Westward the Dream (28 page)

Caitlan stood ready to assist him, taking on the job of toting whatever needed toting, and running back to the wagon for any forgotten article. When they reached the specified spot, they were some distance from the wagon, and the real trick would be to make sure no dust particles or bits of dirt could work their way into the camera to attach themselves to the wet glass plate. Brenton didn't fret about such things, however. He was becoming quite competent at his work, and it pleased him immensely to have Caitlan take such an active interest.

No sooner had he finished taking the picture and begun to gather the equipment together than the unmistakable sound of horses could be heard. Exchanging a worried look with Caitlan, he hurried back to the wagon and put the equipment on the tailgate.

“Jordana!” he called, glancing around them for any sign of the riders.

Jordana appeared from out of the wooded brush. “I just staked the horses at the stream. What's the matter?”

“Riders,” Brenton said, still trying to figure out from which direction the sound was coming.

He didn't have long to wait because, without warning, a group of seven or eight men crashed upon the camp from the trail to the south.

“Whoa!” one of the men yelled and slid his horse to a stop in the muddy path. He pulled a gun at the same time and pointed it directly at Brenton. “Well, well . . . what have we here?” he asked with a menacing scowl.

Brenton pulled Caitlan protectively behind him. “We're making our way to St. Joseph.”

“Well, ain't that nice,” the rough-looking man declared. His companions laughed heartily at this as he pushed back a filthy brown felt hat. “I do hate to be interruptin' your little trip, but I'd like to relieve you of your money.”

“We don't have any money!” declared Jordana, stomping across the camp to join her brother. “Do you think we'd be sleeping out under a wagon and camping in the woods if we had money?”

“You just might. . . .” The fellow threw his leg over the horse and jumped to the ground.

Brenton took a step forward as the man approached Jordana. Not for the first time in his life, he wished his sister had been more a cowering wallflower. Silently he prayed she'd keep her mouth shut. This man hardly looked much older than she was, but it was apparent he was years beyond her in experience, and, Brenton guessed, the fellow certainly didn't hold the same values.

“She's right.” Brenton thought of the rifle tucked snugly, and uselessly, in the back of the wagon. “We don't have anything of value,” Brenton added rather lamely.

The other men were dismounting and handing their reins over to a boy who appeared to be the youngest in their group. Brenton guessed him to be no more than twelve or thirteen. In fact, none of the group looked old enough to be making war on passing strangers. Brenton figured the ring leader to be the oldest with the others looking more like fifteen or sixteen years of age.

“You got these purdy women,” one of the ruffians called out as he approached. “I'd say they would be mighty valuable to some of us.”

The leader reached out to take hold of Jordana, while Brenton, torn between protecting Caitlan and his sister, knew he was doubtless at a loss to help either. All of the men, if they could be called that, had guns, and none seemed adverse to using them.

“Where are your horses, little lady?” the leader asked Jordana, grabbing her arm and yanking her around to face him. She fought against his hold, which only irritated the ruffian.

“They're down that way,” Brenton answered, pointing in the proper direction. “There's a stream that leads down the ravine to the river.”

“We know this territory like the back of our hands,” one boy said, sidling up to Brenton with his gun drawn. “Don't rightly think we need someone givin' us directions. Do we need a direction giver, Newt?” he asked their leader.

The gang laughed at this and Brenton knew he was rapidly losing ground. Caitlan let out a scream as one of the bushwhackers took hold of her. Brenton whirled around, but the kid who'd been taunting him quickly stuck his gun in Brenton's face.

“I wouldn't be interferin', mister. Jake don't hardly cotton to anyone comin' between him and his good times.”

“Say, what's this stuff?” another of the boys asked.

He indicated the photographic equipment and Brenton grasped at this opportunity, hoping it would take their attention off the girls. “I'm a photographer—that's my camera.”

“A photographer! Hey, Newt, wouldn't it be just the funniest thing to have this here pho-tog-rapher take our picture?”

The boys all laughed and offered their own comments on this. “We've outrun them blue-bellies. I say we let this city dude take our picture before he dies.”

“You can't kill him!” Jordana screamed, biting and kicking at her captor with renewed venom. “He's done you no harm.”

The man called Newt tightened his hold on Jordana and jerked her head back by pulling on her hair. “Shut up, woman. I didn't ask for your opinion.”

“Come on, Newt. Let's have us a picture. Your ma would be right proud to see us all a-workin' for the cause.”

Newt laughed. “Guess a picture would be nice.” He tossed Jordana to the ground, causing Brenton to once again start forward. “Stay where ya are, picture-man. She ain't goin' nowhere and she ain't hurt—not yet.”

Brenton was seething inside. Behind him Caitlan was fighting and protesting her treatment. He could see Jordana sizing up Newt as if she were about to take him on. Somehow, he had to put an end to this without getting them all killed.

“All right. I'll take your picture.” Brenton glanced upward, then looked across camp. “The lighting would be better over there,” he said and pointed.

“Sam, you tie off those horses to this here wagon and come stand by me,” Newt directed. “Jake, let the girl go—you can have her later.” The bushwhackers moved into position, all the while keeping their weapons trained on their captives.

Brenton took his time in getting his “subjects” arranged just so, stalling for time, hoping some way of escape would materialize. If he ever did get the photograph taken, it would make for an interesting story, especially explaining the fact that the guns pointed toward the camera were all cocked and aimed at his head as well as Jordana's and Caitlan's.

“I'll have to get my supplies from inside,” Brenton said when Newt began complaining about how much time he was taking. “I'll only be a minute.”

Newt eyed him suspiciously. “Bear, you go with him,” he instructed a burly young man—the meanest looking of the bunch.

Brenton tried not to appear disturbed by this. “I have some special paper I have to use for the photograph and a different camera. Why don't I hand these things down to you?” Bear just looked at him with a fierce expression that suggested the time for talking had passed.

Brenton felt the sweat trickle down his back. The weak, spongy feeling in his legs left him to wonder if he'd recovered from his sickness enough to do whatever battle was necessary to protect Jordana and Caitlan. He knew getting to the rifle would be impossible, and his fleeting notion of using his chemicals to create an explosion was also out of the question because the girls were too near the wagon.

“Hurry up, picture-man,” Newt called. “And don't even think of doing something to irritate me. I'll kill this little gal as sure as I'll kill you. Won't much matter what order we go in.”

Brenton froze in place. The feeling of helplessness washed over him. Please, God, he prayed, deliver us from this nightmare. Save us, Lord.

He found what he needed for the photograph and handed it down to Bear. Not wishing to waste expensive glass negatives on these criminals, he planned to use the calotype process. Taking the photograph would take longer, but it might buy them some precious time. He would also be careful not to mention that developing the photograph would take hours, not minutes. He didn't want to discourage them or—heaven forbid!—anger them. Without giving any more thought to what he would do, he walked across the clearing.

“You girls get over here at the end of the wagon so I can see you real clear-like,” Newt ordered. “And if I so much as see you move, I'll kill him where he stands.”

Caitlan hurried to where Jordana was just now getting to her feet. She brushed off her dress and opened her mouth as if to retort, but Brenton shook his head.

“Do what he says, Jordana.”

“Jordana?” Newt repeated the name. “Now, that's a right unusual name for a girl. I kinda like the sound of it.”

Jordana gave him a fierce look before crossing her arms defiantly. Brenton had seen that look before, and he feared that Jordana would try something stupid in order to save the day.

“All right,” he said, forcing his voice to sound calm. “I'll need all of you to stand in close.” He positioned the camera and motioned them to squeeze together.

The men moved together as instructed. Besides the three guns aimed at their victims, all the other men also held up their weapons to make sure they were captured in the photograph. They all arranged their faces in their most stern expressions.

“You'll have to hold very still. This type of photography requires that you remain absolutely still for several minutes or the picture will blur.”

“We'll do our part,” Newt called back. “You just remember what I said. One of you moves more than to scratch an itch and I'll shoot him—or her.”

“They'll stay put,” Brenton replied. “You hear me, girls? Do what he says.”

Jordana wasn't about to stand by and let these smelly, mean-tempered ruffians have their way. The leader, for all his youth, looked as if he'd kill them all just as sure as look at them, and Brenton was ten kinds of fool to think otherwise. Spying a rifle strapped to the side of one horse, Jordana gently nudged Caitlan, getting her to carefully shift her gaze in the direction of the horse.

“Gun,” she muttered under her breath only loud enough for Caitlan to hear.

“No” came the clench-jawed reply of her conspirator.

Jordana didn't have time to argue with Caitlan. Without a weapon it was hopeless to think they would get out of this alive. She moved the slightest bit toward the horse. If Caitlan didn't follow, it would soon be evident that she was moving from her original position.

“Please,” Jordana mouthed silently, praying that Caitlan would finally realize the sense in her plan.

Caitlan moved an inch closer and Jordana breathed a sigh of relief. Good, she thought. Now they would have a chance.

“Just stay still a few more minutes,” Brenton instructed. He had ducked his head under the camera drape. He continued to talk to fill in the long minutes of the exposure time, telling his subjects about the photography process. If his intent was to bore the ruffians to distraction, he was succeeding excellently. They were hardly paying any attention at all to Jordana and Caitlan.

Jordana moved another inch toward the horse. She could almost reach out and touch the rifle, but when she did, she would have to be fast. There would be no room for error.

“Hold it!” one of the men yelled out.

Jordana felt her heart clench. She'd been caught.

“Riders!”

“Blue bellies!” another yelled.

They rushed past Brenton and the camera, knocking over the tripod and nearly doing the same to Brenton.

“Get your horses!” ordered Newt, though it hardly seemed necessary, since the men were already scrambling toward their mounts.

30

Jordana screamed out in pain as Newt grabbed her by her long, thick braid and dragged her to his horse. She pulled away from him, wincing at the pain of her hair being twisted at the roots, but she was determined to keep him from taking her away.

“Let me go, you animal!” she yelled and kicked.

Oblivious to her struggles, Newt jumped up on his horse and, still holding Jordana by the hair, reached down and pulled her up by the waistband of her skirt. Leaning his bearded face close to hers—and smelling so foul that Jordana thought she might throw up—Newt seemed to take pleasure in torturing her.

“We'll have us a real good time once this is all over, sweety,” he leered.

Jordana threw herself forward, trying desperately to force him to let her go. Surely he wasn't strong enough to stay atop the horse and fight her at the same time.

Brenton raced toward them, calling out, “You don't need her! She'll just slow you down!”

Newt ignored him. “Jake, you take the other one.” As he wrestled Jordana into place, he looked back down at Brenton and added, “You tell them blue bellies that we've got your women. If they don't want to see us kill 'em, they won't follow after us.”

“I won't let you take them!” Brenton frantically reached for the man's reins.

At this, Newt's boot slammed full into Brenton's face, knocking him to the ground. Jordana screamed at the sight as blood spurted from Brenton's nose. Struggling to get back up, Brenton put one hand to his nose to staunch the flow, while his other hand worked to reposition his now bent eyeglasses.

Livid at this uncalled-for treatment of her brother, Jordana wildly swung herself sideways, an awkward procedure from her position slung across her captor's lap. But Newt hadn't expected her retaliation, and she managed a stunning blow to the side of his head.

“How dare you! He didn't hurt you!” she screamed.

“Ow! Why, you little—” Newt must have realized there was no time for verbal haranguing. Instead, he yanked back on her hair and raised his gun. “Just remember what I said about killing them!” he told Brenton, then put his heels into the horse's side. “Haw!” he yelled, and the others followed suit.

Jordana felt him tighten his hold on her, but she didn't care. Already she looked for ways to escape this seedy gang. Glancing around Newt's back, she could see that Caitlan was similarly imprisoned, and she, too, was fighting the man named Jake, even as his horse gained ground on Newt's.

“Where to, Newt?” Jake called out.

“There's a good place to turn and fight up here!” Newt yelled. “We'll get there at least five, maybe ten minutes ahead of them Union boys. Just follow me!”

For the first time in her life, Jordana was truly afraid. This was no lark. The fear that trembled through her body was nothing like what she had experienced that day she had climbed the building at Deighton. This time the fear was not only for herself but for others as well. For Brenton who might foolishly attempt to chase after them, and for the soldiers who would surely mount a rescue. There seemed no doubt now there would be gunplay, and people could well get killed. And Jordana knew, with a terrible ache inside, that it was all because of her. She had dragged Brenton and Caitlan on this foolish journey. If anything happened to them, or any other innocent people because of her misjudgment, she didn't know what she would do.

But perhaps Brenton, ever the practical one, would convince the soldiers to give up pursuit for fear it would only jeopardize herself and Caitlan even more. However, the thought that no rescue might be made was as fearsome as anything.

The bushwhackers and their prisoners crossed through thick undergrowth beneath forested canopies before coming out on the other side into a small clearing. Newt urged his mount forward to jump a fallen log. Jordana nearly slipped off the side of the horse and gasped aloud, actually reaching out for Newt in order to keep from falling from the flying animal. In her utter fright over the possibility of falling to her death, Jordana actually ceased fighting Newt for a moment. He pulled her back into place, his unshaven face breaking into a grin as he looked down to see Jordana staring up at him. She quickly let go of him and gave him what she hoped was her most menacing look. She thought him the ugliest man she'd ever seen and considered telling him so, but he reined back on the horse, once again causing her to reach out to steady herself against him.

“Over there!” he called to his men. “In those trees.”

Jordana craned her neck around to see what area her captor believed to be their sanctuary. Newt dismounted and pulled Jordana after him, grasping her braid once again when her feet touched the ground. She lost her footing and stumbled to the hard ground on her backside before Newt even realized what was happening. Laughing, he yanked her upward by her hair and squared her on her feet, then pushed her forward. “Get to those trees.”

Jordana did what he told her. There seemed to be no benefit at the moment in fighting him. These men were desperate, and already they were calling back and forth to each other as to how best they could save their own skins.

“The river is smack behind those trees,” Newt instructed. “Ain't gonna have 'em sneakin' in behind us. Bear, you take the right! Sammy, you get those horses and get over here with me. Everybody else, spread out and take cover.” Just then Caitlan let out a bansheelike scream. “Keep her quiet, Jake!” Newt growled, throwing Jordana a threatening look. “If you want to live, you'd best keep your mouth shut.”

Jordana felt the urge to spit in the man's face, but she restrained herself. She supposed it would be senseless to irritate him further. After all, if he thought her too cowering and afraid, maybe he'd ignore her long enough to let her escape.

They hit the brush running and Jordana felt the branches tear at her muslin blouse. By the time they took cover it would be ripped to shreds; then she laughed at herself for even thinking about such a thing at a time when her very life, and that of her good friend, was on the line.

With sobering realization, Jordana began to wonder if they would manage to get out of this alive. Even if I get away, she reasoned, how will I be able to help Caitlan? And what if my escape actually causes them to kill her? These thoughts haunted Jordana, filling her with confusion as Newt continued to drag her into the cover of the trees.

Catching her off guard, Newt threw Jordana down on the ground behind a huge oak. He put his booted foot on her braid and laughed as she struggled against his hold.

“I got you just where I want you. Now settle down and maybe I won't have to kill you,” he demanded.

Jordana opened her mouth to protest, then once again got the feeling she should just relax and pretend to be afraid and to cooperate. Not that she had to
pretend
anything. Jordana looked up fearfully and nodded her acquiescence.

“Good. I like my females smart,” he said, then checked his revolver to make certain it was loaded.

Jordana waited on the damp ground for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly it was as if the entire forest had gone silent. She could hear her own breathing—Newt's too. She could hear the Missouri River coursing and churning from somewhere behind her, and she tried to raise her head enough to see where everyone else had taken cover. She could barely move an inch, but her slight head movement immediately captured Newt's attention.

“I told you to stay still,” he growled in a whisper.

Jordana went limp.

The anticipation of what was sure to come drove Jordana half mad. She had never been a patient person, and waiting for what would surely be her own execution hardly seemed the time to begin practicing such a virtue.

A shot rang out and Newt's head twisted halfway around to see where it had come from.

“Barnes, ya might as well give up. We've got ya surrounded out here!” This came from somewhere across the clearing.

Newt growled again and raised his gun. “Never! You blue bellies are askin' to die.”

“You're signing your own death warrants if you hurt those women!” came the voice from across the clearing.

“If anything happens to these girls, it'll be your fault, blue belly!” Newt yelled.

Several shots were fired from Newt's men with a couple of returning volleys from the other side.

The obvious danger of the moment became quite clear to Jordana as a bullet ricocheted off a nearby tree and whizzed past her head to play itself out in the dirt. Panic stirred her to action, and spying the hilt of a knife in Newt's boot, Jordana decided to fight for her freedom.

With Newt preoccupied firing off his revolver, he didn't even notice as Jordana slipped the mammoth blade from his boot. Facedown on her stomach, her braid still firmly fixed to the ground by Newt's foot, Jordana wondered what her best course of action would be. She could stab Newt, but then he'd probably shoot her before she could do any real damage. She drew the knife up to her face and found her braid was in the way.

Her braid! That was it. Cutting it would free her! Without a second thought, Jordana gingerly, so as not to alert Newt, reached around and sliced at the braid with Newt's knife. The blade was razor sharp and easily parted the waist-length brown hair.

She was free!

But what next? Run, she thought. I need to run. But to where? She couldn't very well run into the middle of the gunfight. She'd have to take her chances with the river.

With Newt fixed on his attackers, she started inching backward, still lying on her stomach, across the ground. Bullets flew by her, striking objects to her left and right, but they didn't find their way to harming her. It reminded her of a verse in the Psalms where God had promised David something about a thousand falling at his side and ten thousand at his right hand, but harm wouldn't come to him. The memory made her stronger, braver.

Just then one of the soldiers' voices rose above the gunfire. “Release the women, and we'll let you go free.”

Newt responded by firing several rounds at the rescuers. Jordana took the opportunity while he was thus distracted to ease to her feet; then in a sprint, literally for her life, she raced toward the river.

She cleared a patch of sapling elm, and had there not been a rather sturdy parent tree right beside these, she might have plunged headlong down a steep ravine. The river was nearly twenty, maybe thirty feet below her, and it was clear that the water was quite shallow at this place along the bank.

“I can't go this way,” she muttered, jumping as yet another bullet buzzed like an insect past her ear. “Well, I have to get out of here someway.”

She glanced back from where she'd just come. Maybe if she gave them a wide berth and moved around the main clearing, she could get to the other side to where the soldiers were. That seemed logical. But she couldn't run off and leave Caitlan. Now that the soldiers were attacking, the bushwhackers could easily kill her in retaliation.

She had a general idea of the direction Caitlan had gone. Perhaps if Jordana circled around she could approach the area without being seen. Holding the knife tight, she moved out in a low, crouching position until she felt certain she had passed the point where Newt was fighting. As brush thinned out she could see the clearing with its thick, overgrown grass waving like wheat just beyond. Jordana felt a surge of hope. She was going to make it!

Rushing out from the clearing, she focused on her steps as the battle raged from somewhere to her left. Keep moving forward, she told herself. Don't look around. Don't look back. She moved steadily, her heart pounding, her body tense with fear. She was nearly to the other side of the clearing when she heard another bullet zing past her. She heard it hit the tree directly in front of her almost at the same moment a white-hot pain coursed up her left arm and into her shoulder. She'd been hit!

The thought so stunned her that Jordana stopped in her tracks and looked at the white muslin of her blouse as it turned crimson. Blood. Her blood. It didn't seem possible. Reaching up with her right hand, forgetting about the knife still grasped tightly at the hilt, Jordana was about to grasp her wound when suddenly, before she could so much as figure out what to do with the knife, a solid body slammed into her, knocking her to the ground.