Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Sheila followed the trail, moving as quickly as she could manage. The sun was slanting toward the western ridges, and more than once she questioned her decision about following the sheriff and Dodger and the others.
She worried about what would happen once night fell.
Whether she reached the camp or not, she had no plan.
And spending the night alone in the wilderness filled her with fears of wild animals.
She’d read the stories about wolves so ferocious, they pulled grown men from horseback.
And about grizzlies as tall as train cars and strong enough to tear a buffalo apart with one swipe of their razor-sharp claws.
And about mountain lions, stealthily stalking and then pouncing on some great animal, bringing down a full-grown elk with a single bound…
and then toying with the wounded prey as a housecat plays with a mouse.
In the end, every story was the same, and it never turned out well for man or buffalo or elk.
The recollections made her walk faster, but the danger didn’t change the fact that this was the better choice. The distance was shorter, if nothing else. And her father could be at the end of this journey.
Luckily, the trail didn’t branch off very often, and when it did, the tracks of all the horses made it obvious which way they’d gone. She began to have imaginings of herself as a scout.
A somewhat frightened scout, she admitted silently. But frightened or not, she kept going.
Not long after leaving the creek, Sheila had stripped off the duster and squeezed as much water from it as she could.
She did this with as little slowing of her pace as she could manage and proceeded to wring out the water from the hem of her skirt.
It made a difference. After an hour or so of walking, her clothes were still damp, but she was warm from the exertion.
The trail turned inland and moved into the hills at a point where a wide, swift-flowing stream joined the river.
She followed the tracks. This was heavier going, since she would climb through a meadow to the top of a ridge, only to see a valley spreading out before her and another steep hill to climb on the other side. She kept going, though.
The path moved along the base of rocky bluffs that rose hundreds of feet in the air.
It meandered through dense groves of evergreen.
She splashed across creeks and picked her way across rocky fields.
Only once did she think she might have lost the trail, but when she reached a muddy stream and saw the hoofprints, she breathed a sigh of relief.
As Sheila walked, she thought of her father.
For a long time as she grew up, she’d been angry with him.
After all, he’d left her and gone on to adventures that she couldn’t share.
Her grandmother and her tutors always tried to impress upon her how fortunate she was to have a father at all, never mind one with the presence of mind to leave her where she could grow up safely and be educated according to her place in society.
Wasn’t it better, they asked her, to be in the greatest city in the world, among decent, civilized people?
Did she want to be “stolen by red Indians and raised to be a heathen squaw”?
Sheila knew there were many falsehoods that people in the East believed about natives, but her opinions were formed by the letters she received from her father.
There was a world out there and people in it that her grandmother knew nothing about.
She had never even stood in the same room as an Indian, never mind spoken to one.
Hunger was beginning to gnaw at Sheila, and she wished she had some of those ‘heathen’ skills right now.
In New York, by the time her friends began to marry, Sheila had been thinking for a long time that the world was greater than the one she was raised in.
There was far more to life than the endless cycle of social calls and tea parties and concerts and salons.
After all, her father had found a place from which he never returned.
Colorado. Even the name sounded enticing.
Strange as it was, considering her present situation, she was glad she came.
How truly strange, she thought. Her life was hanging by a thread. She only hoped she could keep her wits about her and be strong enough to live through this. Still, she had no regrets.
The sun bumped along on the mountains to the west and then slipped down behind them. A glorious glow of colors spread across the blue canvas. Rich hues of red blended with orange, mauve, purple, and blue, fading slowly.
But for Sheila, the encroaching gloom was beginning to make every tree and boulder look threatening. She began to hear the sounds of night birds and animals, both near and far. The hooting of an owl, the yips and barks that sounded like dogs but that she knew were coyotes.
Every snapping twig made her jump. Every shifting shadow became claws and teeth in her imagination. Yet beneath the fear, she felt something else too. Determination. She had come too far to turn back now.
Sheila walked as fast as she could until the darkness was complete and she was forced to slow her pace. Her courage began to fail. She had difficulty staying on the trail, could barely see it, and then it simply vanished.
She looked up at a sky filled with the brightest stars she’d ever seen and wished she could read them like a mariner on the sea.
Squinting to see any sign of man or horse, she crept along, feeling lost. Something large moved in the brush not far from her, and she pulled away.
She had to keep going, so she felt her way, Wendell’s knife in one hand, his derringer in the other.
Gradually, the star-filled sky began to brighten to the east. The waning moon, like a rescuing angel, edged up over the distant hills. She began to see a little better.
And then she smelled smoke. The scent of beans. A cooking fire.
She climbed a hill, hoping to see a glow cast by the flames. She slipped the derringer into her pocket and scrambled upward through the brush, grabbing hold of branches of scrubby pine trees with her free hand. The slope was rocky and steep.
By the time she’d nearly reached the top, her breaths were short, and her legs burned from the effort. But the smell of smoke was stronger. She hurried across an open space toward a jumble of huge boulders that topped the hill and cast moon shadows back at her.
When she tripped over something on the ground, the image of Wendell—lying on his back by the creek—flashed across her mind’s eye. Before she even landed on her hands and knees in the stones and dirt, she knew what it was. The heavy sack-like presence. The rustle of cloth. It was a man.
Her blood ran cold. Still holding her knife, she rolled and scrabbled back a few feet until her hand touched the thick felt of a hat brim that had fallen to the ground.
His hat. She peered at the dark shape on the ground.
Whoever it was, she knew he was dead. At that precise moment, the moon rose above the boulders behind her, illuminating the body.
Sheila stood and slowly backed away.
Another victim of Sheriff Horner and Dodger, she had no doubt. She only wondered who he was.
The sound of a shout beyond the boulders cut into her thoughts. It was so close.
Sheila turned and moved through the shadows as noiselessly as if she were one of them.
She found a narrow crevice between two boulders, and the flickering light of a fire reflected on the sides.
Flattening her body, she slipped between the rocks.
On the other side, she found herself on a wide stone ledge that sloped upward.
As she crouched lower, she realized she was still carrying the dead man’s hat. She let it drop and edged forward.
The moon glowed on the half dozen ramshackle buildings beneath her.
At the far end, a graveyard of discarded wooden equipment of various shapes guarded the open entrance of a mine.
One long trough, broken down in places, ran from a small river that glinted with reflections of the shaved white orb in the sky.
Hills encircled the camp, giving it a protected, bowl-shaped look.
And in front of one of buildings, three men sat around a campfire, talking.
One of the voices occasionally rose, arguing some point.
By another building, a corral held a dozen horses, and the saddles on the rails gleamed.
She’d made it. Somehow, Sheila had trailed them through the wilderness. She had successfully followed them to their camp. But what now?
There was no sign of her father; she was certain he was not one of the men around the fire. She needed to find him. She prayed he was alive.
As she watched, trying to decide on a plan, a man came from somewhere near the buildings and crossed to the horses. After saddling one of them, he mounted up and rode out of the camp, disappearing into the night.
Sheila knew she couldn’t stay where she was. She was not really any safer from animals here than she was on the trail. And if she survived the night, when the morning came, she’d be worse off. At least now, she could use the darkness to her advantage.
She made up her mind. She had to find a way down into that camp then slink through the shadows until she found the building where her father was being held. At the same time, she didn’t want to fall into the hands of Dodger and the sheriff. She shuddered at the thought of it.
Somehow, she needed to become invisible. She could not let herself be found.
She drew one long breath and steadied herself. Fear was no longer useful. Fear had carried her this far, but now she needed silence and patience and luck.
Sheila heard nothing. She sensed nothing. But when a man’s large, rough hand clapped over her mouth, terror fired through her like a lightning bolt.