Frontier Courtship Part 7

Two days out, he came upon a Cheyenne and Arapaho hunting party in search of buffalo. Seeing members of the two tribes together had become a common sight, especially after the summer council of 1840 had drawn them, plus the Kiowa and the Comanche, to the Arkansas River to make peace amongst themselves.

Ascertaining that he and the hunting party were moving in the same general direction as the Tucker train, Connell spent the next three days riding with the Indians and communicating by means of rudimentary language and sign. To his relief, the hunters treated him like a long-lost relative.

The young men in the party were upset about the presence of so many wagons crossing their hunting grounds, and rightly so, Connell thought. Westward migration of Eastern settlers as well as the influx of Mexicans from the south was unstoppable, and the tribes were only now beginning to realize what all that meant to them.

In the course of the evening meal on the third day, he'd shown them Irene's picture. To his great surprise, Lone Buffalo had nodded solemnly.

"You've seen her?" Connell asked.

Another nod.

"Where?" He had trouble feigning calm in the face of such news, but he knew if he demonstrated much excitement, his cautious companions might choose to tell him no more.

Lone Buffalo pointed north. "Black Kettle camp."

"In the Big Horn Mountains?"

The young Indian recoiled at the use of the settlers' name for such a sacred place, but he nevertheless nodded affirmatively.

None of the others in the hunting party could confirm the sighting. Still, the lead provided the first glimmer of hope Connell had had in months. Could the woman with Black Kettle really be his Irene? Maybe. And if not, he still had the G.o.d-given responsibility to visit the camp and try to rescue whoever was being held captive there. He might not be a Bible-quoting zealot or a churchgoing man, but he was a believer just the same.

Although he'd prayed fervently and long that he'd find Irene in a white man's settlement, he knew she could have done worse than to wind up with the Cheyenne. Of all the Plains tribes, they were the least likely to force her into a quick marriage, since their normal courting rituals took from one year to as long as five. Then again, if she was considered a slave instead of having been adopted into the tribe, those customs wouldn't apply to her.

Connell's jaw clenched. He forced himself to consider various options. If, by tribal custom, she now belonged to one of the Cheyenne families, that relationship could pose a worse problem. It was far easier to purchase a slave than it was to convince a bride's father, adoptive or not, that he'd make a worthy husband.

It would be better to make a formal appeal than to simply grab her and make a run for it, he reasoned. Black Kettle would definitely not take kindly to having one of his band spirited away, no matter what the reason.

What he needed, Connell decided, were twenty good, fast horses as a show of his wealth and importance. Trouble was, he had so little money that, unless he intended to adopt the age-old Indian custom of stealing them, that particular option was out of the question. It was times like these that he wished he hadn't been raised with Christian values. To the Indian, stealing wasn't a sin, it was merely a contest of skill and daring, a besting of one's enemies. Instead of feeling guilt after a raid the way he would have, they celebrated victory.

Bedding down by the communal fire, Connell worked out his next moves in his mind. First, he'd return to Faith, explain what he'd learned, and tell her not to look for him at Independence Rock. Then he'd head for Black Kettle's camp and try to convince the chief that, as Irene's betrothed, he had the right to claim her no matter what her current status. Even if the woman captive turned out to be a stranger, he'd liberate her and see her safely to the nearest fort before he resumed his original search. The plan was simple. All he needed were trade goods, courage and a colossal marvel.

Early the following day, Connell packed the fresh buffalo meat he'd been given for his partic.i.p.ation in the hunt, bid his traveling companions goodbye and headed out to intercept the emigrant trail. It was nearly sunset when he finally spied the smoke from the cooking fires of the Tucker train.

Reining in his horse, he paused on a slight rise to watch the activity in the camp and see where Faith's modest rig had wound up when they'd stopped for the night.

As was the routine, each wagon was backed up over the tongue of the one behind, forming a large circle and leaving only a narrow pa.s.sage from the outside into the enclosure. Stretched across that pa.s.sage, wheel to wheel, was a heavy chain that formed a gate and kept the loose livestock secure for the night.

Connell spotted the Beal wagon just to the right of the makeshift gate. Inside the circle, oxen milled around with horses, mules and an occasional goat brought along for milk when no freshened cow was available. Attached to the side of several of the wagons were slatted coops containing laying hens, although he imagined they'd wind up in the stew pot before long rather than have precious food and water wasted on them.

Dismounting, he led Rojo behind a hill where they could hunker down against the rising north wind and dropping temperature. No chance to keep a fire going tonight, not with the weather worsening.

He shivered, looking up at the gathering clouds and smelling the moisture in the air. Chances were, he and everything he owned were going to get good and soaked before morning.

"Over my dead body," Ab grumbled as he climbed into the supply wagon.

Stuart snorted in derision. "That can be arranged. I don't make the rules, old man."

"But criminy, Stu, we're gonna freeze out there and get soaked to boot. Why couldn't he pick a dry night?"

"How do I know? Probably figures most folks'll be inside, keepin' out of the storm, so's we won't be so likely to be seen. You ought to thank him." He reached into a burlap sack and pulled out a beaded band of bedraggled feathers and three sorry-looking arrows.

"Don't suppose any of these green settlers will notice that's a Blackfoot headdress and Sioux arrows, do ya?" Ab remarked, stripping off his shirt and sitting down to remove his run-down cavalry boots.

"Naw. Not a chance. To them, an Indian's an Indian. Besides, we'll be in and gone with the girl before most of 'em even wake up."

Ab sighed. "One of these days we're gonna get shot playin' Injun for Tucker."

"Just as long as we don't get separated like last time. You're lucky you were able to handle the Wellman woman alone."

"Yeah." Ab busied himself lacing up the tall tops of his moccasins.

"Tonight, we sneak in together, grab this one and ride. No fancy stuff, you hear? The cap'n said."

"Okay, okay." Ab stood, shivering in the icy dampness that had invaded the supply wagon. "Get the blasted war paint and let's get this over with before I freeze to death."

Stuart soon finished decorating himself and his unwilling companion, picked up the arrows, selected one and put the others back. "We'll have to barter for more of these man-stickers pretty soon if Tucker wants a sign left every time we pull a raid."

Peering first into the darkness to make sure they wouldn't be seen, he led the way out of the wagon and faded into the night. As soon as the rain began in earnest, they'd work their way back to the camp, shove the arrow into the canvas cover over the Beal wagon and make off with Faith, just as the captain had instructed.

That was the easy part. What came next was going to be harder to stomach. He'd kind of taken a liking to the girl. Slitting her throat, scalping her and burying her body in the wild was going to be a lot rougher than most of the other folks he'd killed. He almost hated to do it this time.

Frightened by the lightning and nearly continuous rumble of far-off thunder, the draft animals enclosed by the circle of wagons milled restlessly. A lone dog barked in reply to the distant howls of coyotes.

By the time rain began to pelt the canvas above her pallet, Faith was already up and dressed, preparing to go outside and rea.s.sure her mules.

Charity, having made a temporary peace with her sister, was huddled beneath their quilts instead of sleeping in the Ledbetter wagon as she had been of late.

"I don't see why you have to go out there," the younger girl whined, peeking over the top of the calico fabric, her fair hair in total disarray. "Come back to bed before you hurt yourself again. Captain Tucker will see to our stock for us."

"He won't touch those mules while I still have breath in my body," Faith said flatly. "Go back to sleep."

"How can I when you're running all over the camp like some hoyden? Look what it got you back at the fort."

Faith made a face at her. "You didn't think of that all by yourself. Who's been calling me names?"

"n.o.body. Not exactly. Mrs. Ledbetter just says you should remember you're a lady, the way I do."

"Oh, she does, does she? Well, don't waste your time worrying about me. I'll do what I have to do."

Charity's response was to hunker down in the bed and pull the covers up higher.

Faith belted the heavy Colt over her hips beneath an old, oversize India-rubber slicker that had belonged to their father, stuffed her feet into an old pair of shoes she'd walked holes in before they'd reached the valley of the Platte, and tied her slat bonnet on her head. The cotton fabric wouldn't afford much protection against the driving rain, but she needed to wear something familiar so Ben and the other mules would recognize her. Otherwise, she'd have little luck approaching them, especially when they were already so spooked.

Calling to Ben, she threw back the canvas flap and climbed down out of the wagon. Water borne on the unseasonable gale stung her cheeks like freezing sleet, its force whipping at her skirts and making her stagger. b.u.mping against the sideboards, she was thankful Charity had rewrapped her bruised ribs so tightly.

From where Faith stood, it appeared that few others had left their warm beds to check on their livestock personally. She wasn't surprised, since the makeshift corral did offer considerable protection and there were regular guards posted at the four points of the compa.s.s.

Ben quickly responded to her call. His long ears were up and alert and he seemed truly glad to see her as he trotted over and tried to tuck his velvety, graying nose into the front of her slicker.

Stepping behind him for shelter from the wind, Faith hugged his neck and chuckled. "You're spoiled rotten, you know that? Trust me. If I had an apple I'd give it to you. Honest, I would."

She'd been treating the old mule with fresh apples for as long as she could remember, often sneaking into her mother's root cellar to help herself to them after picking season was long past. Undoubtedly, Ben was the reason they'd had fewer winter apple pies than most families she knew.

"Where's Lucy and Lucky?" she asked Ben. "You see them lately? And how about Puck?"

Ben tossed his head and laid his ears back. The rain-slicked hide of his neck and shoulders twitched, his concentration focused beyond the perimeter of wagons.

"What is it, boy? What's wrong?"

Faith turned to scan the darkness in the direction Ben was looking. She soothed him with one hand on his withers while she wiped the cold rain out of her eyes.

"Settle down, Ben. There's nothing out there."

But the mule wouldn't be placated. A clap of thunder set him to dancing and nervously stamping his forefeet.

If she hadn't been so close to their wagon, Faith might have thought Charity needed help and the mule was sensing it. However, she could see the rippling canvas plainly every time the sky flashed bright and all seemed as peaceful as could be expected during such a violent storm.

Stroking the mule's nose, she repeated soothing words of comfort. "Easy, old boy. Easy."

Suddenly, the atmosphere reverberated with a piercing scream. Ben jumped in unison with Faith.

A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the shocking scene before her. Two war-painted figures were exiting her wagon bearing Grandmother Reeder's favorite quilt between them! And the rolled bundle of bedding was writhing and emitting strangled cries.

Faith's heart leaped. Charity! Good Lord in heaven, wild Indians were making off with Charity!

Giving no thought to her own safety, Faith gathered her skirts and dashed forward, her small feet flying across the slippery ground.

Launching herself into the air behind the nearest kidnapper, she grabbed him around the neck and hung on, oblivious to her earlier injury.

He muttered an oath as he spun around. His beefy elbow shot back, clipping her hard in the ribs. With a cry, she doubled up and fell to the muddy ground in a haze of pain.

"Look!" one of the Indians muttered. "We got the wrong one."

Suddenly, Faith felt herself being lifted, dragged, then thrown over the wagon tongue and out onto the soggy prairie. Resting on hands and knees, she shook her head to clear it. Something was dreadfully wrong here! The few Indians she'd heard speaking at Fort Laramie hadn't sounded like they came from some place back east, yet this one certainly did.

As she struggled to regain her footing, she remembered the pistol trapped beneath her slicker. She had to reach it!

Hands dripping with mud and water, she clawed frantically at the copious length of rubberized cloth, finally managing to raise the hem enough to expose the b.u.t.t of the Colt. Her slick fingers slid off the grip!

Before she could try again to grab onto the revolver, someone pinned her arms from behind. The man she'd attacked at the outset faced her and drew back his arm. Surely he wasn't going to hit hit her! her!

Camp lanterns that had been quenched began to flicker to light. Charity was thrashing around in the mud with Grandma's quilt all askew beneath her.

The younger girl screamed for help as she pointed to an arrow sticking out of the canvas of their wagon.

Then, Faith felt a jarring blow to her jaw and everything went black.

Chapter Seven.

This storm had Rojo spooked more than usual, Connell thought, watching his fidgeting horse with interest. The strange thing was, he seemed to be feeling the same unexplained nervousness the animal was.

There was bad medicine in the air, as his Arapaho friends would say. He'd already moved down into a draw to avoid being an easy target for lightning. Not that it couldn't strike where it pleased, as many a plainsman had seen. It even took out a buffalo, now and then. He'd never personally witnessed such an event but the stories were numerous. It wasn't a pretty sight. No matter how hungry Indians were, they refused to eat the charred flesh, considering it tainted by evil spirits.

Shivering, Connell arose from his crouched position. He'd donned the oilskin coat he carried and hunkered down beneath the piece of buffalo hide he'd had his meat wrapped in, but it had afforded little shelter. Nothing helped much in the midst of a prairie storm as bad as this one. Soon, the draw he was in would fill with racing water and he'd have to climb to higher ground. If he wasn't already soaked by that time, he soon would be.

He stamped his feet to work the kinks out of his legs and warm himself. This wasn't the first time he'd been caught miles from any decent place to take cover. He'd live. A traveler on horseback couldn't carry his shelter along the way the emigrants did.

Pausing, he listened. The noise of the storm blotted out everything, as far as he could tell, but the canelo seemed to be growing more agitated. He hoped there wasn't a twister brewing!

Connell approached and took up the loose reins. Rojo, ears p.r.i.c.ked, was staring toward the distant wagon camp.

"What is it, boy?"

The horse snorted and tossed his head, then went right back to staring into the distance.

Connell peered along the same line of sight to no avail. The rain was falling too hard and fast for him to see much. Yet something had caused the hackles on the back of his neck to p.r.i.c.kle. Maybe his nervous horse was spooking him, he argued rationally. And maybe not.

The urge to mount up and ride closer to check the situation was getting too strong to ignore. He'd intended to wait till morning to approach the camp. That way, there'd be lots of activity to cover his arrival and he'd be less likely to be shot by an overeager sentry or one of Tucker's henchmen when he tried to speak to Faith.

Now, however, his instincts insisted on immediate action.

"You're crazy and so am I," Connell told his horse as he lifted the left stirrup to reach under and tighten the cinch before mounting.

Rojo snorted and stamped.

"Yeah. I don't know why, but I think she needs us, too," Connell said, his voice barely audible. He swung into the saddle and nudged the horse into action. "Let's go."