Well, I sure hope he’s not going to put any of the blame on Clay or Garth. That horrible Jake Fallon was responsible for what happened. He probably would have hurt Tommy if Clay hadn’t interfered.”

“I think so, too, Etta. Mr. Scott will probably give us all a lecture to avoid any further incidents.”

“I don’t know why he just doesn’t make Mr. Fallon leave the wagon train. Daddy says it’s a shame that some people won’t put the war behind them. He said we’ve got to learn how to live together again.”

Rebecca felt a sinking sickness in the pit of her stomach as the truth hit her with a mortifying realization— she was one of those people! Her resentment of Clay was because he fought for the Confederacy, as if he were responsible for Charley’s death. But then she frowned. She didn’t resent Garth or Tom Davis, and they were Southerners, too.

Was she solely to blame for the running battle between her and Clay? His bitterness toward her was not because she was a Yankee; it was because she’d tricked him into marrying her. Though he no longer threw that up to her—so Garth had been right about Clay; he
didn’t
bear grudges.

In light of this new revelation, Rebecca hung her head in shame. She
was
solely responsible.

“Folks,” Mike Scott began, when all were assembled.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Last night—”

“Uh-oh! Here it comes,” Etta whispered.

“—Hawk rode in with some very disturbing news.”

Rebecca raised her head to listen more closely.

“You all know,” Scott continued, “that ten wagons had left the train and pulled ahead of us. Hawk came upon them yesterday. The wagons were all burned, and everyone was dead.”

Gasps of shock and cries of disbelief circled the crowd.

“You mean there weren’t any survivors at all?” one of the men asked.

“None.”

“There had to have been at least fifty people with that party,” another said.

“Fifty-four to be exact,” Scott said. “I looked up the count from their registration forms. Trouble was, most of them were women and children. There were only twelve men toting rifles.”

“Maybe the Indians took some prisoners,” Howard said.

“No. Hawk said all the bodies were accounted for. He buried them in a common grave.”

The sounds of steady sobbing could be heard as many in the crowd recalled those they’d known among the victims.

“Who did it?” Clay asked. “Pawnee or Cheyenne?”

Hawk held up an arrow. “Pawnee.”

Scott raised his arms to quiet the rumble of shouts for revenge. “I wouldn’t even have told you folks the bad news if I didn’t think it was important for everyone to see the need for us to stay together,” Scott said.

“There are Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Ute still ahead of us. This is no time for us to be pulling apart. We’ve got to put past grievances behind us and work together.”

It was clearly a reference to last night, and many heads nodded in agreement.

“And don’t any of you fellows start thinking of trying to track them. That raiding party is familiar with the land; you’ll only get yourselves killed. I still figure the Indians won’t attack a party this size. And most likely they were after the horses; they don’t want mules or oxen. Now, Reverend Kirkland, will you lead us in a prayer for the dearly departed? Then we’ll get to crossing that river.”

After the crowd dispersed in silence or muffled sobs, Rebecca remained motionless. It was difficult to accept how easily fifty-four lives could be extinguished.

“Are you okay, Rebecca?”

She looked up to find Clay at her side. She nodded.

“It’s all so brutal, Clay. Are these people so savage that they can slaughter babes in arms over a few horses?”

“There’s no such thing as a humane war, Becky.”

Angry words burst past her lips. “War! We’re not at war with them. Was a child a threat to them?”

“They see us as a threat. We’re invading their homeland.”

She felt the rise of temper. “Good Lord, Clay, don’t tell me you’re justifying this savagery!”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Rebecca.”

She watched him walk away. Obviously, she and Clay Fraser were not meant to ever reach an understanding. Returning to her wagon, she packed up to prepare for the crossing.

Hawk had picked out a spot where the river was only a half-mile wide. The problem was that the water was low, and bedded with quicksand. The first wagon that attempted the crossing got mired down in it. As the oxen strained at the harness, they only dug themselves in deeper.

Several of the men swam out with ropes and chains attached to six yoke of oxen on the shore. After tying the ropes to the wagon and oxen, they managed to free the trapped team and wagon from the sand. Scott had an eight yoke of oxen harnessed to the next wagon. With that pulling power, the wagon succeeded in crossing without getting stuck. It would be a slow process, but it would work.

Rebecca sighed. Slumping to the ground, she leaned against the wagon. It was going to be a long day.

Clay joined her a short time later and sat down beside her. “Becky, we have to talk.”

“Clay, I really don’t feel like arguing. The news about those poor people was so devastating.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.”

Resigned, she sighed. “What is it?”

“Several of the wagons are turning back. I think it would be a good idea for you to join them.”

“I’m sure you do. You’d like to get rid of me.”

“Dammit, Becky, you heard Scotty. The worst is still ahead of us.”

“Are the Garsons and VonDiemans among them?”

“Garsons definitely not. The VonDiemans are considering it. Otto’s concerned about Blanche’s health. He wants to get her back where she’ll have a doctor’s care. Look, Rebecca, I don’t want to see that long blond hair of yours dangling from some Indian’s coup stick. I have your welfare at heart.”

“What about you and Garth? Are you considering turning back?”

“We came out here to find our sister. We aren’t leaving until we do.”

“I came out here for a purpose, too, Clay. New beginnings can be risky, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“If you hold off for a few years, there won’t be a risk. One day there’ll probably be a railroad along this very trail and bridges to span these rivers.”

“I’ve sat and waited my whole life for that ‘one day,’ Clay, but it was always just out of reach. But I didn’t stop believing that it was just ahead of me, and that the next day, the next week, or the next year it would happen. If I give up now, I’d be giving up the hope that I’ve held on to, the hope that brought me here.”

Clay sighed. “All right, Becky. God willing, you’ll live to see the fulfillment of that dream.” He stood up. “I’ll tell the others you’re going on.”

The massacre had an alarming effect on everybody. Fourteen more wagons had decided to turn back, the VonDiemans among them. Clay bought their cow, several of their chickens, and some of their supplies. When it was time for the wagon to cross, Rebecca said a tearful good-bye to Blanche and Otto. She gave them her brother’s address and promised to write them when she reached Sacramento. Then, dabbing at her eyes, she climbed up next to Clay on the box and waved farewell to the older couple.

Once across the river Clay went back to help with the crossings. Rebecca kept herself busy by unloading the wagon to dry out whatever got wet. It was exhausting moving everything around, but it helped to keep her mind off the sad events of that day.

The camp was quiet that night, and families stayed close to their own wagons. Clay had pulled a two-hour guard shift between ten and midnight. Garth was somewhere with Mike Scott. As exhausted as she was, Rebecca couldn’t fall asleep until Clay returned.

“Everything quiet out there?” she asked when Clay crawled into his sleeping roll.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Becky. There are still fifty wagons in this train; Indians won’t attack it. It would be suicidal for them.”

“Yet Mr. Scott doubled the guard,” she reminded him. Rolling over, she closed her eyes. Maybe the Indians wouldn’t try an all-out attack on the train, but it wouldn’t stop one from sneaking up in the dark and killing a guard, or crawling into a wagon and… She gulped, then got up and shifted her pallet closer to Clay.

Throughout the night she slipped in and out of sleep, and awoke to clucking chickens. It took her several seconds to realize the sound was coming from her wagon, then she remembered the VonDiemans were no longer with them.

Glancing at Clay, she saw he was sitting up in his bedroll. He looked dazed and disheveled.

In a voice rasped with drowsiness, he grumbled, “I hope you know how to fry chicken, because I’m about to wring the necks of those hens.”

Rebecca got up and went over to the coop tied to the side of the wagon. “Aha!” She reached inside and pulled out two eggs. “Don’t listen to him, ladies,” she cooed to the penned fowl. “He doesn’t appreciate how hard you labored to provide breakfast for him.”

“I suppose you’re going to name those damn chickens, like you did the mules.”

“Of course. Who’s your favorite Shakespearean female character?”

“Lady MacBeth. She was as crazy as the rest of you females.” He went off into the brush to seek some privacy.

By the time he returned, Rebecca had dressed. Clay built a fire while she rolled out the dough for biscuits. Since Scott had told them they’d be laying over there for an extra day in order to clean and dry out their wagons, Rebecca had great expectations of doing the laundry and baking an apple pie.

“Don’t you have guard duty?” she asked when Clay sat down and began to clean his rifle after breakfast.

“Not until six o’clock,” he said. “Why?”

“Would you mind milking Clementine?”

“You named that cow Clementine?”

“I didn’t name her; the VonDiemans did. So, yes or no: Do you mind milking her?”

“I mind, but I’ll do it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, it’s… ah…” She could see he wasn’t in a good mood, so maybe she’d better not mention it at this time.

“What now, Rebecca?”

“Never mind, I can ask Garth.”

Clay sighed deeply and gave her an exasperated look.

“Garth rode out with Hawk and won’t be around for a couple of days. What do you want?”

“I thought maybe you’d show me how to milk the cow.”

“You’ve never milked a cow?” His look of reproach was as annoying as his exasperated one always was.

“No, I’ve never milked a cow, fed chickens, or ridden a horse. I was born and raised in the city, sir, and never had any reason to learn.”

He snorted. “You can add unable to swim or shoot a rifle to that list. What in hell did you want with a cow, then?”

“Buying the cow was
your
idea.” She slapped a pair of his soiled stockings into the wash boiler and began to scrub them vigorously on the washboard.

“I bought the cow because I thought you wanted milk and butter. Is there anything you
can
do?” he asked.

That did it! She had just made the ungrateful oaf a delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, hot biscuits, and coffee.

Did he tell her as much? No!

Did he appreciate it? No!

Did he give her one word of thanks? You can be sure not!

“Wash your own damn clothes!” She picked up one of the soapy stockings and let it fly. It hit him smack in the face. With a smile of satisfaction, she spun on her heel to walk away.

He was on her at once and turned her around. “That was a mistake.”

Holding her firmly in place, he sloshed the stocking into the water with his other hand, then splashed it over her head. Squealing, Rebecca groped in the tub for the other stocking, pulled it out, and sloshed it over his head. Abandoning the stocking, Clay used his hand and splashed her with scoops of suds. Anger had been washed away with the suds, and, laughing, they circled the tub, each managing to splash the other.

When he dunked the stocking back into the tub to rewet it, Rebecca took off, but he chased after her and quickly caught up. He grabbed her, and they lost their balance and started to fall. Clay turned and took the brunt of the fall, then rolled over and straddled her. The way she squirmed beneath him aroused him, and he was instantly rock hard.

“Let me go,” Rebecca squealed, still laughing.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” He pressed his arousal against her and she went still, her eyes widening.

“Please?” Her voice was breathless.

“As soon as you say you’re sorry.” Clay slowly leaned down as if about to kiss her, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, then he squeezed the wet stocking onto her face.

“I’m tempted to use this wet stocking to wash out that smart mouth of yours, lady.”

“Don’t you dare, Clay Fraser!” Squealing and laughing, she managed to unseat him, rolled free, and raced to the wash boiler to rearm.

Wakened by the noise, Helena Garson sat up in alarm, fearing an Indian attack. Seeing her husband sitting calmly by the fire smoking his pipe, she asked, “What’s happening over there?”

Howard Garson chuckled and winked at her. “Honeymooners, Lena. Just honeymooners.”

“Where do they get the energy?” Yawning, Helena closed her eyes and settled back to bed to sleep.

Clay declared himself the unequivocal winner. Then, relaxing, he stretched out and closed his eyes.

Rebecca, however, wasn’t ready to concede defeat. She grabbed the washbasin and scooped up more water. Sneaking up on him, she poured it over his head.

He raised an eyelid, water dripping down his face. “You’re going to pay for that.”