White Wolf (8 page)

His brows rose when he found two wooden kegs of whiskey, then discovered two more kegs hidden behind a trunk, and a fifth one buried beneath a gutta-percha sack of sugar. His lips tightened. Food might be in short supply but not the spirits. “Mrs. Macauley—”

Eirica turned to grab her youngest, a redheaded boy who had toddled too close to the restless oxen. Seeing her in profile, Wolf noticed that she was with child. He did some fast
calculations and figured she’d give birth in late summer. He exhaled. Birthing added complications and slowed progress. Glancing around, he realized he hadn’t seen Birk. “Mrs. Macauley, where’s your husband?”

Eirica lowered her gaze to the toddler she jiggled in her arms and whispered nervously, “He’s still in town.”

“Which saloon?” he bit out, his voice tight with anger.

Eirica stepped back, her arms tight around the little boy. “I don’t know.”

Recognizing her fear of him, Wolf stalked away. Of all the families making the overland trip, this family worried him the most. Untying his horse, he mounted and rode toward the herd of horses grazing to one side of the cattle. Each hired hand brought with him anywhere from one to three mounts, plus Wolf had purchased an extra ten horses for spares, as each animal would be ridden long and hard during the day. He spotted a tough-looking horse wrangler.

Cupping his hands, he shouted, “Duarte!” The dark-skinned man rode up to him, and Wolf jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the Macauley wagon. “Mr. Macauley has several kegs of whiskey tucked into the back of his wagon. My rules state that each family is allowed only one small cask of liquor. Take the kegs into town and trade them for food rations. While you’re there, fetch Macauley. I believe you’ll find him at one of the saloons. Take Bart and Claude with you. If Macauley objects, tell him he doesn’t go. We leave within the hour, with or without him.”

Duarte rode off, signaling for the two men to join him. Within minutes, the kegs were unloaded and on their way to town with the three men.

Jessie leaned forward in her saddle, excitement building within her as she waited for the wagon master’s signal to roll. Watching the young Macauley children run in wild circles across the wide-open land, she smiled. Kerstin and Hanna Svensson ran after them, their laughter mingling with Sadie’s sharp barks. She laughed softly at the sight of her dog trying to run herd around the children. After a few minutes, Sadie gave up trying to corral the high-spirited youngsters and returned to her mistress. She lay panting in the grass, her tongue lolling to one side of her mouth, blissfully unaware that within minutes, they would begin a two-thousand-mile trek across the country.

Nudging Shilo, Jessie circled the black-, brown- and white-spotted cows as they grazed lazily. From the corner of her eye, she spotted one lumbering beast breaking away from the small herd. A squeeze of her booted heels against Shilo’s side was all the horse needed to move toward the cow. The cow lifted her black nose disdainfully into the air and released a long disgruntled moo when Shilo nudged her back toward the others.

She scowled. “Sorry, girl. I’ve got orders to keep you away from the wagons.” The cow swished her tail and lowered her head to the tender grass of the meadow. A few minutes later, the same stubborn cow made another dash for a tempting dark green patch of grass near one of the wagons. Jessie whistled and motioned for Sadie to take care of her. “Cows,” she scoffed, shaking her head, her pride still smarting. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t the task assigned to her that left her feeling angry. It was Wolf’s assumption that she couldn’t handle the oxen that rankled and made her feel as though she had to prove herself.

Shilo pawed the ground, shifting restlessly. Jessie forced the muscles in her thighs to relax and absently patted the mare. Her gaze narrowed with determination. She’d show White Wolf that she was perfectly capable of handling the oxen or any other task this trip required. She frowned at the thought.

What did it matter what he thought? Taking care of cows was an easy job, one that required little or no skill. She should be content, but she wasn’t. Wolf’s poor opinion of her hurt. Ever since Saturday night, images of the wagon master stalked her like a determined cat fixed on its prey. While she admitted that he was a virile specimen of man, she found him arrogant and vexing. “You don’t have to like the man,” she muttered to herself. “All you need to do is keep your distance and get to Oregon.”

The sun continued its ascent into the sky and the minutes ticked by slowly. Jessie fidgeted in her saddle. What were they waiting for? When would the signal come? She bit her lower lip, anxious to get under way. Her gaze went back to the wagons and settled on Elliot’s fine figure. He stood beside his team of oxen, reins in one hand, bullwhip in the other. When the blond-haired man looked up and saw her, he waved. She answered with a wide grin and waved back.

Coralie stuck her head out from under the canvas cover, opened her lacy white parasol and held it over her head to protect her milky-white skin from the rays of the sun. Jessie’s good humor vanished and she turned her back on her unwanted sister-in-law. “I hope you get lots and lots of freckles, Coralie,” she muttered.

Shifting in her saddle, she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder at Elliot. She hoped to gain his interest on this trip. But glancing down at her baggy shirt that hid her bound breasts, she sighed in defeat. How could she possibly hope he’d notice her when she had to dress as a boy, especially seeing as he could probably have his pick of any woman? Jessie ran one gloved finger along the freckled bridge of her nose. Another sigh of envy escaped her lips.

Ladies were supposed to have milky-white complexions, not honey-colored skin the result of spending days outside. She wrinkled her nose, thinking about the smattering of small brown spots flagging each cheek and dotting the bridge of her nose. Removing one glove, Jessie stared at the back of her hand. It too was golden brown. Before she could sink into a pit of self-pity, she heard the sound of approaching hooves. Reeling Shilo around, she saw Wolf riding toward them on his magnificent black stallion. He stopped at Rook’s wagon, turned, raised his hand and threw it forward.

Her heart pounded, and feelings of anger and resentment fled as the command to roll was given. A cheer rose from one end of the wagon train to the other. Jessie held her breath when Rook gave a loud shout, raised his hand and sent his whip cracking through the air. His yells turned the air blue as he cursed and swore at the oxen until the stout beasts trudged forward.

Rook was followed by the two Svensson boys in charge of the supply wagons. The boys’ parents were next with their two wagons, which were the only ones in the group to boast seats for their drivers. The rest were just rectangular wooden wagon beds mounted on wheels. The Macauleys came next. Birk Macauley cracked his whip over the team of oxen with more force than necessary, his face red with rage from the angry words he’d exchanged with Wolf. Jessie felt sorry for his wife, who walked behind the wagon, carrying her son. Her two little girls skipped beside her.

The newly married Nortons rode past, then Elliot. Jessie laughed when she heard Coralie squealing and complaining from inside the wagon. As they passed, Jessie glanced into the back and saw her sister-in-law holding on for dear life as the springless wagon bounced over the rutted ground. Jessie twisted in her saddle to watch the departing wagons. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the caravan. The wagons stretched out and rolled across the green carpet of grass toward the clear blue horizon of the West. White canvas billowed in the breeze, and the sound of bellowing oxen and whips cracking the air left her feeling giddy.

It was Rickard’s turn with her oxen. Resting her forearms across the saddle horn, she watched him try to get the animals moving, but the oxen refused to budge. Rickard yelled at the lazy beasts, pulled on the reins and swatted them with a short stick on their thick rumps, but they wouldn’t move. There hadn’t been enough time for her fully to train or gentle them, as Jordan had purchased them just three days ago to pull the Bakers’ wagon.

Jessie grinned with satisfaction. “And he thinks I can’t handle them,” she muttered, gloating. “This’ll show White Wolf.” Her gloating came to an end when Rickard turned away, his shoulders hunched in defeat, the stick dragging in the grass. She caught sight of his crestfallen face and felt his feelings of failure. And when no one came to his aid, she decided to take pity on him. She rode toward Rickard and dismounted, her custom-made bullwhip coiled in her hand. After all, it wasn’t his fault Wolf was an arrogant bastard.

Wolf and James sat halfway between the cattle and the wagons, ready to follow with the cattle, horses and the fourth supply wagon, which contained feed and shoeing equipment. “Look at them go, boss. Purdiest sight I think I’ve ever seen,” James said, leaning forward in his saddle.

Wolf nodded in agreement. On each trip he made, the sight of wagons rolling westward to challenge the wild country never failed to quicken his blood and arouse the wandering soul that was a part of his heritage.

James suddenly straightened. “Uh-oh, looks like there’s a problem,” he announced, pointing toward the unmoving wagon holding up the line.

Wolf frowned when it became apparent that Rickard was having trouble. He started forward. “I’d best go lend a hand.”

James stopped him. “No need. Jessie’s there.”

Wolf saw Jessie dismount and take up the reins. He grimaced but didn’t voice aloud his doubt that Jessie had little chance of succeeding where the taller and stronger Rickard had failed. But he decided to give the boy a chance, if only to prove to James that he expected too much from his young brother.

James leaned forward, pride ringing in his voice. “Watch this, boss. Ain’t nobody in Westport better with a whip. An old cowhand who worked for me taught Jess how to use it. Even custom-made that one just for—ah, him.”

Wolf waited impatiently. Three wagons were lined up behind Jessie and Rickard. Suddenly the sound of snapping and popping jerked his attention back to Rickard and Jessie. The air above the oxen was filled with what sounded like musket fire in a raging battle as Jessie snapped the reins and cracked the whip overhead with a precision that came from years of practice. From where he stood, Wolf had no trouble hearing the shouted, “Gee-haw, gee-haw.” In seconds, the four-yoke of oxen reluctantly trudged forward. Taken aback by the boy’s skill, Wolf raised his left brow with admiration at the graceful movements of rawhide singing through the air.

“What’d I tell ya, boss. Ain’t that something?” James bragged.

Wolf remained silent for a long moment. He had the uncomfortable feeling he’d underestimated Jessie Jones, and that didn’t sit too well with him. Angry with himself and the Jones boy for showing him up, he turned away, ignoring the knowing look James sent his way.

“Get the men in position,” he ordered, pulling on the stallion’s reins. He rode toward the wagons.

When he reached the two boys, Jessie was already mounted, the bullwhip neatly coiled in hands that looked much too small and dainty to wield such power. With a defiantly raised chin, Jessie made it clear who had won that round. Angry but unsure why, Wolf watched the boy
rejoin the herd of wandering cows. His features settled in a grim line. He’d let Jessie Jones bask in this one bit of triumph. The hard rigors of travel would leave little energy for mischief.

Wolf spent the next half hour riding up and down the line of wagons, giving advice where needed. After a while, he pulled off to one side. “Well, there they go,” he murmured, his sharp gaze following the long line of wagons. Just then, one of the wagons veered off course.

“Damn,” he swore. “Come on, Black Shadow, we’re not through yet.” He rode up alongside Lars and helped the man halt the oxen who were pulling to the right. With his help, they unyoked the lead pair and put the dominant oxen on the left. Lars, who walked on that side, could control the animal better.

Wolf waited until the emigrants were at least half a mile ahead of the waiting cattle, then rode back and gave the cattlemen the signal to start out. First came Duarte and Shorty with the remuda or remounts. Saul followed with the supply wagon. Then James and Jordan rode forward, driving a few head of cattle between them. The two brothers were pointers. Their job was to point the long line of cattle by guiding the leaders of the herd. The cattle behind them would gradually swell to four or six across and stretch out half a mile in length.

Jeremy came next, riding flank, with Claude and Sunny riding swing near the end of the line. Bart and Gunner came last. They were the least experienced, the tenderfeet. They rode drag, the least-desired position; it was their job to keep the herd together.

When everyone was moving, Wolf hunched low over his horse’s neck and urged the mount forward. The stallion’s long strides quickly ate the distance as they galloped past the bellowing cattle. Wolf lifted his face to the wind, his mane of golden-brown hair flowing behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a streak of white racing him. He grinned and wondered if Wahoska would accompany him to Oregon this time or turn around and head for home after a few days on the move. The wolf had yet to make the overland trip.

As soon as he passed the line of wagons, he gave Black Shadow his head. The blue sky and green grass whizzed by as horse and rider became a blur of black and brown. Wolf gave himself up to the wild ride. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he contemplated the challenges that lay ahead. Not wanting to tire the horse, he slowed the animal to a canter and scanned the countryside. His nostrils flared with deep appreciation for the beauty of the
Maka.

It didn’t matter that he’d been schooled in the white man’s world. He had an inbred affinity with the
Wakanpi,
the spirits of his world that Indian children were taught to respect, revere and even fear. When he looked upon the green grass, he saw life-sustaining feed for the cattle and horses. He tipped his face up to stare into the clear blue sky and felt the warmth of
Wi
. And when he looked upon the trees in the distance or listened to the birds singing their special songs, he knew these things were
Wakan:
sacred, mysterious.