The Crossed Sabres (6 page)

“Tom,” his mother said gently, “she’s . . .not alone.” He stared at her uncomprehendingly, and Rebekah forced herself to go on. “Your father did everything he could to trace her, but all he could find out was that she left on the train . . .with a man. A couple, the woman fitting Marlene’s description, got as far as New Orleans.”

Speechless and stunned, Tom tried to gather his thoughts together. Finally he said, “I’m going to find her. If she doesn’t want me, that’s up to her. But the child will be mine!”

“I thought you would,” Rebekah nodded. “But remember, Tom, it’ll be her child, too. Don’t do anything foolish.”

The agony in his heart registered in his eyes as he groaned, “What could I do more foolish than what I’ve already done?”

The next two months he spent recuperating, getting his strength back. He hadn’t realized how utterly spent he was—emotionally and physically. He said little, listened a great deal, and as he grew stronger he began doing tasks around the place.

During that time, he watched Pet and Thad, happy for them, but saddened to know that the love they had would
never come to him. His sister Belle, who had been so filled with bitterness when her husband had been killed at Antietam, had found happiness with Davis Winslow, a distant relative. Tom liked his new brother-in-law, and was happy when Belle’s father-in-law, a wealthy man, financed the rebuilding of the plantation. He’d been worried about his parents, and was grateful that they were being cared for.

Mark, he saw, was restless, and knew that his older brother would never be satisfied to stay at Belle Maison. Nor would Dan. He had already told the family he was going to Texas. Though the war had not killed the brothers, it had somehow shattered the ties.

The day arrived when Tom was ready to leave. In his heart he knew he would not see his brothers for a long time—perhaps for good. He bade them goodbye and then turned to his folks.

“Come back if you can, Tom. We’ll be here,” his father said, forcing some money into his son’s hand as he left.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

He boarded the train for New Orleans and began his search for Marlene. It was a cold trail, for her parents were dead, and he could locate no other relatives, but he continued his pursuit. For weeks he walked the streets, sometimes approaching strangers to ask if they had seen the woman whose picture he carried. Most of them looked at him with compassion but could give him no information.

By now his money was running low, and just as he was convinced that he was on the wrong trail, he got a lead.

Tom had become acquainted with the owner of Mack’s Cafe, and one June evening as he stopped in for supper, Mack waved him to one side, saying excitedly, “Tom, I think maybe I got something on your wife!”

Mack’s Cafe was not fancy, but the food was good and cheap. Mack himself was a thickset Irishman, red-faced and pugnacious. He’d felt sorry for Tom, having had a daughter run away under similar circumstances. He’d kept a copy of
the picture of Marlene that Tom had made, asking people from time to time if they’d seen the woman.

“What is it?”

“Well, a guy comes in here sometimes—not too often. He works in one of them big charity hospitals, St. Joseph’s. He came in tonight, and I showed him your wife’s picture. Bless my mother’s memory if he didn’t say she’s in the hospital, about to have a baby!”

“Mack, was he
sure?
”

“Swore on his daddy’s wooden leg,” Mack said, his eyes shining. “He said there wasn’t no two ways about it. Said you could come and see for yourself. He couldn’t remember her name, but it wasn’t Winslow. But they can’t have too many women about to have babies, can they? You can check them all!”

“How do I get there, Mack?” Tom got directions and ran out the door. He had no money to spare for a street car, so he walked all the way, finding the hospital with no trouble. When he entered, he asked the black-robed woman in charge, “Can you help me? I’m looking for a woman who’s about to have a baby.”

“We’ll need more information,” said the nun. “Let me get the director.”

A slight man with thick glasses named Father Matthew approached Tom and listened carefully, asked a few questions, then said, “You can see her, but . . .”

Tom noted the hesitation and asked the priest, “What’s wrong?”

“Well . . .she’s having difficulty. It’s a hard delivery, Mr. Winslow.”

Tom sensed there was more. “Is she . . .going to live?”

The question troubled the priest. He took off his glasses, breathed on them, then polished them. When he had settled them on his nose, he said quietly, “Our doctor doesn’t think so, but God is always able.”

“Can I see her now?”

“Certainly.”

When Father Matthew admitted him to the room and stepped outside, Tom walked to the bed. A doctor with a large pale face and a heavy beard was leaning over the patient.

“Who are you?” he said as Tom drew near.

Tom looked down, shocked at what he saw. Marlene’s face looked like a skeleton, and pain had drained her of every grace. “I’m her husband,” he answered hoarsely.

“She’s very ill, I’m afraid,” the doctor said. He hesitated, then added, “Stay with her. Call if she wakes up.”

Tom nodded, numb with grief. He stared at his wife, unable to believe what he saw. It was not supposed to be like this, he thought. The shocks of the war had never produced in him anything like the fear that rose within.

Then she opened her eyes.

“Marlene? It’s me, Tom.”

She stared at him out of hollow eyes, seeming not to recognize him. Then she said distinctly, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to come, Marlene!”

“No.” Then pain began to twist her swollen body. When the pain subsided, she gasped out, “I never loved you, Tom. It was always Spence!”

No!
his mind cried, but he knew it was true.

She went on. “I was all right—until I heard that he was alive—”

“Alive? He was killed in the war!”

“No—taken prisoner!” she gasped. “He wrote me—and we kept on writing.”

Suddenly the truth hit Tom. “Spence Grayson. He’s the man you came here with?”

“Yes!” Then she began to scream.

The door burst open. The doctor took one look and said, “You’d better wait outside!”

Five hours later, Marlene died. Before she went, the doctor sent for him.

She looked up, eyes hooded with shadow, and said again, “I never loved you, Tom—it was always Spence—”

A sense of utter emptiness filled him, and he turned away.

A nurse nearby, holding a small bundle, stopped him. “This is your daughter, sir,” she said.

Tom halted, then looked down at the baby as the face turned red and eyes squinted shut, ready to give forth a sharp cry of protest.

“Will you be leaving her with us, Mr. Winslow?”

Tom turned to find Father Matthew, who had come to stand beside him.

He reached out and took the little one from the nurse, tucking his finger inside his daughter’s tiny fist, and his heart was comforted by the tug of her hand on his. She was his. She would receive his love.

“No, Father Matthew,” he whispered. “No, she’ll be going with me!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Laurie

Ten years had passed since Mark Winslow had worn a Confederate uniform, yet he still bore a military stance about himself as he stepped off the train and walked toward the ticket office. The pungent odor of woodsmoke from the engine filled the air, and the Wyoming sun burned so brightly he had to squint.

A stubby man with a ruddy complexion glanced up as Mark entered the one-room station. “Help you?”

“Can I rent a horse or a buggy to get to Fort Sanders?”

“Sho’ly. Brand’s Stable, right across from the hotel.”

“Thanks.”

Winslow made his way along the dusty path that led away from the station to a group of weather-beaten buildings scattered across the rolling hills adjacent to the tracks. The stable was no more than a single barn, the paint long ago stripped bare by the sun and the winds. Four horses nibbled at the fresh sprigs of emerald grass pushing through the rocky corral floor. Leaning back against the barn on a cane-bottomed chair sat a man in faded overalls and a cavalry forage cap. Next to him squatted a boy of ten or so. The pair looked so alike it was comical, but Mark repressed a smile, saying, “I need to rent a horse.”

“Shore, Cap’n,” the man nodded, getting up and closing the knife he had been cleaning his nails with. “Got a nice mare. Goin’ to the fort?”

“That’s right.” Mark took a drink from the well nearby as
the hostler threw a saddle on a long-legged bay. He noticed the boy watching him covertly, and he smiled, asking in a tone he would have used to another man, “The hunting any good around here?”

The boy’s lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. “Not bad.” He hesitated, then added nonchalantly, “I got me a ten-point buck a few days ago.”

“Ten point? Why, that’s a good buck. Hard shot?”

“Naw. Ain’t hard when you get the hang of it.”

Mark grinned and turned to take the reins of the mare. He swung up onto the saddle and was almost jolted off as the horse pitched, trying to do just that. He tightened his grip and pulled her head up, liking her spirit. “Lively thing, isn’t she?”

“Figured you could handle her,” the hostler said. He squinted in the sun, looking up at Mark. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Name’s Winslow,” Mark replied. “I work for the Union Pacific.” He held the horse’s head up, leaned over and patted her neck. When he looked up he said, “I don’t think I remember you.”

“Prob’ly not,” the man smiled. “I was one of the hooligans you throwed in the pokey the night you and Dooley Young cleaned up the town. My name’s Wiley Hopper.” He pulled off his hat and touched a faint scar on his forehead. “Guess you left your calling card on me that night.”

Mark was instantly alert, his eyes narrowing. He had met men before whom he’d had trouble with when he was assistant superintendent of construction for the UP. At that time it had been a wild, rough town, and his main job of keeping order along the tracks hadn’t been easy, sometimes needing to use fists and guns freely. But the hostler didn’t seem to be hostile. “Sorry about that,” Mark said. “It was a pretty tough town in those days.”

“Shore. Things ain’t the same now, Mr. Winslow.”

Winslow returned his smile. “Well, that’s a good thing. Glad to see you again, Hopper. I’ll be back tomorrow in time
to catch the 3:15.” He nodded to the boy. “Wish I had time to have you take me out after a buck, young fellow.” Then he touched his heels to the flanks of the mare, and she shot out of the lot as if she were in a race.

As Mark rode away, the boy asked, “He really the one who gave you that gash, Pa?”

Hopper sobered as the memory of that wild night came back to him. He’d been part of a bunch hired by the saloon owners to handle Winslow, to put him out of business. There’d been enough of them, he thought, remembering how they’d caught Winslow off guard, coming at him out of an alley as he walked the streets. He’d had one man with him, and they’d both gone down, but somehow the two had gotten to their feet. He remembered the cold blue flash of Winslow’s eyes as he’d pulled his gun and begun slashing right and left, sending men to the dirt. There had been enough men to handle him, but Winslow would not go down; and the last thing Hopper remembered was the flash of those eyes as the barrel of a .44 crashed into his head.

“Yep, that’s the hairpin, all right, Judd.”

“Aw, he looks like a dude!” the boy protested. “Bet he couldn’t do it now!”

Hopper shook his head. “Well, let’s don’t give him no reason, okay? He still looks pretty tough to me, even if he does wear fine duds. He’s a vice-president of the Union Pacific now. Guess he don’t have to wrestle around with tough fellows like us no more.” He took one more look at the disappearing horseman, then sat down and pulled his knife from his pocket. “Let’s go after another buck next Saturday, Judd.” But as he opened his knife, he thought,
He looks about as ringy as he did when he cleaned up every hell-on-wheels from Omaha to Ogden!

****

The trail that led to the fort ran dogleg fashion up and down and around little folds of the earth, past an occasional
house, past Indians riding head down and indifferent, their toes pointed outward, their shoulders stooped. He covered the five miles until he came to a highland upon which the fort sat, austere and blunt as it rose from the rolling plain. Passing through the gates after a casual inspection by a private, he rode to the largest of several frame buildings formed in the shape of an L. He dismounted, tied the mare firmly to the hitching post, and entered the adjutant’s office. He was greeted warmly by a large man wearing the insignia of a major. “Well, Mark, what wind blows you out here?”

“Hello, Phil,” Mark smiled. “Came out to see if Martha’s keeping you in line.” Phil Delaney and his wife Martha were good friends of Mark’s, visiting when he traveled the road of the Union or when the Delaneys came to New York on rare occasions.

“You didn’t bring Lola with you?”

“Not this time. She said to tell you she’s going to be put out if you and Martha don’t come to stay with us this year.”

“We were talking about that the other day. I think we can swing it. Come on into my office.” The two men moved to the small room furnished with a battered desk, a table, and two chairs. They sat and talked for a time about families; then Major Delaney asked, “Did you come out to see Tom?”

“That’s right. Is he here?”

“Yes. Just got back last week from a three-month trip up to Powder River. Don’t see how he does it, Mark!” Delaney shook his head, adding, “He’s sure a moving man. Never likes to stay put.”

“How’s Laurie?”

“Oh, well enough, I suppose but . . .” Delaney hesitated as though troubled. He was not a man who spoke his mind lightly, and to give himself time to think, he got up and pulled an olla from where it hung on the wall by a thong. He poured two glasses of water, pushed one toward Mark, then hung up the jug and sat down again. Mark said nothing as the major sipped the tepid water, well aware of Delaney’s habits.