Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Dear to me is the lumbering herd of buffalo, of curlews dipping in a moist meadow, of cows in a line ambling to the milking shed, of trips across the Great Plains in a covered wagon…
— MARIAN RUSSELL, LAND OF ENCHANTMENT: MEMOIRS OF MARIAN RUSSELL ALONG THE SANTA FE TRAIL
That had been a week ago, a week in which Angelia hadn’t seen Swift Hawk at all.
Was he gone? Or was he simply avoiding her?
In the beginning, Angelia had expected the man to turn up sooner or later. But he never had. After the first few days of speculation, Angelia began to worry that she might have done something to make him stay away.
“Them Injuns ain’t human. Now, see here, they may not look it, but they’s more animal than you or I,” muttered an old man. “Don’t rightly care about their children, neither, nor about each other, fer that matter. Cain’t trust ’em, cain’t live with ’em. They’s better off dead.”
Angelia glanced at Mr. Wooster, a man who had taken to sharing their late-afternoon fire and lecturing her nightly on the unwise actions of speaking to Indians.
Small, sandy-haired, with a reddish beard, black hat turned up in front and a hunch in his shoulders, the man had commenced to recount stories of Indian atrocities to Angelia and her brother.
That these stories caused Angelia nightmares seemed only half the battle, for if truth be known, it was not because of nightmares that she was losing sleep. No, rather it was due to concern.
What if Swift Hawk were really gone?
Surely it wouldn’t be as if the world had suddenly stopped turning on its axis, she assured herself.
Swift Hawk wasn’t her only means of security against a bounty hunter’s capture.
She wasn’t without resources. Certainly she would be able to think of some other scheme to keep herself and Julian safe.
But what?
To date, she hadn’t determined another single plan. Except that perhaps she should go on hoping.
But hoping for what? That Julian would come to his senses? That the others in their wagon train wouldn’t find them out?
It didn’t help that their situation, as part of the wagon train, was one of some idleness, since their train awaited the arrival of even more wagons from the east, a thing that was a necessity, since it was well known that the Indians along the trail were hostile.
It simply wasn’t safe to travel without enough manpower to ward off an attack.
“I warn ye now,” continued Mr. Wooster. “With hair the color of yours, ye’ll be the first ta lose yer scalp, that’s fer sure.
Course, not afore they has their way with ye, miss.
Dirty heathens.” He coughed up something foul from his throat and spit.
“If I was you, miss, I’d stay put, mind ye.
This trail here. It ain’t fit fer a woman. ”
This last had Angelia glancing up toward the old geezer. Ever since the day when she and Julian had accompanied Swift Hawk into the woods, Mr. Wooster had impressed himself upon her, both at noon and in the evenings. His stories were brutal, bloody and prejudiced.
She had learned the hard way that arguing with him was not an option.
To debate with the man only caused him to stay longer.
So Angelia had taken to humoring him. “I thank you kindly for the warning, Mr. Wooster. And I will be certain to remain cautious. However, my mind is set on making this trip.”
“Don’t say I dinna warn ye, miss.”
“I won’t, Mr. Wooster. I won’t,” she replied, gazing around her, seeking an escape.
“Now, did I ever tell ye about the time them Injuns swooped down on us as we was…”
Angelia’s mind wandered. Fact was, every campfire within this mass of pioneers accommodated at least one wagoner or merchant who told similar stories—stories of the red man’s slaughter, of his unconditional murder, his indecency to the white man—and to each other.
It was said that the trail was littered with the bones of Indian victims.
Though Angelia listened as heartily as the next, she was inclined to disbelief.
She did keep her opinions to herself. Hadn’t she heard equally prejudiced stories about the Asian, the Negro slave, even about the Irish?
No, to her way of thinking, prejudice was merely that—a means and a justification for committing unthinking crimes, for if the object of one’s gossip were made out to be little more than the work of the devil, what did it matter?
Shaking her head and looking outward, Angelia sighed as her gaze alit upon wagon after wagon, their blue-painted bodies, red wheels and white canvas covers making a colorful sight.
There were about fifty of them, and they were stretched out over this lush green prairie, a prairie that extended around Fort Leavenworth in all directions.
But fifty wagons weren’t nearly enough to stave off Indian attacks.
Rumor had recently started to circulate that a big government train was due to arrive in a matter of days. It meant more manpower, more protection. That this would be a welcome relief for most people went without saying, for it signified an end to the waiting.
However, this might not be an advantageous situation for herself and Julian. Wouldn’t a government train carry the knowledge of a bounty that was offered for the capture of a certain brother and sister?
Or would it? Would the state of Mississippi have issued a warrant to the federal government?
Still, it made her wonder. Should she and Julian stay and take their chances? Or should they go now while they both had the opportunity to do so?
In her heart, Angelia felt they should take their chances and go elsewhere.
But where? Fort Leavenworth was literally the westernmost outpost of civilization.
If she and Julian were to try to make the trek to Santa Fe on their own, it meant certain death—if not from an Indian attack, then from the elements alone.
Problem was, it wasn’t any good talking over her concerns with Julian. He simply refused to see the danger of his actions, or of their situation. For some reason, he lived under the impression that his alleged relationship with this John Bogart character offered them impunity.
Oh, where was Swift Hawk? she wondered for the umpteenth time. At least with him, in an odd sort of way, she could talk and express her concerns, whereas with the others…
“And so, miss, ye’d do well to heed my warning…”
Angelia nodded, as though she’d heard every word. Her mind was still so far away that, staring into their evening campfire, she completely blanked out Mr. Wooster’s voice.
By chance she gazed up, and there, off in the distance, beneath a fiery-red sunset, she spotted Swift Hawk. At once, everything in her immediate environment, except him, faded to a dim blur, as if he, and only he, were real.
Swift Hawk strode through the tall grasses—grasses and vines that rippled in the wind. His pony, weighted down with something, followed in his wake. That the grass hampered his tread didn’t seem to slow his stride. In truth, he looked determined.
He was quite a sight to behold, and she thought she would never forget the beauty of it, for the tall grasses mirrored the extravagance of the sunset, their whitish tops casting a pinkish-red glow over the land, the sky, and over him. A lump formed in her throat.
She drew in a deep breath, and as she did so, she sniffed, at once cognizant of the fragrant, late-afternoon scent of grass, dirt and pure, oxygen-filled air.
He was back. The good Lord be praised, he was back.
His glance spoke volumes, for he looked unswervingly at her.
She knew. He had come to a decision. Hope blossomed within her, and it seemed to her that the native grace of the landscape reflected her mood, giving her spirits a buoyancy she hadn’t felt for many a day.
“Miss. Ah, miss?”
But Angelia barely heard the old geezer. She had eyes and ears only for him.
Swift Hawk’s stride brought him directly toward her campfire, and then he was in front of her, for he had stopped his pacing a mere few inches from the blaze. His pony snorted behind him, then commenced to munching on the grass.
Swift Hawk stood, his long, buckskin-covered legs flung far apart, arms crossed over his broad chest. He stared down at her.
Gazing upward, Angelia drew herself onto her knees while Julian continued to doze. She squinted up at Swift Hawk as the evening sunset outlined him in reds and pinks and oranges. She tried to study him, attempting to determine what she could witness within his countenance.
Silently he stared back at her, and beneath the heat of his gaze, Angelia let her own glance drop to the ground. Cautiously, she breathed in and out, hardly daring to say a word.
He said to her, “I have come to tell you that I have made my decision.”
“Miss,” piped up the old geezer, “have ye heard nothin’ I’ve been saying to ya?”
With her right hand Angelia shushed the man, while she spoke directly to Swift Hawk. “Have you?” She bestowed a smile on Swift Hawk.
“Haa’he, I have.”
“Consortin’ with Injuns!” declared Mr. Wooster, coming up to his feet and shaking a finger at her. “Ye’ll come to harm, I tell ye.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Wooster. Thank you. I’ve heard you,” Angelia said, though the man, for all the attention she paid him, might have been invisible.
“Of all the…” The rest of whatever censure Mr. Wooster had to say was lost to the wind, for he left forthwith. Unfortunately, his stench lingered behind him.
Angelia waited, for Swift Hawk did not at once elaborate on what his decision was. Unable to bear the anticipation, Angelia brightened her smile and cast Swift Hawk the most flirtatious gaze she possessed. “Yes?”
Looking away from her, Swift Hawk stiffened.
Smiling, Angelia again coaxed, “Yes?”
Swift Hawk said, “I have decided that I will help you and your brother.”
She gulped. “You have?” Slowly, Angelia stood. “You will?”
“Haa’he. I will.”