This Calder Range (20 page)

“Amen,” Lorna repeated, but she was the only one.

Her eyes were bright; a thread of fear trembled over her at the mortality of humans. She didn't know Jonesy—no one had told her his full name—or Andy Young very well, but they'd both been alive at breakfast this morning, bringing her their plates to be washed. Now they were dead. Yet she seemed to be the only one affected by it.

There was a head-down shuffling-away from the graves. She heard Vince Garvey murmur to another drover, “When I cross over an' hear some angel singin' off-key, I guess I'll know it's Jonesy. Never could sing a note.”

“Hey, Shorty, would you teach me another verse to ‘Sweet Betsy'?” Zeke Taylor asked.

“Sure.” Shorty nodded.

Lorna watched them filing to their horses. “Doesn't it bother them?” She hadn't realized she'd murmured the question aloud until Rusty spoke up.

“Nearly everyone here has ridden out to see the elephant,” he said. “He's come close to shakin' hands with Death many a time. They just don't let their feelings show when one of their kind meets his Maker. They know about dying, but they know about living, too.”

Rusty walked away without waiting to see if she understood his explanation. Mary paused by the graves and laid a bouquet of wildflowers on each of them, and bowed her head in a silent prayer.

The flowers would die. The elements and the animais that roamed the wild country would soon knock down the crosses, and the grass would cover the graves.
Lorna turned and ran to the wagon at the bottom of the slope, unaware of Benteen's approach or the tightness of his jaw when she turned and fled.

Resolutely Benteen went after her, prepared for another emotional display over the death of the two cowboys. There were tears in her eyes when he reached the wagon, but determination sharpened her tightly drawn features.

“Lorna.”

“You needn't worry. I'm not going to cry like a child.” She climbed onto the wagon seat and began searching frantically for something. The minute she found it, she hopped to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Benteen frowned.

“I'm going to plant two of the cuttings from my mother's roses on their graves so they'll always have a marker.” Her dark eyes challenged him to object.

The gesture made his voice husky. “Make it quick. We've got to be moving out.”

With Texas and the Red River behind them, the drive began its trek through the Indian territory. This section of the Chisholm Trail between the Red River and the Cimarron had been notorious for the raids on cattle herds by Indians and white renegades alike in the early years of the trail's history. Although the risk of an attack had lessened, the men kept a sharp eye out for trouble just the same. With the deaths of Andy and Jonesy, the drive was shorthanded, which meant extra duty for everyone.

A week into the Indian nation, Lorna was washing dishes from the noon meal. The arduous life was beginning to show its effects. She had lost weight, taking the girlish plumpness from her cheeks. In spite of the bonnet she wore most of the day, her complexion had lost its milky-white color, burned by the sun and wind to a golden brown. Her hands were chapped and rough from being immersed in water often high in alkali. Sometimes when she looked in the small mirror in the wagon, she doubted if her own mother would recognize her.

It was a small consolation that Mary's dresses were loose around her waist, too. But Lorna noticed that her sisterly friend appeared to be weathering it better than she was. With a sigh, she turned back to the wreck pan, washed another dish, and handed it to Mary to dry.

There was a vague awareness that someone was watching her. She looked up. Terror leaped through her blood. A half-naked Indian was standing by the chuck wagon, his face and chest smeared with warpaint.
All those frightening stories Sue Ellen had told her about white women being taken captive by Indians came rushing to her mind. She dropped the half-washed plate into the water and screamed.

Benteen had just left Spanish on the point to ride ahead when he heard the scream come from the noon camp. Dragging the rifle from its scabbard, he reined his fresh mount toward the distant wagons and buried his spurs in its belly. It had been Lorna who screamed, although he didn't know how he knew that.

Horses were running behind him. Benteen took one quick look to verify it was Spanish and Shorty Niles from the flank position, coming to support him, as had been preplanned if there was trouble. There weren't two better men if it turned into a fight.

His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a half-dozen bucks straddling skinny ponies between the herd and the wagons. They all had rifles, two of them brand-new repeating rifles, Army issue. Benteen slowed his horse as he neared them, feeling their stony eyes watching him. He rode past them toward the noon camp, not knowing how many Indians were there, and trapped between the two.

That initial scream of terror seemed to shock Lorna to her senses. The savage had made no threatening move toward her. She was frozen beside Mary and staring at the first real “wild” Indian she'd ever seen. She saw he was old, his scraggly hair nearly gray. He was skinny and leathered, not quite as alarming as she had thought. Lorna dragged her gaze away from him to look more and saw two on horseback, holding the string to a third horse.

The old Indian started talking. Lorna couldn't understand a word he was saying, but he seemed to be making a very eloquent speech, judging by the graceful gesturing of his hands. She half-turned her head toward the cook.

“Do you understand what he's saying, Mr. Rusty?” she asked.

“It's just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to me,” he admitted.

The Indian stopped talking and gestured to his mouth. “I think he wants something to eat,” Mary said.

“Are there any beans left?” Lorna asked.

“Yep,” Rusty answered.

“Hand me a plate, Mary.” Lorna's hand was shaking when she took it. Smiling widely at the Indian, she held it out to Rusty. “Put some beans on it—and any biscuits you have.” She glanced at the other two Indians on their ponies. “Fix two more plates, Mary.”

She made the same gesture of her hand to her mouth that the old Indian had made and offered the plate to him, stretching her arm to the limit of her reach. He took it and began shoveling the beans into his mouth with his fingers.

“I don't remember anybody takin' such a likin' to those Pecos strawberries,” Rusty commented, and scraped the last of the beans onto a plate.

Mary set the two plates on the edge of the worktable and motioned for the other two Indians to come eat. Then she and Lorna backed away to stand closer to Rusty as the two vaulted from their horses and rushed toward the chuck wagon, setting their rifles on the ground.

“They must be starving.” Lorna frowned at the way they crammed the beans into their mouths.

It saddened Lorna to watch the old Indian lick the tin plate to get the last of the beans. He held out the plate and gestured again to his mouth, wanting more.

Rusty made an empty motion with his hands. “No more. All gone.” In an aside, he murmured to the women, “I hope they don't ransack the wagon, or we won't have no more.”

Lorna realized that the situation was still precarious. Then she heard the pounding of horses' hooves and
looked around to see Benteen riding up, followed by the Mexican and Shorty.

Peeling out of the saddle before the horse came to a full stop, Benteen made a quick assessment of the scene—the empty plates and the three Indians turning to face him. It was going to be up to Shorty to keep his eye on the other six between the camp and the herd. He kept the rifle gripped in one hand at his side.

“They seem to be hungry, Benteen,” Rusty said.

Spanish came up beside him, all quiet and alert. “What do they look like to you?” Benteen asked. “Kiowa? Osage? Do you speak their lingo?” Benteen walked slowly forward, all his muscles coiled and ready. Spanish followed a half-step behind.

“No Kiowa. A little Cheyenne. A little Comanche. Maybe they know Spanish,” he suggested.

“Try it.”

Spanish greeted the old Indian, the obvious spokesman for the band, and received an answer. He translated it to Benteen. “The old one is Spotted Elk. He says you are trespassing on his land.” There was a pause as the Indian spoke again and Spanish replied. The Indian said something else. This time Benteen recognized the word “wohaw,” which was what the Indians called the Longhorn cattle. “He says”—Spanish paused—“you must pay him one hundred beefs or you cannot cross his land.”

“Tell him the price is too high.” Benteen had bargained with Indians before. “Tell him I will pay him one wohaw for a toll price to pass through his land.”

There was a lengthy haggling exchange between Spanish and the Indian while they tried to agree on terms. Spanish glanced at Benteen. “He says he will settle for twenty beefs—no less.”

“Rusty, what have you got in the wagon? Any geegaws?” Benteen asked, not taking his eyes from the gray-headed Indian. “Any supplies you can spare?”

“Got some red bandannas. Those red devils ought to
go for them.” Rusty walked to the front of the wagon and pawed through the contents until he found what he was looking for.

“Lay them on the ground,” Benteen advised, then said to Spanish, “Tell him we will give him five steers, those bandannas, and some tobacco. And tell him”—he reached in his shirt pocket and took out his tally book and pencil—“there's a big herd a day's drive behind us. They will pay him twenty steers if he gives them this paper.”

Moistening the lead point, he wrote a quick note: “To Whom It May Concern: This is a good Indian. Pay twenty beefs for passing through his land.” And Benteen signed it “Judd Boston.” It was a dirty trick, but Boston had a few coming. He had no qualms about letting those Indians become Bull Giles's problem. It was a way of getting back at the rival trail boss for being so forward with Lorna. He tore off the note and handed it to a grinning Spanish, who loved a good joke at someone else's expense as much as the next cowboy.

Spanish relayed the message. The Indian considered it, then came back with a counter offer that widened the Mexican's eyes. “While he waits for the big herd, he says he will take ten steers and the young squaw to look after him.”

Lorna's mouth opened in shock. Benteen didn't blink an eye. “Tell him the squaw's no good. She complains too much.”

“Benteen Calder …” She breathed his name in outrage.

“Just shut up and stay out of it, Lorna,” he ordered. “Tell Spotted Elk what I said and repeat the last offer.”

When it was done, the old Indian looked at Benteen with a sidelong glance. “He says you insult him. If you don't give him ten steers, he will have his braves stampede your herd tonight and you will not have any cattle.”

“Tell Spotted Elk if his braves stampede my herd, I
will attack his village and kill all his warriors. Then ask him how his women and children will eat when there are no men to hunt for them.”

Lorna was stunned by Benteen's threat. The Indians were only hungry. All they asked was for him to pay for crossing their land with his cattle. The old Indian had not said anything about attacking them, only stampeding the cattle. In her opinion, Benteen's threat was much too harsh.

There was a long silence while the old Indian held Benteen's hard gaze and weighed his words. Finally he nodded his head once.

“He will accept the offer,” Spanish confirmed; then a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “He says he will take the complaining squaw off your hands, too.”

Benteen hesitated an instant. “Spotted Elk can have the complaining squaw, but—”

“Benteen Calder, what are you saying?” Lorna was furious, and a little frightened, too. “How dare you—”

He raised his voice to drown her out. “—but tell him that she has had the spotted sickness.”

The instant Spanish repeated Benteen's statement, the old Indian backed away, putting distance between himself and Lorna. A mumbled phrase to the other two braves had them retreating as well. Lorna was too incensed to be relieved.

“Rusty, tie a couple of tobacco sacks up with those bandannas,” Benteen ordered. “When you ride out to the herd, Spanish, have the boys cut out those two lame steers and three others. We've got a couple that have been trying to quit the bunch ever since we left.”

“Right.”

As soon as they had their bundle of loot, the gray-haired Indian and his two braves mounted their horses and waited for Spanish. Benteen stayed in camp while Shorty and Spanish rode together back to the herd.

Rusty walked to the chuck box and reached in a
drawer, pulling out a six-shooter. “Guess I'd better be keepin' this within reach,” he said. “They just appeared out of nowhere. I didn't have time to get this.”

“There wasn't much you could do with three of them,” Benteen said, and let his gaze travel to Lorna and Mary. “Are both of you all right?”

“We're fine,” Mary replied. “They didn't come near us except to take the food we gave them.”

“Do you really care?” Now that it was over, Lorna was starting to tremble, but her anger at Benteen hadn't lessened, regardless of the outcome. “You were going to hand me over to that savage.” She didn't believe for a second that he had seriously entertained the idea, but she thought he'd taken a big chance with her life when he had pretended to agree.

“You know better than that,” he said tersely. “If a situation like this happens again, Lorna, I want you to keep quiet and let me handle it. I know what I'm doing.”

“Just tell me one thing,” she demanded, staring at him. “If Spotted Elk had stampeded the herd, would you have attacked his village and killed his men?”

“Yes.”

A cold shiver danced over her skin. She believed him. “Why?” she murmured. “He didn't threaten to harm us.”