Dorothy Garlock (16 page)
Authors: The Searching Hearts
The storm had passed, leaving the land glittering
and clean in its wake. The night air was cool, the day’s heat gone, and a faint breeze stirred. Lucas drew Tucker away from the wagon and deep into woods where the trees grew tall and the brush was thick. He took the shawl from her shoulders and draped it over her hair and around her, rebozo fashion, and backed her up against a large oak tree.
and clean in its wake. The night air was cool, the day’s heat gone, and a faint breeze stirred. Lucas drew Tucker away from the wagon and deep into woods where the trees grew tall and the brush was thick. He took the shawl from her shoulders and draped it over her hair and around her, rebozo fashion, and backed her up against a large oak tree.
“Stay here while I take a look around. Stand still and don’t move,” he whispered. “I’ll not be gone long.”
“Indians?” she whispered fearfully, clutching his arm.
“I doubt it. Someone from the other train may have followed to see if we crossed the river. I pulled the wagon far off the trail, but even a poor tracker could find it. Wait here and I’ll circle around.” She nodded, and he placed a quick kiss on her mouth and left her.
Lucas moved cautiously through the trees, as silent as a shadow. The grove was still except for the usual night sounds. An owl hooted from a nearby tree before flying off on lazy wings. A pack rat cowered at the sound, nervously circled the small clearing, and scurried away on some nocturnal hunt of its own.
After several minutes of slinking through the woods, Lucas quietly changed direction and edged back toward the water, heading directly for the trail the wagons had passed over that day. Concealing himself behind a cottonwood, he waited and listened. And then he heard it . . . the soft sound of creaking saddle leather and hoofbeats muffled by the rain-sodden
earth. The sound was almost inaudible save to one whose wilderness-honed hearing could distinguish the slightest unnatural noise from the roar of a rushing river. He hesitated until he could no longer hear it, then squatted low in the brush and eased out so he could examine the tracks in the trail: a lone horse headed toward the river.
earth. The sound was almost inaudible save to one whose wilderness-honed hearing could distinguish the slightest unnatural noise from the roar of a rushing river. He hesitated until he could no longer hear it, then squatted low in the brush and eased out so he could examine the tracks in the trail: a lone horse headed toward the river.
Knowing now what he was looking for, Lucas moved back into the brush. Remaining within the bushy shelter, he circled back to the wagon, his ears alert for any sound at all. A movement some distance away caught his eye. He faded into the stand of trees near the wagon and waited silently, his buckskins only a shade lighter than the surrounding darkness. He concentrated all his attention on the shadowy figure approaching on horseback. It had slowed somewhat about fifty yards away, as if sniffing something wrong, but then sidled on up to the wagon, peered in, and paused, vaguely outlined against the whitish glow of the canvas top.
Lucas waited, hand on his gun. The figure cursed softly, sure now that he was alone. It headed on toward the river, every broken twig and stumbling step serving to pinpoint his location. Lucas followed. Downstream he heard the soft sound of a branch rubbing against coarse cloth, then the muffled sound of hooves along the bank. Gliding silently through the trees, he outstripped the slow-moving rider. He knew who was riding the horse. He waited for him to pass. He could only hope he would go back up the trail. He could hear the horse distinctly now. Soberly he
considered what to do. He didn’t want a fight unless he could be sure Tucker was safe. He squatted low in the brush, partially concealed by a tree trunk, his eyes never wavering from the spot where the rider would clear the woods.
considered what to do. He didn’t want a fight unless he could be sure Tucker was safe. He squatted low in the brush, partially concealed by a tree trunk, his eyes never wavering from the spot where the rider would clear the woods.
Frank Parcher rode up the trail and passed within a few yards of him. Lucas had followed up on a minute but nagging thought, a fragile suspicion that his wilderness sense had told him to pursue, and his hunch had been right. The scout from the other train had come to spy. Lucas had no doubt that Frank Parcher was one of those men who carried all his brains between his legs, and that sooner or later he might have to kill him.
At dawn they moved out. It was a strange group that followed Frank Parcher: each in their own wagons were the Taylors, the Collinses, and Rafe Blanchet, with the Taylors’ Negro boy leading a string of six horses. Frank’s lengthy description of the hardships and dangers that awaited them had completely discouraged four families, and they had pulled their wagons into Brownwood the morning Lucas Steele’s train had left without them. Frank set a killing pace and, as he knew they would, three more wagons broke down the first day and were left behind. The settlers in the limestone house made them welcome, and with promises of help to start homesteading in the area they were content to settle there.
Frank had accomplished what he’d set out to do with relative ease. Now he only had to keep the three remaining wagons together in order to justify his position as their leader. They would catch up with Lucas Steele’s train and would be able to keep pace with it.
Frank thought about the redheaded woman and the way she had warmed him when he looked at her. She reminded him of a puma or a wildcat, and he was sure she would fight like one. He would wait and, when the time was right, he would snatch her and head for the wild, desolate country in Mexico. He would tame her, break her for riding like he would a wild mountain pony. He thought of her naked beneath him, her mouth opening to him. He would take her slowly, savoring the warmth and scent of her, then he would devour her. . . . His mind told him to stop thinking about her for now; he was just torturing himself.
When they reached the Colorado, they retrieved the raft Lucas and Tucker had used earlier in the day and had left on the far side. Frank and Collins poled the raft with the help of Blanchet and young Jeremy Taylor. The Negro, Poppy, handled the horses. It was a smooth, fast crossing, thanks to the ready conveyance.
Five days after camping beside Pecan Creek, the three wagons topped a rise and saw the supposedly abandoned buildings of Fort McKavett. Located on a high bluff overlooking the San Saba River, the stone buildings looked anything but empty. Steele’s wagon train was lined up alongside the barracks buildings, and the flag still flew from the flagpole in the center of the parade ground.
Frank led his wagons to the rear of the parked train and called a halt. A soldier came out of one of the buildings and directed the black boy to turn the
stock loose inside a pole corral behind the barracks. He informed Frank that Captain Doyle wished to speak with him.
stock loose inside a pole corral behind the barracks. He informed Frank that Captain Doyle wished to speak with him.
While Frank was talking to the soldier, his eyes roamed the compound for the redheaded woman. He caught a glimpse of her walking with the small honey-haired woman and had to force his eyes away from her. This was the woman who would ride with him when he headed south, the woman who would fill his nights with excitement. She would be afraid of him at first, but she would come to respect his superior strength. He was proud of that strength, and of his cunning ruthlessness and knowledge of the plains. He forced down his agitation at seeing her and headed toward the building the soldier had indicated.
Captain Doyle was seated behind a table, but rose and extended his hand when Frank walked confidently into the room. “Hello, Parcher. You know Lucas Steele and Buck Garrett?”
Frank glanced at the two men lounging against the wall. “I’ve heard of Lone Buck Garrett,” he said in way of retaliation when neither man acknowledged his presence. If the implication was lost on the captain, it did not go unnoticed by Lucas and Buck.
Captain Doyle sat down and Frank stood in front of him, his feet wide apart in an arrogant pose, his back to the other men. The two facing each other across the table had little in common, and both of them knew it. They were both men of the plains, but it meant completely different things to each of them. Frank Parcher was the destroyer, James Doyle the
protector. Frank waited for the captain to speak. Waiting was one of the things Frank did best.
protector. Frank waited for the captain to speak. Waiting was one of the things Frank did best.
“What happened to the rest of your train?”
Ordinarily Frank would have told him it was none of his goddamn business, but he’d decided to play the game.
“Well, captain, the folks got scared off when you tol’ ’em ’bout havin’ no escort west of Fort Stockton. Part of ’em stayed at Brownwood, the rest squatted with a homesteader a day’s run away. Guess all that’s left is me and them three wagons, and we’re a goin’ on to Californey.”
Captain Doyle appeared to ponder this for a moment. Parcher hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, but it gave him an excuse to think. Buck Garrett and his own scout had already brought back this information, along with the report that Parcher was pushing the wagons beyond reason, resulting in the breakdowns.
“Mr. Steele has agreed to let your remaining three wagons join his train if they lighten their loads and exchange their wheels for some with heavy iron. Since Steele already has a scout,” he nodded in Buck’s direction, “you’re free to turn back and regroup the rest of your train if they’re still of a mind to make the trip.” It was said. Now he would see how the other man reacted. For a time there was only the sound of the captain shuffling paper. When Parcher didn’t speak, he added impatiently, “I understand you were already paid the money for the trip.”
“And I’m a makin’ the trip.”
“We don’t need or want your services,” Lucas spoke up behind him.
Frank answered without turning to look at him. “I ain’t offerin’ any.”
“You’ll follow Steele’s train?” Captain Doyle asked irritably.
Frank grinned. “It’s goin’ west. I’m goin’ west.”
James Doyle kept his eyes from the seething Lucas and fastened them on Frank. When he spoke his voice was abrupt. “Then you’d best get back to that bunch of greenhorns and get them ready for travel. I wouldn’t bet a stack of cow chips on their chances of making it without Lucas Steele and Buck Garrett.”
Frank grinned at the anger in the captain’s voice. He didn’t care doodly-squat for his opinion or anyone else’s. He’d worked things around until they were finally going his way. He would be with the train until it reached El Paso. That was exactly what he’d set out to do when he left Pecan Creek.
“Goddamn!” Lucas swore as soon as Frank left them. “I don’t trust that varmint any farther than I can throw a bull by the tail.”
“He’s not likely to try anything between here and Fort Stockton. It’s after that you’ll have to watch him. It’s the three wagons he brought in that I’m concerned about,” Doyle responded grimly.
“I’ll give them until tomorrow to rest up and get in shape. Then it’ll be up to them to keep up.”
“Sounds reasonable to me. Thank you, Steele.”
“Save your thanks. I’m not completely without
sympathy for those Louisiana farmers. It’s Parcher that worries me. I’m telling you that if he gets to messing around with the women, I’ll kill him quicker than I would a rattler,” were Lucas’s parting words.
sympathy for those Louisiana farmers. It’s Parcher that worries me. I’m telling you that if he gets to messing around with the women, I’ll kill him quicker than I would a rattler,” were Lucas’s parting words.
The sun was hot as Lucas and Buck walked down the line of wagons toward the three at the end of the line. Stifling his frustration and fury, Lucas approached a tall, thin, sandy-haired man in neatly patched clothes and the heavy flat-heeled boots of a farmer. Reluctantly he held out his hand.
“Lucas Steele. I’m taking this train west. This is our scout, Buck Garrett.”
“Rafe Blanchet, sir.” The man’s grip was firm, and his eyes looked steadily into Lucas’s.
“How many in your party?”
“Only myself, sir. We buried my wife at Brownwood.”
“Sorry, Blanchet.” The man’s look never wavered, and Lucas nodded. “You’ll have tomorrow to get your wagon in shape if you’re traveling with us. Captain Doyle will authorize a trade for two-inch wheels the army has stored here. Also, your water barrels can be exchanged for larger ones. Lighten your load by one third and check your food supplies so that you have a hundred pounds. Check the caulking on the water barrels and the bottom of your wagon. First and foremost, keep your place in line and stay away from the women. They’re spoken for. I’m taking them to their prospective husbands. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly. Let me say I appreciate your letting us
join you. Frankly, until now I had my doubts that we would ever reach California.” He glanced at Buck, who was looking into the wagon. Rafe reached in under the seat and brought out a brown and white pup that immediately started gnawing on his fingers. “I’ve only two left out of a litter of six. The mother was killed a few weeks back, and these two are the only ones to survive on what I could find to feed them.”
join you. Frankly, until now I had my doubts that we would ever reach California.” He glanced at Buck, who was looking into the wagon. Rafe reached in under the seat and brought out a brown and white pup that immediately started gnawing on his fingers. “I’ve only two left out of a litter of six. The mother was killed a few weeks back, and these two are the only ones to survive on what I could find to feed them.”
“Looks like a good sheep-herding dog.” Buck reached for the pup.
“It is. The mother was the best dog I ever had. She could pen a dozen sheep just by watching my hand signals.” Rafe took off his dusty hat and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “I found her shot in the head lying right smack-dab in the middle of the trail. Someone must have mistaken her for a varmint. I don’t see how they could have though; she never wandered far from the pups.”
“What will you take for the pup?” Buck interrupted.
“It’s according to what you intend to do with it. If it’s for sport. . . .” He left his words hanging and his face took on a closed, guarded look.
“I’m not meanin’ to use it to bait a cougar, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” Buck said curtly.
Rafe’s face relaxed. “I had to know. It’s been suggested.”
“Well?” Buck disliked haggling.
“If it will be taken care of, you can have it. I’m feeding them corn bread and watered-down meat drippings.”
“I’ll pay a dollar.”
“That’s much too much. I’ll settle for a hunk of meat from your next hunt.”
Buck placed the squirming pup back down in the wagon. “I’ll be back for him.” He started to walk away, but turned back. “How well do you shoot?”
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