Passage West (7 page)

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Abby awoke with a start, feeling guilty that the sun was already up. The long night with Carrie had left her disoriented. She dressed and hurried to feed the team, then started a fire for their morning meal. Her father still had not returned to the wagon, and she felt a growing sense of dread. What if he had fallen in the darkness? What if he were lying somewhere, alone and hurt? Coffee boiled in a blackened kettle over the fire. Chunks of pork snapped and sizzled in a pan. The aroma of biscuits, baked over coals, added an almost festive air to their morning at Fort Kearny. Abby, kneeling by the fire, heard the sound of whispers from the wagon and knew that Carrie and Violet were awake. Glancing up, she saw the figure of her father approaching. With a little cry of relief she leaped up and ran toward him. At the look on his face she stopped.

His skin was pale, his eyes puffy. His mouth was drawn into a tight line of anger.

“I was worried, Pa. Where’ve you been?”

“Worried, were you? But not worried enough to come looking for me. I spent the night in the wet grass, probably about to catch a fever, and not one of my family even thought to come fetch me home.”

Abby touched a hand to his wrist. “Pa, we have to talk.”

“Talk? I’m near to death and my lazy, good-for-nothing daughter wants to talk.” Snatching his hand away, he headed toward the wagon.

“Pa.” Abby’s voice instinctively lowered so the people in wagons nearby wouldn’t overhear her. “Flint Barrows attacked Carrie last night.”

James Market swung around to face her. Behind him, Carrie and Violet poked their heads through the flap of canvas.

“Attacked her? With what? A gun? A knife?”

“He grabbed her and threw her into the wagon, Pa. He was trying to … ” Abby saw the look on Carrie’s face and stared down at the ground. “He was going to force himself on her.”

James ran a tongue over his lips. His mouth tasted like straw. “Well? Did he?”

“I came along in time to stop him. We fought. He knocked Carrie to the ground with a club. I thought she was dead.”

James Market swung around and glared at his youngest daughter. “She don’t look dead to me.”

“I’m all right, Pa,” Carrie said softly. “Just got a lump on my head.”

“My head hurts too. I’m going to sleep.”

“James.” As he pushed past them, Violet looked stricken. “Aren’t you going to do anything about this?”

“What would you have me do, woman?”

“Talk to Mr. Stump and Mr. Thompson. Have them remove Flint Barrows from the wagon train.”

“The man has a wife, big with child. What will they do? Stay on here at the fort while the rest of us go on to California? Are you suggesting that we should do without another pair of strong arms on this train just because he tried to steal a kiss from Carrie?”

“James.” Violet lowered her voice, striving for the patience a lady should always display. “What that man did last night was much more than try to steal a kiss.”

Abby’s voice cut in, louder than she’d intended. “He was forcing himself on Carrie. If I hadn’t come along when I did, you know what would have happened to her.”

James climbed back down from the wagon and turned to face Abby. In his rage, color returned to his cheeks. “Could it be you’re jealous, girlie? Look at you. You’re so busy trying to be a man”—he stared pointedly at her shirt and britches—“that you wouldn’t know what it feels like to have a man put his hands on you. And you know what, Miss High-and-Mighty? You never will.”

For one stunned moment Abby could only stare at her father. How could he be this hateful? How did he always manage to turn things around, until she was somehow to blame for everything that happened? Regaining her speech, she asked, “Does this mean you don’t intend to speak to Mordecai Stump about Flint Barrows?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Now leave me alone.” Pushing past the startled women, he climbed into the wagon and rolled himself into a blanket.

For long silent minutes the three women stared at each other. Then Abby turned back to the fire. Resentment, fury, fear boiled inside her. What chance did they have in this wilderness with men who considered them little more than servants? A man like Flint Barrows thought he had every right to take a woman too weak or small to fight back. Her father resented having to take care of three helpless women, when his only son had died at birth. And Rourke. Rourke had warned her to watch out for Carrie. But how much could she do? Feeling drained, she poured a cup of coffee.

“Food’s ready,” she said listlessly.

“I’m not hungry.” Turning away, Carrie stared around the enclosed fort, her arms wrapped tightly about herself.

“Eat something, child,” Violet urged.

“No.” Taking a blanket from the wagon, Carrie wrapped it around her shoulders and sat down beside the fire. Things weren’t going to change, she thought. Nothing ever changed. Except the landscape. They had gone from a miserable existence on a hardscrabble farm to a more miserable existence here in the wilderness. She swallowed back the tears that threatened. Abby never cried. Abby endured. Like a mule, Carrie thought angrily, then immediately regretted the thought. If it hadn’t been for her sister, Flint Barrows would have …

Filling a plate, Abby set it in front of Carrie, then filled a second plate for herself. She ate mechanically, her mind working frantically. Without her father’s cooperation, they would never be able to go to Mordecai Stump and have Flint Barrows removed from the train. The men made the decisions around here. The women were forced to live with those decisions.

At least now they knew what sort of animal Flint Barrows was. They would have to become more vigilant. From now on, besides the dangerous trail, the river crossings, the Indians, there would be another danger. But this one was far from unknown. And probably far more dangerous.

*  *  *

The respite at Fort Kearny left everyone in the train except the Markets more cheerful. The women had a chance to wash and sew and take on fresh supplies. The men had time to repair their harnesses and wagons and swap stories around the campfire. But when the wagon train made ready to pull out at dawn on the third day, the Market wagon was nearly left behind.

James had spent the second day of their stopover sleeping off the effects of the liquor. By evening, he was back at the trading post, sharing a bottle with Flint Barrows. When James brought up the subject of his youngest daughter, Flint suggested that she was nothing more than a little temptress.

“Flaunted herself in front of me, James, and asked me to come up in the wagon and help her move something.”

Market downed his drink and poured another generous amount. “I thought as much.”

“When she threw her arms around my neck, I figured the girl had gone crazy as a loon.” Flint leaned forward, giving his friend a conspiratorial wink. “Girls that age get strange notions. Want to test them on any poor fool who comes along.”

James nodded. “She and that sister of mine. Always sitting around talking about kings and princes and castles and such. Useless.” He made a fist and pounded it on the table, causing several men to glance his way. “I’ve had enough of all that. From now on those two are going to pull their share. It’s time they found out what real life is like.”

Flint signaled for another bottle and filled their glasses. “I’d be glad to take your youngest into my wagon. She could be a help to my wife. The baby’s due in another month or two.”

Market gave him a narrowed look. It was tempting. Especially if Barrows was willing to pay him for Carrie’s services. But then he thought about the gossip that would ensue. “I ain’t giving away any of mine. She can earn her keep with us. And by God she’ll learn what it is to work.”

The entire Market family learned to work together the following morning.

Abby had managed to harness the team while Aunt Vi and Carrie prepared breakfast. When James crawled from between the blankets, his head aching, his stomach rolling, they discovered a broken axle. Mordecai Stump was so angry, he threatened to pull out and leave them behind.

“What in God’s name have ye been doing for the last two days, man?” Mordecai’s burr was thick with fury.

“I didn’t think to check the wagon. When I bought it I was told it was sound.”

“Aye. ’Tis sound. But nothing survives this journey unless it’s well cared for. Ye’ve been neglecting your duties, James Market. Leaving all the work to a mere slip of a girl. The care of this wagon should be yours.”

Stung by the words that had been heard by half the wagon train, James bent to the task of repairing the axle, while his women were forced to empty the wagon of all supplies. It was late afternoon before the wagon was repaired and the train was able to roll out the gates of the fort. James Market took the reins while the women tramped beside the wagon. At dusk, when the train finally stopped for the night, Carrie and Vi were too exhausted to even consider making a meal. The chore fell to Abby, who started a fire and set strips of rabbit to roast. Checking the game sack, she realized that they had only enough for another day.

Her father, angry and sullen, sat alone beside the wagon, drinking from the jug.

“Pa, we’re nearly out of meat.”

“What’s that to me? Stump says I have to stay with the wagon.”

Abby stared at the ground. “Maybe I could barter for one of the men from the train to hunt for our game along with his own.”

“And how will you pay him?”

Abby bit her lip. She didn’t know. They had no money, and few goods to trade.

“What’s wrong with you hunting?” James asked, taking a final pull of whiskey and shoving the cork into the jug.

“Me?” Abby stuck her hands in the pockets of her dirty britches. “I’ve fired a rifle before. But I’ve never killed an animal, Pa.”

“Then it’s time you learned. If I have to stay with the wagon, the least you can do is take care of our food.” He stood. “Now where’s my dinner? I’m hungry.”

As he walked away, Abby watched his retreating back. She’d never killed. And she’d never been alone in the wilderness before. But then, she’d never driven a team before they joined the train. She’d never done a hundred things she now did routinely. And at least she would have an excuse to be out of her father’s way for a few hours each day.

Walking to the back of the wagon, she lifted the rifle down and tested its weight. Later, she decided, she would find the wagon master. Mordecai Stump would teach her what she had to know to hunt their food.

Chapter Six

After supper, Abby picked up the rifle and made her way through the loop of wagons to the cook wagon. When she entered the circle of firelight, she felt suddenly awkward. Five voices abruptly stopped speaking. Five pairs of men’s eyes watched as she approached. Following Mordecai’s example, each stood and removed his hat.

“Well, Miss Abby, this is a pleasure.”

She had hoped to find Mordecai alone. After meals the men usually went about the business of finishing their chores. Tonight Mordecai and Thompson, Brand and Rourke and Parker still hovered by the fire. Casting a glance at the others, she began to explain her presence.

“Since Pa has to stay with the wagon now, I’ll be expected to take care of some of his chores. I’ll be needing to lay in a supply of game.” Holding the rifle out in front of her, Abby said simply, “I was hoping you could show me how to be a better shot.” She lifted a shoulder in embarrassment. “And tell me anything I ought to know about this land when I leave the protection of the wagon train.”

Mordecai swallowed his smile. She was an altogether unusual young woman. Shy yet bold. Hardworking, while managing to retain an air of fragile vulnerability. Despite the mannish clothes and tough talk, there was no hiding the fact that she was every inch a lady.

He took the weapon from her hand and examined the Sharps breech-loading rifle. “Ever handle this, lass?”

“Once or twice.”

“Hit anything?”

She grinned. “Hit a tree one time. Trouble is, I was aiming at a fox in our henhouse.”

Mordecai laughed good-naturedly, and the others joined in before he indicated the blanket and saddle beside him. “Here. Sit a spell, Miss Abby, while I take a closer look at this rifle.”

When she was seated, the others sat back down near the fire and began to pass the blackened coffee pot around. When it came to Abby, she poured herself a cup and passed the pot to Parker, the cook. Rourke, she noted, chose to sit a little beyond the circle of light so that his face was in shadow. Why did the man always avoid the light, like a man on the run?

“Rifle’s in good shape,” Mordecai pronounced after a thorough examination. “Shouldn’t give you any trouble. But it’s a mighty big gun for someone as small as you. Has a kick to it.” Handing it back to her, he added, “You’ll get used to it. Tomorrow, why don’t you ride ahead of the train with Brand here. When he’s not scouting, he can give you some pointers on the use of this rifle, as well as signs of trouble you ought to take notice of.”

She felt immediately relieved at Mordecai’s ready acceptance of her request. She’d half feared she might be an object of ridicule. As for riding with Brand, though she knew little about the scout, and had rarely seen him around the wagons, she valued Mordecai’s judgment. If the wagon master thought the man worthy of her trust, she wouldn’t question him.

Brand looked up from his coffee. When he spoke, his words were very precise, the result of a Boston-bred missionary who had taught his family English. “You directed me to ride ahead to Fort Laramie.”

Mordecai, reaching for a cup of coffee, paused. “So I did. Rourke, what are you up to tomorrow?”

There was a perceptible pause. The voice in the darkness sounded guarded. “You asked me to find a shallow river crossing before we make camp tomorrow night.”

“Good,” Mordecai said, pouring, then drinking. “Take Miss Abby along. There ought to be a few times in the day when you can stop to give her a lesson or two.” The Scotsman’s eyes twinkled. “Should have thought of you in the first place. Nobody handles a gun better’n you.”