S
kye braced for trouble, but trouble passed by. This party was entirely young men, probably headed for the goldfields of California. None of them wanted anything to do with a company of consumptives, so they kept as far away as they could.
Two more wagon trains followed, both of them composed of families, and Peacock afforded them the same warning that he had given the first company. These people stared, curious, at the sick in Peacock's company, stayed well away, and continued on their way. They were all too travel-worn to afford the slightest kindness to Peacock. Skye absorbed all that. Most of those westering people were decent sorts, people who in other circumstances might give aid to the sick or at least comfort them, but not on this trail where a thousand troubles beset them and competition to reach the goldfields drove them.
Skye made note of it.
“Is this how they dealt with you on the road to Fort Laramie?” he asked Peacock.
“Oh, mostly. Some were friendly enough. Few had been out long enough to deal with all the troubles, the breakdowns, the collapse of livestock, the sicknesses. I'd say the farther west we've come, the harsher we've been treated.”
It made sense, and it wasn't good news.
At a nod from Peacock, his beleaguered group started west again. The Jones boys seemed to have revived, and prodded the ox and horse teams to life. Enoch Bright had seen to the needs of every patient while they rested, bringing water to each.
Through all this Victoria and Mary kept their distance at the rear, observing the ritual of the trail. That was fine with Skye.
They rolled along the North Platte, sometimes cutting over steep hills that tired the oxen. But eventually they left the Black Hills behind them and emerged on an arid, sagebrush-choked plain with little grass. Even as dusk approached, the heat built, and the trains ahead of them left a smothering powder in the air that could only do more damage to those in this traveling hospital.
Still, it was not a bad day. He rode ahead, looking for grass for the stock, but found none. The great migration had chewed every blade. Then he spotted a steep brush-choked coulee sinking toward the pewter-colored river, saw at once that it had been ignored and that ample grass might be found under the canopy of sagebrush above it.
“Here,” he said.
In short order, the company had pulled well away from the main trail and camped on a rise next to the brush-choked gulch. Enoch Bright and the Jones brothers knew what to do, and soon the stock was watered at the river and turned loose in the brushy gulch to graze.
That's when Skye spotted the lone rider, the stalker, in the shadows across the Platte. The man sat his horse, didn't move, and probably imagined he was invisible behind a wall of sagebrush and rock.
As planned, Mary and Victoria put up the Skye lodge at some distance from the consumptives. Victoria was crabby about it. “We're taking them, and I don't even know them,” she said. There was something in her that was reaching out, wanting to befriend those sick people.
There are moments in life when one feels helpless and this was one. Skye also wanted to befriend the sick people now that they were making camp and gathering around a cook fire, but he couldn't. None of his family could. The health of that infant in his mother's cradleboard, the health of his vibrant young Shoshone wife, the health of his old companion of the trails, Victoria, all stopped him.
“I'll be back,” he said.
Victoria eyed him sharply, watched as he boarded Jawbone and slid his old Hawken from its sheath, and nodded. In that nod was a whole unspoken colloquy: she was there if he needed her. She knew exactly what he would be doing.
He rode through dusk, heading for a ford they had passed a half mile back. The dusk almost cloaked him; he didn't much care whether it did or not. He reached the river, eased down to the bank, and urged Jawbone ahead. The blue roan horse hated cold water, clacked his teeth, sawed at his rein, turned and glared reproachfully at Skye, and then stepped daintily into the flowing river, which soon tugged at his hocks. But it was an easy passage, and in two leaps Jawbone bounded up the mud bank to grass, shook, almost unseating Skye, and then stood stock-still while Skye studied the silent, gloomy riverside brush, now sliding into the oblivion of night.
There was no evening song here. No birds trilled. He slid off Jawbone. The horse would lock there, wait, ready for anything. Skye slid his Hawken into its saddle sheath, preferring his ancient hickory belaying pin, that ship's fitting so often used by limey sailors in a brawl, and walked through the brush, making no sound at all if he could help it. But not even the most experienced man could avoid the occasional snap of a stick in areas like this, deep in the debris of sagebrush as tall as Skye.
Across the river a cook fire bloomed, and he could see shadowed men he knew to be Peacock and Bright hanging a kettle on a support rod. The young people, already wrapped in blankets, lay listlessly near the cart. In the background rose two ghostly tents, probably erected by the Jones brothers, ready to shelter these ill people from the dews and damps of the night.
Skye's night vision was still good even in his fifties, mostly because he made a point of discerning things in the dark, registering shapes and shadows, so that the whole wild world was stamped in the back of his mind. He liked working in the dark, and could find his way better than most men. Better than a Yank ruffian posing as a guide, for example.
He worked upriver, gliding from cottonwood to willow when there were trees, or sliding forward, crouched as low as the surrounding brush, so he would not outline himself against the clear, starlit heavens. He had last seen the stalker directly opposite the camp. He might be there, or more likely he might be clear down at riverâ²s edge, a hundred yards closer, a rifle shot closer.
Ahead, the dark bulk of a horse shifted: its head went up, and it snorted and sidestepped. Skye froze. He heard nothing but the pumping of his own heart. The stalker was not on the
horse. A slow, careful study of the immediate area suggested that the stalker was not nearby, either. Skye edged forward again, found a pebble and tossed it, and got no response. The stalker was down at the river.
Skye decided to leave the horse alone, tempting as it was to free the animal. The horse might give the game away. Skye took his time. When one is stalking a stalker, time is an ally, haste is an enemy. The man's horse had turned to stare at Skye, ears pricked forward, which might tell an experienced wilderness man something. But Skye doubted this was an experienced man.
It was time to wait, to study the shifting shadows, to listen for the crackle of footsteps returning from the river. The night was soft and the air was kind, and only a few mosquitoes found him there. He let them bite.
The crack of a rifle told him he was too late. A thump rose from the riverside, fifty yards distant. The ball had struck flesh. He had heard balls strike flesh all too many times. Skye slipped forward, straight for the river, barely concealing his passage. Across the river he heard shouts, and dread welled up in him. He heard the crash of footsteps off to one side, too far for him to reach, the crack of boots on debris. Skye whirled, raced toward the man's horse, saw a shadow climb onto it and spur the animal away. Skye followed, aware now that the man wouldn't be looking behind him, but would focus on getting out of the brush and away.
Doggedly, Skye followed. The man slowed down up ahead, preferring quietness. But he was still gaining ground. Skye began to trot. He had never been a runner; his stocky beefeater body wasn't made for it. But now he trotted behind that horse, fearful of losing his quarry in the dense dark, but the horseman had slowed to a leisurely walk. Skye saw him
looming against the starlight, slipped to one side, and brought the belaying pin hard against the man's shoulder. Skye felt it strike home and heard the man howl. A rifle clattered to the ground. The man cried in agony, spurred his mount into a frenzied gallop, and vanished into the stygian darkness.
The old belaying pin felt fine in Skye's hands. It had been the favored weapon of British seamen for generations, and it was as familiar to him as his old Hawken. In the distance, hooves clattered over turf, and then all was silent. But Skye swore he heard a sob out of the night.
He tripped on the rifle and picked it up, not knowing what sort of weapon it was. It hefted well and was unfamiliar to his hand. Spoils of war. It took him a while to orient himself. Where was the river? Where was Jawbone? But the North Star steered him, and he worked his way to the riverbank, and then easterly toward his patient horse. Jawbone sawed his head up and down, as if to tell Skye that this business had required his services, and that horseman would not now be fleeing if Jawbone had been around.
“You're right. I'm not always very bright,” he said, and quieted the stallion with a gentle hand.
He rode to the ford, splashed across, feeling the tug of the stream on Jawbone's hocks, and then the horse plunged up a grade, shook off water, and headed toward camp.
Skye dreaded what he would find there.
“Hello the camp,” he said, fearful that Peacock or Bright might shoot.
“Skye! What is this? Come quickly,” Peacock said.
Skye hurried toward the fire where people were gathering. He saw Victoria and Mary, and felt a flood of joy sweep him. They were all right.
“What was that shot, sir?”
“The stalker, Mister Peacock.”
The whale oil merchant sagged. “That shot killed my Morgan,” he said. “Killed my prize horse. Killed me, in a way.”
Skye waited, saddened, but there was no more.
He found Victoria and hugged her, and Mary and hugged her.
“We'd better put out the fire,” he said roughly.
A
bitterness flavored the night. Enoch Bright scratched a lucifer, lit a bull's-eye lantern, and motioned. Skye followed. The mechanic led him into the brushy gulch, the lantern throwing wavery light on sagebrush and juniper, until they reached a hollow near the river. There one of the Morgans sprawled awkwardly.
He held his lantern in a way that let Skye see the neat bloodless hole in the horse's chest. Bright growled softly, knelt, unbuckled the halter, and slid it off the Morgan's head.
“What's the justice of this?” Bright said. “Killing an innocent horse. What crime was this horse guilty of, tell me? Nothing. This animal had no sin in him, sir. Justice is the most important thing in all the world, the highest and noblest of all ideals. And here is an innocent whose life is stolen from him.”
“I hadn't thought of that, Mister Bright.”
“Now, sir, if I were to go off and kill that man's mother, who's innocent of all crime save for giving birth to that cockroach, that might be revenge, but it wouldn't be justice. Because
not even that fiend's mother deserves such a fate. Killing an innocent, sir, now that's the devil's own wickedness. Come along; you've seen enough. I will not have us indulge in morbid excitement here.”
Skye found himself gazing tenderly at the handsome chestnut Morgan horse, and they slowly made their way upslope, past the other grazing stock, and returned to the campfire.
Peacock stalked sternly, round and round in a circle. “What am I going to tell the young people, tell me that? Some degenerate has shot our horse? And why was this deed done? Can you tell me? It's an outrage. This West, sir, this West is criminal. That Morgan was a saddle horse, fourteen and a half hands, but the pair had been trained to perform all things for us. That pair, Mister Skye, would draw the cart and pull the plow through virgin land wherever we settle. That pair would help us cut irrigation ditches. The life of my hospice rested in the bosom of that dead horse. The scoundrel will be whipped, I say. I shall thrash him personally and without quarter. And after he is thrashed, I shall confiscate enough of his possessions to replace what was lost.”
Skye peered into the darkness around the two tents, and saw solemn young faces there. Someone would have to talk to those sick young people, tell them that others on this road to California meant them harm.
“I must tell them. Look at them, staring at us. What shall I say?” Peacock said.
“There is only truth,” Skye said.
“Truth. That they're pariahs? That people on this trail mean to destroy this company because they suffer, through no fault of their own, an illness that fills others with dread? Truth, is it?”
“Perhaps they know that about themselves. There is no
justice, I'm afraid.” Skye eyed those pale faces. “How close is safe for me, Mister Peacock?”
“Who knows? But I think one can get close out here. This is open land, where the air blows clean.”
The two walked toward the tents that held those consumptive young people, though Mary and Victoria held back.
The Jones brothers, healthiest of these afflicted young, awaited them, almost as one would await emissaries.
“David and Lloyd, a stalker has shot one of our Morgans, as you may have surmised. Mister Skye here chased him off but the damage is done. You know why. I don't need to tell you. We'll carry on, and somehow we'll get to where we're going, and I'll live to see each of you healed or gaining ground in a place where that is possible.”
“That horse ⦠not that Morgan,” said Lloyd.
“Because we're sick?” asked David.
“Someone's afraid, so afraid they don't think about you or your suffering or your hopes. They want distance between themselves and us,” Peacock said. “Get ahead of us where it's safe; leave us behind. Slow us down. Stop us.”
“We've lost a horse. But that stalker won't be coming around again. I nailed him. I'll get you to the desert, and keep you as safe as I can,” Skye said.
“If I wasn't sick, I'd go after him too,” David said.
“Good, David,” Peacock said. “You boys are my strong arm. We'll tell the rest now.”
At the wall tent housing the women, Peacock paused. “I'll address them, Mister Skye.”
The merchant stood outside the tent and began a quiet monologue to those hidden within. He chose an absolutely candid approach, telling them that consumption plainly terrified some people. Someone among the wagon companies
had attempted to slow this party. But it was time to endure, to dream and hope, to believe that somewhere ahead would be a place of healing, their refuge, and they would all arrive there someday, somehow.
Skye marveled that the merchant could be so eloquent. He soon quieted these young people, some of them his own beloved children, and then emerged into the night.
“It'd be well, Mister Skye, not to get too close to me for a while. I shall wash, as always, but the nature of transmission is unknown; we know only that close contact is dangerous.”
“I will do that, sir.”
“Will you post a guard tonight?”
“In a way, yes. My horse, Jawbone, is a dozen sentries rolled into one. Let there be even the slightest change in the rhythms of the night and Jawbone will nudge me awake with that big snout of his.”
“I wondered about that horse. Why you keep it. Now I'm getting a lesson,” Peacock said.
“It's a mystical brotherhood. I haven't the faintest idea why Jawbone and I are comrades in arms. Perhaps he was my brother in some previous life.”
Peacock laughed.
“He is an army,” Skye added.
Peacock stopped, stared at Skye, and at the mysterious roan horse standing placidly nearby, looking stupid and lopeared. “So I was told in St. Louis,” he muttered.
The night passed peaceably. Even before dawn, Bright was building a cook fire and then stirring porridge. The man was a marvel, the sole person on earth, apparently, who rose even earlier than Skye.
The sick young people had worked out a whole protocol
of caring for one another. The weakest did the least to wash and comfort and feed others; the stronger ones saw to the needs of the most desperate. Skye watched quietly, aware that these young people, some of them fevered, others in pain, many of them chronically coughing, most of them desperate for air, somehow managed to sustain themselves through a hard, endless journey.
Bright lifted his kettle and carried it to them. They had their own eating bowls and spoons, and he ladled porridge into each. These utensils were kept separate.
Skye watched them thoughtfully, wondering if he would ever get to know these youngsters or breach the invisible wall between him and them. Who were they? Did they dream of good things?
With the faintest hint of dawn breaking the eastern horizon, Skye patrolled the outlying bluffs, but there was no trouble there.
He caught Peacock. “How are you going to proceed with only one Morgan?” Skye asked.
“How level is the land here?”
“There are some long grades.”
“The wagon's heavy. I need the three yokes of oxen I have to draw it. On level ground, the living Morgan can draw the light wagon. We'll need to do something when we reach a grade.”
But Enoch Bright had already begun doing things his own way. He drilled a hole in the wagon bed, crafted a kingpin, and soon hooked the light wagon's singletree to the rear of the heavy wagon, and then yoked the oxen.
“On grades, I'll use the Morgan to give the oxen an assist,” he said. “I'll keep steam in the boilers, Mister Skye.”
Skye and Hiram Peacock watched without objection as the mechanic rigged things his way.
“I know who the chief is around here,” Victoria said. “It ain't you. It ain't that Peacock.”
Skye laughed.
He had spent a quiet night in his lodge with his family. His son crawled around on the thick buffalo robes spread across the earth, while Mary and Victoria heated some stew for them all.
“Why did a man kill that good horse?” Mary asked. She was worried.
“White men have memories of plagues, of times when most of us get sick and die. We are afraid.”
“And he kills a horse? Does this take the disease away?”
Skye answered sadly: “No, it takes us away. It was intended to stop or slow this party.”
“White men are crazy,” Victoria said.
Now a great malaise lay upon this small company of the ill, and Skye felt it as the day quickened.
It occurred to him that he had not examined the booty of war he had taken the previous night. He had stowed it in his saddle sheath.
To his astonishment it proved to be a new Sharps. A brass vault in the stock held its unique caps and balls. He poked and probed and aimed and dry-fired. How he had longed for just such a weapon but had never been able to afford even a tenth of the cost. He would learn how to use it, and maybe with luck he could replenish the caps and balls at Bridger's Fort, or Salt Lake.
Even as they prepared to move, another immigrant train whipped by them, its people frowning and cold. Word had passed up and down the California Trail. Skye sensed there
would be more trouble, but there was little he could do. Hiram Peacock was the ambassador. Maybe he could quiet all these people.
Skye and his women fell in, and they started west once again, toward a fate no one could know or even guess.