16

Tom Berry was the quietest man Mary Jo had ever met. She’d thought Wade Foster was until that morning. Did the mountains do that to a man? Or was it the character of the men who chose to live in them?

Mary Jo followed the man silently. She was afraid too many questions might make him change his mind. They’d exchanged only a few words as Tom Berry saddled the mule. She’d watched with astonishment as the animal tried to bite him, and he twisted deftly out of range. He hit the mule on its side, and quickly tightened the buckle as the mule released air that had bloated its stomach.

The bearded man glanced up, and Mary Jo would have sworn she saw a twinkle for a moment before it disappeared in the flat blue of his eyes. “Don’t like horses myself. Too dumb. Now Rachel here, she’s right smart, smart enough to know she don’t want no one on her back.”

“Rachel?” she said.

He gave her an irritated look. “Rachel’s as good a name as Sam,” he said with as much explanation as he was apparently going to offer for giving a woman’s name to an animal that was obviously not of the feminine gender.

That odd conversation was the last, and puzzling enough to keep her mind off Jeff for the first several miles, but Mary Jo soon discovered Rachel’s appeal. They seemed to go straight up into the mountains, and Rachel never faltered on the steep trail, never blew hard, never slowed, while her own Fancy struggled for footholds, and was breathing hard. The trail was narrow and overgrown, seemingly leading to nowhere, and she questioned several times how wise she was to follow him. But after several hours, she had no choice. She had absolutely no idea where she was.

He called a halt only once before they stopped for the night, and that was to give the mare a few moments of rest. He did that begrudgingly, looking at both of them with disgust. “Want to make it by nightfall,” he growled. “Won’t do it if we have to stop every few moments.”

Since this was the first stop in hours, Mary Jo wanted to protest, but she held her tongue. Instead, she ran her hand comfortingly down the mare’s neck and poured some water from a canteen into her hat for Fancy to drink as she pushed back tendrils of her own hair.

She was filthy. It had been hot below, and sweat had trickled down her face, her back, and between her breasts. Now the air was cooling fast as they ascended into the mountains. The sweat had cooled, and grit clung uncomfortably to her body. She was stiff and hungry and afraid. Fear for Jeff wiped out any concern for herself. She only prayed that her son had somehow met up with Wade, that he was safe. He was still just a boy, no matter how much he thought otherwise.

They mounted again after the mare had rested and traveled until it was dark. He stopped again and dismounted. “We stay here tonight,” he said.

“But—”

“You’ve got grit, missy. I’ll say that for you. But that damn horse of yours could break a leg on this trail at night. We’ll leave again at daybreak.” He turned away from her, taking some food from a pouch and eating by himself, obviously expecting her to do the same.

“A fire?” she asked tentatively.

He shrugged. “If you want one. You’ll have to stay up all night tending it.” The thought quickly killed any desire for one. Her mind was willing, but her body wasn’t. Her eyes kept closing, and her arms and legs felt like dead tree limbs, ready to snap with the slightest breeze. She thought of Jeff. She prayed he wasn’t alone out here.

She looked at Berry. He had already spread out his blanket. He was smoking a foul-smelling pipe.

She heard a coyote and flinched.

“Ain’t within miles of here,” her companion said disdainfully.

“I’m not worried about me,” she said sharply. “But Jeff, he’ll be frightened.”

He eyed her with indifference. “Not if he’s your get, I’m thinking.”

It was approval, nothing else, and she felt a certain pride in it. She’d tried all her life to be useful, and after her husband had died, she had to be self-reliant. And then when they’d moved here, she was so sure she could handle everything. That it hadn’t happened that way, that she needed Wade and now this man, shamed her. But with those few words, Tom Berry restored something important to her.

She didn’t reply, just sort of savored the words, hoping with all her heart he was right. And then knowing she needed her strength, she snuggled down in the blankets she’d brought and closed her eyes.

It was around noon the next day when they reached a plateau. A rich green valley dotted with tepees spread out before her. Women and children gathered to look when they spied the visitors, and then men, their hair plaited into braids decorated by beaded bands, started to appear.

Mary Jo stifled her apprehension. It looked peaceful enough. The tepees were made of animal skins and richly ornamented with beads. Dogs barked in greeting, and Mary Jo saw the women’s faces reflect curiosity and concern, even some fear, while the men’s faces were stoic, as blank as Wade Foster’s had been so many times. There was no war paint as she’d seen on Comanches, no angry scowls.

She sat straighter, her back stiff, as she looked for Wade’s blue trousers and shirt. She looked for a redheaded boy with freckles spread over his nose. She saw neither. Then Tom Berry approached two of the men, bending over to speak to them quietly. One nodded, looked at Mary Jo curiously, then retreated back into the tepee from which he’d emerged.

In another minute, she saw Wade coming out of the tepee, his back bent as he stooped through the flap. He looked defiant in his deerskin clothes and beaded eagle necklace, and his feet were encased in leather moccasins that reached nearly to his knee. He appeared so savage and primitive that Mary Jo wondered whether she knew this man.

He walked over to her. “Mrs. Williams,” he said, eyeing her as warily as the others.

“Is Jeff with you?” she asked, refusing to waste time with preliminaries.

His brow wrinkled and his eyebrows knitted together. “Jeff? Why would he be here?”

Her heart sank. She had hoped against hope he would be here.

“He left a note three days ago. He said he was going with you. He left several hours after you did. He told me he was going to find Tuck and Ed. I didn’t find out until they returned that night. He never came home.”

Wade’s sun-bronzed face paled. “What did the note say?”

Mary Jo searched in a skirt pocket, retrieving the wrinkled piece of paper she’d read and reread so many times. She handed it to him silently and watched his face change as he skimmed it once, then read more carefully. I’m going with Wade up into the mountains. He will need my help.

“I never saw him,” Wade said hoarsely, pain in his voice. “If I had I would have brought him back to you.”

Mary Jo swallowed. “I know … I just hoped—I knew he would be safe with you.”

He held out his hand to her, helped her down, holding her just a moment longer than necessary. She felt herself trembling as her body leaned against his. She needed his strength.

“We’ll find him,” he whispered, his voice sure again. “He must have followed the road, then taken a wrong trail.”

“We?”

“Manchez, his friends, they’ll help search.”

Mary Jo backed away, searching his face.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “They’re all good trackers, great trackers.”

“But why should they—”

“Because,” he said gently, “they’re my friends and they value children.” His eyes warned her not to object, not to insult the men standing around him.

They were not as tall as Wade, but their bodies were sturdy, compact, and their piercing obsidian eyes difficult—if not impossible—to read. They were foreign to her, and therefore frightening. Most were wearing dusty deerskin shirts and leggings; some wore bright plaid cotton shirts.

“I would be grateful,” she said, trying to ignore the lump of fear in her stomach, trying to be grateful to anyone who would help. Still, she didn’t feel reassured by the idea of these warriors tracking her son. They value children. Comanches had valued her sister at one time, enough to risk their lives to kidnap her.

Wade’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his hand left her. He turned to the man next to him. “Brother,” he said, and Mary Jo wondered whether that address was meant particularly for her ears. “How many can you send out?”

Mary Jo had also turned her gaze to the Indian. So this was Manchez, brother of Wade’s wife. He reciprocated her perusal, his eyes unblinking. But not hostile. That surprised her.

“Ten and eight,” Manchez said. He put his hand out to Wade’s arm, guiding him away from Mary Jo, lowering his voice and speaking in a language she didn’t understand. She heard Wade answer in the same tongue. They spoke for several moments, then Wade turned back to her.

“Manchez saw the fear in your eyes. He wants to know if you trust him to hunt for your son.” His own voice was empty of emotion, forcing her to make a decision, forcing her to trust.

She swallowed her protest. Wade trusted them. She had to. She had no choice. She took a few steps to Manchez. “Please find my son,” she said.

He studied her face, then nodded. “You stay with my wife.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then saw Wade’s mouth form the word “yes.”

“I want to go with you,” she said instead.

“We will all go separate ways and we will move fast. We cannot spare time for you.” Manchez’s tone was adamant. “You stay.”

Wade caught her arm and guided her several feet away. “This is no longer their land,” he said abruptly. “They will be risking much to help you. Do as he says.”

“What about you?”

“You’d slow me down, too. You don’t know these mountains. You’ll be safe here. They think you’re my woman.”

Her eyes opened wide with questions.

“I told them that because I knew they would be more willing to search. After being robbed of most of their land, all their best land, do you think they would risk what little they have to find a white child? If they run into some soldiers or liquored-up whites …”

“They value children,” she reminded him.

“They value their own children too, and helping yours could injure theirs,” he said bluntly. “We don’t have any more time to waste. You can return with Tom Berry and get help in town or you can stay here and trust them, trust me.”

Mary Jo was defeated, and she knew it. Jeff had been out here three days now. She didn’t have time to go back, summon a search party of white men. Jeff may have somehow gotten back home, but she didn’t think so. Deep in her heart, she knew he was in these mountains. She nodded.

“Her name is Shavna,” he said. “She is a good woman who has two sons of her own.” He turned, nodding to Manchez and leading Mary Jo to the tepee he’d left. He stooped to go in again, and in a moment was back out, a pretty young Ute woman following him.

The woman smiled shyly at her and held out her hand, inviting Mary Jo in. Mary Jo hesitated once more. Wade took several steps toward her, and put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“We’ll find him,” he said with one of his rare smiles, and for the first time since she’d known Jeff was missing, Mary Jo felt hope welling inside, drowning out all the misgivings, the fear and distrust of those warriors now springing to the back of horses that had been grazing among the rich mountain grasses. She nodded and followed the Ute woman inside.

Jeff’s stomach rumbled and ached. He’d been eating berries, too many of them. He just hoped they weren’t poisonous. He had little food left, only a piece of jerky he’d been hoarding.

He’d tried to go hunting today, but he missed two squirrels and he’d been afraid to use any more of his ammunition. He’d only had six shells and he thought he’d better save the remaining four for varmints. He’d seen tracks earlier today, several of them, and he thought they might be wolves.

He’d already collected lots of wood for the fire tonight, to help him stay awake.

His fingers shook as he prepared the fire. The sun was setting now, red streaks coloring the sky. He’d never been so lonely or scared in his life, not even when his pa didn’t come home years ago, or when Ty was killed in Harmony. He’d had Ma then. He’d never felt so awfully alone. And Ma. He knew she must be going crazy now, and guilt weighed on him.

The bloody crimson of the sky dissolved into the dark blue of night. The darker it got, the scarier it seemed. And more dangerous. Every sound now was enough to make him want to jump out of his skin.

Old Seth stamped nervously where he was tethered, and Jeff heard a faraway cry of something terrified, a cry like a baby’s. An eagle grabbing a rabbit? Whatever it was, it ran a chill through him. Wind brushed the tops of the tree, and he drew his blankets closer. The temperature was falling fast now, as was the last light. He struck a match and lit his precious pile of kindling, fanning it with his hands. He knew he had to keep this fire going, not only to keep the animals away but because he was running out of matches as quickly as he was running out of everything else, including courage. He wanted to cry, but that wouldn’t help.

An owl shrieked as the night turned entirely black. He wished Jake was there with him. Jake would miss him, too. He was a one-man dog, at least he had been until he found Wade Foster. He prayed. At least he tried. He was too scared, and he didn’t really think God was listening to him. He hunched his shoulders against the darkness, the night, and snakes and coyotes and other animals he knew prowled these woods.

He reached out and touched his rifle. He had to stay awake. He had to.

Shavna did not speak English, but Mary Jo sensed her sympathy, her worry, and she found herself responding to it.

The inside of the tepee surprised her. There was a strong odor, but everything was neat and clean. Buffalo robes were folded in a corner, and gaily decorated pottery and intricately woven baskets edged the circle of the elkskin that covered the frame. A baby gurgled happily as it lay in a hide cradleboard, elaborately and apparently lovingly decorated with laces and fringe and beads. Another child, no more than two, played happily with a small drum.

Shavna leaned over and touched her hair, as if it were something wondrous, and then smiled shyly again. She pointed to what appeared to be a doeskin dress she’d been beading. Mary Jo touched it, wondering at its color and softness. It was lovely, the skin exquisitely tanned and ornamented with beads. Shavna handed it to her and smiled.

Mary Jo, not knowing exactly what was expected, smiled back, her fingers touching the softness of the garment. Worry kept her from concentrating. Her mind was far away, riding with Wade. But her fear began to fade as the little boy toddled over to her, his fingers catching in her braid, as fascinated by her hair as his mother was.

He said something she didn’t understand, and his mother smiled with the kind of pride that all mothers knew. The boy was irresistible, his dark eyes glowing with curiosity and fascination as his small hands touched Mary Jo’s mouth and gave her a big baby grin.

Mary Jo had to smile back, her arms going around the child, and he cooed with pleasure and laughed. In minutes, she was teaching the boy a little game she used to play with Jeff, riding a horse to market, and taking pleasure in the shrills of delight that accompanied it.

Later, when the boy was sleeping, Shavna pushed the dress back in her lap, and Mary Jo then realized it was a gift. Already emotionally battered, she fought to hold back tears at the generous gesture. The woman had obviously worked on the garment for days, if not weeks, and Mary Jo had never felt quite as humbled.

Wade rode off with Manchez and eighteen other warriors who had volunteered to join the search. Even Tom Berry surprised everyone by accompanying them. Wade had tried to thank his brother-in-law, but they had never needed words between them, and Manchez had shrugged off his halting words. But Wade knew the possible cost of the search to Manchez and his people.

The Utes had been pushed farther and farther west and now lived on the western slope of the Colorado Rockies, having given up much of their land in the San Juans in a succession of treaties. They had done so under the leadership of Chief Ouray, who’d devoted his life trying to ensure that the Utes wouldn’t be forced on a reservation as other tribes had. He had signed treaty after treaty with the white man, each time seeing the treaty broken by greed. Now there were renewed calls to completely displace the Utes from the new state of Colorado.

Any incident, any at all, would strengthen the pressure for all Colorado Utes to be moved to the semiarid mountains of Utah, away from the rich grass of their centuries-old homeland.

Chief Ouray had been one of the few Indian leaders to see early on that the Indians could not win a war with the whites, that they had to find some way to satisfy the increasing lust for Indian land while keeping some for themselves. It had not always been easy to control the Ute warriors, who found their buffalo gone along with their grazing lands. But he had managed to keep the peace, except for a few isolated incidents.

Wade was keenly aware of the quiet, hopeless rage that often affected his friends. He had known he had to avenge the deaths of his wife and son, or Manchez would, and that would have meant disaster for his band, and possibly for the Ute nation.

And now they were risking a great deal for this white child, because he’d asked them. Although supposedly they had hunting rights in these mountains, the establishment of a summer camp went beyond the treaty. The Utes had taken care to keep far away from white settlements and new mines, but now they would be searching in areas where whites could be encountered, in the areas where Wade had killed three miners.

The Utes, though, could move like shadows. They’d always been hunters, had controlled these mountains for hundreds of years, and for years had fought the Arapahoes and Navahos. If anyone could find Jeff, it would be these men.

Manchez had asked only one thing when Wade had returned two days earlier. “The men who killed Chivita?”

“Dead,” Wade had replied, and Manchez had nodded in approval.

Wade had told him about the last miner, his own wounding, and the white woman and boy who had saved him.

“I owe them for my brother’s life, as I now owe my brother once again,” Manchez had said.

After several hours, the Utes separated into groups of two and three, to cover more ground and to better fade into the forests if they encountered miners or troops. Wade went with Manchez, heading down toward the main trail to Black Canyon. They spoke very little; Wade’s thoughts were focused on Mary Jo and Jeff. He couldn’t banish her from his mind; it amazed him that she had come to him for help, and not only, he knew, because she thought her son might be with him. He had seen the hope flare in her eyes when she’d first seen him, and he’d felt both pleased and unworthy. He’d also known gut-deep fear for the boy. He hadn’t realized until this morning how much he cared about Jeff, how much he cared about Jeff’s mother, how much he’d been trying to deny those feelings and how badly he was failing.

He only knew he couldn’t lose Jeff. He couldn’t stand another loss in his life. His gaze met Manchez’s, who watched him with compassion. “We find the boy,” he said.

Wade nodded. He only hoped it wouldn’t be too late. Night was only hours away and these forests were filled with killers, human and animal alike. He kept remembering Drew, his crumpled body, his cut throat, and he dug his heels into his horse.