Trail Angel (38 page)

Slipping the knife in his belt as he ran from tree to tree, Josey drew a pistol. The big man in the Confederate coat stood behind a copse of young cedars. Josey shot as he moved, automatically raising the gun so the spent percussion caps would drop free, ducking low after firing the last round from the pistol.

He couldn't see the gray coat, only the barrel of his rifle extended beyond a tree as he fired blindly from his cavalry carbine, probably a seven-shooter. Josey waited for him to reload before moving again, coming at him from the side.

Crouching low as he ran, Josey burst to his right, hearing the first shot pass wide. The repeating rifle spit again, but Josey kept moving so the tree trunk interfered with the gray-coat's aim. As he charged, Josey emptied another pistol, pinning his foe behind the tree until he fell on him.

Throwing his full weight and all his momentum into the larger man, they both crashed to the ground. The gray coat got the worst of the impact, but he was bigger than Josey remembered, and he knocked Josey off with a swipe of an arm as meaty as a bear's. Josey rolled to his feet, but the big man was nearly as quick. Gasping, he brought up his rifle like a club. Josey ducked under the swing, rolling away from his reach and pivoting up. He stepped forward for another try.

Josey brought the club end of the tomahawk onto the graycoat's knee. He screamed as his leg buckled. Rising with the momentum of his swing, Josey brought out the knife, slicing into the other's back. Another shout of pain. The gray coat reached for him. Lost his balance. Josey knocked him back and fell onto him again. Raised the knife. Brought it down. Again and again. The other stopped moving. Again and again. Seeing red, stopping only when he sensed someone else.
Richard?
Josey spun wildly, reached for his last pistol.

Breathing heavily, Josey blinked, not sure he saw clearly. Lord Byron stood over him, a rifle in his hands. At his shoulder stood Rutledge. Luke Swift, Bill Smith, even the preacher Alexander Brewster. All were armed with rifles. Byron stood silent, a look of concern mixed with something else. Josey imagined how he looked to them, eyes wild, chest heaving, covered in blood, and he knew what he saw in Byron's face.

Horror.

Josey didn't care.

“Where's Richard?”

Annabelle had been unable to look away once the gunfire started. She forgot all her anger toward Josey once she saw him in danger.

It took a minute for her to realize the gunfire came from the top of the ridge where the tree line descended partway into the ravine. Relief overcame her on recognizing her father, Lord Byron and some of the other emigrants. They had put Richard and his men on the defensive, but they couldn't save Josey, who remained exposed on the slope leading to the ravine.

I can't ride to him.
Even if Annabelle safely descended the incline, they would be shot before they escaped. She had to find another way. Recalling that Richard's men had been using a deer trail through the woods that led up from the creek bed, Annabelle led Josey's horse there.

As gunshots echoed through the ravine, she moved carefully despite her urgency. She couldn't help Josey if she broke his horse's leg in a hasty descent. The sound of gunshots grew fainter as she followed the trail into the woods, then a switchback brought her nearer to the sound again. At the bottom of the ravine, a path led off from the creek. If she worked her way around the campsite from behind, she might get close enough to Josey so that he could run downhill to her before being seen by Richard or the others. They could ride to safety together.

Annabelle slowed her pace. She couldn't determine where the shots were coming from, but the gunmen were near. The pace of gunshots had slowed, but she didn't know whether that was good or bad for Josey. She prayed he was still alive.

The path wound between trees and over broken ground of stumps and brush. She no longer heard the gunfire through the thick forest. She feared she had turned herself around in the woods and gotten lost.
What if I can't reach Josey in time?
Maybe the fighting was over.
Was Richard dead?
The possibility seemed too much to hope for. It was more likely the arrival of the others had frightened off Richard and his men.

If Richard fled, where would he go?

Too late, she realized the answer. She heard something moving in the brush, too loud to be a squirrel or bird. In a panic, Annabelle looked back, but the narrow path afforded no room to turn a horse, at least not quickly or quietly. Before she could think of something else to do, he stood before her, looking as surprised as she.

He recovered more quickly. “Annie. I didn't know you still cared.”

Limping, his pants stained with blood, Richard failed to project his typically dapper mien. His smile looked forced, his thin mustache arched over gritted teeth. “How thoughtful to have brought a horse.”

He was nearly to her when Annabelle remembered the pistol Josey had given her. She drew it quickly from the belt around her waist, pointed it the way Josey had taught her.

“Stay back.” She held the gun with one hand, drawing back the hammer with the other.

“Don't be ridiculous. If you intended to shoot me, we wouldn't be talking,” Richard said. The look in his eyes didn't match the confidence in his voice.

Annabelle needed both hands to hold the heavy gun, trying to remember what Josey said to do to fire a second shot. She wasn't sure she could hit anything at a distance, but she liked her chances with Richard standing directly in front of her.

His voice softened. “You don't want to shoot me, Annie. Just let me get by, girl. You can keep the horse. You'll never see me again.” He extended his hand.

Tears blurred Annabelle's vision. “All I ever wanted was to be loved,” she said, managing not to choke on the words. “Was it because I lost the baby?”

He looked over his shoulder. Annabelle heard more gunshots, but not like before. There were long pauses between shots, but they were growing closer. That meant only one thing: Josey was coming.

Richard knew it, too. In his impatience, the charm dropped away like a discarded robe. She saw the man beneath.

“Our parents wanted a child, not me. Once my father died, you think I was going to allow you to trap me?” The gunshots grew louder. “You pushed me to, let's say,
extreme
action.”

Annabelle recalled Richard's talk of selling the land after his father's death and traveling abroad. She had thought it was his reaction to the grief of losing the child. “What are you saying?” Holding the gun fully extended made Annabelle's arms shake. A tear ran down her face. She resisted the impulse to wipe it away.

Richard saw his moment. “You were always stupid. You didn't lose the baby from the fall. I brought in a doctor, a
specialist,
to make sure you did.”

His words had their intended effect, falling on Annabelle like a physical blow. She reeled, stumbling back a step, squeezing the gun more tightly lest she drop it even as Richard lunged for it. The explosion in her hands shook her entire body and set her ears ringing. The recoil knocked her back another step. The smoke burned her nostrils and eyes.

Richard stood before her, surprise in his eyes. His mouth dropped half open in a question he dared not ask. His eyes lost their focus. He looked beyond her toward something far away.

Blinking away tears, Annabelle watched a crimson stain appear on his shirt, sticky with sweat and clinging to his body. With his every breath, the stain grew wider.

Richard moved a step toward her on unsteady legs. Annabelle stepped back, careful to keep beyond his reach. She recalled Josey's warnings about the snake he had shot in camp. Even then it posed a threat.

She kept the gun pointed at him, hoped he didn't see the tremble in her arms. Richard took another step, then stumbled to his knees. He looked up to her, but Annabelle didn't think he saw her. His voice was hoarse as he reached for her.

“I am your husband.”

Annabelle pulled back the hammer on the pistol with her thumb. With both hands on the gun, she tightened her grip to still her trembling arms and closed her eyes as she squeezed.

“You are
not
my husband.”

Riding to the top of a grassy ridge, Josey took in the undulating hills on either side, some smooth and green, some blanketed with evergreens. He smelled the pine on the crisp air, and he breathed it deeply, his lungs aching, like drinking too-cold water on a hot day. Summer faded fast here. The mountain held more snow today than yesterday. The river that meandered through the valley still flowed strong and fast, but he saw from its banks where it had retreated from a high-water mark of summer snow-melt.

Josey had been riding all day, the first time he felt normal in almost a week since Mary Rutledge stitched his leg. The leg wound had been made worse from his running around, and he had spent the last days of their journey on his back in the Smiths' wagon, Constance Smith so attentive that he feigned sleep when he wanted to be left alone. After receiving assurances that Annabelle was well, his questions about her had been ignored. Just see to himself, they told him.

Josey knew about Richard. They told him that much, though he didn't know the details. He'd lost more blood than he realized at the time and wasn't clear on how they got him to the wagons or how they found Annabelle. He knew better than anyone what she was going through, and yet they hadn't let him see her. Or maybe she hadn't wanted to see him.
It might have been better for everyone if that Confederate with the carbine had a better aim.

Mr. Rutledge came to see Josey in the Smiths' wagon. He said all the right things, inquired politely about Josey's recovery, asked if he needed anything. His discomfort was palpable.

Josey squirmed to watch him until he broached the subject of the gold. Rutledge thought it best they divide the money among everyone equally, and the rest of the emigrants agreed. The gold had been stolen from a country that no longer existed, and everybody who had unwittingly risked their lives carrying it halfway across the continent deserved a share. That troubled no one's conscience, but Rutledge seemed to think he needed Josey's approval.

“Lord Byron, too?”

Rutledge nodded. He'd been prepared for the question. “Of course. It was his idea, you know, for us to follow you.”

Josey had figured it out just before he charged after Richard. Somebody hit Richard with the first, carefully aimed shot. Once everyone had taken cover and started shooting back, it didn't surprise Josey that the settlers hadn't hit anything else. It hadn't mattered. They'd drawn the fire away from Josey long enough for him to end it. He and Annabelle, that is.

“Annabelle?”

“She will be fine,” her father said. “Her mother says there's nothing some rest and food won't heal. Her body, at least.” He looked at Josey as he said the last part. No one knew the lie of that better than he. “What about you?”

Josey shrugged. He knew Rutledge wasn't asking about the leg. “I wish you hadn't seen what happened.”

Rutledge watched him closely. “We needed you—” he struggled for the right words “—to be like that.”

“That's when you were more afraid of them than of me.” Josey didn't ask how the others felt now, but Rutledge seemed to anticipate the question.

“These people risked their lives for you,” he said.

“They came for Annabelle.”

Rutledge looked away. “She was already safe when we opened fire. You alone were in danger then.”

He was more comfortable talking about the money. They were still counting it, so he wasn't sure how much each share would be. “It will be enough to make us all quite comfortable in our new homes.”

The statement hung between them.
Home.
It had been so long, Josey hardly knew what the word meant. It brought to mind faraway paradises of mythology. Avalon. Elysium. Eden. Home. Josey had dreamed of a home here, a dream only half-remembered, then lost on awakening.

Rutledge studied the threads on Mrs. Smith's comforter.
He can't even look at me.
It was one thing for them to believe he had killed many men in the war. They felt safer as they traveled a strange and hostile land. It was something else to have witnessed it, to have it in mind every time they came together in town, every time they extended an invitation for a visit.

With all the death in the war, Josey had never killed a boy, not up close at least. He had killed that dark-faced boy without hesitating.
What kind of man does that?
He wondered if Rutledge and the others would ever look at him the same way, could feel an easy companionship around him like at the campfires, look to him as one of their own instead of one apart.
The dog in the yard. That's what I am.
Josey wondered, too, if he could look at them without remembering what had happened. He had traveled more than a thousand miles to forget the war only to create new memories that would haunt him here.
How far will I have to ride to forget that boy's face when I cut his throat?

The first morning he felt strong enough, Josey rose so early no one could object to his standing on the leg. It started to throb after a few steps, so he took to his horse, leaving before anyone knew.

Riding off would be best for everyone. Go fetch the Colonel. Give the old man his share of the gold and leave him and Lord Byron to build something with it. They could get some horses and drive cattle here. The Colonel would die a wealthy gentleman rancher.

Within a few miles, Josey forgot the pain in his leg. He rode all day, passing some potato and wheat farms near Bozeman, a town of only a half-dozen buildings and a smithy. Virginia City was a real town, lots of buildings, some of them made of stone, filled with people, saloons, even a hurdy-gurdy where for a dollar a fellow might dance with a girl and have a shot of whiskey.