Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (38 page)

Buffer rode down the line of horsemen who waited behind the patrol. He looked each of them in the face.

“Don’t let that duded-up flitter-head get ya scalped. Them Comanch braves are fighters. One of ’em can outfight three white men.”

“Don’t look much like fighters to me. Look like skinny, shitty younguns a-tryin’ to act big.” The man who spoke was big and burly with a mean face and a large lump of tobacco in his jaw.

“They might be skinny and shitty, but ’fore ya blink a eye, they’ll make ya a new mouth under yore chin. Ya’ll not have to spit out that wad yo’re chawin’ on.” Buffer moved on.

“Is it true Injuns is bad shots?”

“Maybe. But I’ve seen ’em bring down a jackrabbit with a arrow and both of ’em a-runnin’ full speed. That ain’t
bad
shootin’ to my way a thinkin’.”

“I ain’t wantin’ to fight no Indians if I don’t have to.” The man who spoke had a thin beard and wore a straw hat that had seen better days.

“Ya sure as hell don’t have to this time unless ya push ’em. Their leader is being friendly with Tallman.”

“Old judge’ll have a fit if we don’t stand with the blue bellies.” This was muttered by another man in a low voice.

“It’s better old judge has a fit than fer ya to be staked out fer the rattlers to gnaw on.”

“Hell. That Yank ain’t no Indian fighter. I knowed right off when he couldn’t tell them Indians was Comanch.”

“If the Comanch is a friend, he’s a friend.” Buffer looked the man in the eye. “But if yo’re his enemy, he’s a mean son of a bitch. They hate horse soldiers worser than anythin’.”

“Reckon if we back off we’ll get shot in the back.”

Buffer snorted. “Judge ain’t gonna shoot all of ya. He needs ya to drive them wagons.”

Buffer rode on down the line, speaking to the men. At the very end was a man on a long-legged black horse. Buffer looked at him, then looked again, as something about him caught his eye. It wasn’t the black beard or black hat, which were ordinary. It was the way he sat his horse, tall in the saddle, his narrow shoulders, his long arms. The man’s head was tilted, his face turned away. Buffer rode around him, aiming to get a better look, but then one of the soldiers shouted something. The man wheeled his horse, as did the others in the line, and headed back to their camp.

“Dumb bastards won’t live to get to Sante Fe,” John said. “He finally admitted the
judge
told him to chase the Indians away.
Miss Cindy
had had a screaming fit. Lordy, I’ll be glad to see the North Canadian River and the last of them.”

“I’d-a not butted in, but I was ’fraid any minute they’d sound the bugle to charge. One a them fools was unrollin’ the flag. Can ya beat that?”

*  *  *

The midday stop lasted two hours longer than usual. The “yoke-up” call came when the Comanch mounted their ponies and, leading a horse loaded with gifts from the freight wagons, rode away.

It had been a long, worrisome afternoon for Addie. Keeping the children close at hand became her first concern. She had kept them in the wagon until the stock had once again been let out onto the prairie to graze.

The slates and pencil chalk were a blessing. Although Addie knew that Trisha could read and write, she was surprised at how easily she went about teaching the alphabet to the younger children and later to Colin.

Dillon’s attention lasted through the letter
B.
After that he was interested only in covering the slate with white chalk lines and was a distraction to Jane Ann and Colin.

Addie took him up onto the wagon seat and gave him a book to look at. Her mind was full of misery and the dread of telling John about Kirby. Thinking about it made her stomach roil. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that the “captain” was Kirby Hyde. His mouth had tightened and his nostrils flared just as they had done four years ago when he was angry with her. Oh, he was Kirby, and she could prove it if he shaved off the goatee and exposed the mole on his chin.

It was almost a relief to Addie when the call came that they would be moving again.

“I learnt to make a
A
and a
B
and a
C,
Miss Addie. Trisha knows all of ’em. She’ll write my name next time.” Colin was far more interested in learning than Jane Ann was.

“He learns fast,” Trisha commented, after Colin left to help Gregorio hitch their team to the wagon. She wiped the slates with a cloth and put them away. “He’ll know more’n me in no time a’tall.”

That afternoon they crossed a vast space of prairie land. Dust rose in a cloud over the wagon train. The oxen moved with slow, ponderous steps over the almost treeless prairie.

Addie had chosen to stay in the back of the wagon. Trisha and Jane Ann sat on the seat beside Huntley. Dillon was riding with Colin and Gregorio in the wagon ahead. She had not seen John, Buffer, or Cleve since the train had moved out from the noon camp.

Her mind kept returning to her confrontation with Kirby. She had thought to catch him unaware when she called out to him, but he hadn’t hesitated for even a second. He had mounted his horse and turned when she called out the second time.
He was expecting me to confront him.
So many questions filled her mind. What was he doing in a Yankee uniform? Who was buried in the grave that was suppose to be his? She understood why he wanted her to think he was dead: He wanted to be rid of her.

The sky was darkening. Long ago the shadows that followed the train had disappeared. There was dampness in the air and the smell of trees and water. The call came to “swing in,” and Cleve guided the lead wagon into the large arc. Going down the line was the order to “tighten up.” The drivers left only enough space between the wagons to unhitch the teams.

Addie dreaded going to the cook wagon to help with the evening meal. She felt much relieved when Bill told her that the long noon rest had given him time to prepare it and all he had to do was make the coffee. Addie went back to her wagon and reached it just as Buffer appeared. Pleading a headache, she asked him to take Trisha and the children to eat, then crawled into the back of the wagon and sat there in the dark. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there when John arrived.

“Addie?”

“I’m here.”

“You all right?”

“Well, yes . . . and no.” She stood for a minute with her forehead against his chest after he had helped her down. “Have you had supper?”

“No, but it won’t hurt me to miss a meal. I asked Buffer to stay with Trisha and the children. Come on. We’ve got to talk.” Holding her elbow firmly in his hand, he led her down the line to a large freight wagon; the wheels were as high as her head. John reached into the back, brought out a piece of rolled canvas, and spread it on the ground.

“We watched you ride out to head off that patrol,” Addie said as she settled down on the canvas, trying desperately to think of something to say before John began his questions.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen as stupid a move as they were about to make. Thank the Lord, they’ll turn north to Fort Gibson in a couple of days. Come here, honey.” He put his arm around her and pulled her to him. “I’m not alone with you near enough. I don’t want to waste a minute.” He lowered his head and kissed her so lovingly that she immediately burst into tears. “What’s this? Tears from my Addie?” He held her and let her cry.

Finally, she moved out of his arms, lifted the bottom of her skirt and dried her eyes. She settled back against him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“I never thought I’d cry because someone
wasn’t
dead.” Her face was against his neck. “I love you, John Tallman. I love you so . . . much.” She felt her throat close as more tears filled her eyes.

“I love you too, Mrs. Tallman—”

“Oh, but . . . I’m not!”

“Now what, Addie girl?”

“Not Mrs. Tallman. That . . . captain is Kirby Hyde. That means I’m still . . . married to him.”

“I know you think that, honey. I saw the look on your face today when you first saw him.”

“It wasn’t the first time. I saw him the day we left Van Buren and again the day we started the trip. Each time I became more convinced. It’s him. I know it sounds crazy because Kirby joined the
Confederate
Army.”

“Addie, it isn’t him. Kirby is dead. Won’t you trust me in this?”

“I wish I could. I’ve dreaded that he’d come back. It was sinful, but I didn’t grieve for him when I heard he was dead.”

“Do you want to tell me about him?”

“I was so lonesome,” she began, and went on to tell him about Kirby’s coming to the farm and working for her. Embarrassed, but determined to tell all, she told John how she had fallen for Kirby’s charm and had allowed him to seduce her. Feeling guilty and fearing she might have a child, she had nagged at him until he agreed to have Preacher Sikes marry them.

After they were wed he had gone to town frequently. Then, out of the blue, he had come home one day and told her that he had enlisted in the Arkansas Regulars. He left the next day and she had not seen him again, until that day in Van Buren. She told John how shocked she had been when she heard his voice and his words, “Cool down, little filly.” She had at first thought her mind was playing a trick on her.

“It’s him, John. I don’t know how he got into the Yankee army, and as an officer at that. The only relative he mentioned was an uncle in Jonesboro. That’s where I sent a letter telling him that he had a son. I don’t suppose he ever got the letter. But that man is Kirby, and he knows that Dillon is his son. I understand that he could deny me, but how can a man deny his son?”

“Because, Addie, he is
not
Kirby.”

“Why are you so sure? You’ve never met him. All you have to go on is the judge’s word that his name is Forsythe.” Addie sat up and looked into John’s face. “I wish it weren’t true.” Her arms moved over his shoulders and around his neck. “I can’t begin to tell you what being with you has meant to me. I never even dreamed a man could fill my heart so completely. Regardless of what happens . . .”

“Nothing is going to happen, sweetheart.” John kissed her lips and tried to pull her into his arms. She resisted and framed his face with her palms.

“Please believe me.”

“I know you think the man is Kirby, but he isn’t!”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I killed him, Addie. I killed Kirby Hyde.”

Addie’s mouth dropped open. She looked at him in stunned silence. When she came out of her shock, she uttered two words:

“When? Where?”

*  27  *

H
e woke with the cold blade of a knife against his throat.

Since leaving Quill’s Station on the Wabash, John had met hundreds of Yanks and Rebs on their way home from the war. Now, he realized that he should have pushed on instead of bedding down at this crossroads where a dozen men had stopped for the night.

John Tallman was a sucker for the poor fools who had been led to the slaughter by the politicians, and he had shared what food he had and his coffee with a couple of them.

Hellfire! He didn’t want to kill the war-weary bastards.

“Whatcha waitin’ fer? Kill ’im. He’s a ridin’ a mighty fine horse an’ he ain’t givin’ it up less’n he’s dead.” The whispered words came from out of the darkness. “Ya wantin’ to walk while all them other fellers is ridin’ past ya?”

“I’ve never killed a man in cold blood.”

“Gawdamighty!”

“It was your idea—”

“Ya said ya’d kilt plenty a Yanks.”

“That’s different.”

“Hell, it ain’t no different. A killin’s a killin’. If ya ain’t got the stomach fer it, get the hell outta the way.”

The sons of bitches! The murdering bastards!

A coldness grew at the back of John’s neck. He knew with certainty they meant to kill him for his horse. He waited a few seconds, letting his nerves grow quiet and his senses poise for the action he would have to take to save his life.

When he moved, it was whiplash-fast. He grasped the wrist of the hand holding the knife and pushed it from his throat. At the same instant his other hand brought up his rifle. The butt smashed into the side of the man’s head with such force that he heard bones crack. Then John flipped the barrel and fired point-blank at the second figure, who was jumping at him with a blade in his hand. The blast threw the man back.

John was on his feet before the jumper hit the ground. His eyes swept the clearing where men had sprung up out of their bedrolls. He was only vaguely aware of the sharp sting of the cut beneath his jaw and the blood that ran down his neck.

“Don’t shoot.” Several men stepped forward. “They’re not with us.”

“Never saw them before we rode in to bed down.”

“Figured them Rebs for back-stabbers.”

“You a Reb?” one asked.

“No.”

The man laughed. “Got to be a Yank, then.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Any of you men planning to take my horse?” John stood ready to bring his rifle into play.

“We got horses, but we’ll take him if you’re givin’ him away.”

“I could use a shovel. I’ve got one man to bury—maybe two.”

“Hell, man. You don’t have to bury them Rebs. Leave ’em for the wolves and the coyotes.”

In the silence that followed, John let his gaze travel over the Yankee soldiers—what he could see of them.

“Would you want a pack of wild dogs gnawing on you?” John’s voice was nearly a snarl. “They’re men, even though they’re rotten, murdering ragshags. I’ll bury them.”

The quiet rage in his voice whipped one of the men into speech.

“I’ll get ya a shovel.”

“Thanks.”

John looked down at the man he had cracked in the head with his rifle. His skull was caved in, and his eyes were open and staring. John did not like to kill, nor did he want to be killed.

“This one’s dead, too.” He moved to the body with the gaping hole in the chest and stooped to search the clothing. “Check the other one’s pockets and see if you can put a name on him,” he said to no one in particular.

One of the men went down on one knee beside the body, then stood, holding a letter in his hand. He struck a match on his bootheel, sheltered the flame with his hat, and began to read.