Home by Morning (17 page)

She was so weary of all this . . . the endless interrogations, being frightened all the time, wondering if Brother was faring any better than she was. And she worried constantly about Thomas and Lillie. Were they being detained, too? She dared
not ask and draw attention to them. But not knowing how they fared was eating a hole in her stomach.

She prayed each night that they had made it safely to Heartbreak Creek. And she also prayed that they had forgiven her for leaving them. She missed them with an ache that left her weeping through the long nights and moving numbly through the days.

“When did you last see Cyrus Marsh?”

Startled from her thoughts, she glanced up to find the questioner studying her through gray eyes as flat and hard as two chips of flint. Hearing the hint of Mississippi in his voice made her spirits sink. Even though the vast majority of Southerners hadn't owned slaves, many blamed blacks for the many changes and difficulties that still plagued the South almost six years after the war had ended. She would have to tread carefully with this man. “When he left to smoke a cheroot on the rear platform of our rail car.”

“When was that?”

“Not long after we boarded the train in Indianapolis. I'm not sure of the exact time.”

He made a note on a crumpled sheet of paper. “When he didn't return, what did you do?”

“Brother Sampson reported his absence to the conductor.”

“And what did the conductor do?”

“He told us he would check the other cars, but it wasn't until we arrived at the Philadelphia station that the railroad seemed concerned. I told all this to the other men who came to question me.”

He flipped through his papers again.

Pru watched his hands. They were broad and short-fingered, with chipped nails and scarred knuckles. A brawler's hands. They would cause damage if used against her. In jail, she had heard stories of beatings and threats directed at the black prisoners. So far, other than these interrogations, she had been largely ignored. But in this man, she sensed a brutality that could easily turn to violence.

“Says here you were crying on the train. Why?”

“I was distraught about leaving my family.”

His head came up. “Marsh forced you to go?”

She and Brother had agreed to minimize any conflict with Marsh, but as Pru looked into the steely eyes of the man across
the table, she feared she might falter. Keeping her gaze locked on his, she tried to keep the lie out of her voice. “It was my decision to go to Washington to present my education initiative. Mr. Marsh, as trustee of the school where I was employed, was always very supportive. He even arranged for our travel.”

“Did you go out on the rear platform with him?”

“No.”

Folding his thick arms atop the papers, he stared at her for several moments. “Maybe you wanted some fresh air, too. Maybe you went out there hoping to get more from him than train tickets.”

Under the table, Pru clasped her hands so tightly her fingers went numb. “I never went out onto the platform. Nor did the reverend.”

“Maybe when he made his move, you shoved him away so hard he fell over the railing.”

Perspiration slicked her palms. “Mr. Marsh is a moral man. He would never make improper advances. Especially to a black woman.” Anger rippled through her. “I assume by your questions you haven't found Mr. Marsh, so you have no idea what—if anything—happened to him.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“I don't know. Perhaps he stepped off at one of the water stops, had an accident, or was assaulted, and was unable to return to the train before it left. Perhaps he changed his mind about going to Washington. Perhaps he came on a later train and is now here in Washington. There are many reasons why he might be absent. You assume foul play, but without a body, how can you be so certain that a crime has even been committed?”

“We've looked hard, Mrs. Redstone. He's not here, or in Indiana, or anywhere in between.”

“So you've decided that somehow I was able to do away with a man much larger than I am, while traveling on a moving train in full view of dozens of passengers? Does that make sense?”

Anger flashed. “Maybe you had help.”

“From whom?”

“The reverend.”

She allowed her disgust and disbelief to show. “Have you seen his hands? Do you actually think it possible that he could overpower a younger, larger man with those hands?”

“Then maybe your husband did it. He's an Indian, isn't he? Redskins are known for their savagery. Maybe he didn't want you to go and decided to do something about it.”

Pru shot to her feet. “This is ridiculous! Either charge me and allow me to face my judgment in a court of law, or let me go.” She saw fury darken his face, but didn't care. As long as she could deflect attention away from Thomas and Brother, it would be worth the beating that was surely headed her way.

He rose and gathered his papers. “We'll talk again, Mrs. Redstone, after you've had a chance to calm down.” He sauntered toward the door, then paused and looked back at her. “I hear you've been teaching some of the other prisoners to read and write. I'd be careful with that, if I was you. Some folks might not appreciate your interference.” His smile dripped venom. “You stay safe now, y'hear? Prison can be a dangerous place.”

COLORADO TERRITORY

Above the chattering of her teeth, Lillie thought she heard Winnie calling, but it was so far away, she wasn't sure. Or maybe it was Bitsy whining.

“You Bitsy! That you?”

Silence.

“You better git you fanny here right now. I means it.”

Nothing.
Damn that dog.
With one hand against the tree trunk, she crouched down and felt the ground. No snow. Not dry, either, but she sat down anyway. Her shoes were wet from tromping through snow. Sticks and pinecones poked through her dress and cold wetness soaked into her underpants. Pulling her knees up against her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and tried not to shiver.

Why had no one come looking for her? Did they even care she was lost?

She didn't want to be a baby, but she was starting to get scared.

Her eyes burned. Something warm trickled down her cheek. Tears or blood? She lifted a hand to the knot on the side of her head. No blood. The last time she fell, she hit her head hard. And after crashing through the brush, she had so many
stinging, itchy, burning places, she could be bleeding to death and not even know it.

Not that anyone cared. “'Specially that damn dog. Daddy be mad, sho' 'nuff,” she yelled. “He feed you to
okom
, you run off like this.”

It helped to hear her own voice. Made her think she wasn't all alone, and helped to block other sounds. Like crackling sounds. And crunching. Unfamiliar, sneaky noises. But when she yelled too loud, it scared her worse, because she could hear the fear in her voice.

“I not afraid,” she said, in case anyone was listening. “Daddy find me.”

How long had she been gone? It seemed forever since Bitsy had dragged her across the yard, barking at something. She'd held on as long as she could, but then something tripped her, and when she fell, the rope had slipped through her hands. She'd almost lost her stick, too.

She'd called so much, her throat hurt, but Bitsy hadn't come back. Then she'd heard him barking not too far away. She'd gone toward the sound, raking the ground with her stick like Daddy had taught her. When the barking faded into high-pitched whining, she had tried to go faster, beating at the bushes and calling.

“You leave my dog alone,
okom
! I fight you with my stick! Whack you good!”

But she must have gone the wrong way, because after a while, she couldn't hear the whining anymore. She stood for a minute, not sure what to do. Finally, thinking she should get Winnie and Curtis to help her, she had turned back.

But it didn't feel right. Too brushy. Too many trees. Something was wrong.

She stopped to listen. Off to the right, she heard the creek. She headed toward it, then stopped when her stick hit something hard and hollow-sounding on the ground. Bending down, she felt it with her hand. Wooden planks. Then she straightened and traced it as far as her stick could reach. After a few careful steps, she decided it was a skinny wooden bridge stretching across the water.

Bridges meant people. Maybe there was a road or a house nearby. Certain she was headed in the right direction, she crossed
over and kept going up what felt like a rocky trail. But it still hadn't felt right. Like the trail was getting steeper and steeper. And the farther she walked, the more snow she stepped in. It scared her that she couldn't hear the creek anymore. Had she turned into the canyon instead of toward town? She decided to go back, but when she turned, the trail was gone.

Panicked, she beat at the ground with her stick, but kept hitting trees and brush. The harder she worked to get back to the trail, the more lost she felt. She kept stumbling into things and falling over sticks and rocks, until finally she had tripped over a fat log, hitting her head hard and sending her stick flying. Rising on wobbly legs, she had kept going, hands stretched before her.

Finally, too cold and scared and weary to take another step, she had slumped down beside the tree where she sat now, thinking maybe if she stayed in one place, Daddy would find her.

That was a long time ago. Or maybe just a few minutes. She was so turned around and scared she didn't know where she was, or how much time had passed. So here she sat in her wet skirt and shoes, getting poked in the fanny by pinecones and probably catching a mess of ticks from this scratchy tree. No dog. No stick. No way to find her way home.

Was anybody even looking for her?

“Daddy!” she shouted. “Daddy, it me, Lillie! Come git me!”

Something chattered above her head. She shrank against the tree. A squirrel?

Probably a squirrel. She remembered squirrels. She had liked watching their tails twitch back and forth like little furry flags.

But what if it wasn't a squirrel? What if it was something big?

“Damn dog!” she shouted. “I spank you fur plum off you fanny you don't come right this minute!”

Silence. Even the squirrel—if that's what it was—shut up.

Dropping her cheek to her knees, she let the fear take over. “Daddy find me,” she whispered into the darkness. “He a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. He find anything.”

*   *   *

Thomas bolted from his chair. “What do you mean she is gone? Gone where?” Shoving past Curtis, he ran out the door.

Curtis followed him onto the boardwalk. “I don't know
where. I checked along the creek but didn't see nothing of her or the dog.”

Thomas jerked his pony's reins free of the hitching rail. “How long?”

“Long as it take me to run here. Last I saw of her, she standing in the side yard, holding Bitsy's rope while the dog do his business. Next thing I know, I hear barking. It was so far away, I don't think much about it, but when I go back to see what was taking so long, she and the dog both gone. Winnie and me, we call and call, but we don't hear nothing. You think she crossed the creek? She had her stick with her. Maybe she'll find her way back.”

Thomas vaulted into the saddle. “Get help. Send them to the house.” Wheeling the pinto, he kicked him into a gallop.

When he reached the Arlan place, he saw Winnie standing in the yard. Jumping to the ground, he ran toward her. He could tell by her expression that
Katse'e
had not returned, but he asked, anyway.

“Not a thing.” The black woman pressed her apron to her eyes. “I been yelling and yelling. Lawd, that poor child. Mr. Thomas, you got to find her.”

“Curtis brings help. Tell them to spread out along the creek.”

Thomas ran toward the trees at the back of the house. He coursed back and forth until he saw a dog track in the soft ground along the bank. He crossed over and studied the other side. More dog tracks, heading west along the creek. But no small human print. He came back over, and followed the bank behind the house toward town.

At the turn where the creek veered north, he searched beneath the trees until finally he saw a shoe print—small, not deep.
Katse'e
's?

He had not been this afraid in a long time. As memories of past conversations and scolding words filled his mind, his regret grew. Had his harsh words sent her away? He told his spirit guides he would be a better father if they would lead him to his daughter. He made promises to
Ma'heo'o.
He sent pleas up to the Great Spirit.

But still, he did not find her.

He tracked deeper into the trees, found the narrow wagon trail that led up to the old mine, and followed it across the wooden bridge. Water swirled around the log braces that
supported it, running fast and deep. He looked downstream, saw no small form in the water, then studied the banks on both sides, but saw no new tracks.

“Lillian!” he yelled.

Silence.

Had he gone the wrong way? Could she have fallen into the water?

His heart pounded so hard it deafened him to other sounds. He made himself breathe deep and bring the fear under control so he could hear if she answered.

He called again and again. Then listened.

Dimly, he heard voices calling from the direction he had come. But they called for Lillian, not him.

A new surge of fear blossomed in his chest. He forced it back and continued following the damp edges of the trail. At last, he saw a small footprint. Then another. A faint scrape that could have been made by her stick.

He started jogging, head bent to study the trail.

Katse'e
was smart. She would know to sit and wait for him to find her. But already the sun had slipped behind the tall peaks. Light would fade fast and soon the air would grow cold. Too cold for a small girl lost in the dark.