Angel Train (13 page)

“If I don’t stop him, the rest will run too. I’ll have to make an example out of him.”

Studdart studied the tall man for a moment and saw what a forceful man he was. “You want me to go with you?”

“No, you stay here, Karl. You and Gwilym take care of things. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

* * *

THE CAMP WAS QUIET that day. Everyone was talking about the situation. Lareina was not feeling well, and Zamora grew worried. She went to the Wingate wagon and found York Wingate sitting outside, smoking a pipe.

“Well, hello,” he said.

“Doctor, my grandmother’s sick. I wish you’d come and look to her.”

“All right. Let me tell my wife.” He went over to where his wife had been sitting in the shade of the wagon and said a few words to her. He picked up his black bag. “How long has she been sick?”

“Just since this morning.”

“Is she sick often?”

“She’s old but in good health.” Zamora turned and looked back to York Wingate’s wagon. “Your wife isn’t well.”

“No, she’s not. I’m worried about her.”

Zamora was curious about the doctor but made no comment. When they got to their wagon, Lareina was lying on a pallet where she could catch some of the breeze. York knelt down, felt her pulse, and asked her a few questions.

“There’s nothing wrong with me that you can fix,” Lareina said.

“Maybe I can.”

“Can you stop someone from growing old?” Lareina asked and suddenly smiled. “You’d be a rich man if you could.”

York asked her more questions. “I’ve got something that might make you feel better here.”

He took a bottle from his bag, poured some medicine into an empty bottle, and gave it to Lareina.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Suddenly Stefan appeared, excitement on his face. “Tremayne is back,” he said.

“Does he have Doucett with him?”

“Yes, come on, let’s see what happens.”

Everybody had seen Tremayne’s approach, it seemed, and Charity saw that Doucett’s face was swollen. At Tremayne’s command he got off the horse, moving very slowly.

“Where did you catch up with him?” Frank Novak asked.

“Not too far from here.” Charity waited for Tremayne to say more, but the situation spoke for itself. Tremayne suddenly turned to Frenchy, “Try it again, Frenchy, and I’ll tie you to a wagon wheel and break a bullwhip on you. That goes for anybody else who tries to leave. We’ve been over this before.”

Charity was not at all satisfied at what she had heard, but she was relieved because she had feared that Tremayne might shoot Frenchy Doucett.

She did not see Tremayne for the rest of the day. He had told the travelers that they would leave early in the morning. Then after the darkness closed in, she saw him standing at the edge of the wagons. Everyone had gone to bed, but she was curious. She walked over, and he turned to face her.

“You’re up late.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She stood beside him and was very much aware of his height. “I was afraid you might shoot Doucett.”

“I can’t afford to lose a man. We need him.”

“Did he try to fight?”

“He tried, but he won’t try it again, I don’t think.”

The two were silent for a time. Overhead, the moon was full and bright, and the stars seemed brighter than ever. Charity felt uncomfortable around Tremayne, and he noted that. She was not wise in the ways of men, but several had been interested in her.

Tremayne studied her carefully. He had studied her more than she knew. Small shades of expression softly darkened and then lightened her face, and her lips made elusive changes as her thinking varied. She was a well-shaped girl, and her features were quick to express her thoughts, and laughter and love of live seemed to lie impatiently behind her expressions, waiting for release. She had a calm manner, usually, but from time to time a liveliness had its sudden way and her lips mirrored the change. At times her face displayed a little-girl eagerness.

From far off came a lonely howl of a wolf, one of the many that followed the buffalo herd.

“That always makes me sad,” he said, “the wolves. I don’t know why.”

Charity studied his face, and without warning he reached out and touched her hair. “You have beautiful hair,” he said. “My grandmother had hair like this, as red as yours.”

Charity stood very still. He had never touched her, and now she felt his light touch on her hair, and strong feelings shot through her. She smiled and said, “You loved your grandmother?”

“Yes.”

Her nearness affected him, she saw that, and she waited, saying nothing. When he moved forward and put his arms around her, she was not completely shocked. She had been kissed before, and the big man had aroused her curiosity. He lowered his head. His lips fell on hers, and for a moment she gave herself up to his caress. She was shocked at her feelings, for she was not a woman to give herself to a man easily. Then, as never before, she was aware that they were close to a great mystery, and she knew this man attracted her more than any other man ever had. The attraction frightened her. She pulled back suddenly and stared up at him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “You must never do it again.”

“I probably will, Charity.”

She tried to think of a way to answer him but found none. She was not cool and collected now for within her an emotion strongly worked and left its fugitive impression on her face. Tremayne saw it on her lips most clearly. It was always her lips that betrayed changes within her. For Tremayne she made a strong presence, and when she turned and walked away without another word, he watched her go.

As for Charity, she was shaken more by the kiss than she had ever been. “I must have lost my mind letting him kiss me like that,” she whispered, but she knew even as she spoke that she wouldn’t forget how he had held her.

“FORT KEARNEY’S UP AHEAD a few miles. We’ll be able to make camp and maybe even look the place over.”

Charity had been walking beside the lead oxen; her hand rested, from time to time, on Babe’s rough coat. Casey Tremayne had ridden up and dismounted to walk alongside.

“Is it a big place?” she asked, more to make conversation than to seek information.

“No. You won’t be impressed by it. It’s more a trading post than it is an army camp—although a troop of cavalry is usually there.”

Charity couldn’t help but feel something near embarrassment mixed with anger, which surprised her. She had thought almost without ceasing about that moment when Tremayne had put his arms around her and kissed her. Her anger was not at him so much as at herself for permitting such a thing. She didn’t know what to say to the tall man adjusting his stride to hers. She glanced covertly at him and wondered what kind of man he really was. His high, square torso made a trim shape as he strolled beside her. She was well aware of his physical strength and tough, resolute vigor. But what feelings and thoughts lay in the man—why had she permitted him to kiss
her, and why had she responded the way she did? These questions troubled her as they walked along, the dust rising behind them.

“I know you’re not a woman who is easy.”

The remark startled Charity. “What do you mean? Why would you say a thing like that?”

“I think I took advantage of you last time we met. I caught you off guard. So I want to apologize. I know you’re not a woman who gives herself easily to any man.”

Confusion raced through Charity, for his apology was the last thing in the world she was expecting. She studied his features and saw that he was keeping his glance away from her. He was looking, as he always did, ahead, his eyes moving from point to point.

But suddenly he turned and added, “I don’t like to do anything that makes a woman feel bad.”

“It caught me off guard, and you’re right. It’s not the sort of thing I do easily.”

A silence fell across the two, and Charity was aware of the creaking wagon wheels, the jingling harnesses, and from far off the high cry of a bird.

“I accept your apology,” she said stiffly.

Tremayne seemed troubled. He stepped into his saddle, and before he rode away said softly, “A man gets urges sometimes, Charity, and it’s hard to sort them out, but I know you’re a woman who has strong convictions. I wouldn’t want to upset those. As a matter of fact, I’ve been wanting to tell you I had a pretty low opinion of what you folks do in the Pilgrim Way, but knowing you and your father and some of the others has made a difference.” His glance went up and down the line of wagons, and he seemed to be evaluating them. Finally he shook his head, “A man can make mistakes.” He wheeled the gelding,
touched its side with the spurs, and left, moving rapidly into the distance.

Charity watched him go, puzzled by his behavior.
I like him more than I should.
The thought startled her, and she almost wanted to argue with herself. Finally she set her jaw
. He’s not a man I could admire. He’s able, but he doesn’t know God.
She continued to walk still troubled, for the memory of his caress and how he had gently held her had not left her. She had tried almost desperately to forget his kiss, but she recalled it repeatedly, and now she scolded herself for falling into such a situation.

* * *

FORT KEARNEY HAD BEEN a disappointment to most of the travelers. There was no stockade, only a long barracks, a general store, a blacksmith shop, and several houses scattered seemingly at random on the open prairie.

“Not much, is it, Tremayne?” Gwilym remarked as the two of them met at sundown. “I was expecting more.”

“It’s really just a trading post, Mr. Morgan. Fort Laramie is a little bit better. We ought to get there in a week maybe.”

Gwilym was studying the town, such as it was. He sighed and shook his head sadly. “Well, I see it has a saloon and no church.”

“That’s pretty standard for these posts.”

Morgan was troubled. “Do you suppose you would be able to keep your men from getting drunk in that saloon tonight?”

“I could threaten them, but I don’t know as it would do much good. They’ve done pretty well so far. Better than I expected. They’re not your kind of people. We’re all of us a rough-hewn bunch.”

“Why don’t you try to talk to them?”

“I wouldn’t care to do that. Maybe you could.”

“They wouldn’t pay any heed to me, but it saddens me to see men destroying themselves with things like liquor and bad women.”

“Well, there won’t be any bad women here. The post commander wouldn’t permit it, but there’ll be liquor, and I’m sure the men will find it. Probably already have.”

“Well, it’s the world. Men are sinners.”

* * *

YORK LOOKED UP AS the doctor came into the room. His name was Roberts, and he was old for such a post. His hair was salt-and-pepper, and his face was lined from years under the sun. He was a drinking man too. York could spot the signs— the redness of his eyes and a slight tremor in the hands. He was not the ideal doctor, but York had sought him out and asked him to look Helen over to get a second opinion. He had told Roberts, “I’m too close to the situation.” Now he asked, “How is she in your opinion, Dr. Roberts?”

Roberts walked to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a bottle. He poured himself a drink and offered one to York, who declined. “It’s not the best situation as you well know, Wingate.”

“I wish I hadn’t brought her. It was a mistake. Now it’s too late to turn back, and there’s nothing much to look forward to. The jolting of the wagon hasn’t helped her any. She’s had two miscarriages already.”

“So she told me.” Roberts drained the drink, capped the whiskey bottle, and returned it back to the cabinet. “I don’t know if I can add anything to what you already know. If you
care to stay here, we’ll try to make arrangements until the baby comes.”

“She would never do that.” Wingate chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. “I suppose we’ll have to go on.”

“Well, she’s small and rather fragile, but with good luck she’ll have this baby, and it’ll be a healthy one.” Roberts waved to a chair, but Wingate shook his head.

“No, I’d better get back.”

“I’m curious. You probably had a pretty good practice where you were. Why would you leave it for a trip like this? It’ll be a wilderness when you get to Oregon, from what I hear.”

Wingate knew it was useless to explain because he didn’t fully understand himself. “A man makes the wrong decisions sometimes. I wish I’d stayed in Pennsylvania now, but hindsight is pretty cheap. What I needed was foresight, and I didn’t have it,” he said.

Roberts said as cheerfully as he could, “Why, it’ll be all right, I’m sure. Just be careful.” The doctor realized as he spoke that this was feeble advice; no man could be careful on a wagon train going over rough ground. He said quickly, “I’ve got to go check on some of the men. Anybody else you’d like me to look at?”

“No. Thank you very much, Dr. Roberts.”

“Wasn’t much help, but I wish you good luck and your wife also.”

As York Wingate left the office, he felt a sense of despair. There was a gloom in him that was not his usual mood, but now he knew there was nothing to do but grind out the miles and pray that Helen would be all right and the baby would be safe.

* * *

CHARTERHOUSE LOOKED UP AND said, “There comes our relief, Billy.”

Billy Watson, age seventeen, lifted his eyes. He had tow-colored hair, and his eyes were faded blue. He was small in stature and not as tough as the other members of the crew Tremayne had recruited. “You want to go into town, Elsworth?”

“Not much of a town, but I suppose we might as well.” He nodded as their relief came to watch the herd on the early shift. “Come along, Billy. We’ll see what Fort Kearney is like. Not much I’d say, from what I’ve seen so far.”

The two left the wagons where they were circled and made their way to the fort. Darkness had closed on the town, and a few lanterns in front of buildings made yellow splashes in the night.

“Well, nothing much to see. Let’s go into the saloon. Are you a drinking man, Billy?”

“No, not me. I don’t like the taste of it, and the times I tried it, it made me so sick I wanted to die.”

“Well, maybe they’ll have lemonade. Come on.”

The two men walked toward the saloon, and Elsworth noted that the music was from a tinny piano. It was off-key, and the voice that accompanied it was not much better.

As the two stepped inside, they saw it was one of the roughest of places. It was crowded, however, and smoke from cigarettes, cigars, and pipes made a thick haze. A poker game was going on at one table. A tall thin man with a fine mustache was dealing blackjack. The bar was across one end of the building, and a barkeep in a filthy white shirt with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows nodded at them.

“What’ll it be, gents?”

“Whiskey for me, and something not quite so bad for this young fellow here. Lemonade if you’ve got it.”

The barkeep grinned. He was missing several teeth and had a rough look. “Lemonade and whiskey it is. You come in with the train?”

“That we did.”

“A long way to Oregon. I don’t envy you.”

Elsworth sipped the drink and made a face. “Strong stuff,” he said. “You think the trail is pretty rough?”

“Yeah, it is. Some people get halfway there, turn around, and come back here. Not for everybody, but you two will probably make it all right.”

The two stood at the bar. Elsworth had another drink, and Billy another lemonade. At least there was some noise and music although it was not as good as the music Stefan made with his fiddle.

“I’m glad we’re out of that prison, Elsworth,” Billy said abruptly. “I think I’d have died if I’d had to stay there much longer.”

“Well, it’s a hard place in a hard world. No place for you. I never did know why you were there, Billy.”

“I was hungry, and I broke into a store and stole some food.”

“Doesn’t seem like a prison offense to me.”

“The judge was drunk at my trial. He sentenced everybody who came before him to prison that day.”

“Well, we’re out now. If we play our cards right, we’ll never see the inside of a place like that again.”

The two talked idly, and Elsworth saw a burly man wearing a strange fur hat like he had seen in pictures of trappers in the far West. “Who’s he?” Elsworth asked the bartender.

“That’s Wiley Tate. Better steer clear of him. He’s a bad one.”

The two were joined by Ringo Jukes who walked in the front door. “Hey, Charterhouse. Hi, Billy.”

He was the best-looking man on the train with classic features, strong and very masculine. His teeth were very white against his tanned face, his neck was thick, and his shirt bulged with muscles and brawn. He kept himself looking neat, which was quite a feat on such a journey. The three stood at the bar. Suddenly the big man with the trapper’s hat got up and started for the bar. It was crowded, and he simply shoved Billy aside and said loudly, “Give me another whiskey, Jake.”

Jake got his whiskey, and then Wiley looked at Billy and laughed. “Well, ain’t you a nice mama’s boy.” He slapped Billy on the shoulder. “Why aren’t you home with your mama, boy?”

Billy Watson was the least offensive man in the room, but he said now, “I’m not a mama’s boy.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“No. I just—”

Tate slapped Billy in a sudden show of viciousness. His hand struck Billy on the neck and cheek and drove him down to one side. Tate was drunk and looking for trouble. His eyes were reddened, and there was a cruelty in all he did.

“You calling me a liar? I think I’ll bust you up, son. Knock your teeth to snags and break a couple of them ribs of yours.”

“Leave him alone, Tate,” the bartender said.

“You keep out of this, Jake!”

Tate pushed Billy, who fell sprawling to the floor. Tate walked forward and began to curse. He kicked him, and Billy doubled up, crying out with pain.

Ringo Jukes had watched carefully. Now he made two steps toward a table and picked up an empty chair. Tate’s back was to him, and Elsworth was shocked to see Jukes raise the chair and bring it down with all of his might on Tate’s head. It drove Tate to the floor; the blow would have rendered a smaller man unconscious, but Tate was not unconscious. His eyes were glazed, and he started uttering curses, but as he attempted to rise, Ringo raised the chair again. This blast caught Tate squarely on the head, knocked the fur cap off, and split his forehead over the eyebrow. This did put him out.

“I’ve ruined one of your chairs.”

The barkeep stared down at Wiley Tate’s still figure. “If I wuz you, I’d get out of here and hope he don’t catch up with you.”

“He better not.” Jukes shrugged. “He might get worse next time. You fellas ready?”

“Yes,” Elsworth said. He quickly helped Billy to his feet and saw that the boy was shaking. He had a cut in his scalp, and he said, “We have to get that cleaned up.”

Ringo Jukes looked down at Tate. “Tell him he needs to mend his manners,” he said, then turned and walked out of the saloon, accompanied by the two others.

“Better go have the doctor look at that cut.”

“It’s all right,” Billy said quickly. “It don’t hurt much.”

“May need a stitch or two in it.”

They started toward the camp and stopped at the doctor’s wagon.

“Maybe I can patch it up myself,” Elsworth said, “although I’m not handy with such.” They continued toward their own wagon, but they had to pass the Gypsy wagon. A fire was going, and the old woman was sitting in front of it, eating something. Zamora saw them and came over.

“What’s wrong?”

“Billy here has got a cut. The doctor’s gone,” Elsworth said.

“It doesn’t look too bad.” Zamora pulled Billy’s head down toward the light. “Come on, I can help with this.”

The three men followed the girl. She made Billy sit on a box. The old woman was watching him closely as her granddaughter began to gather something from a box in the wagon. Zamora came back with a cup. “Drink this.”