The Warriors (40 page)

Despite his gloom and nervousness, he forced himself to stand still while he relit his churchwarden. Then he hurried on to the Dorn tent.

The tent stood a good twenty yards behind the wagon. A lamp inside made the front section glow. The rear was dark. He stepped to the flap and called softly.

“Hallo?”

“Who’s there?”

“Beg pardon, Miss Dorn—is that you?”

The unseen girl laughed. “I’ve seen no other women in this godless place. I expect so.”

A feminine silhouette appeared suddenly on the front of the tent. Unlike her father, she spoke without an accent.

“Who might you be?”

“The name’s Michael K. Boyle.”

“Oh, yes, Papa mentioned you.” It was crisply said, with a faint edge of reproof. “The one who caused the trouble.”

“The one who was on the receiving end of the trouble, if you don’t mind! I had no hand in causing it.” Not quite true. But the unseen girl had irked him.

“Well, it makes no difference,” she replied in an airy way. “It was still ungodly quarreling.”

That was two references to godlessness in a space of seconds. Disgusted, he blew out a puff of smoke. She must be a proper prude, all right.

He tried to control his annoyance. “Whatever the cause, the result was the shooting of my friend Christian. I understand you’re tending him?”

“That’s correct. He’ll recover splendidly.”

“I came to visit him—which is pretty blasted difficult with this tent between us. Would you be so kind as to let me in?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Are you alone?”

He had a good notion to inform her that a dozen wild-eyed rapists were hovering behind him.

“I am.”

“All right, then. But your friend’s asleep.”

A hand lifted the flap. Michael ducked, starting inside, then stopped short. His mouth opened. The churchwarden fell from his lips. He caught it in time, letting out a loud
“Oww!”
as his thumb accidentally jabbed into the hot bowl.

Licking his thumb and wincing, he didn’t move. He was still thunderstuck.

A single lamp hung from the ridgepole. An open Bible lay on a stool beside an untidy cot along the left wall. To judge from the garments strewn on it, the cot belonged to her father or brother. The twin of the boy’s Hawken was propped against an equally messy cot on the right—another male domain; a pair of patched trousers lay beneath.

Directly in front of him—no longer disguised by distance or a shapeless coat and hat—was the real cause of his surprise.

In one way, the workers whose hurts she’d tended had exaggerated. But perhaps to men of forty, a woman in her late twenties could properly be called young. Their other claim had been understated. She was more than just pretty. Without benefit of paint or furbelows, she was lovely.

“For heaven’s sake come in or go out, one or the other, Mr. Boyle,” she said in a sharp tone. She wore trousers of denim cloth tucked into heavy boots, and a man’s work shirt that fit tightly over large well-shaped breasts. She had her father’s square jaw but a more generous mouth and clear, blue-gray eyes. Hair the color of summer wheat was drawn into a bun at the back of her head.

Her skin had a sunburned coarseness—more noticeable on the backs of her hands. The knuckles were red. Yet he found the weather-beaten look curiously attractive. She had fine wide hips and smelled not unpleasantly of strong soap.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your first name—” he began.

“Is there any reason why you should be? It’s Hannah. Now do you wish to see your friend?”

She turned sideways, inadvertently drawing his eye to the curve of her breast. When she noticed, her cheeks pinked. “Mr. Boyle!”

He jerked to attention. “Yes?”

“He’s behind the canvas partition. I don’t think it would be advisable for you to wake him up. Just glance in.”

He didn’t know what to make of the woman. She seemed to have more than a touch of her father’s stern temperament, and some of her remarks would have been downright disagreeable had they not been tempered by her smile and a pleasant voice. Her gaze was uncomfortably direct.

Michael shifted the pipe from one hand to the other. She gestured. “You burned your thumb.”

“Nothing serious.”

“A burn is always serious for a man who works with his hands. You’ve blisters, too, I see. I have some salve that would help. I’ll apply it before you leave.”

“Truly, it’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is. Women know more about such things than men. However, I’d appreciate it if you’d extinguish your pipe.” She smiled. “Smoking is a wasteful, unhealthy habit.”

“Oh, I see! Whatever you say, Miss Dorn.” His tone was as tart as hers of a few moments ago.

He stuck his arm outside, turned the pipe over, and shook the remaining embers and tobacco to the ground. When he faced her again, he surrendered to an ungentle-manly impulse and said, “Do you consider smoking worse than drinking whiskey? Or selling it?”

Immediately he regretted the clumsy sarcasm. Instead of anger, it produced a look of hurt. She hid it by turning away.

“Though it’s no affair of yours, I don’t condone my father’s trade, nor”—softly—“nor his own dependence on the product he sells.”

She looked at him again. “But he is my father. My brother Klaus is very young. Someone must look after them.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“That my father’s a drunkard? He is. Don’t the roughnecks in this camp know that by now?”

He was too embarrassed to answer.

“You see, Mr. Boyle, my father owns a small store in Grand Island. General merchandise. The store is failing because Papa’s too fond of his whiskey to attend to its management or care about his customers. And he’ll let no one help him, except in the most menial way. When he chose to try to make some extra money by temporarily closing the store, fixing up the wagon, and driving all the way out here to this hideous place, I had a choice. Let him take Klaus and bring harm to himself or both of them by provoking others with his brusqueness—railroad men are not so placid as farmer’s wives, they say—or come with them. I’m afraid Papa’s only the first of many who’ll be following the tracks to take advantage of men’s vices. Now if that satisfies your curiosity about my motives—?”

She spoke well, he was thinking. She was uncommonly well educated, or more likely self-taught.

“Miss Dorn, I didn’t mean to pry—or annoy you with my tactless remark about the whiskey.”

“That’s all right. I just wanted you to know I was here for the sake of people, not profits.”

The words carried an odd undertone. Pain?

He was at a loss to understand why she’d revealed so much in a few sentences—unless she’d contained a deep hurt for too long, and had no one but a stranger with whom to share it.

That gave him a little better insight into her character. She might be strong, but she wasn’t marble. Not marble at all, he thought with another covert glance at her bosom.

He walked to the canvas partition and raised it at the divided center. Christian lay on a cot by the rear wall, snoring lightly. His dark skin tended to blend with the shadows in the unlit back section. But the neat white bandage on his right calf was bright in the lamplight falling over Michael’s shoulder.

He was conscious of time ticking by. He couldn’t prolong the visit much more, though for some unfathomable reason, to prolong it was exactly what he wanted. He was conscious of Hannah Dorn’s fragrance—the clean, bracing odor of soap.

Finally he dropped the canvas and turned. She’d returned to the stool. The open Bible rested on her knees.

“Thank you,” he said. “He looks fine.”

A bob of her head. The wheat-colored hair glinted. “I fixed him soup. He took every drop. I also gave him half a dipper of Papa’s whiskey to help him sleep.”

“Oh, then you’re not averse to drinking?”

“Mr. Boyle, don’t bait me. Alcohol does have its purposes. Everything on earth has God’s purpose concealed somewhere within it if you search hard enough.” It was a quiet, rational-sounding declaration. He tried to detect a touch of the sanctimonious in it and failed.

He indicated the open book. “Are you searching now?”

“I do so whenever I can.” She touched the page. “I was reading Second Chronicles.”

He tried another smile. “I’m afraid my knowledge of scripture has shrunk to some memorized verses.”

“Boyle’s an Irish name. Are you Catholic?”

Damn, how direct she was! He’d never met such a woman.

“Are you?”

She smiled, enjoying the sparring. “Lutheran.”

“Well, I am a Catholic—or I used to be. I’ve not been inside a church for a long time. Is my specific religion of importance?”

“Why, yes, it is.”

“You dislike Catholics? You’re not alone.”

“I do not dislike Catholics. I asked for another reason entirely. We’re isolated out here, among rough men. Those who profess any faith at all belong together. For mutual protection, wouldn’t you say?”

She was still smiling. He did too. “I honestly couldn’t offer a worthwhile opinion. My religion’s like—like an object you carry, out of habit but seldom use.”

She met his gaze, then averted her eyes. He detected a tinge of color above the collar of her shirt. A point scored! Hannah Dorn wasn’t quite so holy as she pretended. She was self-conscious with a man in her quarters.

“Well,” she said, “at least you’re honest. That’s a virtue.”

He touched the pipestem to his forehead. “Thank you kindly for the compliment. I’ll be going along—”

He was totally unprepared for her next remark. “If you’re thirsty, I could warm some coffee.”

The pink colored her throat again. He knew his earlier guess had been right. She had her religion, but it wasn’t quite enough to counterbalance a certain loneliness. He wasn’t sure he wanted any further involvement with such a curiously complex creature.

Torn, he hedged. “That would be very hospitable. But it’s growing late.”

“Not that late. I’d like some coffee myself. And I do want to attend to your hands. But outside. It’s less compromising.” The half smile was at her own expense. “I suspect I know what the men in camp are saying about me. Any woman who travels to a place like this—”

“You’re wrong,” he interrupted. He pointed to the Bible. “They say you’re devout.” His hand moved to indicate the Hawken. “And definitely not to be interfered with. You wouldn’t believe how much that combination disappoints them.”

She laughed; she had beautiful, regular teeth. The effect was dazzling.

“I do know how to use the rifle. Both of the Hawkens are loaded with the extra charges of powder hunters use to stop buffalo. I don’t hold with killing, but I’m willing to wound the first man who tries anything improper. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Oh, of course,” he murmured, straight-faced.

“Mr. Boyle, you’re laughing at me.”

“No, ma’am! You’re just not—not what I expected.”

“Please don’t tell me what you did expect,” she teased, “or our acquaintance will probably come to an abrupt end. I must admit I’m glad you stopped by. I don’t often get to talk to anyone with some degree of education. It’s a pleasure.” Her eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “Even though you clearly have vices.”

“Now you’re the one who’s laughing.”

“So I am. Forgive me. Let’s go out, shall we?”

Again she smiled, as if eager to establish at least a tentative friendship. He raised the canvas to allow her to precede him.

She left the Hawken where it stood, carrying a coffeepot in one hand and her Bible in the other. The two objects struck him as representing a contradiction. Warmth and reserve. But it was just that contradiction that made her intriguing—and, somewhat to his surprise, made him interested in knowing her better.

His eye fastened on the swaying curve of her buttocks. Delightful sight!

Or it was until caution intruded:

Have a care, Boyle. Don’t broaden your interest to include wanting to know her in the biblical sense or she’s liable to blow your head off.

Wait. Not your head. She doesn’t condone killing. No doubt she’d aim for a functional member more closely allied with your vices.

Bet she’d hit it dead on, too.

The mere thought made him wince as he followed her from the tent.

H
ANNAH DORN ASKED HIM
to rekindle the fire with fresh buffalo chips stored behind the tent. As he went to fetch them, he recalled with amusement the first evening he’d been sent to collect them on the prairie.

He’d been at the railhead no more than two days. Sean Murphy had soberly instructed him to go to a nearby wallow and bring back any chips he found. “Wallow chips are the very finest,” Murphy had assured him.

He’d returned with a huge load, carefully piled half a dozen together, and touched a match to them. He’d already been informed the chips ignited easily and produced a virtually smokeless fire.

By the time he’d struck ten matches, Murphy was laughing so hard tears came. Then he explained the joke played on greenhorns. Bison rolled in wallows to find relief from biting flies and mosquitoes. The mud that dripped from their bodies when they emerged formed unburnable but otherwise perfect counterfeits of real chips containing partly digested grass. Since that night, Michael had sent several newcomers to similar wallows; it was a sort of ritual of initiation.

He gathered the chips and walked back toward the fire, asking himself why he was interested in the company of Hannah Dorn when Julia was the only woman he really cared about.

Perhaps I’m making it too complicated,
he thought as he rounded the corner of the tent. Hannah was placing a stool near the ashes.
I’ve been away from any sort of female companionship a long time. There’s no sin in enjoying a bit of it
—
even though, for all of this lady’s good looks, she’s a strong, spiky sort.

He didn’t quite believe that assessment, though. Once or twice, Dorn’s daughter had inadvertently revealed a softness—a vulnerability—beneath the shell of her religious conviction. He saw evidence of it again now—a noticeable uneasiness as she fidgeted with the lid of the galvanized tin coffeepot, peered down inside, replaced the lid, then lifted it again for another doubtful glance.