Leaving Independence (26 page)

He grinned and shook his head. She probably would have tackled those Indians on her own if he hadn’t run over and tried to push her to the inner circle.

She might have saved his life, but she had put it in danger, too. She was a distraction to him. He never would have turned his back to that Indian if she hadn’t been there. He’d been worried about the visibility of the white horse, while the bigger danger had been his feelings for Abigail. Still . . . she did save his life. She would have done the same for anybody, but it was
him
. She was a woman a man could count on . . . except to stay put in the wagon.

Hoke’s mind traveled back to what had gnawed at him the rest of that day. How had that man come to have her picture in his pouch? It gave Hoke a bad feeling.

That night he slept in fits. He finally gave up and took over the watch. Charlie was up at daybreak asking to scout around with him and James.

“Go ask your mother if she’s awake, but don’t wake her if she’s resting,” Hoke said. “She might rather keep you close today.”

Charlie was back shortly. “She says as long as it’s with you and Mr. Parker, I can go.”

“How’s she feelin’ this morning?” asked James.

“She looked good.”

“She always looks good.”

Charlie and Hoke both gave James a dark look.

“What? Y’all don’t think so?”

Charlie rode with new respect for Hoke and James—they had the most tracking experience of anyone in the group.

“Here’s where horses were tied. Indian ponies are unshod,” Hoke told Charlie. “You know the difference in their tracks?”

Charlie nodded.

“There’s a whiskey bottle over here,” said James.

Charlie turned to Hoke. “You and Colonel Dotson said yesterday they had army-commissioned rifles. You think someone at Fort Laramie sold them guns and whiskey?”

“Laramie or Fort Hall. Sold ’em or gave ’em to ’em.”

“Why would they give Indians guns? Aren’t they supposed to protect settlers from the Indians?”

“If white men—soldiers or not—can get Indians to attack a train, then they don’t have to.”

“But why would they want to?” asked Charlie.

“Different reasons. Money. More guns. Horses. Supplies.” Hoke looked Charlie in the eye. “Women.”

Charlie scowled.

“Then the army goes after the Indians who attack the trains when it was really white men putting them up to it—white men waiting in the background to collect on the spoils,” added James. “We’ve also known soldiers to sell guns and whiskey to the very Indians they’re fighting. To line their own pockets or serve some personal scheme.”

Charlie shook his head. “I can’t believe white men would do such low things.”

“Bein’ white don’t make a man good; we’ve known several who adopted low behavior.”

“James is right,” Hoke said. “Happens more than you might think, Charlie, especially in parts of the country where laws are scarce, and that’s where you’re livin’ now. If these Indians were really after horses, they would’ve attacked when we were circled up at night. Instead, they hit us on the ascent, when we were spread out. Makes me think they had their eye on certain targets.”

They found where the Indians had camped for the night—about six miles from the train—with spatters of blood on the ground.

“Two or three wounded,” said James. “This one here lost quite a bit of blood, but I don’t see a body.”

From all indications the Indians had moved on.

“Maybe these Indians only wanted horses,” surmised James. “Or maybe they just wanted us to know they don’t appreciate their land being invaded. Ever since the Grattan Massacre of ’54 the Sioux have been mad.” James turned to Charlie. “The Grattan Massacre started over a misunderstanding about a cow.”

“I don’t think they’ll be back,” said Hoke.

“How can you be sure?” asked Charlie.

“I’m not. It’s just a gut feeling.”

“Hoke’s gut feelings are usually right,” said James.

“I still don’t understand why that white man was with them and how he came to have my mother’s picture.”

Hoke looked Charlie in the eye. “I can’t answer that.” One last time he surveyed the scene where the Indians had camped. “They were after something, but whatever it was, I think they got more resistance than they bargained for.”

CHAPTER 24

Neither silly nor vain

July 10, 1866

My dahlia has flowered, Mimi. It has large, purple blooms—exquisite blooms to match the beauty of the land. We’re coming out of the plains and into hills that appear to have been caressed by the hand of God.

And the hand of God is holding us as we begin to travel through them.

Hoke stood outside the Baldwyn wagon twisting his hat in his hands, the laughter that floated out choking his heart with jealousy. He had just turned to leave when Corrine lifted the back flap and said, “Hey! Mama’s been asking for you.”

“I better go check on some of the other patients before we roll out.” Doc Isaacs climbed out with his bag and grinned at Hoke. “You were great yesterday.”

Hoke nodded to him coolly. “I’m just glad more folks didn’t get hurt. Glad
you
didn’t get hurt.”

“Glad you didn’t, either. I have a feeling you wouldn’t make a willing patient.”

Hoke tried not to seethe as he watched the man walk away. The doc was too smiley to suit Hoke’s taste.

Following on the doctor’s heels, Corrine called over her shoulder, “Ma, I’m going to see Emma but I’ll be back before we leave.” When she climbed down, Hoke offered a hand and she took it.

“Thank you.”

It was a more docile Corrine than he’d ever witnessed. He turned with raised eyebrows toward Abigail. “Is that your same wildcat of a daughter?”

“It probably won’t last any longer than I’m lying here. Are you going to come in, or do I have to shout at you through the flap?”

Hoke stepped up and swung a leg over, using for only the second time the steps he’d made for her, feeling like an intruder into the private world of Abigail Baldwyn. He’d carried her in here yesterday but had hardly noticed the surroundings at the time. As he might have expected, it was nothing like the inside of his wagon, or most wagons. It looked more like a bedroom in a fine home than it did the back bed of a wagon.

He sat gingerly in the rocking chair, feeling like he might break it, and touched the side of the bed. “Is this a real bed?” Most people who slept in their wagons slept on piles of blankets. Some had straw or feather mattresses or sacks filled with old papers and feed bags.

Abigail tried to sit up and winced. “No.”

He reached for her. “Don’t—”

“I’m fine. Just sore, is all. I made cloth trunks for our clothes and quilts. And we brought quite a bit of extra cloth, as you know. Aren’t you glad? I like that shirt, by the way. Where’d you get it?”

He grinned. “Lady friend made it for me.” It was the second shirt she’d made—the one the same color as her riding skirt. His gold shirt still had her blood on it, but Mrs. Austelle was working to get that out for him.

He was pleased to see the return of her sass and humor.

“We’ve put the feather mattresses on our cloth trunks,” she continued, “and while it’s not as comfortable as my bed back home, it’s much more comfortable than the ground where the boys sleep every night.”

A lot of folks slept on the ground, including him. In fact, he slept only a few feet from this wagon of hers, sometimes watching her body’s outline on the canvas in the light of an oil lamp as she wrote letters and read books to her girls. She read the Bible or poems to them every night. He liked to hear her read Scripture, but there was something about the poems he found mesmerizing, maybe because they were new to him.

On cooler nights, when sound carried best, he could hear their conversations. One night not long ago, Lina had begged, “Mama, sing that song you made up for me.”

“What song did I make up for you?”

“You know, what’s a mama gonna do?”

She laughed. “I made that song up for Corrine, sweetheart, before you were born.”

“You did?” Corrine asked.

“You don’t remember me singing it to you before Lina was born?”

“No. Maybe. I never really thought about it.”

“All right then,” said Lina. “Sing us
Corrine’s
song.”

What’s a mama gonna do,

With a girl like you?

What’s a mama gonna say,

When you play all day?

What’s a mama gonna try,

When all you wanna do is cry?

What’s a mama gonna do,

With a girl like you?

“Keep me.” Lina giggled. “I love that song.”

Hoke felt like he knew the exact look Lina had given her mother right then, and the thought made his throat tighten.

“Should I keep Corrine, too?” Abigail had asked Lina, “Even when she turns her back and refuses to join in?”

“Yes. You should keep us both because you love us both.”

“Yes, ma’am. That I do.”

Hoke smiled, remembering that night.

Abigail lay crossways so she could better visit with folks. There was just enough room at the end of her bed for the rocking chair and a beautifully carved box that served as a low table that held a washbasin. The rocking chair was usually kept in the second wagon, but someone had brought it in here for visitors. He ran his hand down the side of the carved box, admiring the craftsmanship.

“My father built that, from a cherry tree off our land. It’s the only piece I saved when we sold all our things in Marston—that and the rug.” A large blue braided rug with flecks of yellow and green covered the floor. Some cloth bags made from matching colors hung on both sides of the wagon. That was a smart idea—it kept things from rolling around inside. He looked down at the seat of the rocking chair and noticed that the same colors in the bags had been woven into it.

“I did that on purpose,” Abigail said when he commented on it. “The children laugh at me for wanting things to look nice, but I can’t seem to help it. I took fabric strips left over from the bags and wrapped them around some of the twine to get that color effect. Well . . . you saw me do it, I guess.”

Yes . . . they had quarreled after.

A mirror was positioned smartly on one side over the carved box. This was where she combed her hair each night and morning and washed her face in the basin.

“It’s a sight neater and prettier than my wagon,” Hoke said.

“Men don’t think about making things pretty.”

“True.” But he still admired beauty, and he admired functionality.

A quilt covered the bed beneath her. She was dressed and her hair loose around her shoulders. He’d only ever seen strands that escaped the loose knot of it when she rode the white filly, and hadn’t realized she had so much. It hung long, past the swell of her breasts. He noticed again how soft and white her bare feet looked.

He wanted to wrap his hands around her feet, or run them through her loose hair. Instead, he touched the quilt. It was yellow, blue, and white . . . ginghams, checks, and solids.

“Did you make this?”

“My mother did.”

“What’s this pattern?” He’d heard the women talking about quilt patterns. This one was full of triangles in circles.

“My mother called it a pickle dish. See how the diamonds shape an oval, like a pickle dish? She used material from some of my girlhood dresses for these pieces.”

“There’s such a thing as a dish just for pickles?” Was she teasing him? He had not sat at a lot of fine tables in his lifetime and couldn’t believe there was such a thing.

“Yes.”

She smiled and took his hand to trace the outline of the dish, sending a warm current through his veins. “These form ovals like four different dishes to make the entire circle. A pickle dish of fine crystal has ridges around the edges, like these diamonds.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It just does.” There was no teasing in her eyes. She didn’t fault him for not knowing.

Careful not to move his hand away, loving the feel of her touch, Hoke looked around the wagon, breathing in the scent of lavender that had stirred in the air when she reached for his hand. “What? You didn’t bring a pickle dish on this trip? You don’t have a real one to show me?”

She laughed and let go of his hand. “No. I don’t even like pickles. I don’t like the sour taste or smell of vinegar.”

Sour smells made him think of blood. “That reminds me, I tore up that outfit you were wearing yesterday. I’m sorry about that, but I needed something quick to plug the holes in your side.”

She winced. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it was already ruined. Corrine has probably salvaged the trimming and got rid of the rest, not wanting to upset me.”

Today she wore a calico blouse, lilac with small buttons up the front and little pleats lining either side. It reminded him of the pleats she’d kept refolding the night they had their last good conversation, before he kissed her and made things awkward between them.

Her deep-purple skirts fanned out over the bed.

Abigail smoothed the wide black sash tied loosely around her waist. As Hoke drank in her surroundings with his ever-thirsty eyes, she grew more self-conscious.

Did it meet his approval?

Why should she care what he thought of her or her surroundings? But she did care. She wanted his approval. She wanted him to think well of her, and not regard her as silly for wanting to match the chair and fabric bags to the rug, or vain for covering her seeping bandages with a black sash or having a mirror nailed to the side of the wagon.

Hoke thought her neither silly nor vain. He thought her fine.

They both started talking at once.

“Thank you for—” began Abigail.

“I wanted to say—” He stopped.

She laughed. “You first.”

Hoke wasn’t used to feeling shy or tongue-tied. “No, you,” he insisted.

Her eyes held his. “Thank you for yesterday. When you brought Lina to me—I don’t know how to tell you how much that meant to me. And I’m so embarrassed that I fainted! I’ve never done that before.”

“Embarrassed?” He was incredulous. “You saved my life!”

She brushed the claim away. “I don’t know about that.”

But his eyes and voice were insistent. “Yes, you did. You saved my life. And before that, you were rounding up women and children and throwing ’em in your wagons. You knew those Indians were circling back around to attack from the other side, and true to your nature, you didn’t squeal and you didn’t run. You started shooting at ’em—runnin’ right toward danger. You wouldn’t listen to me when I told you plainly to stay put in your wagon.” He shook his head. “I should have known you wouldn’t listen to me . . . damn hardheaded woman.”

He wanted to kiss her something fierce. He wanted to crawl up on that clothes-trunk bed and wrap her in his arms and bury his face in her hair, and he might have, but was afraid of hurting her—that, and she had a husband. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself feel this way about a woman with a husband. His instincts usually served him better.

Abigail grinned, and then her expression grew more somber and she swallowed hard. “I’ve never killed anything.”

“I know too well that’s a god-awful feelin’. And I don’t mean to make it worse, but I believe you killed two.”

Her brows pinched tightly, but he kept going. “Altogether, the twenty-four able-bodied men of this wagon train killed four Indians in that skirmish yesterday, and you killed two. If I were putting together a small group to defend this train, I’d want you on my side, Mrs. Baldwyn.