Magnificent Passage (8 page)

She didn't miss the men's amused smiles at her action. Apparently they enjoyed making her feel uncomfortable. Shaking their heads, they stretched out on their bedrolls beside the fire.

Mandy lay tossing and turning. The stillness overwhelmed her. She knew the men were sleeping; she could hear James Long's occasional snore. The night was clear
and crisp. Every star in the heavens was brightly visible, and they were so close to the horizon they seemed to surround her. Tall pines spread their branches like deep green gables, but they were no comfort. She listened anxiously, hearing first one frightening sound, then another. When a coyote howled, she shrieked and ran toward the fire.

Both men jumped to their feet. “What's the matter?” James asked worriedly. “Hawk, did you see anything?” James scanned the camp for any sign of trouble.

“I heard a noise,” Mandy told them sheepishly. “I . . . I . . . guess I got a little frightened.” She knew she was being silly, but her heart pounded just the same. She'd heard a thousand coyotes, but never when she was alone, miles from home, with two men she didn't know.

“It's only a coyote,” James said, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Go back to sleep.”

“Not so brave now, eh, city girl?” Langley grumbled, heading back to his place by the fire.

“I was just surprised, that's all.” Mandy wished she hadn't let them know she was afraid. She'd be lucky to get any sleep at all. She was far more worried about the two-legged coyotes near the fire than the four-legged ones on the hill.

As she returned to her bedroll, she reflected on the coming ordeal. She hoped being raised in a military family would give her some advantage. She recalled her early years when she rode constantly, climbed trees, hiked, and fished with the boys. She used to be able to sit a horse better than most men. She could also shoot a rifle and a sidearm and do a little tracking. She'd ridden some with her father these past few years, but not as much as she would have liked.

Her thoughts turned to the man who'd raised her, to the
last five miserable years she'd spent with him. He'd become completely unreachable. She guessed something inside him must have snapped after her mother died. It was one of the reasons she understood her younger cousin so well—they both had experienced great loss at an early age, and both were raised by men unable to show their love.

She was thankful it had toughened her in some ways. But she wished she could be a little tougher when it came to men. She had so little experience, and her father had painted such a dismal picture of what men were like, that her heart beat wildly every time she thought of spending more than three weeks alone on the trail with these two. It had all seemed so easy, almost unreal, when she and Julia had been making plans. Now that she was here—alone with them—it was a whole different story.
What could Uncle William have been thinking—sending men after Julia with no chaperone?

Hawk returned to sleep somewhat fitfully. He always kept an ear cocked for intruders; it was something he'd taught himself years ago. Now, as he slept, he tossed and turned and, against his will, the dream came.

He was a small boy again huddled on a pallet of threadbare woolens in the back of a canvas-covered wagon. His body looked shrunken and frail; his sandy hair lay dull and matted across his forehead. Beads of perspiration ran down the hollows of his cheeks.

“Papa . . . Papa? . . . Where . . . are you, Papa?” He tossed and turned, moaning as he slept. He felt a hand on his forehead and bolted upright.

“It's all right, boy.” His uncle Martin leaned over him. “Gonna take us both a while to git used to your pa and ma bein' gone.”

Travis straightened, fighting the sting behind his eyes. His father would have wanted him to be strong. “It ain't fair, Uncle Marty. Why'd it have to happen to them?” His cheeks burned with heat. He always got angry when he thought of the accident, though he knew it was nobody's fault.

“Don't seem like life ever is fair, boy. Your Aunt Beulah and me worked hard all our lives. We ain't never cheated no one. Always tried to do what's right, but our boy was taken from us just like your ma and pa. Who can understand the ways of the Almighty?” Uncle Marty scratched his beard-stubbled chin. “Maybe the three of us gittin' together makes up fer some of it.” His uncle smiled.

The dream flashed backward to another place, another time. At first hazy, then sharply focused.

He was talking with his father—a “man-to-man talk.” They were riding in the shiny open carriage, moving along the shaded streets of St. Louis. They stopped in front of the family's two-story colonial home and his father laid a hand on Travis's shoulder.

“I'm going to be doing some traveling for a while, son,” his father said. “Things are getting a little tight financially, and it's time I did something about it. I want you to watch out for your mother. You're the man of the family when I'm away, and I expect you to be in charge.” His father gave him a big bear hug. “I'm proud of you, son.”

The dream clouded, then cleared.

Thomas Rutherford, dressed in a somber black suit, sat next to him on the settee in the parlor of his home.

“I'm sorry, son,” he was saying, “they're gone. Wheel sheared off the carriage while they were crossing Potter's stream. Your father and mother drowned beneath the wreckage.” Mr. Rutherford's arm went around Travis's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

Travis didn't move or say a word.

“I'm afraid there won't be much money left after the bills are paid. I'd like to take you in, but your uncle Martin thinks you belong with family. He's headin' west. Looks like you'll be going with him.”

The dream came full circle.

He was back in the wagon, the sun just beginning to creep over the horizon to outline the rugged mountains in the east. He could see the stiff mesquite scrub bending slightly in the brisk morning breeze, the dark sky fading to a rose-hued gold. He caught the first stirring of activity in the other two camps just a few yards away. As they'd had no money for the protection offered by a wagon train, they were traveling west with just two other families.

Travis watched the brightening sky, pulled on his shirt and trousers, and waited for a little warmth to seep into the nightly desert chill.

He saw them just before their piercing screams echoed across the camp. The eerie sounds chilled him worse than his fever. He stood motionless, so still he could feel the hair rise at the back of his neck.

Uncle Marty leaped over the wagon tongue, grabbed a rifle, and stuffed a long-bladed skinning knife into the top of his drawers.

Aunt Beulah sobbed hysterically. She scanned the hordes of painted attackers; her calloused hands twisted the
apron tied over her calico dress. The ground thundered with the sounds of running horses, their hooves jarring the hard dry earth.

Travis jumped down and ran toward his uncle, just as his aunt ducked beneath the wagon.

“Uncle Marty,” Travis cried out, “there's so many of 'em! What are we gonna do?” They were already so close he could see their naked brown flesh, painted and glistening with sweat.

“Get under the wagon, boy—and pray!” was all his uncle had time to say before stumbling off to join the other two men running across the clearing.

Shrieks and screams filled the air. Travis turned just in time to see a warrior, his face a mask of red glowing with hideous, white-circled eyes, thrust a hand beneath the wagon.

“Aunt Beulah!” Travis watched her scramble away frantically, tripping over the hem of her skirt as she tried to escape. She fell to her knees, sobbing, pleading. The warrior didn't hesitate. He plunged the shaft of his knife between her breasts, and she crumpled to the dusty earth.

“Nooo!” Travis screamed, tears of rage and frustration running down his cheeks. People he loved were dying. He couldn't let it happen again!

He rushed forward and leapt onto the Indian's back just as old Mrs. Murphy aimed her husband's worn musket and fired. The warrior made a strangled noise, ran forward, and fell dead at the woman's feet.

“There's one I'll take with me,” she cackled. She kicked the dead Indian and started reloading.

Travis heard the whistle, then the sickening thud of the arrow as it entered her spine.

He pulled himself to his feet. Racing forward, he dodged several attackers. A tomahawk blow sent a man spinning into the dust. Travis ran on. Nothing mattered now except reaching his uncle's side. Just a few more feet. He saw the big painted brave hurl a lance. The lance whistled by, a blur of feathers and paint. The shaft impaled his uncle to the wagon. Uncle Marty's blood oozed into the desert sand.

Covered with blood and sick with the sight of death around him, Travis raised his eyes to a thickset, dog-faced warrior glistening with sweat and blood and paint. Travis could hear his own heart pounding. He glanced from the Indian to his uncle's lifeless body, then back to the warrior, who whooped victoriously.

Travis clenched his teeth and attacked. He pummeled the Indian's chest, scratched, and clawed, but the squat warrior knocked him aside, a quick, sharp blow hurling him into the dirt at the Indian's feet.

The man bent over Travis before he could rise, pulling his hands behind his back and binding them with a rawhide thong, then tying his flailing feet. With a loud hoot, the warrior lifted him easily. He dragged him toward a spotted horse and carelessly flung him across the animal's withers. He could feel the animal's sweaty coat, the bony back pressed into his middle. The Indian swung up behind him.

Travis struggled against the leather that bound his hands, felt it cut into his flesh, but couldn't make it budge. He could see painted warriors stripping the wagons, hear their gruesome shouts of triumph with every new discovery.
Then they began scalping and mutilating the bodies of the dead.

The wagons were burned to blackened skeletons, and vultures circled the last wispy black tendrils of smoke that rose into a lighted sky before the brave who had captured him crossed the first ridge.

A noise pierced the haze of his dream. His bowie flashed. Travis grabbed the intruder's foot, jerked him heavily to the ground, rolled on top, and shoved the blade beneath the man's chin.

The intruder's high-pitched gasp and weak struggle brought Hawk fully awake. He stared into huge green eyes, luminous with fear. Silky strands of chestnut hair cushioned his hands.

“Damn you, woman! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Don't ever do that again. Not to me or any other man worth his salt!” He could feel the girl tremble beneath him, her bosom rapidly rising and falling against his chest.

“I . . . I . . . You looked like you were having a bad dream. I just wanted to . . . I was just trying to help.”

Hawk could barely concentrate on the girl's words. God, she was a beauty. Her face glowed softly in the yellow rays of dawn. Full red lips, slightly parted in surprise, exposed her delicate pink tongue.

Beginning to feel the stirrings of arousal, he rolled away. He pulled the girl to her feet. Her face looked pale, and her riding habit was covered with dust and twigs. He took a deep breath, a little unsettled at what had happened.

“I'm sorry. All right? Just don't do me any more favors.
You might wind up dead. I'd have a helluva time explaining that to your father.”

She brushed herself off, her fear receding and anger flaring in its place. “You try to kill me, and you're worried about my father?”

Hawk ignored her. The sky was pinkening with first light. It was time they were away. “Look, lady, you'd better get your bedding rolled up. We'll be leaving as soon as we eat.”

Mandy set her jaw and marched back to her sleeping pallet. How dare he treat me this way, she thought. Visions of the big man, his dark eyes flashing, his hard body pressing against hers, intruded on her anger. He was an odd man, that one. She wondered what his nightmare was about. He seemed to be struggling with some unknown enemy, fighting for his very life. She'd only meant to help him, the ungrateful lout. Well, she wouldn't make that mistake again.