The Book of Lost Friends(116)

Elam and the horse look at home against that fire, against that wide alone. Our wagon circles the hill and wobbles down into a rough draw, and Elam disappears bit by bit.

I keep watch out one side of the wagon, then the other, trying to hold on to the sight of him, but he’s soon gone and we don’t see him again, rest of the morning.

By noon, I take the little derringer out of Missy’s reticule, check it, then set it in reach. Still not sure if it’d fire at all, but I feel better having it there.

Juneau Jane slides a glance over the gun, then at me.

“I was looking at it,” I say. “That’s all.”

We pass a wagon or two on the road time to time through the day. Farmers and freighters. A mail wagon. Horsebackers and, near the towns, people on foot going to their farms and back. Here and there, riders take a wide path round us. I wonder what kind of folks those are that don’t care to be seen up close by the soldiers.

At night we camp, and the men tell us to stay near, so we do. Come morning, we break camp and roll off again. Do the same thing the next day and the next and then again. Sometimes Elam joins our camps or rides alongside the wagon, but mostly he ranges. When he does come in, he’s watchful and quiet. I know he’s found signs of something out there.

The days go by as we push hard from first light to last, while the weather’s fair.

A storm comes finally, and we pull the wagon curtains down tight. The horses and mules plod along in the rain and the mud till finally we make our way through it, and it stops quick as it started. I look out for Elam, but don’t see him. Hadn’t all morning and that vexes me.

We meet a man on the road who don’t speak to the soldiers, but stands his saddle horse just barely aside. Once we’re past, he sidles his mount forward to get a peek through the rear gap of the wagon bonnet, see if there’s anything in here he wants. The bold way of him leaves me bad skittish, and I look at the little derringer again. The light shines on its carved silver roses, and Missy reaches for it, and I swat her hand away.

“Don’t you touch that,” I scold. “It ain’t for you to have.”

She squeaks and scrambles out of reach and stares at me narrow eyed. I tuck that pistol down under me where she can’t get it.

Near middle of the day, we come on a water crossing.

The sky has started to rumble again, so we go ahead to make the ford instead of stopping to rest the horses and mules first. The current is fast, but ain’t deep.

“Keep them moving right on up at the slope!” the sergeant yells, circling a fist above his head. “We’ll stop on the other side and rest and water the stock then.”

The sergeant leads, then the driver whips up the team, and the soldiers come along either side to make sure the mules don’t stop and let the wagon drift. The streambed is rocky, so the wagon box rises and sinks, side to side. It falls hard into the deep spots. Missy hits her head and cries out.

I move all us closer to the back of the wagon, where we can get out if it swamps. This ain’t supposed to be a hard crossing, but it is.

Leaning out the keyhole gap over the tailgate, I see Elam. He keeps well back up the slope, but he’s there.

The mules get belly deep, and little seeps of water come through the wagon bed.

It’s then I hear a sharp crack like a wheel or axle broke.

The canvas shudders above our heads. I turn to look over my shoulder, see a round hole and sunlight. Another crack echoes out. Another hole in the canvas.

“Bushwhack!” one of the troopers yells. The mules jerk forward. The driver goes to the whip.

My fingers slip on the tailgate and I tip forward, fall halfway out the back of the wagon. The tailgate pushes the breath out of me, and water rushes just under my chin. A hand grabs my dress. It’s a big, strong hand, and I know it’s Missy. Juneau Jane scrambles to get me, too, and they haul me up, and we all tumble toward the wagon bed. It’s when I’m falling that I see Elam Salter and his big dun horse go straight over backward. I don’t see them land. I hear a horse scream, hear the whine of a bullet, then a soldier’s groan, a splash in the water. Hooves clatter away and up the bank. The soldiers return fire at whoever’s come on us.

The wagon’s got no way out but forward over the rocks, and the mules lurch through the water, the wagon rocking wild like a child’s toy as they scrabble up the bank to dry land. I gather Juneau Jane and Missy, hold them down flat and push my head twixt them. Splinters of wood and dust and canvas rain down.

I say my prayers, make my peace. Might be after all that’s happened, this is how it ends. Not in the swamp from a wildcat, not at the bottom of a river or on a freight wagon in the wild country, but here in this creek, waylaid for a reason I don’t know.

I lift my head enough to search with my eyes, to find Old Mister’s pistol.

Can’t let them take us alive if this is Indians or road agents, is my only thought. Heard too many stories since we been in Texas, tales of what can be done to womenfolk. Seen it, too, with Missy and Juneau Jane. Lord, give me the strength to do what’s needed, I pray. But if I find that pistol, it’s got only two shots, and there’s three of us.

Give me the strength, and the means.

Everything’s shifted and turned upside down, and the pistol is no place I can see.

Of a sudden, the air goes quiet. The gun thunder and screams stop like they started. Powder smoke hangs thick and silent and sour. The only noise is the slow groaning of a horse and the terrible death rattle of blood-smothered breath.