Between Earth and Sky(95)

Mr. Simms dismounted. “Fetched the law, just as you asked, Mr. Blanchard.”

“I see that,” he said through gritted teeth. The anger in his eyes sharpened to alarm. “And several more along with it.” He thrust Alma onto the old groundskeeper and approached Mr. Gund. “Sheriff, I appreciate you coming out at such a late hour. Mr. Simms might have misinformed you, but there’s only one troublesome Indian I’m after. I dare say, an entire posse is not needed. Perhaps some of these gentlemen would rather return to their beds.”

The sheriff looked off in the direction had fled. A stream of tobacco-stained liquid flew from his mouth. Then he turned back to her father. “It’s a serious crime, trying to kidnap a white woman. Gotta be careful with these Injuns. They’re slippery.”

Alma’s face twisted with a scowl. “He didn’t kid—”

Mr. Simms’s burlap palm flattened over her mouth and her father shot her a fiery glare.

“I only accuse the young boy of trespassing.”

Sheriff Gund spit again, this time right at her father’s feet, then nodded toward Alma. “Why she here, then?”

“I . . . you see . . . my daughter and I . . .” Her father broke into a lengthy explanation. He had little practice lying and it showed in this halting speech. His words faded to a hum as her eyes raked the dark woods into which and the riders had disappeared. Each passing minute bolstered her hope that he had escaped. When her attention circled back, the men’s conversation had grown strained.

“You may be an Injun lover, Mr. Blanchard, with your school and all that. But I’ve gotta protect the interests of this town. Ain’t that right, boys?”

“Don’t want no red man seducing my daughter,” one of the men Alma did not recognize said.

“Here! Here!” rejoined Mr. Steele.

The men’s tempers had scarcely cooled when the other riders emerged from the woods. Four men—she counted them twice as their horses cantered closer. Her entire body breathed thanksgiving. He’d escaped. Then, as they ventured into the reaches of torchlight, she saw trailing behind them. Thick ropes bound his hands, and a grease-stained cloth smothered his lips. Alma’s throat constricted to the size of a willow branch and her heart battered against her ribs. Blood trickled down his face from a gash above his eye. His clothes were dirty and torn, as if all four riders had wrestled him to the ground.

“I’ll state again, trespassing upon the grounds of Stover is this boy’s only crime,” her father said. Alma could hear the nervous edge in his voice. He glanced at the bloody and winced. “To insinuate otherwise is an insult to my daughter’s honor. Take him back to town, throw him in the jailhouse, and let’s all of us to bed.”

One of the men who had ridden after approached the sheriff. “Found him hiding out in an old trapper’s dugout couple miles yonder. Put up some fight.”

“I see that.” The sheriff curled his lips and smoothed down his mustache.

“Let him go, please let him go,” Alma screamed into Mr. Simms’s hand.

“I’ll contact the Indian agent in the morning,” her father said. “He’ll take the boy back to the reservation where he belongs.”

“We also found this in that there dugout.” The man thrust a silk ribbon up at the sheriff.

Alma blanched. She’d used that ribbon to tie off her hair the night she met in the forest, the night they’d made love and first talked of marriage. struggled against his bindings, the thick, fibrous rope cutting into his skin. The rider beside him kicked him with his boot heel square in the face and fell to the ground. Alma screamed again, tears smarting and stomach roiling.

The sheriff’s eyes raked over her and he spit. He dismounted and stalked over to her. With a rough hand, he grabbed her long braid and held it up to the torchlight. The paisley ribbon fastened at the end of her hair matched cut and color the one taken from the dugout. “Still think your daughter ain’t been seduced?”

“That, that proves nothing. I’m sure every girl in La Crosse has a . . . has a similar ribbon,” her father said.

But Sheriff Gund was no longer listening. He released Alma’s braid and pulled a thick coil of rope from his saddlebag. “String him up, boys.”

A few of the younger riders cheered. Mr. Krause looked greenish; Mr. Coleman shook his head.

Frenzy gripped her. She bit at Mr. Simms’s salty palm and stomped down on his toes. When he dropped his hand from her face she shrieked loud into the night.

Her father spun around and smacked her. “Keep quiet, you sinful girl.” Though his cheeks blazed red with anger, his eyes looked frantic, fearful. He scuttled behind the sheriff. “Please, you can’t do this. There’s no justice in this. It’s against God’s law!”

“You brought this upon yourself with that heathen school of yours.”

A lone box elder tree stood at the base of the bluff where the road split. New leaves trembled on its skeleton-like branches. The sheriff tossed the rope to one of the men, who in turn flung it over a thick branch high in the tree. Alma fought and struggled. She threw her weight in every direction, but Mr. Simms’s grip held. She clawed at his hands and forearms, leaving pale, ragged scratches in his suede jacket and gloves.

“If nothing else, this boy deserves a trial!” Her father’s voice had grown thin and pitchy.