Baby on the Oregon Trail Page 10

  He swallowed and slowly withdrew his pocketknife from his jeans. “Yeah, I do. I thought it didn’t show.”

  “It doesn’t show, really,” Jenna said, her voice softening. “I was guessing.”

  He tossed his knife into the air and caught it. “A man hates to show his vulnerability. Especially to a woman.”

  She faced him, her cheeks hot, and jabbed her forefinger into his chest. “How do you think a woman feels?”

  He laughed. “If I knew that, Mrs. Borland, I’d be a rich man.”

  In a huff, Jenna shooed him off to talk with Sam Lincoln. When he’d gone, she insisted the girls take spit baths using a single bucket of precious water she’d saved from their reservoir barrel. When they were finished, she stripped to her waist and sponged off her sticky skin, then brushed and rebraided her hair.

  The girls went to bed and she crawled under the wagon and lay staring up at the underside. She was still awake when Lee came back into camp. She watched him move to the wash bucket she’d left heating and strip off his shirt.

  He was a fine-looking man, lean and long-limbed, his back ropey with muscles, his arms and hands deeply tanned.

  Suddenly he dropped his trousers.

  “Oh, my!” she gasped. He wore no drawers! His buttocks... Oh! He turned sideways, and she forced her eyes shut. Her face burned, and the heat washing over her had nothing to do with the scorching day or the sultry evening air. A delicious tingly sensation lodged below her belly.

  She swallowed and concentrated on keeping her eyes closed until she heard him splash the water out onto the grass, hang the bucket on the hook on the wagon box and step toward where she lay. When he crawled underneath onto his pallet she pretended to be asleep.

  “You awake?” he murmured.

  She almost blurted out no, then she remembered to lie still and say nothing.

  He chuckled. “Were you watching?” he whispered.

  Oh! She would die of mortification. Then she sucked in her breath. “Yes, I was.”

  Suddenly she wondered if he had been watching her when she took her spit bath.

  “Yes,” he said, as if he’d heard her unspoken question. “I was watching.”

  Oh, for mercy’s sake! The man was reprehensible. He reached over and patted her tense shoulder. “Night, Jenna.”

  She struggled to keep her mouth shut. After a few minutes she heard his breathing even out and deepen. It infuriated her that he could sleep while she found she could not. She lay staring up at the wagon springs, trying to calm her tumbling thoughts.

  Face it, Jenna. Lee Carver makes you nervous. And that was because...well, she didn’t really know why. She knew only that he got under her skin and she couldn’t make him go away.

  But you don’t really want him to go away, do you?

  With an exasperated sigh she flopped onto her side and shut her eyes tight.

  She did want him to go away.

  But at the same time, she didn’t. She liked the way he made her feel when he touched her. At odd hours of the day and—Oh, heavens! At night, she found herself remembering the feel of his lips pressed near her ear, the sound of his voice, low and sure. I want you.

  She shivered and tried to force her thoughts elsewhere.

  Tonight she heard no coyotes or wolves or whatever they were, and that was a mercy. Their mournful, lonesome howling made her insides feel funny. But after some hours she heard something else. Beside the wagon, where Lee hobbled the stallion each night, Devil shuffled and stomped his hooves. Could the horse have worked itself free?

  A hand covered her mouth. “Don’t scream,” Lee muttered in her ear. “Lie still.”

  She turned her head toward him without making a sound. “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Someone’s after my horse.” He lifted his hand away, levered his body across hers and slid noiselessly out from under the wagon.

  Before she could count to ten, he was back.

  “Who was it?”

  “Indian.”

  With a cry she jerked upright and once again banged her forehead on the undercarriage. “An Indian? Where is he? Oh, the girls!” She scrambled out from under her quilt.

  He grabbed the back of her skirt. “He’s long gone.”

  “How do you know it was an Indian?”

  “Because whoever it was left no tracks. Indians won’t attack at night, but they will steal horses.”

  He settled beside her, drew in a heavy breath and was instantly asleep. Jenna could not close her eyes until the sky turned pink.

  In the morning Lee went off to confer with Sam Lincoln. When he returned he reported to Jenna that he and Sam would keep a sharp eye out at night but they would not alarm the train.

  “Why not let the others know? Surely people deserve to know there are Indians about? Besides, the men could help keep watch.”

  “Think about it, Jenna. A whole train of trigger-happy men might dig us into a hole we wouldn’t be able to get out of alive. Better to lie low and wait it out.”

  She wrapped both arms across her midriff. “I get the shivers just thinking about it.”

  “Then don’t think about it.” He squeezed her shoulder and turned away.

  After a breakfast of hot corn cakes and bacon, Lee hitched up the oxen, with Tess’s grudging help, and they rolled into the line of wagons. Today they were third in line after the wagon master.

  Ruthie rode next to him on the driver’s bench; he confided to Jenna that with Indians around he didn’t want the girl out of his sight.

  Tess and Mary Grace walked beside the wagon. Jenna started off on foot on the opposite side. Lee had cautioned her not to mention last night’s Indian visitor, but she could not help scanning the horizon for the dust cloud that would indicate a rider. Or riders.

  All morning she marched resolutely forward, putting one foot in front of the other even when the dust kicked up by the animals and wagons was so thick she could scarcely breathe. She squinted against the harsh sunlight and prayed for courage. I can do this. Others have done it, and I can do it, too. I must do it!

  Her blistered heels rubbed raw. Her parched skin pulled tight across her cheeks, and even under her floppy sun hat her cheeks began to sunburn. She kept her back straight and her head up, hoping a show of defiance would give her strength and the will to survive. If I have to, I will walk all the way to Oregon.

  She trudged on hour after hour until her head pounded and her ears buzzed. Despite the handkerchief tied over her nose and mouth, dust choked every breath she drew. Mile after mile she concentrated on the creaking of the wagon wheels and tried to think.

  She was many miles from everything she had ever known, and with each step she was moving farther away. Every bone in her body ached and her throat screamed for water.

  But there was no water. The wagons crossed two dried-up streams, and not even when the men dug down through the cracked mud surface had a drop of moisture appeared. The oxen and cattle lowed their distress. Jenna knew if they didn’t find water soon, the animals would begin to die. And after that...

  She couldn’t think about it. She focused her eyes on Sue and Sunflower, doggedly plodding forward mile after uncomplaining mile, and felt a surge of admiration for the patient, hardworking team. She moved forward to pat Sue’s head and heard a squeak from Ruthie on the driver’s bench, an odd little hiccup of distress that made Jenna glance up at the girl.

  Ruthie was staring at something off to the left. Jenna turned her head to look, and her heart stuttered to a stop. Indians.

  A tall, savage-looking Indian wearing a magnificent feather headdress, his face painted black and yellow, sat his horse with five or six half-naked men on horseback ranged behind him. The taller man in the center held his rifle across his knees. As she watched, he stepped his mount forward and d
rove a lance into the ground in front of him. Then all of them sat silent, waiting.

  The wagon jerked to a stop, and then the entire train halted. Lee came off the driver’s bench with Ruthie clasped in his arms.

  “Get in the wagon,” he ordered.

  The Gumpert boy was already herding Tess and Mary Grace through the bonnet. Jenna grabbed Ruthie and shoved her through the opening, then climbed in after her.

  She and the girls and Jimmy huddled together in the stifling heat. Ruthie didn’t make a sound, but Tess sat sniveling with her back against the flour barrel. Minutes dragged by. Finally Jenna couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening, and she peered out the front to see Lee striding off to confer with Sam Lincoln.

  In a few moments he was back, motioning to her. “Sam’s pulling the wagons into a circle. He knows I speak some Sioux, so he wants me to talk to them. Shouldn’t take long. I don’t know that many words.”

  He retrieved his saddlebag from underneath the wagon, then walked to the back of the wagon, his rifle in his hands.

  “Mary Grace?”

  “Y-yes?”

  “Take my Winchester.” He handed it up to her. “I hate to ask you to back me up, but Sam’s busy getting the wagons into position.”

  “I can do it, Mr. Carver. You said I was a good shot.”

  “Sight on the man with all the feathers. He’s the chief. If anything happens to me, you shoot him, you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Mr. Carver. But—”

  “If they’re hostiles, they’ll kill one of us. Probably me. If that happens, killing their chief will stop them, at least for a while. Understand?”

  “Y-yes,” the girl said, her voice unsteady.

  “Aim for his chest, dead center.”

  He stepped away from the wagon, and Jenna watched in growing horror as he moved away from the train and walked straight toward the group of silent Indians. As he went he slowly and deliberately unbuckled his gun belt, making sure the chief noticed his gesture, and let it drop to the ground.

  Jenna gasped. They will kill him.

  Lee advanced until he faced the chief with only a few yards separating them. Frozen, Jenna watched, clenching and unclenching her hands. Beside her, Jimmy pressed Tess and Ruthie to the floor of the wagon, and Mary Grace raised the rifle and sighted down the barrel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lee watched the chief as he approached. Sioux, he figured from the face markings and the calf-high deerskin moccasins. His small black eyes looked hard and unyielding as flint chips, and the six braves flanking him had war party written all over them.

  He kept moving forward, lifting his right hand in a traditional greeting. The tall Indian sat his horse without moving until Lee was within three yards of him. If he’d wanted to kill him, he’d have raised his rifle by now, but the man’s expression gave no indication that was his intent.

  Sweat slicked the back of Lee’s neck. Finally, the Indian raised one arm, and Lee halted. He spoke the only Sioux word he could remember from his army days; it was a greeting, but he couldn’t recall if the word carried a hostile or peaceful meaning. Peaceful, he prayed.

  The chief stepped his horse forward and returned the greeting. Lee waited, listening to the cicadas hum in the hot silence and wondering if that was the last thing he’d hear on this earth. Off to the right, a hawk made lazy circles in the cobalt sky.

  The six braves smoothed their hands over their rifle stocks. Lee wondered if a hundred more Sioux warriors were already surrounding the wagons behind him, but he didn’t dare break eye contact to look. He could feel sweat roll down his face, but he waited without moving.

  At last the chief spoke. “I recognize you, White Eyes. You rode with the soldiers, the ones who attacked our people at Coyote Creek.”

  At the mention of the name, the braves behind him stiffened, and one raised his weapon. The chief barked a word and the scowling man lowered his rifle. But Lee noted that he kept his finger curled over the trigger.

  “I know of Coyote Creek,” Lee said.

  “Then you know our squaws and many children were killed that day.” Lee tried to read what was in the older man’s dark eyes. Pain? Revenge?

  “It was a shameful day,” he said. “It should not have happened.”

  The chief’s mouth tightened into an unsmiling line. “You were there with the soldiers?”

  “I was not there.” Thank God for that, or I’d be a dead man.

  The Indian waved a weathered hand at the wagons. “Where do you travel?”

  “We travel west, to Oregon. Many miles from this place.” He drew in a deep breath and decided to risk a question of his own. “Where do the Sioux travel?”

  “We seek the Crow,” the chief replied. “We make war on our enemy, take many horses, many prisoners.”

  And scalps, Lee thought. Lordy, the wagon train had blundered into the middle of an Indian war. He wanted to ask where they fought, but wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

  “We do not seek war,” Lee said. “We seek water.”

  The chief grunted and spoke to his braves in their own language. “I will take you to water. But,” he added, “there is a price.”

  Lee’s neck prickled. “What price?”

  “Two of your fat cows and that fine black horse.” He gestured toward Devil. “Without water, your people will die. Without food, our people will die.”

  “You are welcome to the cows. The horse belongs to me. He is not for trade.”

  The old chief laughed soundlessly. “The Crow will steal it from you. Better you give to us.”

  “The Crow have tried to steal it. They were not successful.”

  The chief’s black eyebrows went up. “The Crow have been here?”

  Lee nodded. “Last night.”

  “Many?”

  “I do not know how many.” He waited a moment. “We will trade two cows if you take us to water.”

  The chief spoke rapidly to his braves, but they began to mutter and gesture with their rifles. Lee felt the hair on his bare forearms lift. He hoped Mary Grace had the Winchester trained on the chief’s red-shirted chest.

  Again the Indian grunted. “Come. We take you to water.” They wheeled their horses and trotted off a few yards, then reassembled, their narrowed eyes on the wagons.

  Lee made a sign to the chief, pivoted and strode to scoop up his gun belt from where he’d dropped it. Then he headed straight for Sam’s wagon.

  The men of the company had gathered in a tight knot around the wagon master, and Lee knew they had all watched his exchange with the Sioux chief.

  “They want two cows,” Lee said as he came up. “In exchange they will lead us to water.”

  Sam nodded, but Mick McKernan raised his voice. “I wouldn’t trust an Injun,” he shouted. “How do ya know they won’t slaughter us and take all our cows? And our horses and our women, too.”

  “These Indians are Sioux,” Lee said evenly. “I know this tribe. They are more trustworthy than some whites.”

  “Wouldn’t trust a Johnny Reb Injun lover, either,” Mick snarled.

  “Looks like you’ll have to, McKernan,” Lee said, his voice level. “We don’t have water enough for another day, and the Crow are already sniffing around our wagons at night.”

  “An’ just how d’ya know that, Reb?”

  “I heard them last night. The way I figure it, dying of thirst is about the same as dying from a Sioux bullet or a Crow arrow. We need water. They need food. We have to accept their terms.”

  Mick planted his thick body in Lee’s path. “Says who?”

  Sam stepped between them. “Carver’s right. He knows the Sioux from his army service.”

  “I’ll just bet he does,” the Irishman blustered. “Prob’ly got an Injun sq
uaw hidden away somewheres.”

  Lee shoved past Sam, but Mick ducked away. “Button it, McKernan!” Sam snapped. He caught Lee’s eye and nodded. “Mount up, everybody. Let’s get rolling.”

  Lee made his way back to Jenna’s wagon, walking past a few proffered handshakes and one quietly spoken “Thanks, Carver,” from Ted Zaberskie.

  At the wagon he found a shaking Mary Grace inside, his Winchester across her knees. He patted her hunched shoulder. “Thanks for backing me up,” he said.

  “I’m so g-glad to see you,” the girl stammered. “I was afraid I’d have to f-fire at that feathered man, and I’d miss and shoot you in the back.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Lee muttered. “Load up, now. We’re moving on to water. Jimmy, you think your pa would let you drive the wagon with me? When those oxen catch the scent of water, they’ll be hard to hold back. I could use a strong arm.”

  The boy grinned. “Sure, Mr. Carver.” He bolted off to the Gumpert wagon and the girls and Jenna climbed down. Jimmy was back in less than a minute; he stopped near Tess and Mary Grace, and Lee heard the youngster make a hash out of his budding romance with Tess.

  “Gosh, Mary Grace, where’d you learn to fire a Winchester? That’s pretty neat for a girl.”

  “Damn fool,” Lee remarked, leaning down from the driver’s bench. Jenna sent him an amused look, rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “He’s just being a male,” she observed.

  Lee flapped the reins and she turned away, put her head down so her bonnet hid her face and started walking beside the wagon. Tess and Mary Grace took their usual places on the opposite side, but Lee noted the two girls put their noses in the air and kept a good six feet between them. Neither said a word to the other.

  He shot Jenna a look. “Just being female, I guess,” he said. He heard a choked sound come out of her mouth, and then she turned her back on him and quickly paced ahead.

  * * *

  The train stopped for their nooning in a hot, dusty, shadeless area of grass sered to the color of straw. Buzzards soared like black sails against the cloudless blue sky.