Beyond The Horizon (16 page)

“Do you think the wagon train is still at Fort Laramie?”

“I doubt it,” Blade said thoughtfully. “My guess is that they wasted little time at the fort once they bought supplies and necessities. They have a long way to go yet to reach Oregon and can’t afford to delay. Snow comes early to mountain passes.”

“How will I get to Boise if the wagon train is gone?” Shannon wailed despairingly. “Will I be able to join another train?”

“Not until next spring.” Blade’s answer stunned her.

“Next spring! What will I do till then?”

“I’m sure quarters can be found for you with a family at the fort,” Blade assured her. “That’s the usual procedure. The commander …” Suddenly his words trailed off, and his face assumed a watchful look.

“Blade, what is it?”

“Riders,” Blade said tersely.

“What! I don’t hear anything.”

“You will.” He crouched low, placing his ear to the ground.

“What can we do?”

“Nothing. The horses are shod. They aren’t Indians.”

Shannon’s mouth flew open, amazed at Blade’s perception and incredible ability to hear things no one else could. Several suspenseful minutes passed before the horsemen came into view. They formed a double line as they galloped across the rolling prairie.

“Cavalry,” Blade said. His voice was utterly devoid of emotion, his face unreadable.

“Thank God. Perhaps I can still reach Fort Laramie before the wagon train departs.”

They watched in silent contemplation as the column approached. Deep in his heart Blade knew that reaching Fort Laramie meant the end of all contact between him and Shannon. Her reputation had already been damaged beyond repair by the very fact that she had been kidnapped by Indians and spent time alone in the company of a half-breed. Many would be quick to condemn her for something she had no control over. Women kidnapped by Indians usually were raped. Shannon could truthfully deny that charge despite the fact that what he had done could be construed by some as rape. For Shannon’s own good, Blade had already decided to break all contact with her once they reached the fort.

A pang of some unexplainable emotion smote Shannon at the thought that Blade would become a virtual stranger to her once they reached Fort Laramie. Instinctively she knew it wouldn’t be proper to continue a friendship with a half-breed.

Since when did you worry about what was proper? a small voice inside Shannon asked. Hadn’t Mama always said she was a hoyden and despaired of her conduct?

“Here they come, Shannon,” Blade said, distracting her from her thoughts. His warning was unnecessary. The lieutenant in charge was already signaling the column to a halt.

The lieutenant dismounted and approached Shannon, executed a precise bow and asked, “Miss Branigan, I presume?”

Despite her weariness, Shannon’s cracked lips opened in a smile. “In the flesh, Lieutenant.”

“And lovely flesh it is, Miss Branigan,” he complimented her gallantly. “I’m Lieutenant Ronald Goodman. We’ve been sent out from Fort Laramie to rescue you.”

“You have?” Shannon asked, surprised.

“Your friends from the wagon train reported that you had been kidnapped by Mad Wolf and his band of renegades. They were quite adamant about our finding you, particularly the young Johnsons.”

“Are they still at Fort Laramie?” Shannon asked hopefully.

“They were to leave this morning,” Lieutenant Goodman revealed, dashing her hopes. “The new guide was waiting for them at the fort and they pushed on to Oregon. Except for Clive Bailey, of course, who runs the trading post at the fort.”

Suddenly Goodman seemed to notice Blade, who stood quietly beside Shannon, a bemused smile on his face. “Are you the half-breed they call Blade?” His lip curled in derision as he raked Blade with barely concealed contempt. Obvious he had little liking for savages and didn’t care who knew it.

“I am Swift Blade.”

“Why are you afoot? Did you encounter trouble with Mad Wolf? We were prepared to help, but I see you managed just fine on your own.”

“It is a long story, Lieutenant, one which I’ll be more than happy to relate at a later time. Right now I suggest you get Miss Branigan back to the fort. She’s been through a harrowing experience.”

Lieutenant Goodman’s mouth tightened with displeasure. “I don’t need a half-breed telling me my job.” he said sourly. He turned to Shannon. “Forgive me, Miss Branigan, I’m not usually so thoughtless. You can ride with me, and there’s an extra horse for the breed.”

Shannon slanted Blade a searching glance, but his stoic expression told her nothing. If he felt anger at Goodman’s disparaging remarks he kept it well hidden. Then, in an unguarded moment, Shannon saw the cold fury in his eyes and knew he wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared. As for Shannon, she was furious, though she had no idea why except that it didn’t seem right to classify Blade with all savages when he was half white. Nor was she so certain anymore that all Indians were bad. She greatly admired Singing Rain, and had learned to respect Yellow Dog. It was Mad Wolf and those like him she feared and hated.

Blade’s tightly clenched fists were all of his temper he allowed to show. His job was to find the man or men responsible for selling illegal weapons to Indians, not to fight prejudice. He knew when he accepted this assignment that he’d face a certain amount of prejudice. It was inevitable. Men like Lieutenant Goodman were no better than Mad Wolf and his renegades. They hated indiscriminately.

Lieutenant Goodman boosted Shannon aboard his horse’s broad back and mounted smoothly behind her. Shannon felt his arm brush her breasts when he reached around to grasp the reins, and frowned. She cared little for the way the arrogant lieutenant spoke to Blade, nor did she appreciate his brazen familiarity.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the men, Miss Branigan, but are you all right? The Indians didn’t—er—hurt you, did they?”

The inflection in his voice told Shannon exactly what he thought the Indians did to her.

“I’m fine, Lieutenant,” Shannon assured him. “I wasn’t harmed in any way.” She stressed the words, wanting him to know in no uncertain terms that she hadn’t been ravished.

“What about the breed? Experience has proven they can’t be trusted. I hope he didn’t try to—that is—”

“Lieutenant Goodman,” Shannon said testily, “Blade saved me from Mad Wolf and a terrible fate. I owe him a debt of gratitude I’ll never be able to repay. Please don’t speak of him in so disparaging a manner.”

Stunned, Goodman was rendered nearly speechless. It sounded as if the luscious redhead preferred a savage Sioux half-breed to a refined gentleman like himself. Idly he wondered if she had already been seduced by the Injun. Or had she been forced by him and was too ashamed to admit it? He seriously doubted the Irish miss was as innocent as she pretended. She’d been in the company of Indians far too long to remain a virgin. Since her reputation was already in question, Goodman reflected gleefully, she might be persuaded to share her favors with him.

A handsome man with sandy brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a slim mustache that might be called dapper, Goodman was in his early thirties. Tall and slim, he cut a dashing figure in uniform and knew it.

They rode steadily west, stopping only to rest the horses and eat. Soon they came to Chimney Rock. It stood out in the absolute emptiness of earth and sky, the cactus-studded grassland rising to meet it. They continued on, making camp that night at Scott’s Bluff, a gloriously beautiful semi-circular ridge of rocky knobs tinted with delicate shades of ochre and soft pink.

Shannon saw little of Blade except from a distance. He kept more or less to himself, carefully avoiding her. With a pang of regret Shannon realized that it probably was for the best. Yet she couldn’t help following him with her eyes, remembering, remembering ….

They broke camp again at first light. Shannon felt well rested after passing the night in comparative comfort in Lieutenant Goodman’s small tent. Since the weather was warm and dry, he and his men slept under the stars. According to Goodman they would reach Fort Laramie sometime later in the day.

A rapid stream appeared at the foot of barren hills, running into the Platte River. Beyond was a green meadow dotted with bushes, and in the midst of these, at the point where the Platte joined the Laramie River, lay the sprawling compound of Fort Laramie. An American flag waving atop a tall pole crowned an eminence on the left beyond the stream. Behind stretched a line of arid and desolate ridges. They forded Laramie Creek, its flow greatly diminished this late in the summer. Shannon noted with interest that a bridge was being constructed but was not yet finished.

The column crossed a little plain, descended a hollow and rode up a steep bank and approached the fort.

Originally Fort Laramie had been established by the American Fur Company. In 1849 it was purchased and garrisoned by the army for the purpose of protecting emigrants from Indians who were becoming increasingly hostile after a period of relative peace. Fort Laramie did not fit the commonly held image of a fort with palisades. Initial plans had called for a log or stone wall with blockhouses, but since Indian threat at that time was small, funding was not forthcoming, and Fort Laramie was built without walls. Houses, quarters, and buildings constructed of adobe and clay were built around a yard, or parade ground, about one hundred and thirty feet square. Every apartment and building faced the parade ground.

The cavalry and infantry barracks stood by themselves, each company with its own mess hall and kitchen in the rear. Officers’ Row faced the square, as did the sutler’s building, post trader’s store, guardhouse, bachelor’s officers’ quarters, surgeon’s quarters, and the two-story clubhouse called “Old Bedlam.” Shannon would learn later that many gay parties and dances were held in “Old Bedlam,” for strange as it might seem, in its entire history the fort had never been attacked by Indians.

On the banks of the Laramie River sat General Sink, the latrine that served four companies. Sewage was channeled from there to the river.

A monthly mail service originated at the fort, which also served as a trading post for Indians and emigrants.

As the column passed into the busy square, Shannon was amazed to see tall Indians wrapped in colorful blankets striding across the area or reclining on porches and in the doorways of apartments. Gaily bedizened squaws stood in pairs gossiping among themselves, their bright garb highly visible amidst the army blue.

The column halted in the dusty yard. Lieutenant Goodman dismounted, then lifted Shannon from the saddle as if she were weightless. Almost immediately, an older man with steel gray hair and bushy eyebrows emerged from one of the buildings emblazoned with the words, “Post Headquarters.”

In several long-legged strides he was beside Shannon, his hand held out in genuine welcome.

“Welcome back to civilization, Miss Branigan, I’m Colonel Greer,” he said, smiling warmly. “You don’t know how glad we are to see you safe and sound. I’m sure it must have been a harrowing experience for you, but you can put all that behind you now.”

He turned to Lieutenant Goodman. “Good work, Lieutenant, you’ll earn a commendation for this. You can give your report later in my office. Dismiss your troops.”

“Yes sir.” Lieutenant Goodman snapped off a salute, delighted with the colonel’s praise.

“Come along, Miss Branigan, you can stay with my family until quarters are found for you. I have a daughter just about your age and a wife who will no doubt pamper you just as she does our Claire.”

“Wait,” Shannon balked. “What about Blade?”

“Who in the devil is Blade?” Greer asked, perplexed.

“Swift Blade,” Shannon elaborated. “He’s the man who rescued me from Mad Wolf. Lieutenant Goodman and his men found us only two days ago after we lost our horses.”

Colonel Greer flicked a glance at Blade, who stood leaning against his mount in lazy contemplation. His lip was curled in an expression of utter boredom—or was it amusement? Greer promptly dismissed the darkly handsome half-breed with a careless gesture.

“The breed will be suitably rewarded. Don’t concern yourself with him.”

Taking her firmly in hand, he led Shannon off, allowing her no time for a private word with Blade. Nor did Blade offer a word or gesture of his own. He merely regarded Shannon with his dark, piercing eyes, eyes as profound and mysterious as the midnight sky.

Chapter Nine

“M
y dear, what a terrible ordeal for you,” Molly
Greer sympathized.

A kindly matron of middle years, Molly clucked her tongue in motherly distress as she helped Shannon into the tub of steaming water. Her daughter Claire, a stunning, violet-eyed brunette who resembled neither of her parents, stood nearby, a calculating look on her lovely features.

“What did the Indians do to you?” Claire asked bluntly. “Did they rape you? How many of them—”

“Claire!” Molly gasped, horrified by her daughter’s indelicate questions and crude suppositions. “Don’t badger Miss Branigan. Where are your manners? She’s a guest in our home, and if she wants us to know what happened she will tell us.”

“Nothing happened, really,” Shannon hastened to add. “And please call me Shannon.”