The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (2 page)

Maggie almost lost her temper. “This is not fiction, Gwen. Not Cooper or Scott! And I assure you there was little romance about Red Eagle’s dusty village. It nearly brought out the missionary in me. A few more days and I would have bit the bullet and started bathing the dirty children, and given instructions on irrigation!’’

“You wouldn’t!’’

“Why not? It would have been better to change completely to Indian ways?’’

Gwen considered. “And what would you have done about Red Eagle’s advances?’’

“I assure you that when the time came I would have had no choice on that account.’’

She noted Gwen’s quiver of excitement and sighed to herself. Here was a woman who refused to be touched. Yet inside she was aching for it. Is this what happened to all spinsters? No wonder there was money to be made in the ladies’ romances Johnny refused to burden their caravan with. And how would Gwen have responded to Snake’s particular style of advances?

Maggie had purposely neglected to mention that incident~at least the precise details of it. Johnny had merely found her struggling with an angry brave. That was part of what Johnny had been confused about. Trying to deal with the something in her, Maggie, the something that had brought about Snake’s attack. They hadn’t worked it all out yet. They probably wouldn’t for many long nights to come.

“Red Eagle’s advances were completely verbal, and only verbal. The man never laid a hand on me, except to drag me by the hair through the prairie grass.’’

“It must’ve been some dragging. You’ve got them covered up now, but I spied your bruises when you were washing up this morning behind the wagon. You’re all over black and blue! How you managed to start right in again droving the oxen I’ll never know.’’

“One does what one must.’’ Maggie’s fingers, never idle, were skinning another of Sam’s jackrabbits. Her extended family had begun to develop a taste for them. A lot like chicken they were, though there were some on the train who’d starve rather than consume
vermin
of this sort.

“Nevertheless~’’

“Nevertheless, nothing. Take this skin and peg it out the way I showed you, Gwen.’’

Gwen tentatively reached for the messy fur with two fingertips. “Is this really necessary, Maggie?’’

“Yes, it is. Waste not, want not. Do a good job with the cleaning and I’ll teach you how to stitch together a fine pair of mittens for Sam come cold weather.’’

Gwen brightened marginally, still holding the offending skin a good distance from her body. “You won’t need to give me any lessons in tailoring, Maggie. I guess I know enough about that!’’

“Excuse me. I keep forgetting~’’

“Yes, that I do hold some form of competence. Not that anyone has noticed recently from my cooking.’’ Gwen smiled wryly and Maggie had to laugh.

“We’re all given different gifts, Gwen.’’

“It seems to me sometimes that the Lord parcels them out unevenly.’’ Rabbit skin outstretched before her, Gwen disappeared from the campfire muttering about the ridiculousness of preparing for winter in the dog days of summer.

Maggie shook her head as she watched her friend go. Even after all this time on the trail Gwen was still a city girl. She had trouble understanding the most basic things that a farm-bred child was raised into knowing without thought~the most important of which was that one prepared for the lean times during the bounteous ones.

Maggie drew her attention back to the supper. Not that this was a completely bounteous time. If only they’d spy buffalo soon. Their tiny cabin was becoming easier and easier to walk through as the supplies of grains melted away. It didn’t seem right that her family might have to face real hunger soon, and it not even winter. She stopped stock still a moment, considering. What day was it? What month? It felt as if they’d been on the journey for years, for always.

Johnny returned to the circle of wagons, bouncing Charlotte on his back. Jamie followed with arms full of buffalo chips.

“Do you know the day, Johnny?’’

The question stopped him. “Monday? Tuesday?’’

“No, I mean what day and month.’’

“Let me check.’’ He went over to his white top and hovered next to the scratches he’d been making with his knife on the sideboard each morning. “Jamie! Come here. I’ve got a sum for you to do.’’

Jamie dropped his load, raced over and began counting the marks. The sum completed, the two put their heads together, as if deliberating on a most serious issue. Finally they nodded solemnly and turned. Johnny cleared his throat.

“After due consideration, Jamie and I have reached a scientific conclusion. It is~’’

“June fourth!’’ shouted Jamie.

Maggie ran a handkerchief over her damp face. “It’s not even proper summer yet. What will these plains be like in another month or two?’’

“Hellish,’’ threw in Sam as he joined them, shirtsleeves rolled up to his biceps, buttons peeled open to reveal the furry mat covering his chest. He squatted morosely just out of the fire’s perimeter of heat.

Johnny and the children took off after another load of fuel. Gwen was still struggling with the little rabbit skin. Maggie gave the big man a hard look.

“What’s the matter?’’

“Gwen.’’ Then, in a burst of eloquence, “What does it take to convince a woman you love her?’’

“Maybe saving her from the wild Indians,’’ smiled Maggie, trying to make light of her still too recent encounter.

Sam shuddered. “Thank God the Pawnee stopped shadowing us. Not a sight of another soul save us these three days.’’ His shaggy brows furrowed again. “Know I’m not much for looks, Maggie. But I’m strong and willing, and everything I have I’ve offered to the woman. I even suggested Winslow might tie us up.’’ A ghost of a smile crossed under his moustache. “Guess that were the wrong approach. She don’t look on him as a man of God at all.’’

Maggie considered Sam’s dilemma. “We’re coming onto Fort Laramie soon, Sam. There’s bound to be another preacher there. Or maybe a man of the law. That would make it legal. Perhaps even the proctor of the Fort. Isn’t he like the captain of a ship? Give her a little more time. Pressure confuses her.’’

“If she be confused, what of me? Never did meet any other I wanted.’’ His eyes were soulful with the image of the woman he loved before them. “She’s so delicate, so needful of protection. I’d cherish her, I would.’’ He stopped. “It’s all or nothing, Maggie!’’

Maggie turned the spit, smiling broadly now that her back was to Sam. The bounties of Gwen’s hour-glass figure had never struck her as being delicate. But next to Sam’s hugeness, perhaps they were. It was all in the eye of the beholder. “You’ll have it all soon, Sam. Be patient.’’

The subject of their discussion walked into view, wiping soiled fingers on her skirts with a look of disgust. Maggie watched the two shy lovers as they spied each other, both reddening, Gwen hiding her scuffed hands behind her back.

“Why don’t you two just take a little stroll. I’ve got things under control here, and it’s certain to be cooler down by the riverbank.’’

Sam sprang up with alacrity, his moroseness gone with the object of his affections in sight. They ambled off together. Sam’s arm offered support and, after a moment’s consideration on Gwen’s part, was tentatively accepted. Maggie smiled again.

Two days later, the supper cooking, Maggie walked carefully into the bright evening sky to hunt for early berries and the odd chicory root. Hearing a rustling in the grass beyond she stopped stock still. Not more Indians.
Please, Lord, anything but more Indians.
She lowered herself carefully to her knees and parted the grasses before her without a sound. Her breath returned. It was not more Indians.

Sam and Gwen sat on the grasses not more than ten yards before her, facing each other, a proper two feet of space between them. They were engrossed in their conversation, Maggie’s nearness unknown to them. As she gathered her skirts to silently retreat, Maggie suddenly put a hand to her throat. There was a snake, a large snake, only inches from Gwen’s back.

She opened her mouth to give warning, but Sam’s sharp eyes had caught the reptile’s movement. In a gesture remarkable for its speed his hand shot out and grasped the snake behind the neck. Ignoring the still seeking fangs, Sam broke the neck with a sure, sharply cracking twist. Only then did he pull up the remainder of the pyramided body. A rattle was revealed at the end of the impressive tail.

Gwen turned pale. Crying out, she threw herself into Sam’s waiting arms. Grinning, he cast the rattler aside and welcomed the woman of his dreams into his embrace.

Gwen was finally about to surrender to her inner needs. Maggie disappeared. She wished only that she could drag Johnny off into the grass herself.

A week short of Fort Laramie the train spotted a dark mass in the distance, low on the horizon. It was too low for storm clouds, and too big for elk. Buffalo were before them at last. Haste was made to set up camp, though it was only mid-afternoon. Amidst much excitement the men departed for the hunt.

Johnny rode with his friends. He felt suddenly more alive than he had since Meg’s rescue. What was this newness that was overtaking him? This surge of blood coursing through his veins when the thought of possible danger came near? His years as a bookish peddler seemed like part of another life. The daily drudgery of traveling across the plains was forgotten. The hunt became all, and he welcomed the challenge as he would have welcomed fresh rains from the sky. Johnny let Dickens have his head. It was finally Max who caught up with him, motioning him to slow down.

“No hurry, Stuart. Wouldn’t want to stampede them, eh?’’

Johnny made an effort to pull in both the horse’s reins and his own.

“It must’ve been the moment, Max.’’

“The Pawnee changed you some, Johnny. Could be that scalp you left behind. Not to worry. There’s lots of blood up ahead.’’

Johnny felt chagrin. He let his friend ease off to the side. Was the bloodlust that evident? Would that one day’s encounter leave him restless for life, as restless for adventure as he once had been for new places and sights?

He rolled his head and straightened his back. What of it? The reasons could be dealt with later. The buffalo were close now. Their great bodies were sending off heat and odors to further incited Johnny and the animal upon which he sat. Johnny pulled his rifle from its sidemount, spurred Dickens once more and went in for the kill.

He didn’t stop to count the wild herd before him, but drove relentlessly into the midst of a hundredfold or more of great lowing monsters. A kind of madness had overtaken him, and he heeded neither the shoves of vast maned bodies nor the butt of horns. Johnny whooped aloud.

“This is seeing the elephant, boys!’’

He pulled his trigger and the first shot rang out. The dumb beasts, having generally ignored Johnny’s burst into their party, looked up with surprise. They began to move away. At first they moved slowly. Then with a lumbering strength and stolidity they began to run. Johnny’s gun had been prepared, and shot again, hitting yet another cow. He waited to see the effects of his shots. They had been true.

The first cow gave Johnny a long glance full of disbelief and betrayal. She lay herself gently down, curled her tail, coughed up blood and was still. The second~equally disbelieving~fell to her knees. Making a final effort she rose again, as if to run. Finally she, too, released her life blood.

Johnny’s mouth had been open for another of his Highland war whoops, this time consciously. But something in the eyes of these animals stopped him. His stomach lurched and he knew he was about to be sick. This was not like Snake and hand to hand conflict. Not like one man pitting his wits and strengths against another, to the death, for a cause. Not at all like that. This was sheer, outright slaughter. The meat was necessary, but he’d never thought to receive a look like that from a buffalo. Wishing he’d remained on the rim of the herd, like the others~on the edge looking in, innocent of those final stares~Johnny swallowed his bile. It was Sam’s shout which woke him.

“Stuart! Behind you! The bull!’’

Johnny spun round. A furious bull thundered down on him, trying too late to protect his harem. Eyes filled with murder, nose and mouth spuming froth, the great horned head let out a bellow and lowered itself, Johnny fixed in its sights.

Johnny raised his rifle and took aim. Too late he remembered it was empty. He kicked Dickens viciously, but the horse had never been bred for quick reflexes. The bull closed in.

Johnny searched madly for a route of escape. In the midst of moving bodies there was none. Without thought, Johnny dropped the rifle, loosed his boots from the stirrups, spun around the saddle, and vaulted onto the head of the bull. The shock of his assault stunned the animal. It halted its mindless drive just short of Dickens.

Hanging for dear life with one hand on a horn, Johnny reversed himself on the animal’s back. He pulled out his hunting knife and stabbed between a rib. It was as if his knife had been a mosquito. The bull twitched its heavily matted fur and bucked its hind legs to rid himself of the larger annoyance seated there. Johnny struck again and again. Finally, in desperation, he leaned over the bull’s side and struck for the heart. The last blow went home. The bull gave a last, heartrending bellow of outrage. It fell near his cows.

Johnny remained glued to the animal’s back. It was Max who finally pulled his stallion within a safe distance of the dying animal. Tentatively moving in, he reached up over the huge bulk, and one by one released Johnny’s frozen fingers from their grip.

Max spoke softly into the ebbing din of battle. “Got it all out of your system now, Johnny? I hope so. I wasn’t looking forward to carrying your body back to Maggie. She’d have had a hard time understanding.’’

Johnny’s eyes focused slowly on Max and his words. “It is enough.
There are few die well that die in a battle
.’’

“Not sure who you’re quoting, but the words are right fair. Put your mind back to your books, Johnny. It’s what you were made for.’’

Johnny slid down the hot, mountainous back.

“Shakespeare. It may be you’re right, Max. Still, there’s that in me fighting it. Fighting it hard. My father was a man of words and peace, an old man already at my birth, but the line he came from was not. Rock hard, his people were. Craggy as the hills of Scotland. And some called my grandfather by the name of Bonnie Prince Charlie.’’

Max shook his head. “I’m a simple man. Those wars were before my time. Look to the future, Johnny, not the past.’’

Johnny shook his head and tested his legs for landworthiness. “I’m trying.’’

The rest of the hunting party arrived, eyes filled with awe and not a little frightened respect. Slowly they dismounted to take in Johnny and his catch.

“You single-handedly doubled our take, Stuart.’’ Chandler scratched his head. “Not sure I approve of your methods, though.’’

Johnny stood up straight and made one of the bows he’d always saved for his book sales~lithe and elegant, suggesting amused subservience.

“John Stuart, at your service. Please accept my buffalo . . . and my apologies for a somewhat unusual hunting style. I’ll make every effort not to let it happen again.’’

Chandler spat and smiled. “Guess I don’t really care how you bagged ‘em. If’n you can keep yourself alive in the process you got my blessing to take on the chore for all of us next hunt. We’ll jest save ourselves the ride out an’ back.’’

To the roar of the other men, the cleaning began.