Chapter 25
Boone
Blankets and hides, food and drink, a valise stuffed with herbs, and two stowaways under the wagon cover. There’s bounty money enough to turn every head from here to Fort Gibson at the sight of a white man and an Indian man traveling together, so I ride ahead alone and let the wagon come behind.
I hear little besides the wind, the leather creaking, and Miss Rakko breathing hard in the traces. The ground’s brittle with frost, rutted where wheels cut it before the last freeze, and every jolt of that little wagon sounds like something fixing to come apart.
Cold gets through my coat, through my gloves, through the seams of me.
The kind that reminds you the world is cruel.
For the first stretch, I suffer their muffled voices carrying on about who knows what, giggling and hooting and canoodling to spite me.
I hit one little rut in the road and now Okee hangs at the wagon’s edge, supervising my driving from under the canvas.
“Do not hurry on bad ground,” he says.
I spit tobacco into the frozen grass as we roll on easy. “Feels sound enough where I’m sitting. You mind the wagon, and I’ll mind the road.”
My eyes sting from the cold. Damn Alfred Collins. We’d be within reach of a fire by now if we’d gone west. But no. Not with the likes of me riding along.
Blasted son of a bitch.
“You ride as if you have forgotten you’re carrying more than just a horse and saddle.”
“You know,” I call over my shoulder, “either one of us could’ve been the one out here freezing our stones off.”
“We flipped on it,” Okee shouts from under the cover. “Fair and square.”
“Ain’t nothing fair or square about freezing out here while you complain from back there. Mind the cargo and hold your tongue.”
A muffled giggle comes out from under the canvas, sending a rush of piss and vinegar through me. “Ain’t no reason a lady can’t be riding to Fort Gibson neither. Maybe you ought to be out here, little general.”
Lula’s round face appears over Okee’s shoulder. “I’d be halfway down the Mississippi if not for you two. You know what you’ve done? The fix you’ve got me in?”
The pay for that blasted job don’t seem near enough now. She ain’t wrong. But God Almighty, how long is she going to keep laying that card down?
“Then shoot me,” I call back. “Be a sight better than listening to the two of you while I wait for my balls to freeze off.”
Miss Rakko drops her head and keeps on, hooves striking the frozen trail with a dull, stubborn clomp.
Timber holds us in on both sides in places, black and bare against the sun, and where the land opens I can see the winter grass pressed flat and pale under a skin of ice.
We haven’t been out a full day and already the country looks big enough to swallow us.
“Don’t tempt me,” she shouts over the gallop, the groan of wood and iron on frozen ground. I grit my teeth and eventually the cold drives them back behind the canvas.
Behind me the wagon rattles. The trail dips without much warning, sliding down toward a narrow creek choked with ice. What water shows through runs black and slow between white crystal-like edges.
Something cuts the air beside my face.
A sharp little hiss, fast as a snake strike, then a heavy thunk behind me.
Miss Rakko jerks hard in the traces.
“Whoa,” I snap, hauling back. “Whoa, girl.”
The wagon lurches and rattles to a stop. For half a second there’s nothing but the horse blowing hard and my own heart trying to climb out my throat.
“What was that?” Okee asks as he climbs up, torso leaning out to inspect the wagon where the sound came from.
Then I see it.
An arrow stands quivering in the wagon board.
Lula makes a small, strangled sound under the canvas.
“What in God’s name—”
“Down,” Okee says.
He don’t shout it. That’s worse.
I duck low on the bench, hand going to my pistol before good sense can catch up.
“Don’t,” Okee says.
I freeze with my fingers on the grip.
He’s already out, boots hitting the earth with a thud, glare fixed on the timber ahead.
“Boone,” he says, slow, “take your hand off the iron.”
I look again.
The woods ahead seem empty at first. Bare blackjack, gray trunks. Then one shape becomes a man. Then another. Then three more, stepping out where I’d have sworn nothing but trees stood a blink before.
They carry rifles and bows both. Blankets wrapped close. Faces hard with cold and suspicion.
I lift both hands slow. “Easy,” I call. “We ain’t looking for trouble.”
One of the men says something I don’t catch. Ain’t English. Nor any Mvskoke word I know. His rifle stays pointed at me.
“Osage,” Okee says, without moving his mouth much. “Let me speak.”
The sound of his voice changes. Becomes cautious. He gives them words I don’t understand, and the men look from him to me, then to the wagon, then back to him.
One of them spits into the frost.
“Traitor,” he says in English, I’d guess to make sure we all know where he stands on the subject of Okee traveling with the likes of white folk.
Okee’s jaw tightens, so I shut my mouth, which shows the bind we’re in more than anything else could.
The oldest of them steps forward. His hair hangs in two long braids streaked with gray, and a red blanket is pulled tight over one shoulder. His eyes land on me like the devil himself has crawled up out of the earth and offered him a handshake.
“You lost?” he asks.
“Passing through,” I say.
His gaze slides over Miss Rakko, the wagon, the canvas tied tight against the cold. “White men pass through with wagons, then bring more wagons.”
“We ain’t settlers.”
The old man listens without looking pleased. Another younger fellow cuts in sharp, jerking his chin toward me, toward the pistol at my hip. Then toward Okee.
A couple of the others laugh.
“What’d he say?” I ask.
Okee don’t answer.
The old man does, still watching him. “He asks why a Creek rides guard for a thief.”
My blood heats despite the cold.
“He ain’t riding guard for me, old man. Let us pass, and I’ll forgive the goddamn arrow you stuck in my wagon.”
“Boone,” Okee warns low, teeth gritted.
The old man’s eyes come back to me. For a moment I reckon I’ve killed us all with my mouth, which would not be the first time my mouth has tried.
Then the old man gives the smallest grunt. Just a sound that says he’s heard enough to weigh.
“We have women and children camped beyond that creek,” he says. “You came too close. The arrow was a warning. Turn north. No fire. No camp. No following the water.”
“Horse is tired,” I say.
The young man raises his rifle a hair.
Okee lowers his voice and says just to me, “We go north. She can rest after we’ve rerouted.”
I look at Miss Rakko, steam lifting off her neck. Then at the arrow still trembling in the wagon board. Going north adds another day to this fool trek, at least. It puts us out in the open, closer to the Kansas border, closer to folks who might look to make a small fortune off our hides.
“That don’t square worth a nickel. We ain’t gonna harm none. We ain’t the ones shootin’ first.”
Lula shifts under the canvas, sticking out her head to greet them with a smile and a bright, “Hello!”
The men’s attention cuts toward the sound all at once. Okee turns just enough that I see murder in his eye, and for once it’s aimed at Lula.
The old man notices too. “Who is there?”
“A woman,” Okee says, as if the truth of it scorns him.
“Hello,” she says again, too sweet, as she climbs clumsily out of the wagon.
I close my eyes.
“Good day to you, sirs. My name is Lula Clay. These men are escorting me to Fort Gibson for a visit with my mother. I would be so grateful if you would only let us pass.”
Amusement flickers across the old man’s expression. He says something I don’t understand and is met with a roar of laughter behind him.
Lula don’t let it shake her. She lifts her chin. “Might you be willing to make a trade, sir?”
I nearly choke on my tongue as I growl at her, “A trade? We barely got enough to last the three of us. What do you reckon you got to offer?”
“Tell them I have herbs. Remedies,” she whispers.
Okee sighs. “The Osage have deep botanical knowledge. They will not be impressed by your magic medicine.”
She lets out a frustrated huff, then shouts to them, “I have rare items. Imported roots. Ginger! Salves. I have camphor!”
One of the younger men gives a surprised huff. The old man looks at the wagon cover a long beat, then back at me.
“Camphor,” he says.
He steps closer, slow, not taking his eyes off Lula. “Show me.”
She climbs back into the wagon, brings out the valise, and opens it careful. Every man there watches.
She holds up the vial. He leans just enough to take the scent, sharp enough it carries on the air. His face don’t change much, but he knows what it is. That’s plain.
He holds out his hand.
“Will you let us pass?” she asks, holding the jar to her chest.
I shut my eyes.
Okee swears under his breath.
He perks at that, a flicker of amusement lifting his brows. He turns his head slightly, like he means to share the moment with his men. Like even they ought to witness her audacity.
“Mister, if we go north, we lose the road. We’re slower. Easier to follow.”
At that, he squints. “Followed by who?”
“Bad men,” she says, tilting her head toward us. “These men who are escorting me, they’ve protected me. They’re good men. And if we’re forced north, we lose time, and that puts us in danger. Surely you see our predicament.”
Good men.
Those two words hit me harder than they ought. Warmth washes through my chest, and for a breath I’m back in that wagon after the massacre, seeing the way this little blonde woman looked at me then, like I was some cruel beast in a man’s coat. That look had set something crooked in my soul.
Now the same woman stands here calling us good.
It don’t wash the blood off anything. Still, it smooths out something in me I didn’t know was still rumpled.
The old man narrows his eyes, studying her a long moment with open suspicion. Then he grunts and calls something sharp over his shoulder.
“Keep your medicine,” he says. “You will pass the road. You don’t return.”