North of Forsaken Read online

  His unexpected rage triggered something in me, something unkind I am ashamed to say, and I shifted my gaze to the girl. “Carla, you have not made half the fuss poor Thomas has, despite the fact you don’t appear to be all that familiar with a saddle yourself. Is there some secret you could share with him? Let him in on how you are able to ride without giving in to the agony of the undertaking.”

  I hadn’t spoken so much all at once in a long time. It was cruel of me, I knew, but I wanted to shut him up somehow and shaming him seemed the only way to do it. And it worked—at least for a time. Excepting occasional gasps and grunts, Thomas quieted down. We resumed our walk, with the girl, to her credit, not playing into my pettiness.

  Annoyed with myself as well as with Thomas, and with the situation in general, I thought instead of the route we were on. Now that I had at least a general direction, I felt slightly less confused by the entire pursuit.

  Throughout the day, the trail wound along the base of the range of foothills that led to the bold, raw peaks to our right, the east. I had occasion to check without seeming to do so on my two charges. And I noticed the girl would, more often than not, be looking behind, at our back trail.

  The countryside thereabouts is varied, at once stark, rubbled, and open, then flowing golden with winking tips of grasses coating a rolling landscape that resembles a rumpled blanket. Soon, stalky pines trailed down the flanks of the hills, forcing us onto a jagged route. Glancing behind I caught the girl doing the same, and for long moments, as if hoping to catch sight of someone. Or perhaps she’d already done so and had grown fearful.

  Long hours of slow travel, of baking sun, and little conversation could easily have turned her skittish. As likely she was as I had initially suspected, not alone. I had let my curiosity linger too long in gazing and she turned before I could shift my sight. She caught my eye and I nodded, forced a sheepish grin, and looked forward. I hoped she was sold enough on her pretty looks to think I was a buffoon smitten with her.

  For his part, Thomas appeared dulled and near lifeless in the saddle. He had even abandoned his whimpers and moans and was now silent. Life on the trail did not appear to thrill him. Yet another trait we as brothers did not share.

  I knew I would not sleep that night. If my suspicions about the girl were correct, she had accomplices. For what end? Obvious reason told me Thomas’s story still had chapters yet to be revealed—at least to me. But the entire affair had grown wearying. Perhaps it would come to a head soon. If not of its own volition, I would force it so.

  New wrinkles or no, I have had enough experience with vicious bastards who will ambush a man for a hot biscuit and a cup of coffee. What did my little party have to offer? And should I brace the girl and force her knowledge from her before an unwanted surprise reared its foul head in the night?

  “I see a promising valley ahead,” I said. “Should be decent grass for the horses and firewood aplenty. We’ll scout it, camp in the trees.”

  The girl responded with a nod, Thomas with a grateful smile and relaxed eyes. We rode on and in ten minutes reached the spot I’d chosen. It was largely as I suspected, and for that I was grateful, notably for the steepness of the terrain backing it up. If anyone were to launch an invasion from that direction, they would have to be a mountain goat or a winged wraith.

  I had already set myself up as a loner—no struggle there—so excusing myself from the campfire with a cup of coffee to sit by myself above the scene would not be awkward. But it would be expected. Then a better thought came to me. I would feign exhaustion and see what came of it, all the while napping like a sneaky mountain cat.

  As I picketed Tiny Boy in a sizable grassed meadow well within reach of the stream and ample roughage, I heard the girl whimper. She struggled with her saddle, which I had seen her lug and hoist and slide from the back of her horse with ease several times. “Tommy, oh, I need help. I . . . I guess it’s true what they say about women being the weaker of the sexes.”

  For a man who had been crabwalking about the campsite, doing his best to avoid being useful, moaning and groaning, Thomas all but hopped to her side, laying a hand atop hers on the saddle horn. “Oh, don’t say that, Carla. Here, let me help.” It was almost embarrassing the way he fawned over her. And all without managing to exert himself much at all. Truly impressive.

  Yep, Tommy was good and smitten. Basing it on looks alone, I’d say she was worth being smitten over. But he was blind to what I and Jack saw. It didn’t matter to Thomas that she was playing him like a tight-strung fiddle.

  “I’m going to fetch more firewood.” I slid my ax from its sheath on my gear. “Thomas, why don’t you and Carla use that branch there to get a fire going. I could use hot coffee, and I bet you both can, too, eh? Then we’ll see about cooking something.”

  He barely heard me.

  “Thomas?”

  That time he heard me, and sighed to let me know it. “Yes, yes . . . Roamer.” He turned away from me.

  He said my name as if it were a foul taste on his tongue. If he was trying to annoy me further, his efforts were paying off.

  “Oh, Tommy,” said the girl, holding his face between her hands. “Silly boy, he’s only trying to help.” She winked at me over Thomas’s shoulder.

  I headed off in the direction we’d come from. I wanted to scout our back trail, and I’d spotted a blowdown on our way in. Mostly, I wanted to be shed of those two, at least for a spell.

  I spent the next ten minutes limbing the tree—the dead aspen was dry and gratifying to break up. In no time I had a decent pile of sizable wood I left long for lugging. I’d break it down into manageable lengths once I carried it back to the fire.

  I was intent on gathering the firewood and didn’t hear the girl approach until she stepped on a twig. I spun, ax gripped tight. She was still a dozen yards from me. Her eyes widened and she held up her hands at chest height, palms outward.

  “Carla,” I said, looking beyond her. “Did you get the fire going? Camp all set up?”

  She kept walking toward me, a wide smile on her face, eyes narrowed as if she were a cat about to pounce. “I left Thomas to deal with the camp. I thought I’d lend a hand with the firewood.”

  I gathered a pile of it in one arm, sunk the ax head into the butt end of a bigger length, and readjusted my grip on the smooth wood handle. “Kind of you,” I said, “but not necessary. I’m set.”

  She raised her skirts and planted a boot on the log. “Nonsense,” she said, still smiling. She slid the skirt higher, up over her bent knee. “At least let me help hack up the smaller branches. Here,” she said, revealing a sizable Bowie knife riding in a sheath on her thigh. “I have the tool for the job. Oh, it appears to be stuck in the sheath. Could you . . . would you mind helping me?”

  As shapely as the leg was, I am not a fool, at least not at that moment.

  “No,” I said, taking no pains to hide my disgust with her. I turned and tugged hard on the ax, which was lodged deep in the end of the log. It upset her pose and I heard her stumble. But she was persistent and jogged to catch up to me. No mean task, as I have long legs and can cover ground—even laden with firewood—when I’ve a mind to.

  “I only wanted to help,” she said, smirking.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, ever the master of conversation.

  “I bet you’re wondering why I have such a big knife, hmm?” She reached out and wrapped long fingers around my straining arm. I jerked it hard and she took the hint. She kept on talking as if nothing had happened. “A girl has to have protection out here in the West, right? After all, I don’t seem to be able to count on the men I meet.”

  I glanced at her, shaking my head but saying nothing. She pulled a pout on her mouth, but her eyes danced as mischievous as ever.

  “Your chatter is wasted on me, girl.” I stopped, shifted my grip on the ax and wrapped my other arm tighter around the bundle of branches. “I don’t know what ploy you are playing with Thomas, but I see you for what you are, don’t think
I do not. He may be a rube in this country”—I jerked my chin toward the camp—“but that doesn’t mean I am. Watch your step with him, you hear?”

  I started off again, the quick glance I’d seen on her face gratified me. It was the first time I’d seen her look agitated, worried even. Now I had to figure out what was behind the look.

  We made it back to camp without managing to speak. Thomas had also had a victory of sorts—he’d managed to conjure smoke, if not visible flame, in the midst of a poorly assembled fire ring. I almost congratulated him as I dropped my cumbersome load beside the fire, until I noticed the dozen or so snapped and spent wooden sulfur-head matches littering the ground beside where he squatted. He looked like a trained monkey I’d seen once at a drover’s camp along a trade route to Kansas City.

  My mood matched his. “You went in my bags, I see, and found my packet of emergency matches.”

  He barely glanced at me. “Yes,” he said, wagging his hands feebly at the sputtering smoke he was trying to bring to life. “You could have made them easier to find. You are the guide, after all.”

  “Why didn’t you use the matches you bought?”

  “Oh, did I buy matches? I had forgotten.”

  Like hell, I thought. Why was he rummaging in my gear? I gritted my teeth and knelt before the dying fire. “Stay out of my traps,” I said in a low, menacing growl. “And blow on the damn fire, Thomas. Use all the wind you are full of for something other than idle chatter.”

  In minutes I had a decent flame licking into the snapped ends of fresh, dry wood. Just as well, as the temperature in the mountains drops quickly once sunlight performs its daily vanishing act.

  “What say after we eat we take a look at that document of yours, eh, Thomas?”

  To my surprise, he said no. “It will be far too dark by then. I think we should wait until morning.”

  My attempt at civility stomped on. “Fine with me,” I said. “You’re the boss, after all.” I’d meant it to be sarcastic, but he took it the only way he knew how—literally.

  “You can be certain I am in charge of this excursion, and don’t you forget it . . . Scorfano.” His brief glare at me was hard, barely suppressing further anger. He looked like a small dog, cornered and eager to snap off a poking finger.

  That’s when it occurred to me that he hadn’t liked Carla trailing after me. I don’t think he’d seen her rummaging up her skirts for her knife, but I bet myself a whole shiny dollar he was wallowing in the pangs of jealousy. I felt more than ever like a schoolmarm. Right then all I wanted to do was travel to Salish country with Maple Jack. It was the closest I’d ever come to feeling homesick.

  We ate in silence, and cleaned up the same, despite the girl’s attempts at chatter.

  “I’ll take first watch,” she said.

  “Oh no, I’m fine,” I said, standing.

  “No, no. I insist. It’s the easiest watch, after all. I hate waking in the middle of the night.” She made a quick mistake then, involuntarily, considering how she usually conducted herself. She glanced over her shoulder, again toward our back trail.

  “Well, if you insist. Never let it be said I fought with a lady.” I stretched and feigned an exaggerated yawn, but inside I was smiling.

  I looked at Thomas, but he was pouting, and hadn’t a clue about chivalry. Just as well. I wanted to keep an eye on them both. His little snit would all but ensure he wouldn’t try to sidle up to her out of my sight range. Even as I thought this he laid back on his blanket, pulled another over himself, and closed his eyes. I know he was tired, because I was, and I was more suited to life on the trail.

  The girl was too eager, too willing to take on the watch.

  I followed suit, stretching out on my own blankets further from the fire. “Now Carla, you’ll promise to wake me at the first sign of trouble.” I’d already spent our first night on the trail explaining the importance of spelling one another in shifts to keep an eye on our animals and gear.

  “Why?” Thomas had asked. “I can’t imagine there are all that many travelers out here.”

  “No,” I had said. “You’re right. Though the ones who might come along could as easily be angry Blackfeet or Sioux as itinerant gamblers down on their luck and eager to fill their pokes with easy pickings.”

  He’d shuddered, the effect I hoped my words would have on him. “But the real culprits will likely be of the four-legged variety.”

  They’d both turned confused glances at me.

  “Wolves, mountain lions, bears.”

  “Snakes?” she’d asked.

  I nodded. “Yep, they’re around, too.”

  Thomas had blanched at the thought. “How do we . . . keep them away?”

  “You don’t,” I’d said, spreading thick the dollop of fear and enjoying it perhaps a bit too much.

  And so now, a handful of nights into our journey, we were divvied up as we had been, though I usually took a couple of watches and nudged Thomas into action. This was only the second watch the girl had taken, and the first she’d volunteered for. I offered up one last grizzly yawn, rolled onto my right side with my back to the fire, and pretended to collapse into a deep slumber.

  It took longer than I expected before I heard the sounds I expected, if that makes sense. I remained on my side for a couple of reasons—I could keep my eyes half open without danger of being caught at it, and I kept my ear cupped toward where the girl had positioned herself, dimly visible ten yards away at the periphery of the firelight’s glow.

  Laying on my side was also mighty uncomfortable for that long, and so would keep me from truly falling asleep. It was akin to a trick I’d been told by Maple Jack that Indian warriors used the night before a big hunt or battle. To prevent oversleeping they would drink a fair bit of water before they retired. Their discomfited bladders kept them from lazing in bed.

  As I said, I ended up waiting longer than I expected. But it had been worth the wait. As near as I could figure, I lay that way longer than an hour, taking care to breathe deeply, and even offer up the occasional rattling snore. I am no stage actor, but I fancy my efforts were believable.

  Eventually the girl stood from the boulder on which she’d perched, and wandered further into the night. Our fire had all but died out, only glowing coals remained. The night was a cool one, though not nearly as nippy as I had expected.

  At least I wouldn’t be easily seen as I rolled further from the fire. I kept low until I could be certain I was in total darkness. Each move I made had to be thought out—one snapped twig or scraped bit of gravel and I’d be sunk before I floated.

  I paused, heard nothing but genuine deep breaths from Thomas as he dozed in complete peace in the land of dreams. The little greenhorn lived a magical existence—never seeming to want for much, always getting others to do for him what he could and should have done for himself. I was as guilty as anyone else for falling into his smiling trap. Still he snored on.

  I didn’t have far to go to hear whispers. Was the girl talking to herself? No, even though I had expected to hear voices, the stranger’s voice still came as a shock. I had hoped my guesses were incorrect. But the girl was in league with scoundrels.

  I edged closer, closer, and the whispered murmurings became clearer, words, hushed but hurried, became distinct words: “. . . papers . . . no chance . . . big oaf.” That was the girl, then a second voice, a man’s, said, “. . . no time . . . but we’ll wait . . . morning soon enough . . . no later.”

  I leaned closer, planted my fists before me on the ground—and quickly snapped a stick in two. Big oaf, indeed. The voices stoppered as if corked in a bottle. I held my breath, and after what felt to be an hour, the voices resumed, though lower. I could make out no more words.

  Presently I heard a lessening of words, and suspected they were finished with their nefarious plotting. I retraced my knee-walking route back to my blanket, some yards behind me.

  Thomas still slumbered, oblivious to everything. I was never further from sleep. I
barely made it back under my blanket when the girl walked close. My hand rested atop my Schofield, ready to draw. Though if she had a weapon drawn on me, I doubted I could clear the holster in time.

  I couldn’t chance that she’d not seen me as I rolled into my blanket, so I said, “Hey Carla. That you?”

  There was a pause, then she said, “Yes, I . . . sorry to wake you. Just coming back from a . . . a call of nature.” Her voice sounded timid, even in a whisper. She suspected I’d overheard.

  I’d keep an eye on her—and one on the entire camp, to boot, for the rest of the evening. Daylight couldn’t come fast enough for me. I needed to get Thomas away from her, alone, to figure out the rest of his fuzzy story. There had to be more to this deed than he was letting on. It would not surprise me to learn there was more to it than he himself knew.

  I sat up, made a show of rubbing my face with my hand. “You get some sleep. I’ll take my watch now.” I stood and heard no protest from the girl. That’s because, as her companion had whispered, the morning would be soon enough.

  For what, I would soon find out.

  Something tickled in my mind—that extra sense Jack says develops when you have been a long time alone, traversing the wild places, with little more for company than your thoughts. I suspect he’s talking about instinct. And my instinct was telling me to beware—murder was in the offing.

  Of course, nothing else of note happened that night. Not that I wished it to. Still, I kept my eyes and ears alert to every rustle in the fallen leaves—I was grateful it was autumn. I heard each snort from the horses, each light snore from Thomas, and each slight breath from the girl, who settled down closer to Thomas than I would have liked.

  It took another hour—which put us but an hour or so from dawn—before I was convinced she had truly dropped off to sleep. I let the fire die out completely, preferring not to be sky-lined against any light a barely tended fire might have offered.