"Change of plans,” he answered and then turned away and rode to Rebecca who was driving the wagon. “We need to move fast before we lose our daylight."
Rebecca obeyed without question, slapping the horse into action. The old wagon rattled and shook, but held together as they bounced across the rough ground.
Naomi knew something was wrong by the set of Charlie's shoulders. Strange how he was so newly acquainted, and yet she recognized his moods as plainly as if he'd shouted them. She frowned, nudging her mare into a faster trot until she rode beside him.
"What is it?” she asked as soon as she came abreast of the other rider.
"Comancheros,” he answered grimly. “We need to get this wagon out of sight. I'm going to drop back, try to throw them off our trail."
He turned and rode toward the remuda of horses that followed behind the wagon on a lead line. Unhooking the rope, he tied the line to the saddle pommel and told her, “Get the wagon to those rocks ahead and into cover so that it can't be seen."
He started to turn away and then looked back at her. He handed her his saddlebag. “Money inside is yours now. Use it to get yourself home."
She clutched the leather pouch, unable to say anything, not even
good-bye.
She felt aching fear as she watched him spur his mount into a lope across the trail they'd just made, then turn and ride west, the line of horses stretching out behind, stirring up dust as they ran hard where his big stallion led.
She turned back to the wagon. “Hurry. Mr. Wolf thinks trouble's on its way. We need to get to those rocks ahead and hide the wagon."
None of the girls questioned the plan. All held on as Rebecca slapped the horse into a faster pace, bouncing them across the rough ground. The rocks seemed near, but they travelled in that direction until the sun had shifted westward in the sky before they began to draw closer.
Naomi worried about the man who had ridden away, using himself as a decoy. The saddlebags she'd slung across the mare's withers and his last words indicated that he didn't expect to return to her.
Her throat ached, holding back terror, tears—and more emotions she couldn't name. She only knew she didn't want anything to happen to Charlie Wolf.
Daylight was fading into darkness quickly when the ground underneath became rockier and the sheer face of the rock formation loomed in front of them.
Rebecca drove the wagon straight toward the incline and slapped the reins across the draft horse's back to force it up until the ground leveled out into a stony plateau.
As soon as the wagon stopped, the girls were out, unhooking the traces and shoving the cart deeper into the shadows.
Naomi, thinking of her childhood when she and Pa Lancaster had erected a screen of camouflage when hunting deer, said, “Sage brush. Push the wagon back against the rock wall and cover it with sage brush."
"With all due respect, teacher—” It was Emily Erdman who wore glasses and now pushed them higher on her nose. Naomi wondered how she had managed to preserve their safety during the harrowing abduction. “—We might need the wagon for shelter, Miss Parker."
"Of course, forgive my foolishness.” Naomi was flustered and ill-prepared to establish a camp with the girls. She wasn't sure what to do first. As she stood trying to decide, her students took charge.
They chattered about the getaway, the ugly outlaws, a torn dress, and Justine's head wound, but no one spoke of Charlie Wolf.
Justine crawled out of the wagon carrying tins of peaches and canned beans. Brody had a knife she produced, pulling it from her boot. She grinned at the astonished looks of her classmates.
"Pa gave it to me and said to keep it close ‘cause I might find myself in a tight spot some day and need it."
"Bet your Mama was scandalized at that.” Emily snickered. “My mama says a lady doesn't carry such things."
Brody used a rock to drive the knife through the top of the tin of peaches, cutting it open with relish. “My mother taught me to shoot. My Pa insisted I be able to handle a knife.” Her words were sincere and no one doubted her ability as she handled her knife with dexterity.
"I'll have to figure another carry-all spot. Had I been able to get it out of my boot earlier, we could have rescued ourselves."
Naomi didn't know what to say. None of her deportment lessons applied in this situation. She tried to help set up the camp, but the Texas born and raised ranch daughters knew more than she did about surviving in the desert. Worry for Charlie Wolf dominated her thoughts.
Most of the wares that Harvey Collins carried in his Wagon of Interesting Items were useless trinkets and beads. But the girls wrapped themselves up in the thick wool blankets they found, passing them around until they all had one. Before lying down, Brody Quince took a length of rope from the side of the wagon and laid it in a circle.
"Snakes,” she explained, “won't crawl over a rope, so we should be all right except maybe for scorpions.” Brody had an inexhaustible interest in bugs, reptiles, and animals, and was a fountain of knowledge, sharing with anyone who would listen.
The girls accepted her wisdom and rolled into their blankets inside of the rope as if it could ward off all danger. Soon the sound of sleep-breathing drifted to where Naomi kept watch. The girls depended on her to protect them. She swallowed back tears, feeling the inadequacy of her abilities.
Even wrapped in a thick blanket, Naomi shivered in the cool night air, and pulled it tighter around her shoulders. She would wait for Charlie Wolf to arrive. She leaned against the rock wall, situated so that she could see anyone coming up the incline that led to the plateau.
Naomi had time to puzzle over the appearance of Harvey Collins so far from Alabama and home. What was that old man doing, trafficking in blankets and beads with the Comancheros?
Then she remembered the shipment the men had spoken of and how determined the outlaw had been to get it—
guns
—he'd said once during the argument. Of course, understanding settled around Naomi. Harvey had moved into another area of commerce and was now a gunrunner as well as a kidnapper, extortionist, and flesh-peddler.
She pulled the scratchy wool material closer and sighed at the hard dirt and rough stone beneath her rump. This country was stark and bare compared to the lush green of her native state.
That thought reminded her of Charlie Wolf's parting words. He'd said to take the money and go home. Did he mean for her to go back to Alabama? She was tempted to dig in his leather pouch and pull out the wad of money he'd had in the bar, and then again in the barn.
She wanted to count it, hold it for just a time. She had never seen so much money in one place as when he'd thrown bills at the stable owner. And in his saddlebag, there was a wad of so much more. It occurred to her that if her marriage to him was real, her husband was a man of some material worth.
She kept herself awake thinking of sassy remarks she could say to him. She already knew how to ruffle his calm and get a response. She relived the first night, moved on to the school when he buried Patrick, analyzed his rescue of the girls, and came to the end with him riding off to act as a decoy.
Confidence that he would return was slowly replaced by pervasive unease, until finally, when the first light of dawn brightened the sky, she heard the clip of shod hooves against the stone path, she couldn't wait, but hurried down the trail to meet him. Relief was replaced with dismay. Charlie's horse was riderless. Old Mossy trotted in, reins tied up to make sure they were clear of dragging.
The sound of the incoming horse woke Marta. Naomi was already scrambling to ready herself and talked as she prepared to leave. They all knew that Charlie Wolf would be on Old Mossy's back if he'd been able. The other seven girls ringed her and Charlie's horse.
"I've got to go look for Mr. Wolf. He's obviously been injured somehow and sent his horse to find us."
If Old Mossy hadn't been looking so expectant, nudging her with his head as though impatient for them to leave, it would have been a ludicrous statement. Instead the girls nodded agreement.
Marta frowned thoughtfully. “He wiped our trail, how will you find him out there?"
"I don't know, but I have to try.” The uneasiness of the night had now given way to panic.
"He'll be mad. He said for us to stay put.” Marta teetered on her boot heels, thinking, and then added, “But I think you should go anyway. Keep the mountain straight behind you and watch the ground. If you come across any unshod pony tracks—” She paused and looked at Naomi considering her. “—ride like hell in the opposite direction."
They filled two canteens from the barrel of water strapped to the side of Harvey's wagon. Naomi had intended to ride the buckskin mare, but since Old Mossy stood saddled and ready, she mounted him instead.
Justine spoke up before she rode down the rough incline and onto the desert floor. “Maybe you should take the mare with you. You might need it to bring back Charlie Wolf's body."
The rest of the girls glared at her, but Naomi nodded and put the mare on a lead line, as she had seen Charlie do with the remuda of horses.
She did as Marta directed and rode straight, keeping the mountain at her back as her guide. It was midmorning when, despairing that she was riding too far away from the girls, she decided to turn back. That's when Charlie's horse picked up his pace, trotting toward a spot in the distance.
Then the big stallion broke into a lope as they neared a body up ahead. Naomi tensed at the sight of buzzards circling in the sky, dreading what she would find when she arrived.
Charlie lay in the limited shade of a cactus. He could feel the bones in his leg scrape against each other when he moved, and he knew that it was a bad break. The last time he'd tried to mount, he'd fallen and twisted it even worse.
He'd managed to grab the rifle out of its scabbard as he fell, but the pain had taken him under for a spell. He'd lain all afternoon, sipped the canteen dry, and shivered through the night. Earlier, when the coyotes had started closing in, he'd sent Old Mossy running, shooing him away rather than have the animal die in the desert with him.
He'd made it through the night. There were coyotes out there, but still intimidated by the man smell. That wouldn't last much longer. He dripped sweat from both pain and the scorching hot sun above.
His thoughts drifted to the day he'd followed his father into the Battle of Sand Creek. He'd been fourteen, watching Gray Wolf's back as he rode to rescue Rachel McCallister, scooping her from sure death, before racing from the massacre.
When Jericho circled behind the fleeing man and woman, Charlie hadn't realized the half-breed was fighting on the side of the whites until Jericho had thrown a saber, stabbing Gray Wolf. Charlie relived that time and the time after when he'd taken his mother back to the McCallister ranch.
Almost lazily, he fingered the scar that marked his cheek and just missed his eye.
"Nits make lice, boy. You're the son of a murdering savage. I'll beat the devil out of you every day you're here, but you'll always be a no-good savage.” The sound of the whip his grandfather always carried had lingered in the room while Charlie faced the hate-filled man. He'd wanted to kill the McCallister tyrant. Instead, he'd taken the whip from the old man, unwilling to kill his mother's father.
His white cousins, Sam and Robert McCallister, subject themselves to the old man's violent temper, had hidden him and then brought his mother.
She'd found him trying to tend his laid-open face. She'd stitched the wound and put a poultice on it. “Charlie, he'll kill you if you stay here. Go back to your father's people. Ride with them until I send for you."
Charlie closed his eyes and let himself dream again. Dust whirls kicked up in the dry wind, creating the red haze in Lozen's prophesy.
In his drugged state years before, his vision had shown his mother saving his father instead of the other way around. Now the image of his mother segued into a tall, sharp-spoken schoolteacher, and Charlie drifted through the escalating heat and pain, a sad smile on his face.
It was near noon when Charlie squinted at the sun overhead, watching the buzzards lazily catch the wind, gliding and circling and waiting for him to be dead enough to suit them. His water was gone, and already his tongue felt swollen behind lips that were dry and cracked.
It had been a stupid mistake. He'd been thinking about the woman he'd caught for himself, paying no attention to the world around him, more importantly the ground under him.
He'd dismounted, dropping his reins to follow the tracks on foot, checking on the unshod hoof prints he'd crossed. He'd stepped into a gopher hole, falling hard, feeling the bone in his leg snap as he twisted.
He couldn't leave the remuda of horses standing in the heat, ready to draw the first riders who happened by, knowing that it would either be the other part of Jericho's gang or one of the Apache tribes meeting with Mangas Colorado.
He'd untied the lead line, hopping along on one foot and dragging his broken leg, intending to mount up and get back to the wagon. But hazing them in the opposite direction from the mountain where he'd told Naomi to take the girls, he'd fallen again. He knew it was bad when he'd called Old Mossy to him, tried to pull himself up and into the saddle, but he couldn't make his body obey.
It wasn't the ending he'd expected, but he settled into meet his fate like a warrior. He pulled his knife out. He'd save bullets until the end.
When Charlie saw the horses coming toward him, he thought he was hallucinating. The closer they got, the surer he was that he was seeing a mirage until Old Mossy trotted to the cactus and butted him with his head, announcing his return.
Naomi was out of the saddle, holding a canteen of water to his lips before he could blink. “I knew something was wrong when you didn't come back."
"Help me up into the saddle,” he ordered her gruffly. She shouldered his weight, and he was glad again that he'd picked a tall, strong woman for his mate. Between the two of them they got him hoisted into his saddle. “Tie me on,” he told her. He wasn't steady enough to make the ride without falling.