“Zane, you open the gate real easy-like and keep the others back.”
Zane did as instructed while Dianne moved to stand behind him, almost frightened of what might happen. What if the other cows decided to rush toward the opening? Would Zane be able to stop them from escaping? How in the world would she ever be able to do this task on her own?
Morgan moved out with the cow and walked her around to the far side of the stall. Roping her to the fence, Morgan threw a few handfuls of hay into a feeding trough and waited until the cow settled into eating.
“I’m not exactly sure how this will work on the trail, but I figure to ask around and see what other folks do to handle this.” He reached around and took hold of a bucket and three-legged stool. “These both belong to us. I had Ma buy them yesterday. Up until today, Mr. Smith has been having a couple of the locals take care of the milking, but since we’re set to leave day after tomorrow, I figure we’d better show you how it’s done.” He put the bucket down beside him, then placed the stool in position.
“If you touch her like this,” he said, running his hand alongside the cow as he lowered himself to sit, “she knows where you are and doesn’t get so nervous.” He pulled the bucket under her udder and reached to take hold of two teats.
Dianne came around to better see what Morgan was doing. “Does it hurt her?” She couldn’t bear to think that she might cause the animal pain.
“Nah. In fact, Mr. Smith says it hurts ’em if they aren’t milked.” The swishing sound of milk hitting the pail sounded almost melodic.
Dianne smiled. “She doesn’t seem to mind it too much.”
Morgan continued milking. “I told you.”
Zane joined them. “Better have Dianne give it a try or she’ll never learn just standing here jawing.”
Morgan nodded. “You ready?”
“I don’t know; it seems …”
“You’ll do just fine,” Morgan said, moving the bucket. He smiled up at his sister. “You always need to mind the pail—cows have a penchant for knocking it over.”
Dianne swallowed the lump in her throat as Morgan moved aside and motioned for her to take his place. She went closer to the beast and gently touched her rump. The cow hardly seemed to notice. Dianne waited for a moment, just petting the animal with long smooth strokes.
“Work won’t get done that way,” Zane teased.
Dianne lowered herself to the stool and moved the bucket under the udder as she’d seen Morgan do. “Now what?”
“Take hold of her and squeeze and pull at the same time,” Morgan told her. “You’ll get the hang of it after a few tries.”
At first nothing happened. Dianne squeezed as hard as she could but only a dribble of white liquid showed. She looked up to Morgan and Zane, feeling stupid and helpless. Morgan leaned down and took hold of her hand.
“Like this.” He squeezed her hand and pulled down at the same time. The action caused a stream of milk to squirt out against the pail.
Dianne gave a tiny squeal, causing the cow to shift nervously.
Morgan laughed and admonished her, “You need to stay calm.” He stood back up. “Now try again.”
Dianne did and found complete success. “I see,” she murmured. She milked the cow for several minutes, enjoying the rhythmic sound of the liquid as it hit the pail. Glancing up to smile at her brothers, Dianne caught sight of someone rummaging around one of their wagons. “What’s he doing?” she questioned, forgetting the cow, the pail, and the milking. She jumped to her feet abruptly, causing the cow to skitter away, knocking the pail of milk over as she did.
“Oh, bother,” Dianne said, noting the mess. Her brothers had both turned to see what had caused Dianne’s alarm.
“You stay here,” Morgan said softly. “He might be a thief.”
Dianne felt her heart skip a beat as Morgan and Zane moved toward the wagons.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Morgan called out in a gruff voice that sounded much deeper than his usual.
The man, who was crouching to inspect the undercarriage of the wagon, turned with an annoyed look on his face. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Looks like you’re messing around where you have no business. Those are our wagons,” Zane announced.
Dianne disregarded Morgan’s instruction and came up beside Zane. She watched, somewhat amazed, as the man rose to his full height. He had to be at least six foot four, maybe even taller. But his height wasn’t nearly as intimidating as his dark-eyed stare. She cowered and pulled behind Zane, wishing she’d heeded Morgan.
“I’m Cole Selby. I’m working with Daniel Keefer, your wagon master. I have to inspect the wagons to make certain they’re in good working order and that the loads aren’t too heavy or packed too loosely. Now, if you’ll leave me to do my business …” He let the words trail off as he crouched down again.
“Anybody could say they were with the wagon master. We have no way of knowing the truth of it, mister. At least not until we talk to someone who knows you.”
Mr. Selby didn’t even look up at this. “Go ask the Smith brothers if you have any doubt. They can vouch for me.”
Dianne saw Morgan and Zane exchange a glance as if questioning whether they should do this. They were saved having to make a decision, however, when Jeb Smith came walking toward them.
“Mr. Smith,” Morgan greeted, stepping toward the older man. “This man claims to be working with our wagon master. He says he’s supposed to inspect the wagons—is that true?”
Dianne watched the white-haired man for any expression that might suggest Mr. Cole Selby was a liar. Instead, he smiled. “Sure it’s the truth. That’s Cole Selby. He’ll be looking your animals over too.”
They all looked back at Selby, who seemed completely undaunted by their concerns. “I told ’em that, Jeb, but you know children. They’ll fuss and fret.”
Dianne watched her brothers stiffen. They would be eighteen come June, and she knew they considered themselves every bit a man as Selby.
Jeb Smith chuckled. “You folks don’t have a thing to worry about. Cole is one of the best judges of horseflesh I’ve seen in these parts. Seems to have a natural way with it. He’s good with the rest of the livestock too. You can put your faith in him.”
“I’d just as soon keep my faith in myself,” Morgan muttered under his breath.
At this Cole rose once again. He walked around the wagon, stopping not a foot away. Dianne felt her breath catch at the intensity of his stare.
“You’d do better to put your faith in those animals,” Cole said dryly. “They’ll be a whole lot more durable and reliable after a week on the trail than either of you—or the girl.”
Dianne bristled at this. She was slow to get her anger up, but this man was just plain rude. “Come on, Morgan. Tell me more about milking,” she said, reaching out to take hold of her brother. “You too, Zane. I’m sure to need you both.”
Selby sent the briefest glance her way, and Dianne felt a chill up her spine. There was something about this man that suggested he was not at all happy—not with them … or with life.
T
RENTON CHADWICK PULLED THE COLLAR OF HIS COAT UP AND
watched the torrent of cold rain as it pounded the Mississippi just up the river from New Madrid. The shack he shared with the Wilson gang, a group of Confederate guerillas, seemed poor shelter from the raging storm.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the river for just a moment. Trenton worried that a flood might ensue if the rains didn’t stop soon. The plankboard cabin was sure to be engulfed if that happened; they weren’t positioned but about twenty feet off the river. Thunder boomed, rattling the only window in the crudely made shelter. Trenton shook his head. Maybe they wouldn’t have to wait to be flooded out—the lightning might well do its own damage.
The tiny porch on which Trenton took cover was of little protection. The wind blew the rain up and under the overhang, pelting his face. Still, being rain-soaked and cold beat having to deal with the drunken stupor of Jerry Wilson, leader of the gang of cutthroats.
Trenton had only teamed up with the men at the insistence of his best friend, Robbie Danssen. Robbie knew Jerry’s younger brother, Sam, and had promised Trenton the men were as bent on revenge against the North as anyone around. Trenton wasn’t sure his choice had been wise, however. Jerry Wilson had such a temper that he was likely to see someone killed just for looking at him the wrong way. Sam Wilson was so jealous of his older brother’s power with the gang that he spent most of his time picking fights with his sibling. Within the last week alone, Trenton had witnessed three brawls, two of which ended with knives being pulled. The brothers were not of a peaceful nature, to be sure.
The rest of the gang was no better. Gustaf Johnson, or “the Swede,” as they all called him, was a twenty-six-year-old silent type who knew his way around explosives. Having come west when the war started up, the Swede was from a mining family in Pennsylvania. Trenton didn’t know what to make of the big man. He seemed reserved and cautious most of the time, but Trenton had seen him nearly strangle a man to death for pouring him a short glass of whiskey when he’d paid for a tall.
Then there was Mark Wiley. He was a hot-tempered gunman who had already earned a bad reputation by the time he was sixteen. Texasborn, Wiley was wanted in two states—his homeland and Louisiana. It was said he had killed as many as twenty men, and Trent could believe it. Just two days past when he’d gone with the Wilsons on a raid for horses and saddles, Trenton had seen Wiley put bullets into three different farmers without so much as a remorseful expression. There’d been no reason to gun down the men, but Wiley seemed to find it entertaining.
What have I gotten myself into?
Trenton couldn’t help but wonder. The storm of confusion within him was ten times worse than the raging storm about him.
All I want to do is avenge Pa’s death. I just want to show the Yankees that they can’t treat people that way and not expect retaliation
. Although he couldn’t be sure, Trent felt confident that it had been a Yankee bullet that had killed his father. Robbie felt confident too. His father had heard talk. Still, there was some concern—some doubt. Trenton clenched his hands into fists.
I can’t worry about it one way or another. This is my way of honoring Pa
.
“Not that I honored him that much when he was alive,” Trenton muttered. But revenge for his father was a far cry from killing helpless old men whose only fault was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Trenton stood, then walked to the edge of the porch. He’d had a poor relationship with his father—especially after the War Between the States started. With the Union takeover of New Madrid, Trenton’s respect for his father had shrunk each day. He had watched his father do business with the Yankees as if nothing had ever happened. He had heard his mother weeping late into the night and knew it was because her loyalties were torn. Little by little the war had taken its toll on Trenton’s family.
His thoughts turned to Dianne. They’d always been close. Some of his friends couldn’t understand this, but then, they hadn’t grown up in the Chadwick household. Trenton had never been close to his parents and always felt like the odd man out with his brothers. As twins, Zane and Morgan always held more interest in each other than in him. He could remember working hard to pit them against each other when they’d been younger, but it never lasted long. Zane might come over to Trenton’s way of thinking for a time, but in the end, he would return to Morgan for companionship.
He knew that Dianne understood this as well. She didn’t fit in with the twins because she was a girl, first and foremost. She also didn’t appeal to Zane and Morgan because she was younger. But Trenton hadn’t cared—her company made life bearable. They talked, unlike many siblings he knew.
As if on cue, Sam Wilson hurled a string of obscenities at his brother as he came stalking out the front door. “A body oughtn’t to have to tend to horses in this kind of weather,” the small man grumbled, looking at Trenton as he stepped off the porch into the rain.
Trenton said nothing. It was best that way.
The storm appeared to be moving off to the east, but the rain showed no signs of letting up. Trenton went back to his chair and his thoughts of Dianne. She was his one real regret in leaving home. He wanted very much to protect her from the evils of the world. Dianne had the potential to marry well and make something of herself. Maybe that was why he didn’t see sense in the family moving west. Dianne would have no chance to meet up with decent men in Indian country. Trenton was confident of this point.
“What are you doing out here in the dark?” Robbie Danssen asked as he stepped outside.
“I was tired of the bickering,” Trenton told his friend. “Those two fight more than anybody I’ve ever seen.”
Robbie laughed and took a seat on the chair next to Trenton’s. “Yeah, that’s for sure. They’ll probably end up killing each other after they finish off the Yankees.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, getting us involved with them,” Trenton continued. The gang had plans to blow up a Union supply house the following night. “I’m not entirely comfortable with this, you know.”
Robbie lowered his voice. “You don’t want them hearing you talk like that. You know how Jerry is about things. He won’t like it one bit if he thinks your loyalty is in question.”
“It isn’t my loyalty that’s in question. It’s his temper and nonsense with Sam. If they can’t stop fighting long enough to spend a quiet evening together, what’s going to keep them from jeopardizing our mission?”
“Money. That’s the only thing Jerry cares about,” Robbie replied. “That and the fact that he’s as short as a stump. He can’t do anything about his height, though, so he’ll rob his way to happiness.”
“He’s going to get one of us killed if he’s not careful. Fighting with Sam is no way to build my confidence in his leadership ability.”
Robbie snorted a laugh. “I don’t much imagine Jerry cares whether we have confidence in his leadership ability or not. He’d just as soon shoot his own brother as look at him—I doubt seriously he has any great affection for us.”
“I suppose you’re right.”