The Indian who was holding Thompson tightened his grip on his throat, causing the man to grunt in pain.
“You will give us the One with Two Shadows,” the Indian said. “Or this man will die.”
* * *
Rourke had never ridden so hard or so fast in his life. Every mile seemed to take forever. While he rode, he studied the shadows, searching for any trace of the Indians who had killed Brand. How far ahead were they? Had they already come upon the wagon train?
A single gunshot shattered the stillness, plunging an icy shaft of fear through his heart. As he crested a hill, he saw the darkened wagons below. Slowing his mount, he peered through the gray light of dawn. Everything appeared normal. There were no cries. He smelled no smoke.
But there had been a gunshot.
Leaving his horse, he made his way down the hill, then crawled toward the wagons. At the scene before him, he froze.
An Indian on horseback was motioning to Abby while the others stood by helplessly. Crawling closer, Rourke could make out her words as she dared to argue with the Indian.
“You. Woman with hair of fire.” The Indian on horseback pointed a finger at Abby. “You will hold your tongue or I will have it cut out.”
Rourke charged from his hiding place, taking aim at the horseman.
“Rourke.” Flinging herself toward him, Abby was caught roughly from behind. She felt the sharp, cold blade of a knife held to her throat.
“You will drop your weapon, or we will kill the woman.”
The words, spoken by the Indian on horseback, caused Rourke to freeze. If he could, he would die for Abby. But he couldn’t live with himself if he were the cause of her death. Throwing aside his gun, Rourke was struck from behind. The blow left him reeling. Seeing the blurred image of a knife at Abby’s throat, he struggled to fight his attacker. Several more Indians, holding the rifles from the wagon train, surrounded him.
The others watched in silence as Rourke was dragged closer, until he was facing Abby and the Indian who held her. Glancing up, they realized they were completely surrounded by armed Indians.
“You will all pay for harming one of The People,” the Indian said.
“Kill me,” Rourke said. “But let the women and children live.”
“All will die.” The one in charge began to bark commands.
A voice that Abby didn’t recognize shattered the silence. Everyone looked in the direction of the Market wagon.
Speaking rapidly, Two Shadows said something that caused the other Indians to lower their weapons. The Indian holding Thompson suddenly released his grip on his throat. Coughing and sputtering, Thompson fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
“The One with Two Shadows says you are telling the truth. He asks that we spare your lives.” The Indian lowered his rifle and stared at Abby. “Because he speaks for his father, we obey.”
Two braves came forward to help Two Shadows from the wagon. Though he leaned heavily on them, he stood erect, his head high, his eyes stern. Before he turned away, he fixed Abby and Violet with a look. “You are very brave. You stand up for what you believe even against your own people. You would make good Cheyenne squaws.”
“You speak our language!” Violet’s eyes were wide with surprise.
“Christian missionaries lived with our people. They taught us your language and customs.”
“But why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you ever speak to us?”
“It was not right for a Cheyenne brave to speak to a lowly white.” For the space of a second, Abby thought she detected laughter behind his grave eyes. “It is also a way to learn what a man really thinks.” His gaze swept the crowd. His voice grew louder. “My half-brother Black Kettle has counseled The People to never trust a white man. When I return, I will stand with him.” Pointing a finger at Abby, he said softly, “But you and this woman will always have safe passage in the land of the Cheyenne. You gave me back my life. I am in your debt, fire woman.”
The entire wagon train watched in shocked silence while the Indians gathered up their horses and weapons. When one of them picked up a rifle, Two Shadows spoke sharply. Instantly the rifle was dropped to the ground.
“We do not take what is not ours. In your wagon, beneath the blanket, is a knife. I feared I would need it to protect myself from your people.”
“A knife?” Abby blanched. “Why didn’t you use it on us?”
The young brave studied her for long minutes. “You saved my life. How could I take yours?”
In a long, majestic procession, the Indians left with the only thing they had come for—the One with Two Shadows, son of their chief.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Lord, receive the body of Thy servant.” Reverend Coulter stood beside the hastily dug hole in the ground.
They buried Brand beside the banks of the Humboldt River. As the blanket-wrapped body was lowered into the grave, Abby felt hot tears scald her eyelids. She blinked them back and tried to concentrate on the words of Reverend Coulter. But all she could hear was Brand’s voice telling her she shouldn’t take the Indian to her wagon.
“You will make many enemies.”
The words rang in her mind as she studied the faces of the people around her. Angry, accusing faces. She could withstand the wrath of the people on the train. What she dreaded was the knowledge that her involvement with Two Shadows had cost Brand his life. She would have to live with that fact forever.
She glanced at Rourke’s grim features. After the Indians had finished with the wagon train, he had stayed only long enough to assure himself that she and the others were safe. Then he had immediately returned to retrieve Brand’s body. The long night of tracking had taken its toll. A rough stubble of beard darkened his chin. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
As Parker and Thompson shoveled dirt on the grave, each member of the train scattered a handful, then moved silently away. When it was Abby’s turn, she paused and fell to one knee. A few steps away, Rourke watched her in grim silence.
Dropping a wildflower into the grave, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Brand. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry. You were right.” A tear squeezed from her lid and coursed down her cheek. Ignoring it, she tossed a handful of sand on the body, then took several steps back.
As the others bent to scoop up dirt to toss on the grave, Rourke spun on his heel and headed toward the cook wagon.
He was angry, and he didn’t know why. He was angry at Abby, for nearly getting herself killed over an Indian. And yet he knew she had been right to take Two Shadows in and minister to his needs.
He was angry at Brand for not coming to get him before tracking those Indians. And yet Brand knew that Rourke was needed to keep an eye on the Market wagon.
He was angry at the people on the train, for turning their backs on Abby and Violet. And yet he understood their fears.
Maybe the anger was directed at himself, he realized. He had failed Abby. He had left her alone, to face whatever danger might be out there, while he tracked a dead scout. He had failed Abby, just as he had once failed Katherine. Duty. That damned sense of duty that drove him to put the needs of some ahead of the needs of others.
They’d needed him in that ugly War Between the States. But Katherine had needed him more. And he hadn’t been there for her. He’d left her alone to face unspeakable horrors. He’d failed her.
Mordecai had hired him to keep the members of this train safe. And while he was looking out for their needs, Abby had needed him more. And he hadn’t been there for her. He had failed her. And she was left to bear the burden of guilt.
He should try to comfort her. But what good were empty words? He had no right getting involved in other people’s lives. He would only end up letting them down.
Lathering his face, he began to make short, quick strokes across his chin with the straight razor. All the while, thoughts of his failures simmered. With a muttered oath he watched blood ooze up through the soapy foam. Undeterred, he continued shaving, and managed to cut himself three more times. Swearing under his breath, he washed off the blood, dried his face, and pulled on a fresh shirt.
Pulling himself into the saddle, he rode out ahead of the train. He didn’t feel like being around people. What he wanted was to be left alone.
* * *
By the time the wagon train broke camp, the sun was high overhead. Across the flat, arid land, Mordecai set a brisk pace, hoping to make up for the hours lost. He intended as well to keep the travelers too busy to think about their troubles. Already he’d heard the grumblings of several families, suggesting that the Market women were to blame for Brand’s death. The wagon master knew from experience that talk like that could be dangerous. It would become too simple for the travelers to blame all their troubles on someone else.
Mordecai had watched the gradual changes in the people on his train. Jed and Nancy Garner were the perfect examples of what this harsh land did to people. Those two had reached the breaking point. Nancy, once a model wife, was mired in self-pity. She had no energy left for her husband and child. She no longer bothered to wash, or to change her ragged clothes. Her hair was filthy and uncombed. Jed had begun drinking nightly with James Market, completely ignoring the needs of his wife and young son.
On the other hand, Reverend Coulter and his wife were overjoyed with their new little Jenny. For the first time, they felt like a family. But Evelyn had become so overprotective of their baby, fearful of the elements, of Indians, of the unknown, she allowed no one on the train to get close to her. And the reverend, always so outgoing, had begun to pull back from his position of leadership, eager to spend as much time as possible with his wife and baby. The spiritual needs of the travelers were being ignored. And without spiritual leadership, they were bound to falter.
The other families, too, seemed to have drawn a protective ring around their members. Since Abby had brought the Indian into their midst, Doralyn Peel had never once allowed Jonathon out of her sight. The children, cut off from their friends, had become sullen and fearful. Now, with the menace gone, the children were as frisky and unmanageable as new colts.
“Rider approaching.”
Parker’s call interrupted Mordecai’s musings.
As the rider grew closer, they recognized Rourke’s dust-covered mount.
“A couple of miles from here the river turns again. Looks like we’ll have to cross.”
Parker groaned. The meandering river had to be followed. Even though its water had become increasingly salty tasting, it provided the travelers with their only source for drinking. But everyone on the train had begun to hate the repeated crossings, as the sluggish Humboldt crisscrossed the land.
“We’ll cross, then make camp,” Mordecai called. “I think they’ve had enough for one day.”
Rourke nodded. Glancing along the row of slowly moving wagons, he spotted Abby walking beside her aunt. At that moment she looked up. Their gazes met and held. He lifted his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, then replaced the hat. She continued to walk, her spine stiff, her head high. Her gaze stayed locked with his.
Wheeling his mount, he took off in a cloud of dust, feeling her gaze boring into his back.
Abby watched Rourke until he and his horse were only a cloud of dust on the horizon.
When he had returned in the early morning with Brand’s body, he had made straight for the cook wagon. There had been no chance for them to speak. Immediately after the burial, he had ridden off, probably to take on Brand’s duties as scout. But something in his eyes worried her. There was a simmering anger there. An anger that she had noticed when he’d first joined the wagon train. In the last few weeks, she thought some of that anger had disappeared. Or had she only imagined it because she wanted to believe it?
Carrie and Aunt Vi were the dreamers, she told herself firmly. There was no room in her life for anything except harsh reality. He was Rourke. A loner. A gunman hired to protect this train. And whatever softness or kindness she had thought she’d seen in him was the result of a vivid imagination. He did his job well. Too well. She had a sudden image of Rourke in the gray light of dawn, eyes wide, teeth bared, ready to take on an entire company of Indians in order to protect the people on the train. There had been a fierceness, a raging determination in him to fight to the end. She had known a moment of panic, thinking that she was about to witness his death.
“You’re too quiet, Abby,” Violet said softly.
“I was thinking about… Rourke.”
“He is a true friend, child. He stuck by us through a most difficult time.”
“He was only doing his job, Aunt Vi.”
Violet turned her head to study her niece. The deliberate flatness of Abby’s tone left her no doubt of her confused feelings. “Mr. Rourke is a very good man. Of that I have no doubt.”
“He’s a gunman, Aunt Vi. He gets paid to protect us.”
“No one paid him to stay awake at night so we could sleep safely. No one paid him to mend our wagon wheel, or do the other chores he took on for the past few weeks.”
Abby fell silent. It was true that no one paid him to be kind to them. Still, he was avoiding her. She could sense it. And the only reason she could think of was that he already regretted his kindness to her and her aunt.
* * *
Crossing the Humboldt should have been an ordinary event. The wagon train had already crossed it four times since first encountering it in Nevada Territory. But the people were weary, their senses dulled by the long journey and the frightening incident with the Cheyennes.
The cook wagon and the two wagons following it crossed without incident. But from then on everything seemed to go wrong.
The Market wagon broke an axle during the crossing. The team was unhitched and led to the far shore. Everything in the wagon had to be unloaded and floated across to shore. When the axle was repaired, the team was led back and hitched up. By the time the wagon was hauled ashore and once again loaded, Abby and Violet were forced to make a hurried meal to satisfy a furious James. While he ate in sullen silence, Abby thought about the meals she and Violet had prepared these past days for Rourke.