“Every man on my train is worth three of those greenhorns,” Lucas said cuttingly, “and Lone Buck Garrett is the best scout in the Southwest, bar none.
And don’t discount the women. Each and every one of them’s got grit, too.”
“There’s women and children on the other train, too, and I’m giving them my protection to Fort Stockton,” the captain said firmly.
“You do that, but don’t be expecting any help from me.”
“Steele! Don’t be a damn fool, man.” Captain Doyle was losing patience. “There’s some good folks on that train.”
“Maybe so, but they’re not my responsibility. Good night, Captain Doyle.”
Lucas skirted the farmers’ camp and walked quickly through the ironwood thicket to where his wagons were stretched out along the banks of the creek. He was more troubled by Captain Doyle’s words than he had let on. He was well aware of the dangers of traveling from Fort Stockton to Fort Davis. The great Comanche war trail crossed the El Paso road just west of Fort Stockton, and the Mescalero Apaches from New Mexico Territory often raided the road west of Fort Davis. Still, he reasoned, there had been stagecoach service on the road for the last five years. He was confident he could make it with his train of light wagons. He wasn’t so sure about the cumbersome, overloaded wagons of the Louisiana farmers.
He walked to the campfire, angry because of the unexpected problems forced upon him. He didn’t know Captain Doyle, but he knew that any man who came to this country from West Point and stayed had
to have strength of character and dogged determination. It also took fighting ability and, above all, sound judgment. He wasn’t questioning Doyle’s sagacity, only the part of it that applied to him and his train.
Lucas crouched beside the fire and got himself a slice of beef between two pieces of bread. He was hungry and ate quickly, being careful not to stare into the fire. Gazing into a fire was the mistake of a greenhorn. Lucas knew that a man who watches the flames sees nothing when he turns quickly to look into the darkness, and his momentary blindness could cost him his life.
Mustang joined him. The flickering light illuminated the lines in the old man’s face and danced off the scattered silver in his beard.
“Folks over thar ain’t too friendly.” He filled the tin cup in his hand with boiling coffee. “They had a buryin’ today, so I guess they ain’t in no mood fer visitin’.”
“One of the women killed herself last night. Captain Doyle said her husband told him she had been acting strange and hadn’t talked much for the last couple of weeks. He figured she was homesick,” Lucas reported.
“Some folks jist ain’t cut out fer trailin’,” Mustang observed solemnly.
“You told the women what I said about not leaving camp?”
“Yup. I tol’ ’em. Don’t think they’d of no how. They’s a quiet bunch of females. Don’t mingle much.
I tol’ that Cora Lee not to go a prowlin’ ’round. She’s a traipser, that ’un.”
Lucas glanced around the camp. Most of the women had gone to bed, but a few were gathered in little bunches beside their wagons.
“Guards set up?”
“Yup.”
“Where’s Buck?”
“Down at the creek skinnin’ out a deer. Gonna bury it in the coals. It’ll be mighty fine tastin’ come mornin’.”
“We’re moving out at dawn. I’d planned on giving the women a half day to bathe and wash clothes, but the sooner we get out of these hills the better. Besides, we may have to raft the Colorado, and that’ll take time.”
Lucas got up and headed toward the brook. Once in the thick brush he stopped and gave the soft whistle of a night bird. He waited and the answering whistle came from his right. With soundless steps he moved toward the edge of the creek and the shadow that was the scout. Buck had finished skinning and gutting the animal and was tying its legs to a pole so he could carry it back to camp.
“Captain Doyle wants us to hitch up with the other train,” Lucas said quietly.
“Figured it,” was Buck’s terse response.
“He’s giving them escort to Fort Stockton. We’ll be on our own unless he divides his troops.”
“It’s better this way, without them.”
“What do you mean?” Lucas questioned.
“No thinkin’ Indian would attack a fast-movin’ wagon train if there was a slow one comin’ down the trail.”
“You’re right. What do you think of Parcher?”
“Mean as a rattler with its tail tied in a knot.”
“I don’t want him with the train and I don’t feel good about him following it,” Lucas agreed.
“I’ll put Chata to scoutin’ the rear.”
“That skinny Mexican kid isn’t even dry behind the ears yet,” Lucas teased.
Buck looked at Lucas with one of his rare smiles but said nothing.
“I only took your advice to hire him on because he knows horses and mules,” Lucas continued in a joking vein.
The men worked silently for a few minutes.
“The boy’s got eyes in the back of his head and he can shoot like a son of a bitch. He’s quick, but not foolhardy,” Buck defended, knowing it was unnecessary.
Lucas chuckled and picked up one end of the pole holding the deer carcass. Buck hoisted the other end, and together they carried it to the pit Mustang was digging beside the campfire, holding it until the old man could sprinkle a thick layer of hot coals in the hole. They carefully lowered it, and with two flicks of his knife Buck cut the vine holding the legs. Mustang shoveled the remaining coals in over the meat and covered them with loose earth. The camp was considerably darker now without the flickering fire. Lucas sank down on his haunches and refilled his coffee cup. His mind was restless and uneasy.
Buck left the two men without a word, as was his way, and walked around outside the line of wagons. The night seemed alive with movement: there was the sound of the breeze stirring the leaves on the giant cottonwood trees, the rushing of the creek, the restless pawing of a horse, and the sound of a woman coughing. Then there were other noises that only Buck’s trained ear could hear. They were small sounds, but different sounds, like the footsteps of a very light person walking toward him. He stopped and waited. Cora Lee Watson emerged from the darkness and approached him.
She placed a hand on his arm and looked into his face. He looked down at the fingers that closed over the sleeve of his buckskin shirt and back up to her wide, glittering eyes. He knew what she wanted, and he knew he wouldn’t take what she offered. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to, or that she didn’t attract him, but rather because a sense of loyalty to the men who were paying him to bring their future brides to Coopertown prevented him. He loosened her fingers from his arm, shook his head, and released her hand. Her breath left her suddenly, anger tightened her features. He thought she was going to strike him and he waited, but her clenched fist remained at her side.
Buck stood quietly while Cora Lee battled within herself. At another time Buck would have liked to know this woman. She was beautiful and willing . . . and he was lonely. The anger on her face turned to pleading. He slowly shook his head again. She turned and quickly walked away from him. He
stood still for a moment, listening to her footsteps until he was sure she was going back to her wagon. He walked on, and another slim shadow issued from the night. Buck dropped his hand to his holster.
“Señor.”
“Sí,
Chata.”
“He come,
señor.
Like you say. He look long at the
señorita,
and go back to camp. They post no guards. No one to watch.”
“You’re sure it was Parcher?”
“Sí, señor.”
Buck was not surprised that Parcher had come to spy on the teacher’s wagon. He had expected it and had asked Chata to keep watch while he cleaned the deer. The young Mexican melted back into the darkness, and Buck went toward the wagon.
Someone was sitting on a blanket beside a fire that had burned down to a few glowing coals. He could see only the blur of white that was her face. She sat with her knees drawn up and her arms clasped around them. Her hair was untied and hung down to her waist. She looked so small, so helpless, so . . . lonely. His heart began to pound with a new rhythm and he stood stock-still, gazing at her. Hungrily his eyes slid over her slim figure, silky, honey-colored hair, and light face. He knew he shouldn’t be here. It was unfair to stand and spy on her like this. He moved his feet restlessly.
Laura lifted her head and listened. She heard the sound again. Someone was standing quietly now.
Suddenly she was afraid and called out, “Who’s there? Is that you, Mr. Steele?”
Buck cursed himself. He wanted to turn tail and get away, but he could tell from her voice that she was frightened, that she knew someone was there. He couldn’t walk away and leave her to wonder who it was.
“No, ma’am.” They were the only words he could manage at the moment.
“Buck!” She held out her hand. Mindlessly he went to her and took it in his. “Buck,” she said again, and her fingers gripped his.
He dropped down on his haunches beside her. She was smiling at him, and he wondered if she would have given him the same welcome if she knew he had Indian blood. She refused to let go of his hand, and he continued to gaze at her face. She was beautiful! Sweet and beautiful! Some would say the teacher was prettier, but to him this small, soft creature was the loveliest thing he had ever seen.
“I was scared I’d not get to talk to you again. Oh! That’s being brassy, isn’t it? But flitter! I don’t care. Tucker says girls shouldn’t be forward. She says ladies wait and let the man make the first move to get acquainted. But . . . I don’t know when a man looks at me, so I can’t go by those rules. I’m glad you came, Buck. I was hoping you would. Can you sit and talk to me?”
“I can sit a spell.” He eased himself down beside her.
Words gushed out of Laura’s mouth like water
from a fountain. “I like to sit here and listen to the night sounds. I hear real good. I guess it’s because I can’t see and have to depend on my ears. I was listening to the water rushing down over the rocks in the creek and I was wondering where it was going. And I like to hear the owls, they sound so melancholy at times. My favorite, though, is the mourning dove, but then again, I like the mockingbird, too.” She stopped talking suddenly and turned a stricken face toward him. “I’m making a regular jackass out of myself again.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “But . . . I’m afraid if I stop talking, you’ll go.”
“I won’t go. I like to hear you talk.”
Her face broke into a smile, and she brought his hand into her lap, holding it with both of hers. “Then will you do some of the talking?”
“I’m not much of a talker.”
“Tucker says I talk enough for two people.” Her lips twitched and he watched, fascinated. “There’s so much to talk about. What do you see when you’re out scouting? Are you looking for a way for us to cross the hills?”
“I don’t have to look for a way to cross the hills. There’s a trail of sorts. Sometimes I look for a good crossing when we ford a stream.”
“You don’t watch for Indians?”
“Well, yes, but we’re not likely to run into any that lift hair until we pass Fort McKavett. What we look out for here is renegades, outlaw bands. There’s men out there that would steal the coins off a dead man’s eyes.”
“Really? And you’re out there all by yourself? Oh, Buck! I didn’t realize.”
Her concern made him feel all mixed up and shaky inside.
“There’s nothin’ for you to be scared of.”
“I’m not scared for me,” she murmured.
The sad note in her voice whipped him into speech. “I found a patch of strawberries in the hills today. I picked some and sat under a tree and ate ’em,” he said abruptly. He didn’t know quite why he told her something so unimportant, except he knew he couldn’t tell her he was trailing Frank Parcher and at one time thought he was going to have to draw and kill the polecat. He was so conscious of his hand in both of hers that he wasn’t thinking clearly.
“Tucker and I used to pick wild strawberries. We’d fill our pockets and not tell the other kids where he found them.” She laughed softly, remembering. “The bullies would want to take mine, but they didn’t dare if Tucker was around.”
“You been with her a long time?”
“Yes. She’s more than just a friend. She’s been like my sister, my mother . . . I love her very much.”
Buck felt a flush of embarrassment. It was such a personal thing to tell someone! The girl was so open with her feelings, he didn’t know how to handle his own when he was with her. He gently tugged his hand and she let it go.
“Is Miss Houston in the wagon?”
“Yes. She’s tired tonight. I think she’s kind of
under the weather. She tried not to be cross, but I could tell she was.”
Buck got to his feet and reached for her arm to help her up. “Can you find your way to the wagon?”
“Sure. The wagon is to my back. Tucker never leaves me unless she makes sure I’ve got my directions straight.” She bent to pick up the blanket, then reached for his arm and tucked her hand into the crook of it. “But I’d be glad if you walked me.”