Chapter Eighteen
The doorbell rang as the Van Schuyler family was getting up from the breakfast table.
Silas frowned. “Ye Gods! On a Sunday morning? Who would be calling at this hour?”
Evans put down the silver coffeepot. “I’ll see, sir.” “I’ll be in the library,” Silas said and took his coffee cup with him. “Join me, Summer?”
She shook her head, looking pale and wan. “The scent of your cigars make me ill. I was thinking of attending church, but I don’t feel well. I didn’t sleep much last night. Come along, children, maybe we’ll play hymns in the music room instead.”
Little Lance said, “When this is my house, I will go to the library and sit behind Grandfather’s desk.”
Silas grinned in spite of himself. The little rascal was a Van Schuyler, all right.
Angela’s pretty face turned ugly as she glared at the little boy. “This will never be your house, and when it’s mine, I will sit behind that big desk and run things.”
It really was too bad Angela wasn’t a boy, Silas thought; if she were, she could probably run his empire as well as Lance could. “Oh, stop the fussing! Go on to church or the music room, Angela, and take that damned cat with you. A man needs a little peace and quiet.”
His younger daughter looked as if she might argue, then picked up the black cat and followed Summer and the children out of the room.
Peace and quiet. If it hadn’t been for Summer’s children, now that Priscilla was dead, the house would have been so silent, it echoed. The solitude would be more than he could bear if she ever took her children and returned west. Silas didn’t even want to think about that.
Silas took his cup of coffee and went into the library and stared at the shelves of books and his desk. He probably should go to church; he hadn’t been since Easter, and it did make such a good impression for a businessman to be seen at services. Image was so important and so were good contacts, but the services bored him, and he wasn’t up to it today. He’d send a large contribution this month again instead.
Evans appeared in the doorway. “It was a messenger with a telegram for Miss Summer, sir. They don’t usually deliver on Sundays, but since you’re so prominent . . . well, here it is. I brought it right to you.”
“Good.” Silas took it, sat down at his massive walnut desk and leaned closer to the lamp as he read the message. Ye Gods, that savage was on his way here and had ended up in jail in some hick town in Missouri. It went on to explain that the telegram was being sent by a Miss Peterson, whom the half-breed had rescued and who had his valise where she had found this address.
Silas stared at the print. Iron Knife on his way here. What would happen if he got out of the Wartonville jail, showed up here and Summer found out Silas had destroyed all the messages both ways?
“Sir, do you want to send an answer?”
“Let me think about this, Evans.” He dismissed the butler, leaned back in his leather chair, sipped his coffee and reached into the humidor for a fine cigar as he reread the telegram and considered. What to do?
From the music room drifted the faint sound of the piano playing hymns. After a moment, the tempo changed, and Silas heard the high, sweet voices of Summer’s children struggling with the English words of “Beautiful Dreamer.” Summer had been working hard to teach them English at Silas’ urging. After all, he smiled to himself, if he were going to turn them into little civilized Van Schuylers, they had to be able to speak English before their proud grandfather could enroll them in some fine private school.
“. . . beautiful dreamer, wake unto me. . . .”
Stephen Foster. Silas snorted and sipped his coffee. Worthless minstrel show music. Thank God, the drunken composer had finally cut his own throat and died last year. Maybe the interest in his worthless trash would soon die, too, and young people would return to something more classical and worthwhile.
Silas clipped the tip off his cigar, listening to the music, staring at the telegram and thinking. He would not give up his grandchildren without a fight; at least, not the white two. They would be so much better off with him anyway. He read the message once more, then leaned over the lamp chimney, lit his fine cigar, and watched the tip glow as he inhaled the fragrant smoke. After a long moment, Silas held the corner of the message to the glowing tip of his cigar, smiling as it ignited. Holding the paper by the opposite corner, he stood, walked over to the empty fireplace, and tossed the flaming paper into the grate. He enjoyed his cigar as he watched the message burn.
Where in the hell was Wartonville? More importantly, who did Silas know in Missouri who owed him a favor? He needed someone with power. A name came to mind and he smiled. Oh, yes, a judge in St. Louis that he had done a favor for, part of that big, rich Griswold family. Quickly, he scribbled a message, rang for Evans, and handed it over to the man. “See that this goes out right away.”
The portly butler made a little bow. “I’ll see to it personally, sir.”
Good man, Evans. Silas smiled as the servant turned and left. Surely Judge Griswold could deal with a little matter in a nearby hick town. With any luck, that damned savage was about to disappear, whether dead, or into jail, never to be heard from again.
Serenity Peterson hardly slept all night for thinking about the incident of Billy Warton and the gallant stranger. What was she going to do if the deputy didn’t turn her rescuer loose? She hoped she didn’t have to find out. Serenity fixed breakfast for her frail mother, hardly hearing the querulous complaints anymore. Mother had never been the same since Father had finally died two years ago. In fact, his clothes were still hanging in the closet; Mother wouldn’t let her give them away. Sometimes it seemed Serenity had spent her whole life looking after sick, elderly parents with never a life of her own.
They finished breakfast and dressed for church. In a small town like Wartonville, everyone went to Sunday services, whether it was because there wasn’t much else to entertain respectable folks or they were all afraid they would get condemned and talked about by the local gossips if they didn’t show up. Serenity dreaded attending this morning. News traveled fast in a small town; a lot of people would have heard about last night, and there would be curious stares.
She had never felt as lonely as she did this morning when she and her mother walked slowly to church. It would be nice to own a buggy, but the millinery shop didn’t make that big a profit. When her mother finally died, Serenity dreamed of closing her shop and going farther west; yet she sometimes feared she would spend the rest of her drab life making hats for the prosperous matrons of this farming area.
As they settled themselves in their pew and picked up a hymnal, Serenity felt the bold stares of most of the congregation. She decided to ignore the unspoken questions. The church was hoping to build a larger, finer chapel, and of course, Hershel Warton was the biggest donor. The school needed land donated for a new building, and of course, the Wartons owned more land than anyone in the county. In spite of talk about right and wrong, Serenity might not be too popular in this town if she upset the status quo.
Billy and his mother took their places just as the first hymn began. The young rake looked a bit green, his face was swollen and bruised, and he seemed as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Perhaps he wondered if Serenity might stand up and denounce him before the whole congregation. Mrs. Warton was wearing the fine new hat she’d just bought from Serenity last week. Hershel Warton was nowhere in sight.
Serenity forced herself to focus her attention on her hymnal. After services, she would go to the jail herself and see if they had turned the prisoner loose. Other than that, she didn’t know what she was going to do.
Iron Knife awakened gradually, but he didn’t move. Every bone in his body seemed to ache. Where was he and what had happened? He wrinkled his brow, attempting to remember. There had been a woman in trouble, and Iron Knife had tried to help her. He looked at the early morning sun streaming through the tiny eastern window, throwing a pattern of bars across the dirty floor. Already the heat was soaring and the place reeked.
The train. He had missed his train. Even as he struggled and realized his hands were manacled, he heard men talking in the outer room.
“Don’t know why,” Jingles’ voice said, “but I got a telegram a few minutes ago from Judge Griswold in Saint Louie about that Injun.”
“Oh?” That older man’s voice from last night. “What’d he say?”
“He gave me instructions not to turn him loose; dangerous, he says.”
“Lots of dangerous felons loose. Why would a low-down half-breed be someone an important judge would bother to send a telegram about?”
“Who knows, Mr. Warton?” The other man’s spurs jingled as he crossed the floor. “Maybe it’s just as well that we follow the judge’s orders in case Serenity Peterson decides to talk.”
“Well, let’s do it; get him on his way before services are over. She might come by to see about him.”
Iron Knife closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. With leg chains and handcuffs, he didn’t stand a chance unless he took the pair by surprise. Through the barred window, the faint music of morning services drifted on the hot breeze. Spurs jangled as the pair came to the front of the cell. Iron Knife kept his eyes shut.
“Big devil, ain’t he? Looks kind of beat up, Jingles. What happened after I left last night?”
The tall deputy laughed cruelly. “I owed him something for messin’ up my face; figured after the marks he put on your son, you wouldn’t care.”
“Jingles, you may get to be a sheriff someday yet,” the older man said.
“I’m countin’ on it, sir.” His keys clattered as he opened the cell.
Iron Knife forced himself to lie still as the two entered. What were they going to do with him?
“Jingles, some of my men are waiting out back. We’ll throw him in a wagon under a tarp, do like Griswold said.”
What were they planning to do to him? Iron Knife lay coiled like a cat, ready to fight as they approached his bunk. As they hauled him to his feet, he came to life, fighting.
“What the hell—?” Jingles swore.
Even as Iron Knife slammed into Hershel Warton, he felt the deputy’s pistol crashing down across his skull and almost blinding pain.
As he fell, he caught the last faint words from the older man. “Wouldn’t you fight, too, to keep from being sent to a chain gang?”
The summer sun felt hot as Serenity walked her mother home after services, fixed her dinner and returned to the jail. The cells were empty. Jingles Johnson sat trimming his fingernails with a pocket knife behind the old desk.
“Mornin’, Miss Peterson.” He hopped up, made an exaggerated bow.
She nodded without speaking, knowing Jingles was sneering at her. “What happened to the man from last night?”
“Him? Why, Mr. Warton told me to turn him loose at dawn, so I did.”
Why did she wonder about that? After all, the cells were empty.
“So just like we discussed, Miss Peterson, you’re not gonna rock the boat now, are you?”
“I—I suppose not.” She turned and left, hating herself for her weakness, yet relieved that she didn’t have to make a moral decision that might cost her everything. She had done what she could do by sending that telegram; and after all, she had to live in this town. But that didn’t make her feel any better about keeping silent.
One last thought occurred to her as she walked through the dust of the hot afternoon toward her small house: why hadn’t the stranger come by to get his valise?
Water drenching him brought Iron Knife back to consciousness, coughing and choking. He came up fighting, heard the clank of chains, felt the irons bite into his ankles. He collapsed on the dirt as men laughed.
“Boy, he’s a tough one, ain’t he?”
“Don’t worry, fourteen hours a day, six days a week buildin’ roads in this hot sun will calm him down.”
Where was he? Cautiously, he let his eyes flicker open again and looked around. He lay among a bunch of other men on the bare ground near an oversized wagon that might be sleeping quarters. A short, big-bellied man in a uniform was just setting down the water bucket. Keys at his belt rattled as he poked Iron Knife roughly with a rifle barrel. “You finished with your beauty sleep?”
The other men guffawed and chains clattered. Like him, they wore leg irons, and some looked meaner than a pack of wolves. The chain ran through all the leg irons and was secured at the wagon. Convicts; they must be convicts.
“What—what day is it?”
The rough, ugly man chained next to him scratched his beard and yawned. There were lice in his beard, Iron Knife realized with distaste. His long arms looked like his hands would drag the ground if he stood up, even though he was a big brute of a man. “It’s Sunday afternoon; otherwise we’d be out on the road with picks and shovels.”
The guard laughed and spat on Iron Knife’s shoes. “That’s right; don’t never say our county judge’s construction company ain’t religious and kind to prisoners and that Farley don’t do his duty.”
Iron Knife must think, decide what to do. The summer sun beat down on the sweltering land, and sweat ran down his muscular body. He wanted a bath or a swim in a clear creek. He looked at the filthy men around him, the big brute with the lice in his beard. Was all this legal? This county judge must be powerful as well as corrupt.
“What’re you starin’ at, Injun?” The ugly brute scratched and glared at him. “You want trouble?”
Before he could answer, the guard prodded the bully with his rifle. “Easy, Tanner, you got that much energy to burn, use it on the road tomorrow.”
He had to get out of here. Iron Knife searched through his pockets. His money and train ticket were gone. He wondered about his luggage, remembered dropping it in the street after he’d hit the drunk pawing that woman last night. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, and they were torn and stained. “Look,” he said to the guard, “I don’t belong here; there’s been a mistake made.”
The men around him laughed, and the guard laughed so hard, the keys on his big belly jangled. “Yeah, and you must have made it, Injun! Judge Griswold told us to take especially good care of you.”
Maybe there had been a mistake; Iron Knife didn’t know anyone named Griswold. Maybe he was a friend of the rich man from last night. “I’ve got to get a message to someone.”
The guard yawned. “What’s in it for me?”
“I don’t have any money on me, but if you’ll contact a Todd Shaw in Denver, he’ll come or send money—”
“Yeah, and folks in hell want cold water, too.” The guard grinned. “Forget it, Injun; you ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He walked away.
“But I didn’t do anything, except get in a fist fight! I don’t belong here!”
Around him, the other chained men laughed and punched each other.
“I tell you I’m innocent!”
“Ain’t we all?” said Tanner, picking lice out of his beard, popping them between his fingernails. “That don’t make no nevermind. You upset someone very important, or they wouldn’t have sent you here to Fatso.”
“Who?”
“The guard, Farley; you know, the one with all the keys.” Tanner nodded toward the short, squat guard. “We don’t call him that to his face.”
This was only a bad dream. Any minute, he’d wake up on the train again. “I’ve got to get to Boston.”
Tanner frowned. He looked like the gorillas Iron Knife had once seen in a picture book. “You deaf, Injun? You ain’t goin’ nowhere; maybe never.”
Iron Knife stared at the big chains on his own ankles. His fine boots were gone, and he now wore a pair of cheap, badly fitting shoes. It dawned on him that with no money and no way to reach anyone outside this isolated place, he could spend years like this and Todd or Summer couldn’t find him, even if they tried. His head was still throbbing from the blows he’d suffered in Wartonville. He lay down and closed his eyes, thinking. He’d have to watch and wait; come up with a plan. Otherwise, he might never escape this hellhole!
They chained the prisoners inside the wagon that night and locked the door. It was just like a cage, Iron Knife thought, and there were too many animals. It was sweltering hot, crowded and miserable, men sleeping on the floor wherever they could find a spot with one thin blanket each. In their sleep, men sobbed and swore. Some turned over restlessly, groaned in their sleep or prayed. He barely slept, as wary as a big wolf of danger. No one bothered him—perhaps because of his size—but he had a feeling that in the darkness, the strong were preying on the weak, stealing from them, taking revenge for past wrongs.
He heard a man cry out, then beg for mercy. The moon came from behind a cloud, and Iron Knife saw the scene in silhouette, recognized Tanner, and realized with horror what he was doing to the younger, smaller man. Iron Knife reacted, grabbing the big man, dragging him off the other.
Tanner came up cursing and swinging his powerful arms. Chains rattled as they fought. Around them, men awakened and scrambled to get out of the combatants’ way as they struggled and rolled.
Iron Knife tasted blood as Tanner’s big fist caught him in the mouth. He grabbed the man’s leg chain, yanked him off his feet When Tanner hit the floor, the whole wagon shook, and he swore under his breath.
“What the hell’s going on, you lawless bastards?” a sleepy voice called out.
Immediately, there were lanterns and running feet, grumbling guards.
The prisoners around Iron Knife crouched against the floor and lay without moving.
“Now you’ve done it, Injun, we’ll have Fatso comin’,” Tanner snarled. “When you been here awhile, you learn to mind your own business!”
“You sorry—!” Iron Knife’s words were cut short as he heard the sound of jangling keys as the fat guard ran, then paused.
“You jailbirds got time to fight? I’ll see you get extra work tomorrow!” A bucket of water sloshed through the bars of the wagon, splashing them all. “I don’t give a damn what you do to each other, just keep quiet about it!”
No one inside moved or spoke, and maybe Fatso didn’t expect anything else. “It’s okay,” he called to the others, “no one out. Maybe just the usual; you know how long they been without women.” He laughed coarsely as he walked away.
“Injun,” Tanner whispered, “you’ll regret messin’ with Deek Tanner! I’m gonna get you sooner or later; I boss this bunch.”
“Not anymore,” Iron Knife said and lay down again with a sigh. Now not only was he in a hellhole, but he had made a dangerous enemy. Why did he always feel he had to come to the rescue of the weak and defenseless?
Tanner flopped back down. “I warn you, Injun, I’m a survivor and a lucky one, too. You’ll regret you tangled with me.”
“How long you been here?”
“More than four years,” Tanner said. “You won’t last that long if you play by the rules.”
“We’ll see.” Four years. Iron Knife cringed at the thought. He wasn’t sure he could stand four nights of this hell; much less four years. One thing was certain: he’d better not turn his back on Tanner.
The younger man had crawled over next to him. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“How long’s that been going on?”
“I—I—” his voice trembled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Iron Knife shuddered. “Stay close to me; you’ll be all right.”
The others settled back down, and Iron Knife could feel the tension ease a little throughout the wagon. Evidently Tanner had been running roughshod over all the prisoners, and now Iron Knife had challenged him. Sooner or later, he thought, he and Tanner would come to blows again. When he finally dropped off to sleep, he dreamed of Summer Sky running to meet him and him lifting her from the ground and carrying her while she kissed his face. The three children were scampering around their feet like playful puppies. Summer, oh, I love you so! Will I ever see you again? He was going to survive all right; he had to get to Boston!
Iron Knife’s head still throbbed painfully as he leaned on his shovel in the sweltering Monday morning heat. It seemed like a million years ago since he had gotten off the train in Wartonville Saturday night, attempted to rescue a woman, gotten thrown in the little jail and woke up somewhere out in the country with this chain gang yesterday.
“All right, Injun, get back to work!” The big-gutted guard jabbed him with the barrel of his rifle. “You can rest when you’re dead.”
Iron Knife’s hands clenched on the shovel handle, and he fought the urge to attack Farley with it. This was not the time or place to try to make his escape. He would have to make plans.
Grimly, he returned to shoveling along the road the other chained men were digging. The sun looked like molten brass in a dull blue sky, and he felt sweat running down his broad back under his soiled shirt. The iron cuff bit into his ankle, and the sweat made the raw skin sting. Leg chains clanked as the men worked without pause.
He glanced up and down the line, wondering what the other men’s stories were. Some were young, some were old. Some looked too innocent to be guilty of much of anything, except being at the wrong place at the wrong time. The only one who looked like a vicious convict was Deek Tanner.
Iron Knife licked his dry, cracked lips, and gazed longingly toward the water barrel. “What about some water?” he yelled at the guard.
Fatso glared at him, then grinned. “Thirsty, huh? You got anything to trade?”
“You know I haven’t; everything I had was stolen.”
He felt the tension among the other men. No one dared to stand up to this short, big-gutted man with all the keys on his belt.
The guard bore down on him, keys rattling, while the others watched. He was going to get a beating; Iron Knife could see the anticipation in Fatso’s small, piglike eyes.
Just then, another man in the line groaned and collapsed in a heap. That diverted the guard, who strode over and began to kick the downed man. “Get up, you lazy loafer! Get up!”
Despite the kicks, the man didn’t react at all. Iron Knife looked down at the man. “You’re wasting your time; he looks like he’s dead.”
The guard swore as if he’d been cheated. “Okay, Injun, drag him outta the road.”
Iron Knife waited while they unchained the dead man, lifted and carried him over under a tree, laid him down very gently, then stood looking at him. The man was thin and might once have been handsome. There was no telling whether he was young or old because of all he’d been through. Flies were now lighting on the dead man’s face.
“Okay, we ain’t got all day,” Fatso yelled. “Go back to work!” He gestured menacingly with his rifle.
Iron Knife looked from him to the dead man. “Are we just going to leave him here?”
Fatso yawned. “You can bury him on your own time after work tonight; otherwise, leave him to the crows.”
It didn’t seem right somehow, Iron Knife thought. He took off his shirt, spread it over the dead man’s face to keep the flies off him, then went back to his place. Even as he began to shovel again, his sinewy muscles rippling, he heard a murmur among the men and looked up. They were all staring at him.
The guard said, “So you’ve been in worse jails than this! Where’d they beat you like that?”
He had almost forgotten the whip scars on his back. “Texas.”
A scene flashed through Iron Knife’s mind of that long-ago time in a small Texas town. He had been only a half-grown boy when an army scout named Jake Dallinger had whipped him almost to death.
“And I thought this county was tough on cons.” Fatso guffawed. “What about those marks on your chest?”
These white men would never understand about the self-sacrifice of the Sun Dance. “Knife scars.”
“You’re a tough one, ain’t ya? Now get back to work.”
“What about the water?” Iron Knife demanded.
Again, he felt the tension as the other men paused. As cruel as this guard was, most of them would take their chances on dying from the sun rather than bring Fatso’s wrath down on them.
The guard walked over to the barrel, got himself a dipperful, sipped from it slowly and deliberately, then threw the rest of the dipperful on the ground. Every man’s gaze went to that muddy patch of dirt. “There’s your water, Injun.”
He must not lose his temper and attack the man; that was what Fatso was expecting, no, hoping for. It would give him a chance to beat or shoot a prisoner.
“You’ll lose some more men in this heat if they don’t get water,” Iron Knife pointed out. “You won’t get your road built.”
That seemed to give the guard pause. Obviously he didn’t give a damn about men, but he might have to answer to someone if the convicts didn’t finish the road on time. “All right”—he gestured with his gun—“everyone can have a drink.”
The men rushed the water barrel, Tanner clubbing the others away with his big fists. The guard seemed amused by the desperate struggle, and made no move to bring order to the chaos.
Iron Knife pushed forward. “Take turns,” he ordered, “otherwise, you’ll spill it all.”
Tanner glared at him. “Who made you boss?”
“No point in wasting the water,” Iron Knife said, and gestured to another man. “You handle the dipper, give each man some as they come by.”
Deek’s ugly face contorted in rage; then he seemed to decide this wasn’t the time or place for a showdown. “Me first!”
He grabbed the dipper from the man’s hand, gulped the water, and grinned with it running down his dirty, bearded face while the other men licked their lips and watched.
Next, the man held the dipper out to Iron Knife, but he shook his head. He had never been as thirsty as he was at this moment. Memories of his life as a dog soldier flashed before him. A novice riding on his first war party was always in charge of the water but the last to drink. There were rituals about eating and drinking for a brave warrior. Out on a war party, a brave must not eat or drink that first day until after sundown to show his strength of character and his body. He had learned that honor was more important than thirst. “See the others get a drink,” he said softly.
The others lined up orderly now, nodding their thanks. Iron Knife could feel Tanner and the guard watching him.
“All right”—Fatso scratched his big belly—“don’t take all day about it; we’ve got a road to build!”
Finally, the last of the men had had a sip of water, and Iron Knife urged the man who held the dipper to take a drink. He himself was the very last to dip into the barrel. The water was warm from the sun’s heat and tasted a little muddy, but he drank it. In his mind, he saw Summer laughing as she held her small hands under the icy cold water of a mountain spring and he drank from her dainty palm, then kissed her fingertips and embraced her. Her lips were as warm as her fingertips were cold. . . .
“Everybody back to work!” The guard nudged him with his rifle.
Images of Summer Sky faded, and Iron Knife sighed as he returned to the dusty roadway. What was he going to do? He had no money, no way to reach anyone. Even if Todd Shaw or Summer were looking for him, they wouldn’t know where to search. By now, that train he had ridden was probably in Boston. He didn’t even want to think about that. Todd would assume Iron Knife had arrived. As a matter of fact, Iron Knife wasn’t sure exactly where he was, except somewhere in Missouri. He wasn’t even certain which way it was to the nearest town or the closest railroad track.
Finally at noon, another guard down the line blew a whistle, and the men stacked their tools and sat down in the shade of a tree to have some stale bread and a cup of bad coffee. It didn’t seem like enough food, Iron Knife thought, knowing now why the dead man had been so thin. Tanner was sitting close to him, staring at him. “I was raised by Injuns; I know how you think.”
“So?”
Tanner lowered his voice. “You plannin’ on escapin’, I reckon.”
Iron Knife shrugged. “Isn’t everyone?”
“Naw!” He made a face. “Some of ’em will plug along like tame mules like that one this mornin’ until they collapse and die in the road.”
Iron Knife said, “Are chain gangs legal in Missouri?”
Tanner laughed and combed a louse out of his beard with his dirty hands, cracked it between his nails. “I don’t know; but this is Judge Griswold’s county, and he has an interest in this construction project. He pretty much runs things as he sees fit.”
“I haven’t done anything to attract this judge’s notice and I never got a trial,” Iron Knife said.
Deek snorted. “So what? I got a trial and you see what it got me? I’ve been in almost four years; they gave me life.”
Life. The thought sent a chill down Iron Knife’s back. He saw himself laboring in summer’s heat and winter’s cold forever. Even four weeks seemed like more than any human could endure.
His eyes must have betrayed that feeling because Tanner grinned. “Deek Tanner’s a survivor, Injun, and you’ll learn to be one, too, or end up dead as that poor bastard out under that tree.” He nodded toward the dead man lying under Iron Knife’s shirt in the distance. “I reckon I’m lucky at that; I was supposed to be the scout on that wagon train that became such a disaster.”
Iron Knife thought a minute. “You mean the Donner party where the people got stranded in a blizzard and ate their dead to survive?”
“There was a worse one than that,” Tanner said, “it just didn’t get much notice. Like I said, I’m a survivor. Sooner or later, I’ll escape from here.”
The guard walked past just then, keys jingling on his fat belly. “You two, back to work.”
This must be what hell was like, Iron Knife thought dully as he returned to his shovel, laboring in a red-hot sun from daylight until dark on a few mouthfuls of food. Tanner looked to be in fairly good shape; he must be stealing the other men’s bread. There was no telling what lengths the ruthless convict would go to to live.
Iron Knife shoveled and thought about escape. Tanner seemed as cunning as a coyote, and yet he hadn’t managed to escape in four long years. The horrible thought occurred to him that he could labor on this prison work force for four months, four years or forever and maybe Todd or Summer would never know what had happened to him.
Deek Tanner was right: somehow, Iron Knife was going to have to be a survivor—think and plan. He leaned over to the boy working next to him. “What did Tanner do to get here?”
“Murder, I hear. He was raised by Injuns: Blackfoot.”
Blackfoot. A formidable enemy of the Cheyenne, cunning and dangerous. Yes, Tanner would be a survivor, all right; he’d have to be if he’d been raised by that hostile tribe.
Iron Knife labored and felt the sweat run down his naked, scarred back. He intended to be a survivor, too, so he could finish his journey to Boston. Nothing mattered to him so much as holding his beloved Summer Sky in his arms once more.