Gabriel's Atonement (6 page)

“What about the horses?” Arlan sat up and stared at him, hair hanging over his eyes, looking like a kid.

“What about 'em?”

“We gonna take 'em into the dugout, too? It'll be mighty smelly if 'n we do.”

Silas shrugged his stiff shoulder. “Haven't quite worked that out yet.”

Arlan flopped back down, sending a puff of red dirt into the air. “What about the buckboard?”

Silas grunted. That was something else he hadn't worked out. Somehow, he needed to hide or dispose of the wagon. They could use it as firewood, but then they wouldn't have a way to haul things.

Silas glanced past Arlan to where his brother had leaned the rifle against the wagon wheel when he'd searched for the fishing pole. He held affection for Arlan, but the boy wasn't too responsible. He'd been watching out for his younger sibling most of Arlan's life, even seeing that he got a job herding cattle whenever Silas signed on.

Silas's eyelids drooped. He really needed to get moving and put the food away before the sun set. Maybe if he rested a few minutes he could find the strength to do the job. Arlan's soft snores lulled him into a relaxed state. Only a few minutes' rest…

A horse's loud whinny jolted Silas out of his dream of dancing saloon girls.
Dumb animals
. He rubbed his eyes and sat up.

“Soldiers!” Arlan squawked as he jerked upright.

In the dimness of twilight, Silas's heart jolted as soldiers on horseback charged into their camp, rifles aimed straight at him and his brother. Arlan scrambled on hands and knees toward the rifle, still leaning against the wagon wheel.

“No!” Silas yelled and raised his hands. A soldier lifted his weapon and fired as Arlan grabbed the rifle. His brother's body jerked and flew sideways in the air. He landed with a dull thud four feet from where Silas stood.

Numb with shock, Silas stared at his brother's unmoving body. The rank smell of gunpowder filled the air as a cloud of smoke began to settle. Rage seeped through him. He growled a deep guttural roar and charged the closest soldier, pulling him off his horse. The frightened animal squealed and trotted off as the soldier fell to the ground. The loud blast of rifle fire splintered the twilight again. A sharp, burning pain stabbed Silas's shoulder, and he reached for it, feeling a warm stickiness.

“You shot me.” He swirled around to face a young soldier, still aiming his rifle at him.

“Take another step and I'll shoot you again, you stinkin' Sooner.” The private sneered in the waning light.

Suddenly, Silas remembered his brother. He pivoted, looking to see if Arlan had moved. With one arm stuck under his body and the other just a foot away from the rifle, Arlan lay still—dead—with a bullet wound in his chest, eyes wide open in stunned shock. A pain unlike anything Silas had ever known spiraled through him.

“Tie him up and tend his wound,” the captain said.

A soldier grabbed Silas's good arm and shoved him toward the campfire. He gritted his teeth as pain burned from his elbow to his shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the ache lancing his heart. A lump swelled in his throat, choking off his breathing. The soldier shoved him to the ground near the campfire, but he barely felt the contact. His brother was dead.

Another young private who looked no older than Arlan added several branches to the fire then tossed on a handful of dry prairie grass. It flickered and flamed to life, popping and snapping.

A man sat down beside Silas, cut away his shirt, and doctored his wound. “Good thing the bullet went clear through. Should heal quickly, as long as infection don't set in.”

Ignoring the man, Silas ground his teeth together, trying to understand how his life could change so quickly. Why had he been so stupid and let down his guard?

“You two, dig a grave for that man.” The captain pointed to two soldiers then at Arlan.

Silas shivered at the thought of his brother buried in a cold, dark hole. Arlan would hate being cooped up in so small a place forever.

Trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder, he looked around the camp. The fire illuminated a flickering circle of light, but shadows of night threatened to sneak in and steal its brightness. Thanks to the lateness of the hour when the soldiers had arrived, they hadn't noticed the dugout yet. Maybe it would remain safely hidden in the brush.

Silas had never wanted anything so badly in his whole life as this little piece of earth. He'd planned to give Arlan the home he'd never had—and now never would.

He covered his ears to block out the
swish-thunk
of the shovels of dirt where the soldiers were digging Arlan's grave. His brother would always remain on this piece of land, and some way, somehow, Silas would come back to reclaim what was his.

L
ara leaned on the hoe, staring at the damage Bad Billy had done to the garden, and her vision blurred. It had taken both her and Joline a good fifteen minutes to wrestle the determined goat out of the garden and back into his pen. Tiny baby carrots lay exposed to the sun, and tender lettuce and chard leaves shredded by Bad Billy's hooves lay sprinkled all over the front third of the garden, looking as if a cyclone had struck.

Swatting at a tear with the back of her hand, Lara knelt down and carefully patted the carrots back into the ground, hoping they would continue to grow in spite of their early uprooting. She inhaled a deep breath and lifted her chin, taking a moment to compose herself. She would not cry. Not here. Not now. If she got started, she might never stop. Someone had to be the cornerstone of the family, and that someone was her, whether she wanted the job or not.

Moving down the row of carrots, she continued pressing them into the ground and setting aside the ones that had been damaged. Why did this have to happen? Couldn't God have kept that ornery goat out of the garden? They had precious little food to eat without this destruction.

“How bad is it?” Jo's long shadow darkened the row Lara worked on.

“Could be worse. Lost some carrots, but I hope most will survive. The lettuce is another matter.” Lara glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe you and Michael could start picking up the bigger leaves. Some may be salvageable.”

“Bad Billy's a bad boy.” Michael leaned against Lara's back, and she turned to envelop him in a one-arm hug, needing the comfort of his little arms around her neck.

After a moment, Jo tugged him away. “Come on, Shorty, let's gather the lettuce.”

Michael planted a warm, sloppy kiss on Lara's cheek, and then he knelt in the dirt to bury a carrot. Her heart warmed by her son's affection, Lara pressed in the last carrot, fetched the bucket, and headed down to the creek.

She stood by the water's edge, listening to the quiet ripples bubbling over the rocks. This place was so peaceful, so free of problems. It soothed her troubled spirit. Glancing up, she peered at the bright blue sky. Not a single cloud marred the view. She knew God could see her—knew that He was aware of their situation and struggles, but why didn't He help them?

She scooped up a bucketful of water and returned to the garden. As she poured a ladle of water on each carrot, she tried to shake off her melancholy. Most likely, some of it was due to Tom's death. It must have affected her more than she realized. Plus, not having a body to bury made it hard to comprehend he was actually dead and never coming back.

The thought both relieved and troubled her. In the dark of night, she had cried a few tears over the man she'd once loved, but it was time to look to the future. Grandpa wanted her to find out more information about the land rush. Now was as good a time as any.

An hour later, after she'd cleaned up and put Michael down for a nap, Lara headed to Caldwell. Even before she entered the town, she was shocked by the swells of people everywhere. Tents lined the road and onto the prairie as far as she could see. Only three days had passed since she'd last been in town to return Mrs. Henry's mending, and yet Caldwell's population had grown surprisingly in that time.

As she walked past the Leland Hotel doorway, a man stepped outside and nearly collided with her.

“Pardon me, ma'am.”

She quickly sidestepped then looked up, surprised to see the same man whose horse she'd rescued at the depot.

He stared at her for a moment, then recognition sparked in his dark eyes. Tipping his hat, he smiled, sending trickles of unexpected awareness shooting through her.

All right, she would admit the man was handsome, but he was clearly a dandy. His stylish three-piece suit probably cost more than she could make mending clothes for a year, not to mention the shiny gold watch peeking out from his vest pocket. His skin was light, like a man who stayed inside a lot, and he could stand to lose a few pounds. Probably a banker who'd never worked hard physical labor a day in his life.

“Ma'am, I didn't get to thank you for calming my horse the day I arrived in town. He's fast, and if he'd gotten away, I'd have been sore pressed to capture him on foot.” He smiled with teeth so white Lara couldn't help staring. “Do allow me to escort you to dinner to express my appreciation.”

Her heart jolted. No man had ever asked her to dinner. She stared down at her faded dress and tucked her bare feet under her skirt. As much as she'd like to eat a meal cooked in a restaurant—a meal of meat other than squirrel, turtle, or rabbit—she couldn't accept. Why, she didn't even know the man's name.

“Just exactly who are you?” She tried to ignore how clean he smelled and how his engaging eyes seemed riveted to hers.

“Ah, so sorry. I'm Gabriel Coulter from Kansas City, but my friends call me Gabe.” He tipped his hat again and bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss…?” His dark brows rose as he straightened.

Friend indeed. Lara scowled, knowing she had no business standing on the boardwalk talking to this stranger, even if he was quite mannerly and smelled better than anything she could think of. “It's
Mrs
. Talbot, sir. And thank you for your generous offer of dinner, but I'm afraid I must decline.” With a swish of her skirt, she swirled past him, trying to ignore her quickly pounding heart. Oh, he was charming all right, but she wasn't about to succumb to his wiles.

Putting thoughts of the handsome man behind her, she scoured the town for a poster or something that would tell her about the land run. Finally, she resorted to eavesdropping. Lingering outside the door of the mercantile, she fanned herself and hoped she looked as if she were waiting on somebody. A trio of old men sat in front of the barbershop next door discussing the land run.

“All y'all have to do is register,” an elderly gent with bushy gray eyebrows said.

“You don't got to pay no fee?” A skinny bald man tipped his chair back against the wall. “You mean to say it's free?”

The man with bushy eyebrows nodded. “That's what I heared. Over two million acres of free land, just for the taking. All you have to do is be the first to stake a claim on the twenty-second of April.”

Lara's heart pounded. Two million acres of land! That much? Surely Grandpa would be recovered by the twenty-second, and if he rode in the race, maybe he could get a claim. But how much land would that be?

“You reckon anyone can ride in the race?” the third man asked as he scratched his bristly chin.

“If 'n you kin read, the rules are posted outside the newspaper office.”

Lara quickly pushed away from the wall and crossed the street, dodging a slow-moving wagon pulled by an old mule. She stumbled on a rut in the dirt road, grabbed her skirt up, and took a few quick steps to right herself, carefully avoiding the piles of fresh manure.

A crowd had gathered outside the
Caldwell Tribune
, but she worked her way close enough to see the announcement tacked to the wall. Holding one hand to her nose to avoid the ripe aroma of so many people clustered together, she scanned the announcement: H
ARRISON'S
H
OSS
R
ACE
. A
PRIL
22, 1889,
AT NOON
. The purpose of the run was to populate the Unassigned Indian Lands.

“What's it say?” someone behind her asked.

“Free land! One-hundred-and-sixty-acre plots will go to the first person to stake a claim,” Hurbert Galloway said.

Lara tightened her fist around the edge of her apron as excitement took wing. A whole quarter section of land free for the taking!

“Who can ride?” a voice in the back called out.

“Says here anyone over twenty-one,” Mr. Galloway hollered over his shoulder.

A big Negro man to Lara's left leaned in closer as if he were reading the bulletin. “Dat mean colored folks, too?”

Mr. Galloway scanned the announcement then nodded his head. “Sure does. White men. Black men. Even women. As long as they're twenty-one.”

The Negro man's yellowed teeth gleamed against his dark skin. “Well, glory be.” He turned and hurried down the road.

Lara pushed her way to the outer edge of the crowd where the air was fresher, and stood there listening to everyone's comments. Hope and excitement were more abundant in Caldwell than dust—and the feeling was contagious. A spark of hope flickered in her chest for the first time in a long while. Maybe Grandpa and Jo were right. Maybe the land run was the answer to their prayers.