The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (3 page)

Buffalo ribs were propped up before a crackling blaze. Maggie was stuffing cleaned intestines with prime tidbits of tenderloin mixed with fat, chopped liver, and spices. Earlier sausages spluttered enthusiastically on sticks within the fire. Irish, no longer able to wait, pulled his out and bit into it. He sighed with pleasure.

“My hat is off to you Maggie. If this be haggis, and your Johnny a reborn Highlander, there’s something to be said for Scotland that my Irish parents never passed on to me.’’

Maggie smiled, but she was troubled. The men had been regaling her with tales of the hunt. Johnny was once more the hero of the day. But at what cost? What cost, indeed. Jamie interrupted her thoughts.

“Tell me again about my Pa’s tricks, Uncle Irish. Why couldn’t I have been there to see them? I would’ve traded nearly anything for it.’’

Irish threw a bite to the coyote at his feet. “You would’ve traded off Bacon here for the pleasure?’’

That almost stumped Jamie, but he slowly nodded his head. “Yup. I would have!’’

“Don’t go putting ideas into the boy’s head, Irish,’’ Johnny spoke up. “He’d never part with that animal.’’

“I would too. Well, for a few minutes, at least. That’s ‘cause I know Bacon wouldn’t stay with anyone else. He’d come running right back home to me.’’

They had to laugh at the boy’s satisfied logic.

“It was the nearest thing I ever seen to a circus,’’ threw in Sam. “Mighty impressive acrobatics. Had my heart in my mouth.’’

“Not too far in,’’ commented Johnny dryly. “You had enough room to spit out a warning that saved both Dickens and I.’’

Gwen beamed at Sam proudly. Instead of blushing, Sam took her hand and clasped it in his big paw. She did not trouble to remove it.

“The main thing was the quick thinking,’’ from Irish between bites. “I never saw anybody react that way. It made me think I’d follow Johnny into battle without a doubt.’’

Maggie watched her husband as a cloud crossed his face. It was the fighting business again, this new realization of his hidden strengths, his
manhood
. Hadn’t he realized his own true self yet, as he had tried to make her aware of her own hidden nature? Had he not come to the understanding that violence did not make the man? She was constantly intrigued by his new ways. Occasionally she was excited by them. Yet she longed passionately for the sound stability of their past together. Maggie wouldn’t hamper him, but she
was
going to Oregon for him. She wanted him there with her when she arrived.

Johnny bent down, hiding the look in his eyes as he prodded the ribs. “I pronounce these ready to consume.’’

“If that means eat, pass ‘em out, afore I pass out from starvation!’’

Gwen smiled fondly at Sam’s words. “An event unlikely to happen anytime soon. Not while your bones hold on to that brawn!’’

Sam flexed his biceps for his sweetheart’s benefit. They all laughed and dug in.

More meat had been caught than the entire train could eat in one night of frenzied gorging. The following day had to be set aside for the preserving of what was left. Campfires smoked strongly next to almost every wagon. The travellers began to learn and accept the lessons of the Indians and mountain men before them.

Maggie, with her husband’s assistance, was further occupied in cleaning the skin of the huge old bull he’d singlehandedly killed. Johnny had given the other skins to Max and Sam for their part in the affair. As Maggie scraped she couldn’t help but notice the knife rents in the skin. She fingered each of them speculatively, her mind filled with images of Johnny inflicting the wounds.

She hadn’t been present at this particular exhibition of his newfound skills~or was it newfound madness? But she had been there the last time as he vanquished Snake. He hadn’t spoken of yesterday to her yet and she was waiting for him to unburden himself.

Doubt crossed her mind as they worked silently on opposite sides of the skin. Would he speak, or continue to ignore this episode, another little piece of himself unshared with her? She fervently prayed for his voice, for his willingness to bring her back to him where she belonged.

“Do you think I should stitch these holes together when the skin is ready?’’

“What? Oh. If it pleases you. It would be sort of like stitching the history out of the thing, though.’’

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, Johnny. I was only thinking of the skin in terms of a blanket. A very warm one like the Indians use. It seemed as if the holes would let in cold air.’’

He continued scraping with a preoccupied air. “Do as you think best.’’

“Johnny, I’m asking what
you
think best.’’

He raised his head to her. “I suggested what
I
thought already. If the holes and what they represent do not appeal to you, by all means make them disappear.’’

“I don’t want to make it all disappear, Johnny. It’s part of you now, isn’t it? I just want to be allowed into your mind and heart so I can understand.’’

He glanced away, saying nothing.

“Johnny. Don’t do this to me. Please. I’m begging, Johnny. This is worse than when you went off each year with your father. I was left to another twelve months on the farm, wondering what new things you would be doing that I would never see, would never understand. Wondering if you’d ever really return to me! It’s hard being the one left waiting, Johnny . . . I know it’s mostly a woman’s lot, but I thought we had something different together than other men and women, other husbands and wives. We always shared, Johnny. Everything.’’

He stopped his work. “What is it you really want from me, Meg? My soul? How can I give you what I no longer understand?’’

He was in pain. Maggie dropped her tool and reached a hand across to his face.

“I’m not God, Johnny. And I’m not the devil, either. “I’m your wife, the mother of your children. I’m the one human being who cares enough, loves enough, to want to help. Don’t push me away.’’

His own tool fell unheeded from his hand as he grasped hers in it, rubbing it across his rough cheek. “I’ve wanted to talk to you Meg, God knows I have. But the words, the words that always came so easily are no longer there. Be patient with me a little longer while I try to work it out, try to regain them.’’

Maggie sighed. “I’ll try, Johnny.’’

“The baby!’’ Jamie came screeching up, excitement bursting from his whole body.

“Charley!’’

Maggie and Johnny both jumped up.

“What’s the matter?’’

“Did something happen to Charlotte?’’

“She’s started in to walk!’’

Maggie fell into Johnny’s arms, and felt their hearts pounding together. “Dear God,’’ she whispered into his shoulder, “I don’t think I can handle any more drama.’’

Johnny’s arms tightened, then eased. They followed Jamie. Their red-headed daughter was hanging onto a wagon spoke, standing on wobbly legs, crowing with joy.

Laramie.

Maggie built up the fort in her mind as a respite from the worries and fears that had beset her since the Red Eagle incident. She was counting on it to release Johnny’s attentions from the abduction and subsequent events. She was praying for a little piece of eastern civilization in the midst of the desolate lands they travelled through. Something to remind them of home. Something to bind them together again.

Sam was praying for a binding, too. Gwen had given her word that if a suitable clergyman were present, she would consent to marriage at last. Unbeknownst to Sam, Gwen had been up late nights for the past week. She was using up precious candles stitching together an appropriate wedding dress from a bolt of cloth tucked in her wagon. Sam was not the only one whose heart was set on Fort Laramie.

Irish had thought about Fort Laramie, and thought about Sue Chandler. He’d also thought quite a bit about the proximity of Papa Chandler’s shotgun. Truth to say, he liked what he saw in the girl, but would have preferred to test the product first. He saw before him a most pleasant piece of clay, but how would it fire? Irish liked to experiment with his materials. He was not committing himself yet.

Grandma Richman was running out of clothing for her eight charges. Even with her experience she never would have guessed the trail would take such a toll on their britches. Shucks, the soles of their feet were hardened enough for the prairie dust, and even the rocks of the badlands now, but would their shoes fit come cold weather? Even with the food coming and going in fits and spurts like feast or famine, the younguns were still growing. And she hadn’t any decent piece of money, either. Maybe she could trade off something, like that big old cherry dresser they’d been carting so far. Make more room in the wagon, give the stock less to haul, too. But would anyone at the fort want it? They’d begun passing the droppings of last year’s wagons. Right pretty delicate, claw-footed chairs and tables~even carved dressers close on to hers~studded the trail at intervals, all worn by the wind and weather. Her own grandpa had imported that dresser direct from England. It had been her mother’s joy. It would hurt. It was hard to leave pieces of yourself behind. But she’d already left her son. And no-account that he’d been, there wasn’t nothing harder than that.

Hazel Kreller was fixed on the fort, too. Her milk was drying up. She’d thought it was just from the cows slacking off, producing less and less as the way became harder, giving her less to drink. Now she knew the truth. She was pregnant again. Little Irene would have to grow fond of porridge and the remaining squeezings of cow’s milk mighty soon. The trouble was the baby was fighting it, and Hazel couldn’t blame her. She’d nursed the other girls till they were past two. It was a hard thing, making her ache for the child. She hadn’t told Max yet, either. He’d been busy fussing over his sickening horses, worrying like they were his own flesh and blood. Laramie seemed to be a kind of breaking point in her mind. She saw it as a real town, like the little one in Pennsylvania where they’d come from. Somehow she’d already decorated it with neat houses, green trees~even vegetable patches. They’d walk through the streets, she and Max, hand in hand, like they used to when they were courting. She’d tell him then.

Ruth Winslow was praying hard over Laramie. Her husband had changed since they’d begun this missionary journey. Certainly, the change had started sooner, back in Illinois in that summer of ‘44. If she’d been a cursing woman she would have damned Joseph Smith to Hell faster than her husband’s assassination plot had. But the damage was long since done~the damage that had made her husband more difficult every blessed day of their lives since Carthage. How he’d cried, actually cried in her arms when he’d come home shaking from that long ago
mission
. He’d confessed the whole thing to her. How he’d helped to plan it, but hadn’t actually raised his own arm in violence. It had been the one and only moment of true closeness they’d ever had together. She’d almost thanked God for that blessed moment of sharing, brought on by the Mormons. But it had turned into too little, too late. She’d be paying for that moment for the rest of her life . . . She’d always known it was her born duty to follow where the Reverend led, but her husband was making the following harder every day. She was growing thin and old on this trip. It was not vanity which made her notice the fact, may the Lord believe and forgive her. It was a too soon from worrying old. She knew she shouldn’t be attaching herself to earthly things like her sons, but instead put her mind to heaven. Still, she’d be a plain unnatural mother if she could continue to watch her boys grow thinner yet, without concern, while the other wagon children thrived. She’d tried sneaking them her own plates of food. The Reverend had caught her at it and forbade her to continue. If the Lord wanted them all to get to their mission, He would see that it was so. She’d tried believing. She’d also tried to feed her family what the others ate. The Reverend forbade that, too. Oh, yes, he himself was thriving; slimmer, but rock hard. He took on less and less work, leaving it for herself while he politicked with the men, or spied on the women. She knew he was doing it and had even mentioned the fact. Once. He’d beaten her for her pains, and she hadn’t even the comfort of the other women to go to. Like that Maggie Stuart who always gave her such consoling looks, even after her abduction into the heathen. Ruth Winslow shivered. Imagine surviving such a thing. Imagine wishing to survive such a thing. She’d have done away with herself. Surely the Lord would forgive that sooner than . . . But in Laramie perhaps there’d be another man of God, one she could take her troubles to. One she could talk to about her husband’s ever ballooning fantasies of Mormon revenge, fantasies which even the real threat and dangers of the surrounding Indians had not put from his mind. It would be a solace.

The Reverend Josiah Winslow was possibly the only soul on the Chandler train not looking forward to Laramie. He’d checked out their own train thoroughly for Mormon agents. He’d almost slipped up way back with that Sam Thayer, though. He should’ve know better than to leave footprints behind him like that. But Thayer had been the best and last prospect. He’d been the only single man on the trip, and he’d been and was strong and resourceful. Those were two traits he’d learn to look for in a Danite. And now that he was comfortable that his own train was clean, here they were coming into new territory, new potential dangers. Brigham Young’s agents could easily have dashed ahead of their own plodding wagons. Even now there could be Angels prowling around Laramie, just waiting for the first trains of the season to arrive. Winslow knew
they
knew he was on one of this season’s trains. Still, they did not know his exact identity. Maybe he could still play out this game of revenge better than they. If only the train need not stop at Laramie.

A violent rain squall broke out as the Chandler party finally spied Fort Laramie in the distance, the reward for two months on the trail.

Maggie stared with the others. What she saw made her heart quake and her knees weaken. Her eyes glossed right past the adobe fortress. There~in the triangle between the rivers~the plain beneath the bluffs was crawling with Indians! Hundreds of tepees were spread out, their owners engaged in ritual dances.

Maggie slumped against a stilled oxen, trying to gain strength from its solid, heaving side. How could she go near the fort? She was absolutely certain she could never face another Indian. It was an Indian who had abducted her, another Indian who had come too close to stealing her husband’s affections from her forever. Her worst fears before her, the wagons screeched into movement again, and Maggie’s body was forced to action. She had to follow the train.

The wagons were never actually driven right up to the fort. Chandler sent several men ahead on horseback to check on the grazing. They reported back that the Indians’ animals had eaten all the grass surrounding Laramie. Chandler’s train had to settle for a spot a good mile distant.

The storm had blown over, but it had also brought on the night, and it was dark when they settled in to cooking their meals. But across the plains this night the emigrants heard more than the usual plaintive cries of a wolf pack. Tonight they were beset with the sounds of hordes of Indians yelling, chanting, dancing.

Johnny had disappeared after he’d settled the oxen. He returned as Maggie was finishing the cooking. She stared at him, afraid to ask the question.

He answered it for her. “Sioux. We’re far from Pawnee territory now, so you can ease up, Meg. They’re dancing up a storm, all tricked out for war. Trying to get up enthusiasm to fight their local enemy, the Crow. They might fight the Snakes, too. They were badly trounced by a Snake party last year.’’

Maggie shivered as the word
Snake
passed Johnny’s lips.

He was watching her. “It’s getting cold tonight.’’ He glanced around for his son. “Jamie! Run and get your mother’s shawl. That’s a good boy.’’

Maggie waited for Jamie’s departure. “You know it’s not the cold, Johnny. If it were, your strong arms would be more welcome protection than my shawl.’’