PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

November 1910
Montana

 

The nine A.M. Great Northern train out of St. Regis rarely pulled away from the station before a quarter to ten. That gave Deputy U.S. Marshal Blake O’Shannon a little over an hour to make the trip that normally took twenty minutes. But normally, he didn’t have to plow through stirrup-deep snow.

O’Shannon urged his stout leopard Appaloosa forward, into the bone-numbing cold. A fierce wind burned the exposed areas of his face above his wool scarf. Important news weighed heavy on his shoulders and pressed him into the saddle. He groaned within himself and prayed the train would be late in leaving—not so much of a stretch as far as prayers went, considering the rank weather.

Driving snow lent teeth to the air and gave the sky the gunmetal face of a stone-cold killer. The young deputy stretched his aching leg in the stirrup. He’d only been able to walk without a crutch for a few weeks. If not for the message he carried, a message his father needed to hear, he never would have attempted a ride in such frigid conditions.

“What’s a hot-blooded Apache like you doin’ up here in all this white stuff?” he mumbled. A bitter wind tore the words away from his lips. He often talked to himself on lone rides, letting the three aspects of his heritage argue over whatever problem he happened to be chewing on at the time.

His gelding trudged doggedly on, but cocked a speckled ear back at the one-sided conversation.

Blake pulled his sheepskin coat tighter around his throat. “Better not let your Nez Percé mama hear you talk like that about her precious mountains,” he chided himself. White vapor plumed out around his face as he spoke. He wished he’d inherited his mother’s love—or at least her tolerance—for the cold.

A weak sun made a feeble attempt at burning through the clouds over the mountains to the east, but the gathering light only added to the sense of urgency welling up inside Blake’s gut. He had a train to catch.

He came upon the stranded wagon suddenly in a blinding sliver swirl of snow at the edge of a mountain shadow.

The driver, a sour man named Edward Cooksey, worked with a broken shovel to free the front wheel from a drift as deep as his waist. A flea-bitten gray slouched in the traces with a drooping lower lip. The horse was almost invisible amid the ghostlike curtains of blowing snow.

Blake reined up and sighed. St. Regis was less than a mile away to the west. He took a gold watch from his pocket and fumbled with a gloved had to open it. He was cutting it close.

Cooksey had a half-dozen arrests under his belt for being drunk and disorderly. Each time he’d gone in only after an all-out kicking and gouging fight.

Blake didn’t have time for this. Still, he couldn’t very well ride by and leave someone to freeze to death—not even someone as ill-tempered as Ed Cooksey.

The deputy cleared his throat with a cough. “Hitch up my horse alongside yours and we’ll pull you outta that mess.” Wind moaned through snow-bent jack pines along the road and Blake strained to be heard.

Cooksey had a moth-eaten red scarf tied over his head that pulled the brim of his torn hat down over his ears against the cold. He wore two tattered coats that together did only a slightly passable job of keeping out the winter air. Stubby, chapped fingers poked out of frayed holes in his homespun woolen gloves. The man was no wealthier than he was pleasant.

“Damned horse bowed a tendon on me. She ain’t worth a bucket of frozen spit for pullin’ anyhow,” he grunted against the wheel. When he looked up from his labor, his craggy face fell into a foul grimace as if he’d just eaten a piece of rotten fruit. “Push on,” he spit.

“You don’t want my help?” Blake was relieved but not surprised.

Cooksey leaned against the wheel and wiped a drip of moisture off the red end of his swollen nose. He brandished the broken shovel. “I’d rather drown, freeze plumb to death, or be poked with Lucifer’s own scaldin’ fork than to take assistance from a red nigger Injun—’specially one who’s high-toned enough to pin on a lawman’s badge.”

Blake caught the sent of whiskey, sharp as shattered glass on the frigid air.

“Suit yourself then.” He lifted his reins to go.

“Twenty years ago, boy,” Cooksey snarled, “you and me woulda been tryin’ to cut each other’s guts out.”

“Twenty years ago, I was four years old.”

Cooksey gave a cruel grin. “I reckon that woulda just made my job all the easier.”

The Appaloosa pawed impatiently at the snow with a forefoot, feeling Blake’s agitation through his gloves and the thick leather reins.

“I doubt that,” the deputy said.

“I tell you what.” Cooksey sucked on his top lip, an easy chore since there were no teeth there to get in the way. “I don’t need any of your help, but I will take that horse off your hands.”

“I said I’d be glad to hitch up the horse and pull you out.”

“I don’t want you to hitch the damned thing up.” Cooksey’s gloved hand came out of his coat pocket, wrapped around an ugly black derringer. “I want you to get your red nigger tail out of that saddle and let me ride back into town.”

Like most derringers, Cooksey’s hideout pistol was a large caliber, capable of doing tremendous damage in the unlikely event it happened to hit anything. Blake was less than ten feet away. At that distance, even the bleary-eyed drunk might get lucky.

“Think again, Cooksey.” Blake gritted his teeth, racking his brain for a way out of this predicament. “You’re not getting my horse.” He’d had enough sense to strap his Remington pistol outside the heavy winter coat, but wearing gloves and sitting in the saddle made him awkward at best. Cooksey definitely had the advantage.

“Hell, you probably stole it from some honest white man anyhow,” Cooksey sneered. “To my way of thinkin’, that makes it more mine than it is yours.”

A fat raven perched in the shadows of a ponderosa pine directly behind the gunman, hopped to a lower limb, and sent a silent cascade of snow though the dark branches. The bird turned a round eye toward the two men.

Blake’s Nez Percé mother said the raven was a trickster. She’d often told him the story of how one had saved her life. He began to work out an idea that would have made her proud.

“Brother Raven,” he said, in his best how-the-white-man-thinks-all-Indians-talk voice. “I am glad you could come visit on this cold day.”

Cooksey’s eyes narrowed. He raised the derringer higher. “What in the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Blake pressed on, keeping his voice relaxed. “I need a favor, my brother. Would you fly over here and tell Ed Cooksey he cannot have my horse?” Blake gave a tired shrug for effect. “I already told him, but he doesn’t believe me. It would help me a lot if you would make him understand.”

“Shut up and clamber down off that horse before I blow you outta the saddle.”

The raven winged its way over to the tree directly behind Cooksey. Wind whooshed off its great wings, and it began to make a series of loud gurgling noises like water dripping into a full bucket.

The would-be gunman’s bloodshot eyes went wide. When he snapped his head around to look, Blake put the spurs to his Appaloosa and ran smack over the top of him.

Cooksey let out a muffled screech and fell back to disappear in the deep snow. The derringer fired once, echoing through the snow-clad evergreens. Blake was off the horse with his hand around the gun in less than a heartbeat.

O’Shannon was a powerful man, tall and well muscled. Even with his healing leg, he had no trouble with the half-frozen drunk. Three swift kicks to the ribs loosened Cooksey’s grip on the little pistol and diminished his appetite for a fight.

Blake snatched up the derringer and took a step back, plowing snow as he went. Snapping the pug barrels forward, he tugged the spent casing and the remaining live round into the snow. He flung the empty pistol as far as he could into the tree line. His hat had come off in the fight. A silver line of frost had already formed along his short black hair. He bent to pick the hat up, panting softly.

“You can come back and look for that in the spring,” the deputy said. Huge clouds of fog erupted into the cold air as he spoke. “Wish I had time to arrest you, but I figure you’ll give me all kinds of opportunity later. You’re too mean-hearted to do everybody a favor and freeze to death.”

Cooksey moaned and tried to push himself up on an unsteady arm. He held the other hand to his chest. “You broke my ribs. . . .” His breath came in ragged gasps. “You redskin bastard.”

“Better’n you had planned for me.” O’Shannon caught his Appy and climbed back into the saddle, sweating from the exertion in all his heavy clothes. He winced at the pain in his injured leg. “I gotta move on.” He shook his head and grinned. “I can’t believe you fell for that Indian-who-talks-to-the-raven trick.”

Wheeling his horse in a complete circle, he looked down at the sullen man who still lay heaving and helpless in a trampled depression in the snow. “My mother’s the only one I know who can talk to ravens.”

Blake turned into the wind again and urged the horse into a shuffling trot through the deep snow. He wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and Edward Cooksey. Twenty yards up the trail he passed the raven, who’d taken up a perch in another pine after the shot. The huge bird fluffed black feathers against the chill. Its head turned slowly and an ebony eye followed the horse as they rode by.

“Many thanks, my brother.” The young deputy winked and tipped his hat. “I owe you one.”

* * *

It was a quarter to ten when Blake O’Shannon finally pushed into the outskirts of St. Regis. The wind had let up, but snow fell in huge, popcorn-sized clumps.

The train, and his parents along with it, was gone, shallow furrows in the snow the only sign it was ever there.

He slumped in the saddle, the news he bore for his father still heavy on his mind.

“Pulled out on time for once,” a man with narrow shoulders and mussed gray hair said from a green wooden bench along the depot platform. He’d pushed the snow to one side to give himself room to sit and it formed a white armrest alongside his elbow. A light woolen shirt was all that separated him from the cold. Frost ringed his silver mustache and Van Dyke beard. “All the lines are down so I can’t get word to Coeur d’ Alene or Spokane to stop ’em.” He wrung his hands and shook his head slowly as he spoke. “I assume you’re looking for the train.”

Blake grunted and slid down from his horse to work the kinks out of his sore leg. The snow came well over his boot tops. “Yessir, I was hopin’ to get here before it left.” He gazed down the deserted track and added under his breath: “Pa, I guess your news will have to keep.”

“You have loved ones aboard?” The way the man said it caused Blake to go hollow inside.

“Both my parents. Why do you ask?”

“I tried to get here myself, you know,” the man moaned in a brittle voice. “I’d have made it if that Bjornstead woman hadn’t decided to have her baby at dawn. I have so many patients, you see. Especially since the fires.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I am. Dr. Holier.” The man suddenly stiffened and looked straight at Blake. “It’s a providence you happened along when you did, son.”

Blake shook his head. “And just why is that?” He realized he was squeezing the reins tight enough to cut off the circulation in his hand.

“Four cases this morning—miners at a camp east of town.” The doctor groaned. “I’m ashamed at being so late . . . afraid one has made it on board . . .” He looked wide-eyed at Blake, as if struck by a sudden revelation. “It’s imperative that you stop that train.”

“Cases? Stop the train?” Blake dropped the Appaloosa’s reins. All this talking in circles made his head ache. “Get to the point, man. What are you talking about?”

The doctor bit the silver whiskers on a trembling bottom lip.

“Pox,” he said.

CHAPTER 2

Birdie Baker had a nose for things that were out of place. It was a hooked nose, perched on a wedgelike face, perfectly suited to horn in on other people’s business. Born with a keen sense of order, she took it upon herself to set things right when she observed them to be otherwise—liquor where there should be temperance, wanton women where there should be fidelity, and most of all, Indians where there should be only God-fearing white people.

No one, least of all Birdie, knew the exact reason she hated Indians with such a passion. But hate them she did, and she made it one of her many missions in life to be certain the hotels, restaurants, and trains in western Montana were properly segregated.

Her husband, Leo, shared her feelings if not her zeal and generally backed her up—in a sullen, simmering sort of way. Birdie swung her husband’s title like an ax, as if he was a general or Japanese warlord instead of the postmaster of Dillon, Montana.

Where she was tall with big hands and sharp, accusing eyes, Leo was more of a thick-necked stump. His wire-rimmed spectacles looked absurdly small on his wide face. Deep furrows creased his forehead and frown lines decorated the corners of his nose and down-turned mouth. People often wondered if it was the constant squint through the tiny glasses or the day-to-day burden of living with Birdie that gave Leo his permanent scowl. Those who were familiar with the family knew his eyesight wasn’t all that bad.

Birdie stood on the wide train platform and sniffed the cold air around her, testing it for nearby improprieties. She stomped snow from her highly polished boots and stared down at the balding top of her husband’s head.

“Leo,” she barked. “What have you done with your hat?” He was taking her to a postmasters’ convention in Phoenix. The last thing she needed was for him to take ill and muck up all her vacation plans.

He tugged at a cart piled high with her luggage and his single leather valise. A chilly wind blew back his wool topcoat and revealed a short-barreled pistol with pearl bird’s-head grips in a leather shoulder holster. He looked up at his wife and shrugged off her comment with a scowl.

Birdie was not one to be ignored. “Leo Baker! Your hat?”

“The damned thing blew off while I had my hands full with your blasted steamer trunks,” he grunted. “You know, woman, this is a three-week trip, not an expedition to the Fertile Crescent. I see no reason to bring along your entire wardrobe.”

“Get the bags on board and meet me in the dining car,” Birdie said in her usual imperious manner. The porter standing beside Leo blinked his eyes at every word as if he were facing into a strong wind.

“I, for one, am hungry,” Birdie blew on. “I want to make certain the railroad carries the things I eat before we pull out of the station.”

Leo grunted around his scowl and passed the luggage up to the waiting attendant. “Wyoming has ruined it for us all,” Leo muttered. “We’ll be damned fools if the rest of us give women the vote.”

Birdie watched for a moment before she stepped onto the train. The porter was a young black man, a bit on the scrawny side for handling such heavy bags, to Birdie’s way of thinking. She supposed riding on a train with a Negro was acceptable, so long as he was one of the servants.

* * *

Looking after a body—even the body of a friend—was enough to give Trap O’Shannon a case of the jumps. Though he’d sent a fair number of people to meet their Maker in the course of his forty-eight years, he’d never been one to hover too long near the dead. But Hezekiah Roman had been not only his commander; he’d been his friend—and Trap had never had more friends than he had fingers on his gun hand. If Captain Roman wished to be buried in Arizona, then that’s the way it would be. Even if it did mean days on board the same train as a corpse.

O’Shannon pulled the collar of his mackinaw up close around his neck and blew a cloud of white vapor out in front of him. Ice crystals formed on the brim of his black felt hat. His ears burned from the cold and he could hardly feel his feet. He kept both hands thrust inside the folds of the heavy wool coat. Leaning toward gaunt, he had very little fat to keep him warm.

A dull blue light spilled across the muted landscape. Up and down the tracks the snow was peppered with a wide swath of black cinders belched from the coal-fired steam engine.

O’Shannon’s Nez Percé wife, Maggie, stood beside him on the cramped walkway that linked the dining car and the passenger compartments of the train. She wore only a thin pair of doeskin gloves and a light suede jacket with beadwork on the breast and sleeves she’d done herself. Her long hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, kept together with a colorful, porcupine-quill comb her cousin from Lapwai had given her. The cold air pinked her full cheeks. Moisture glistened in dark brown eyes. She was virtually unaffected by the chill, and even appeared to thrive in it.

“Thought Blake might come see us off back in St. Regis.” Her voice was husky-despondent.

Trap crossed his arms over his chest and stomped his feet to get some feeling back. “You know how it is in the lawman business. He was likely busy with some outlaw or another.”

Maggie looked up at her husband and touched his cheek with a gloved hand. She never had been the brooding type. When she got sad, she got over it quickly, wasting no time fretting over things out of her control. “You about ready to go inside?” she said. “You got an icicle hangin’ off your chin.”

“Don’t know why.” O’Shannon’s teeth chattered. “It’s only fifteen degrees. Hardly what a body c-could call c-cold.”

The smiling Indian woman let her finger slide to the tip of her husband’s nose. “Let’s go in.” She winked. Her black coffee eyes held more than a hint of mischief. “I’ll scoot up real close. That’ll warm your bones.”

Trap let her herd him through the narrow accordion entryway. The pink flesh on his hands and arms was still tender and tight from the devastating fires only months before. Maggie hadn’t fared much better. She’d singed almost a foot off the waist-length hair she was so proud of, and the right side of her face still looked like it had a bad sunburn.

She’d stayed so close to him in the weeks after his return from the fires that for a time, Trap thought their healing bodies might grow together and become one person.

He didn’t complain.

The warm air of the dining car hit Trap full in the face. The aroma of hot coffee and bread tugged him toward a table just inside the door. Maggie chuckled behind him, low in her belly, and leaned against his shoulder blades with her head, pushing him to the chairs. He helped her with her coat, and then took off his own before he sat across from her.

“You don’t want to sit beside me?” Maggie raised an eyebrow and pretended to pout.

“I want to look at you for a while when my eyeballs thaw out.” He also wanted to keep his eyes on the far door.

A big-boned woman two tables away was the only other occupant in the car. Given a bronze breast plate and a horned helmet, she could have passed for an opera singer. Trap attempted a smile, but she eyed him malignantly over a hooked nose. He reckoned her to be in her fifties—a few years older than him maybe—but she had so many frown lines around her deep-set eyes, it was difficult to tell for certain.

Maggie peeled off her gloves and laid them on the table, taking Trap’s hands in hers. Her face was passive. “She’s looking at me, isn’t she?”

Trap nodded. “Giving us both the once-over like we might have the plague. People like her have a way of getting my blood up.”

“Don’t let her bother you, husband. I’m fine, no matter what she does. The important thing is for us to get Hezekiah back to Irene. It’s only right he should be buried where she can visit him from time to time. I would want to visit you.”

O’Shannon sighed. It was just like his wife to think about others when someone was about to impugn her heritage. They traveled little and this was the reason.

Maggie rubbed his hands gently between her palms to warm them. “I’m a tough, old bird, husband. She can’t say anything I haven’t heard before.”

Trap grunted. The fact Maggie had touched him in public seemed to send the woman into a purple rage. “She’s about to bust her brain trying to get a handle on me,” he said. “Probably sniff out an Indian from a mile away. Wonder if she’ll be able to figure out I’m half of that wild breed of Apache who would have had her guts for garters just a decade or two ago.”

Maggie gave the relaxed belly laugh that made him love her so much. “Garters?”

Trap rolled his eyes. “It’s something Madsen always says.”

“Where did he run off to?” Maggie toyed with the leather medicine bag around her neck. “I saw him talking to a handsome woman before we boarded. Surprising to see him flirt with someone his own age.”

The train began to speed up, slowly at first, the car rocking enough to sway the draping edges on the white table-cloths.

“I’m sure he’s back getting her settled in her compartment,” Trap said. “Her name’s Hanna something or another—a schoolteacher, I think he said. He’s been seein’ her for a few weeks now. Says they’re really hitting it off.”

“Every female I ever met hits it off with Clay Madsen,” Maggie said, winking.

A waiter wearing a white waistcoat with a red rag sticking out of the front pocket of his black trousers came through the door nearest Trap and started for the O’Shannons’ table. He was a young man with a wispy blond mustache and a matching attempt at side-whiskers.

The frowning woman cleared her throat and glared. “I believe I was here first,” she hissed.

The young man shot a caged glance at the woman, then looked sheepishly at the O’Shannons. “I’ll be right with you folks,” he said, smiling. “Won’t be a moment, I’m . . .”

“Did I mention I was seated before that little man and his squaw?”

Trap flinched at the cutting tone in the woman’s voice. Calling his sweet wife a squaw would have earned another man a sound thrashing. Maggie released a quiet sigh, but held him in his seat with her eyes.

He wouldn’t be able to put up with this sort of behavior all the way to Arizona.

“Can I help you then, ma’am?” The waiter stood back from the table a few feet as if the woman might strike if he got too close. “Would you like some coffee—or maybe some spice cake? Gerta, that’s our cook—she makes excellent spice cake.”

The woman shook her head. “I don’t want any spice cake. My name is Birdie Baker. My husband is Leo Baker, the postmaster of Dillon, Montana.” She waited as if the waiter might bow or otherwise yield to the influential status of her name.

“What can I do for you then, Mrs. Baker?”

Birdie lowered her husky voice, but kept it loud enough that the O’Shannons could hear every word. “Tell me your name, young man.”

“Sidney, Mrs. B-Baker.” He began to stammer. “If you’d like to order, then I’d be g-glad to . . .”

“Well, Sidney,” she said, cutting him off and folding her hands as if she were passing sentence. “Here’s what you may do for me. You may make certain that I have a decent place in which to eat my breakfast.”

Sidney looked up and down the dining car and then at the table where Birdie sat. “I swear, ma’am, this is the most decent dining car we have on the train.”

“The car is just fine, young man,” she said with an acid tone. “I’m speaking of the company.” Birdie jerked her big head toward the O’Shannons. “You run along and fetch the conductor for me. There are laws of common decency, you know. Honestly, does the railroad expect me to have an appetite while practically sitting at the same table with this Indian slut?”

Trap crashed his hand flat against the table. The slap was loud enough to make poor Sidney jerk. The boy swayed on his feet in fright.

Maggie might be tough, but that wasn’t the point. Trap was her husband, and though she was capable enough on her own, no one was going to get by with this sort of behavior—not even the postmaster’s wife from Dillon, Montana.

CHAPTER 3

“What do you mean, pox?” Blake eyed the doctor. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Holier sighed, stroking his gray beard. “I apologize, young man. I suppose I am rambling. Can’t remember the last time I slept.”

Blake kicked a drift of snow off the peeling wood on the platform and rested his foot there. It took some strain off his aching thigh. “You say someone with smallpox ended up on this train?” He pointed down the empty tracks.

“It does appear that way.” Holier shrugged. “His three friends have already broken out into sores. That’s why you have to stop the train. Smallpox carries a hell of a lot of pain with it once the sores come. Double you over like an ax in the belly. Usually puts a body in bed straightaway. But if this fellow’s able to move around by train, he could infect countless people who get on and off before anyone figures out what’s going on. This could be the beginning of an epidemic.”

The gravity of the situation hit Blake like a cold slap. As far as he knew, neither his mother or father had ever been exposed to full-blown smallpox. Many people in the West had had it in one form or another, but there were just as many who hadn’t. One thing he knew for sure—when an Indian was exposed, the outcome was usually a horrific death.

“And the lines are down?” Blake looked up at the gray sky. It still sifted a steady powder of snow.

“Completely cut off, that’s what we are,” Holier said.

Blake climbed back into the saddle and tugged his hat down against the wind. “If anyone is able to get the lines repaired, get word to Coeur d’Alene to stop them. Use the Army out of Spokane if they have to, but keep everyone on board that train. I’ll ride until I can either catch them or find a place to send the same message.”

Blake tipped his head to the grim-faced doctor and spurred his Appaloosa into the snow. The news he carried for his father still weighed heavy on his mind.

CHAPTER 4

Raucous laughter erupted from outside and the door behind Trap swung open with a gust of cold air. Clay Madsen had his silver-belly hat thrown back in his normally rakish manner. He gestured high over his head with both hands and lowered his voice to finish his bawdy story as he came into the dining car behind the conductor.

Cold and laughter pinked both men’s cheeks. Madsen smoothed the corners of his thick, chocolate mustache and wiped his eyes. Tears rolled down the conductor’s round face.

“No need to stand on my account.” Madsen nodded at Trap when he came up alongside the table. The big man’s presence calmed O’Shannon, but not much.

Birdie Baker piped up like a pestered wren when she spied the conductor. His smiling face fell at once.

“I am so glad you arrived when you did,” she keened.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Baker?” The conductor motioned an addled Sidney back to the cook car with a flick of his thick fingers.

“I assume there are two dining cars on board this train.”

The conductor nodded. “That’s right, one to the fore of the cook car and one behind it.”

“Would not the Jim Crow dining car be up front?” Baker folded her arms across her chest, barely containing her huff.

It was the custom of the railroad to put higher-class patrons in the cars further away from the ash and smoke of the engine. The dining car behind the cook car was usually considered preferable and reserved for the upper crust. Negroes, Indians, and other “undesirables” were supposed to use the forward car.

“I reckon it would, ma’am,” the conductor said. “But the windows are busted out on the forward cars on account of an avalanche last week. There’s no one riding up there on this trip.”

“The railroad’s broken windows are none of my concern. I have the right to take my breakfast without the presence of a filthy red savage nearby.”

O’Shannon fought back the urge to stomp across the car and keep stomping. He seethed inside, but beating on women, even rude ones, gave him pause.

Clay let out a deep breath and shot a sideways wink at Trap. The big cowboy took off his hat and moved up next to the conductor.

“I see your predicament, dear lady,” he said, giving a slight bow. “To tell you the truth, I was a mite surprised to see these folks here as well.”

The conductor’s mouth fell open.

“At last, a man who understands the laws of common decency,” Birdie sighed.

“Perhaps I can be of service to you somehow in this”—Madsen shot a glance over his shoulder at Trap, who remained standing with clenched fists—“delicate matter.”

“I’d be grateful for any assistance you could offer, sir,” Birdie said, turning her hooked beak up at the conductor. “The railroad appears to have its priorities askew.”

Clay nodded. His deep voice was soft and honey-sweet. “Here’s what I propose. If the company in this particular dining car upsets your tender digestion, may I suggest you take your fat caboose back to your own compartment and have your meals delivered—or better yet, skip a meal or two entirely? Looks like it might do you some good.”

He smiled to let the words sink in and twirled the handlebars of his dark mustache. “If you continue to speak rudely to my friends, I’ll be compelled to pitch your broad ass off this train.” He turned again and tipped his hat toward the O’Shannons. “Forgive the language, Maggie darlin’, but I fear this woman will only respond to the harshest words.”

Birdie blustered and looked to the conductor for help. He offered none.

“Well,” she harrumphed. “Never in my life have I been subjected to this sort of . . .”

Clay cut her off. “Ma’am.” He shook his head. “I believe we’re done. I’m about to buy my friends breakfast. If you aim to perch here any longer, you best keep your pie hole shut.”

“I must advise you that my husband is the postmaster of Dillon, Montana, and you, sir, shall hear from him on this matter.” Birdie pushed her chair back and strode for the doorway.

“The postmaster, huh?” Clay shrugged. “Well, that’s damned lucky. If he talks like you, I’ll give him the whippin’ he deserves, put a stamp on his ass, and mail him straight back to Dillon, Montana. I find it’s a hell of a lot easier to deal with rude menfolk.”

Clay sat down next to Maggie and tipped back his hat to reveal a forelock of dark hair.

A blond woman in a red shawl and with a matching smile on full lips came in as a fuming Birdie Baker left the swaying dining car. Her tea-green eyes fell straight on Clay and the smile became more animated. She was tall and lean with a strong jaw. Flaxen hair hung in loose curls at her broad shoulders, and a healthy crop of freckles splashed across the bridge of a button nose.

“I’ d have been here sooner but there’s a man in the next car looks like he’s about to throw up on somebody. I was afraid to pass him until he sat down.” She was in her early forties—just a few years younger than Clay and vibrant enough to make the air around her buzz. Clay and Trap both stood.

“This man, what did he look like?” The conductor shot a worried glance at the door. “I’ve had two reports about him already.”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. My age, maybe—a little taller than me, stoop-shouldered. Hard to get a good look at his face because he was so downcast. Look for the man who’s green around the gills. That’s him.”

“Likely the postmaster of Dillon, Montana, drinking away his troubles at being married to such a”—Clay looked at both the ladies and changed his tack—“awful woman.”

The conductor tipped his pillbox cap and strode off in search of his troublesome passenger.

“Have I missed something?” asked the blond woman. “The tension is thick enough in here to cut. Clay dear, did you just tell one of your rough-hewn stories?”

Clay took off his hat and gave the grinning woman a kiss on the cheek. “Nothing that exciting. That gal with her snoot up in the air is just going to get her husband to come back and have a go at kicking my tail. ” He turned to the O’Shannons. “Maggie, Trap, I’d like to introduce you to Hanna Cobb, a schoolteacher who finds herself in between appointments. She has a grown daughter in Phoenix, so I convinced her to accompany us on our little journey with the captain.”

Trap took off his hat and smiled. It seemed that Clay Madsen could convince just about any woman of just about anything. Maggie reached across the table and offered her hand. “Won’t you join us?”

Hanna took the seat next to Trap. “Sounds like you were all having another one of your adventures before I came in.”

Clay scoffed. “I wouldn’t call it much of an adventure. More like a case of prickly heat.”

“Mr. Madsen has told me so much about the two of you,” Hanna went on. “In fact, that’s one of the reasons I looked forward to coming on this trip, to get to know the both of you better. He said the three of you, along with your poor departed Captain Roman, have quite a history together. Besides . . .” She looked at Maggie with a hint of mischief budding on her full lips. “Mr. Madsen informs me he is a widower many times over. I understand he has the reputation of being quite a scamp between marriages. Perhaps you could speak with me, woman to woman, a little later on that particular matter.”

Clay raised a beefy hand. “You may ask Maggie anything you want about me, my dear Mrs. Cobb. I admit that I have been a rounder in my time, and may very well continue to be one. But I am honest about it. And if I may say one thing in my own defense, I never once jumped the fence while I was married.”

Hanna grinned. “Ah, you never jumped the fence, but from what I hear, you were a bull that was all too happy to play with every heifer in the herd when the Good Lord opened the gate between engagements.”

Trap had to hand it to this Mrs. Cobb. It looked like Madsen had finally met his match.

Clay took her hand across the table and gazed at her as if she was the only woman in the world, his hat thrown back on his head like a lovesick puppy. “What you say is a fact, my dear. But I do believe I feel that gate swinging shut again.”

The Widow Cobb narrowed her eyes. “Oh you do, do you?” She withdrew her hand and turned to a smiling Maggie, who sat enjoying the show. “I hear you all met when you were quite young.”

“I was fourteen.”

“And you’ve been married how long?”

“Thirty-two years,” Maggie whispered.

“Thirty-two years with this little wart?” Clay shot a grin at Trap. “I reckon I’ve known you for all of that but a day or two. I was just tellin’ Hanna how we got started, the three of us. It makes a mighty good story when you think of it. The country was still so fresh back then. . . .”

Hanna rested both elbows on the table in front of her and leaned her chin on her clasped hands. Her green eyes twinkled and she suddenly looked more like a schoolgirl than a teacher. “I don’t mean to pry, but we have a long trip ahead of us while we wait for that huffy woman’s husband to come challenge Mr. Madsen.”

Trap chuckled in spite of himself. “The way Clay spins yarns, it would likely be a heck of a lot more interesting than it really was. . . .”

He stared out frosted window, watched the snowy landscape lumber by—and remembered.

CHAPTER 5

April 1878
Near Lebanon, Missouri

 

Patrick “Trap” O’Shannon was about to leave the only woman he’d ever love, except for his mother, before he even met her.

He slumped in a high-backed wooden chair and stared at the buds on huge white oaks outside the rippled glass of the second-story window. His father, the Right Reverend James B. O’Shannon was a head taller than him, lean and wiry of build with the keen eyes of a boxer. He had a ruddy complexion with thick, sandy hair. More often than not, he showed at least a day’s growth of dark red beard when he became too engrossed in his studies to remember to shave.

Though in coloring and complexion they were complete opposites, both father and son shared a short button nose and the propensity to grow a heavy beard if left unattended by a razor. They also shared the same intensity, albeit about different things. When he wasn’t doting on his wife, the Reverend O’Shannon spent his days at study of the Scripture and other zealous pursuits in better understanding the ways of God. Trap had inherited a love for the outdoors from his mother, and preferred the woods and what they had to teach to any book or chapel.

The reverend broke the news in his customary way. A Scots-Irish Presbyterian, he believed a sharp knife cut quickest and always went directly to the meat of the matter. His Apache wife, Hummingbird, was spirited but tenderhearted, so he always followed his direct pronouncements with quiet explanations, allowing room for understanding if not debate.

The elder O’Shannon sat across from his son in an equally uncomfortable chair, his hands folded across his lap. Trap’s mother once confided that when his father folded his hands in his lap, his mind was made up for good. In all his sixteen years, Trap had never known his father to change his mind once he’d voiced an opinion, so he doubted any hand-folding made much of a difference.

“It will do your mother good to be nearer her family,” the reverend said. His voice was soft and sure as if he was trying to calm a frightened horse, but his green eyes held the same passionate sparkle they had when he preached. “God wants us in Arizona.”

Trap had been to Arizona once before when he was very young. He still remembered the oppressive heat and bleak desert. If God sent a person to a desolate piece of ground like that, they must have done something particularly bad to displease Him.

Trap stood and stepped across the polished hardwood to the window, looking out but seeing nothing. “Is she unhappy here?” He could force no spirit into his words. The thought of leaving behind the rivers and oak forests of Missouri caught hard in the boy’s throat. His mother often walked with him and taught him the ways of her forebears—how to hunt and track and make his way in the woods. He’d always believed she liked it here. It didn’t matter. His father hadn’t called him to the office to ask for his opinion. To James O’Shannon things were as they were, and that was that.

“No, she is not unhappy,” the reverend said. He moved to the window beside his son. Coach wheels chattered across the stone drive below. “But she could be happier. My duty as a husband is to see to her complete happiness. You’re what now, sixteen? Nearly a man. One day you’ll meet someone—and nothing else in the world will matter. Everything you do, down to the very breath you draw, will be meaningless unless that person is content. . . .”

Trap’s head felt numb. His father’s words hit his ears but went no further. Arizona was a world away from White Oak Indian Academy and the place where he’d grown up—the place where he thought he would live forever.

He watched as the door on the newly arrived coach—a refit Army ambulance—opened slowly. Three Indian girls in their early teens stepped timidly onto the drive, a toe at a time, as a doe might enter a clearing from the safety of the dark wood line.

Four horses of mixed size and heritage pranced in the morning mist, tugging at the harness. The heavyset driver hauled himself out of the seat and climbed down to grab the lead horse, a thick roan, by the headstall. His presence only seemed to irritate the animal, and the entire team began to rock the coach back and forth in an effort to move forward.

A flicker of movement inside the dark ambulance caught Trap’s eye. A moment later, a fourth girl appeared at the door. She was young, no more than fifteen, but had the sure movements of a woman who’d seen a great deal of life. A loose, fawn-colored skirt covered her feet and made her appear to float in the air.

All the new arrivals, including the fidgety driver, wore various designs of frock or coat, but not the floating girl. A loose white blouse fell unbuttoned at the neck and hung open enough; Trap could see the bronze lines of her collarbone and the smooth beginnings of young breasts. Despite the morning chill, she’d pushed her long sleeves high on her arms. The garment was an afterthought, something she’d be more comfortable without.

The horses kept up their jigging fit while the driver continued to make things worse by facing them and shouting. The new girl hopped from the rocking coach and floated up next to him. There was a liquid grace in the way she moved that reminded Trap of a panther. For a moment he wasn’t sure if she intended to melt into the shadowed oaks or pounce on the horses and kill them all.

The animals knew, and calmed immediately at her presence.

The big driver cocked his head to one side, scratched his belly under a baggy wool cloak, then walked back to check the brake.

Vapor blew from the horses’ noses. Steam rose from their backs. The floating girl rubbed the big roan’s forehead. Then, without warning, she turned and looked directly at the window—and Trap.

Trap felt a sudden knot in his gut. His face flushed and he glanced up to see if his father had noticed.

The reverend spoke on, his hands clasped behind the small of his back; touching on the varied reasons the move to Arizona was inevitable, sprinkling his discourse as always with liberal points from the Scriptures.

Trap turned his attention back to the girl. He was at once relieved and disappointed that she was no longer looking at him. She’d calmed the spirited horses, but even from the second-story window, Trap could see there was nothing calm about her. Where the other girls looked small and frightened in their new surroundings, this one looked around the brick and stone buildings of the Indian school as if sizing up an opponent—an enemy she had no doubt that she could beat.

Thick, black hair flowed past full hips in stark contrast to the bright material of her blouse. Trap felt his mouth go dry. He’d never seen such long hair; so black in the morning light it was almost blue.

Mrs. Tally, the mistress of girls, waddled out like a redheaded hen to welcome her new charges. She spoke briefly to the driver, then turned her attention to the newcomers, three of whom huddled around the floating girl with the long, blue-black hair.

Mrs. Tally’s shrill voice made the second-story windows buzz. She never could get it through her head that English spoken succinctly and at a great volume did not automatically translate into every other language in the world. He could see the girls flinch at the well-intentioned but earsplitting words the heavy woman hurled at them as she pointed toward the double doors that led into the main lobby.

The wild girl appeared to ignore the barrage, and let her eyes crawl back up the red brick face of the building until again they settled on Trap. She cocked her face to one side and ran a hand over the top of her head, sliding her fingers through the black mane. Her eyes caught his this time, and held them while she gently fingered a small leather bag that hung from a thong at her breast. The tiniest hint of a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Mrs. Tally interrupted the moment and shooed her new charges in the front door and out of sight.

Trap blinked to clear his head. He felt an overpowering need to flee his father’s study and rush headlong down the stairs to see the beautiful apparition again. As far as he knew, no girl had ever singled him out for a smile.

“. . . and you should remember, the Chiricahua Apache are your people as well,” his father was saying. Reverend O’Shannon stared at the window at his own reflection. His hands were still clasped behind his back. “Someday, you’ll meet someone. When that day comes, you will see what I mean. Nothing else will matter but her.”

Trap looked at his father. His mind filled with the vision of the floating girl with blue-black hair. Now, more than ever, he understood what his father meant—and they were moving to Arizona in five days.

CHAPTER 6

“Carpe diem,” Trap’s father would often say. “Seize the day and worry not for the morrow; the Lord has your future well in hand.”

Mrs. Tally had the new arrivals shuffled off to the girls’ dormitory behind the main building by the time Trap was able to escape his father’s study and make it downstairs. She would keep them busy settling in and getting them fitted for uniforms until lunch, so Trap resigned himself to a dry morning of lessons and pretended study.

Trap had never been the kind of boy to make long-range plans. He walked for hours in the woods with his mother, enjoyed yearly hunting trips with his father in the fall, but the future and the world of adulthood rarely came up. Each day provided a new sort of adventure, and he was happy to tend to each one as it presented itself. Carpe diem indeed.

The arrival of this mysterious girl who floated across the ground sent a sudden whirlwind of thoughts spinning through the boy’s head. For the first time in his life, Trap thought about the eventuality of providing for someone else, and came to the sad realization that he didn’t have many marketable skills. This thought alone put him into a quiet stupor, and he spent the morning brooding into his arithmetic primer, seeing nothing but a blur.

At sixteen, Trap was among the oldest of the twenty-five students at White Oak. Girls of any age outnumbered boys six to one. The only other boy close to his age was Frank Tall Horse, a gangly Ogallala Sioux. None of the other male students was older than twelve.

When he was ten, Trap had asked his mother why there were few other boys his age to play with.

“Indian boys of all ages are fighters,” she’d told him. “Most are killed in battle. A few more of the girls survive. If they aren’t taken as slaves by other tribes, well-meaning soldiers sometimes bring them here.” Hummingbird was a quiet woman, but she wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

Morning classes ground by with a glacial lack of speed. When it came time for midday break, Trap felt as if he might jump out of his skin if he didn’t get another look at the floating girl.

A bright sun filtered through the new foliage on the tall oaks and cast dimpled shadows around the spring grass in the exercise yard below.

Mrs. Tally was in the habit of having what she called an early lunch, which everyone knew was a nap. Trap was certain she would let the new girls out for some fresh air while she retired to her quarters for an hour or so.

Knowing the new girl would likely come out the large double doors off the front hallway, Trap resolved to station himself in the grassy area nearby.

Frank Tall Horse was a quiet boy, a head taller than Trap. He’d been orphaned at three—too young to be a warrior when he was brought to White Oak. Prone to spending hours with his nose stuck in fanciful tales by someone named Jules Verne, he knew little of his native ways except for what Trap’s mother had taught him. He liked to joke that he’d been raised in captivity.

Trap stared at the door and bounced with nervous energy.

“How about a leg-wrestling match?” Tall Horse suggested. He had a new book, but sensed his friend’s anxiety and genuinely wanted to help.

Trap watched the door while he spoke. He’d wrestled the long-legged Sioux at least two dozen times over the years, and bested him every time though he was over a head shorter. Suddenly, the thought of this new girl seeing him doing nothing but standing around waiting seemed foolish. It would be better if he were engaged in some sort of contest. Especially a contest he was likely to win.

“Sure,” Trap said, trying to sound disinterested. “A game might be good.”

The two boys lay down on the grass elbow-to-elbow, Trap’s feet toward the building and Tall Horse’s toward the trees. In unison they counted to three, then raised their legs to hook each other at the knee. Locked together, each struggled to roll his opponent backward over his own head.

Trap beat the taller boy soundly on the first round.

“Two out of three?” Frank picked bits of grass and twigs out of his close-cropped hair.

Trap shrugged. “All right by me,” he said resuming his position.

“I’ve learned your trick, Apache,” Tall Horse said as he raised his leg the first time. “This time the mighty Sioux will be victorious.”

On the count of two, the front doors of the school opened. Trap felt the strength leave his legs when the new girl floated out in her crisp blue uniform dress. The sight of her hit Trap like a bucket of springwater. The ability for all concentration drained from his body. She looked directly at him. A smile crossed her oval face.

Tall Horse took advantage of the momentary lapse and sent the befuddled Trap flying backward into the grass. When he rolled to his feet, the girl was gone.

The Sioux boy ducked his head and gave an embarrassed grimace at having won the contest. He never won at anything physical, and seemed uncomfortable with the thought of it.

“Want another go at it?” Tall Horse grunted.

Trap popped his neck from side to side and grinned. “No. It was fair.”

He left a beaming Tall Horse to his book and moved immediately toward the place where he’d last seen the floating girl.

The other new arrivals milled around at the edge of the yard, bunched in the same nervous group. Two of them looked as though they might be sisters; all were surely from the same tribe.

It was easy to find the girl’s track. The stiff leather soles of her newly issued shoes couldn’t hide the soft, toe-first way her feet struck the ground with each step. His mother walked the same way, and Trap had grown up mimicking it.

The tracks led around the corner, toward the delivery entrance to the kitchen and the root cellar he’d help enlarge the previous fall. The constricting pair of new shoes lay abandoned beside the worn path.

Trap knelt to study the small print of the girl’s bare foot. His open hand almost covered it. Trap’s mother often told him to feel the track—talk to it, she said. He touched each tiny indentation where toes had dug in lightly to the dark earth, closed his eyes to see what these tracks might tell him.

He heard a sharp yowl, like a bobcat caught in a snare.

Trap’s eyes snapped open and he sprinted around the building.

The Van Zandt’s Creamery wagon was parked beside the kitchen entrance. Another yowl came from the open door of the root cellar. Moments later a fuming Harry Van Zandt scampered out of the dark opening, the remains of a jar of currant jelly dripping off the top of his head. At seventeen, Harry was nearly six feet tall with menacing features and a permanent scowl on his long face. His younger brother Roth was nowhere to be seen.

Harry cast his eyes back and forth on the ground while he wiped the sticky red goop off his face.

“Watch her, Roth,” he yelled into the cellar as he found an oak branch the size of his arm. “She’s a scrapper. Them jars hurt, I’m tellin’ ya.” He tested the club on his open palm and started for the door again.

There was a commotion of breaking bottles and more cries from the cellar.

“Where you aim to go with that?” Trap nodded toward the piece of oak in Harry’s hand.

“None of your damned business, runt,” the other boy said. “I’m gonna teach that little red whore some manners. She’s a looker, but that don’t give her no right. . . .”

The stone caught Harry high in the side of the head, glancing off a glob of current jelly. Dark eyes rolled back in his head, lids fluttering life a leaf on the wind. He swayed on his feet, teetered for a moment, then collapsed into the dirt by the back wheel of his delivery wagon.

He was still breathing, but a nasty knot was already rising over his left temple. That was his problem.

Trap bent to scoop up the oak club and trotted the two steps to the open root cellar. A jar of tomatoes shattered against the timber door frame.

Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see Roth Van Zandt holding a wooden barrel lid like a shield as he advanced on the new girl at the far end of the narrow earthen room.

Tomatoes had been a bumper crop the previous summer, and there was an almost endless supply of jars she could use to defend herself.

“Almost there, darlin’,” Roth giggled as another jar of tomatoes exploded off the wooden lid. He didn’t look up as Trap moved up behind him. “Me and Harry here gonna show you some fun, that’s all.... We ain’t gonna hurt you, are we, Harry?”

Trap moved up so he was within striking distance with the oak club. “No,” he said. “We’re not.”

Roth lowered the barrel lid in time to catch a quart jar on the point of his chin. Glass shattered and Trap stepped back to avoid getting splattered.

“Your brother’s outside with a bad headache,” Trap said, gesturing with the wood. “Take him on back to town before this girl knocks your head off.”

Van Zandt wiped the red juice off his face and chest. His tongue flicked across his lips in disgust.

“Havin’ a white pa didn’t help you much when it came to brains, O’Shannon.” Roth spit. “Just goes to prove it only takes a drop of the heathen blood to ruin a body.”

Trap raised the club. “Go ahead and say another word about my mother,” he whispered. “I’ll finish what the girl started.”

Roth talked big, but he had no intention of facing Trap alone. He backed outside with the barrel lid in hand before helping his half-conscious brother back to the wagon.

“You ain’t heard the last of us, O’Shannon.” Roth gathered up the reins and clucked to the Cleveland Bay mare to get her moving. “Or you either, Miss Tomato Chucker. You’re bound to see us again, that’s for damned sure.”

Trap threw the oak club at Van Zandt to hurry him along. When the wagon was safely down the gravel drive, he turned to face the new girl. She was even more beautiful up close than from his father’s window. He could think of nothing to say, so he just stood and looked.

“You are Indian?” she said at length. His staring didn’t seem to bother her.

Trap swallowed hard. “Yes. I mean, sort of. My mother is Chiricahua Apache.” He felt as if he was tripping over every word.

“My name is Maggie Sundown of the Nimi’ipuu—the whites call us Wallowa Nez Percé.” Her chest still heaved. Her eyes, the color of black coffee, glistened as she calmed herself from her run-in with the Van Zandts.

“I’m Patrick O’Shannon, but everyone calls me Trap.”

“Reverend O’Shannon is your father?”

Trap nodded.

Maggie smiled. “So you live here, like I do.”

All Trap ever wanted to do again was stand there and watch this girl smile. Then he thought about what she’d just said and the happiness drained out of him.

“Only a few more days.” The words tasted bitter as he said them. “We’re moving to Arizona.”

Maggie brushed a lock of hair away from her full cheek. The smile was gone.

“That is a very sad thing to hear, Patrick Trap O’Shannon of the Chiricahua Apache.”

The promise of an interesting week hung heavy on her sigh.

CHAPTER 7

Trap decided early on that whatever he decided to do with his life, it would not involve wearing a necktie. Even if he had shared his father’s zeal for the ministry, the way he’d have to dress alone was enough to keep him from following in the man’s steps. He considered the infernal things instruments of unbearable torture, and avoided them as he would any other form of slow, strangling death.

Unfortunately, the reverend saw things differently and required a tie for church and all important social events—like dinner with the new superintendent.

The Reverend Tobias Drum had arrived that morning by wagon with a pile of worn carpetbags and a fine Thoroughbred gelding, the color of a roasted chestnut. His coming was like a dark cloud over the school. The students had lined up at the windows in stunned sadness to witness the proof that the O’Shannons were leaving very soon.

Trap tried to keep an open mind, but Drum seemed to him a particularly oily man, both in body and demeanor. He was stout, a half a head taller than Trap’s father, who stood nearly six feet. Where the Reverend O’Shannon possessed the gaunt appearance of a hungry boxer, Drum was a blocky brute with the well-fed look and sullen eyes of one more accustomed to barroom brawls. Bushy sideburns covered pink jowls, and a greasy ponytail dusted the collar of his black frock coat with a steady sifting of dandruff.

From the time the man had arrived, Trap’s father had become almost subservient to him, yielding the school as if he’d turned over the reins already. What was worse is that Drum appeared to expect such treatment.

The men’s voices hummed through the panel door off the dining room while Trap helped his mother fill crystal water glasses and finish setting the table. He tugged at the knot in his silk tie.

A sumptuous meal of roast pork, turnips, string beans, and hot bread spread across the expansive oak table—the table his mother would have to leave behind in two days time when they left for Arizona.

“Why don’t you take this fine table and leave me behind?” Trap said before he thought much about it. He would never have spoken so directly to his father.

Hummingbird smiled softly as she always did, reacting to what he meant, not what he said. “The table is only planks and sticks.” She smoothed the front of her white apron with a copper hand. Her hair was long, but she kept it coiled and pinned up so Trap hardly ever saw it down. “I’m sure there will be tables in Arizona.” She put a hand on Trap’s shoulder. “But I do worry for you, my son. There is more to this than you can understand. I have asked your father to tell you, and maybe he will in his time. You are almost grown. . . .”

The Reverend O’Shannon’s face was locked in a wooden half frown when he came through the door ahead of Drum.

“We have a job to do,” Drum was saying. “It’s not always pleasant, but it is, nonetheless, our duty.”

Trap’s jaw dropped when the new superintendent took the chair at the head of the long table—his father’s spot—and flopped down in it before his mother was seated.

Reverend O’Shannon said grace and carved the roast while he listened in stony silence as Drum droned on with his philosophy about running an Indian school.

Drum began eating as soon as his plate was filled. “The United States Army has made my orders clear,” he said around a fork piled high with roast pork and turnips.

“Chuparosa,” O’Shannon said, calling his wife by name to get her to hold up her plate. He gave her a thick slice of end-cut. Trap knew the seasoned, outer edge of the roast was his mother’s favorite, and his father always made certain she got this choice morsel, no matter who was eating with them. The reverend looked up at Drum and moved the knife to cut Trap’s portion. “I was under the impression we got our orders from a higher authority than the Army,” he said. His voice was tight but controlled.

Drum waved him off with the fork. “Of course we do, but the Army brings us the students. We have to learn to work hand in glove. Don’t disparage the military, O’Shannon. The God of the Israelites utilized an army to work miracles.”

“True enough,” Trap’s father said. Everyone served, he sat down to his own plate.

“I couldn’t help but notice you called your wife by an Indian name. Do you believe that is wise?” Drum continued to eat as he spoke. He appeared to be numb to the fact that Mrs. O’Shannon sat directly to his right, and spoke of her more as if she were a valued hunting dog than another human being.

“Ah, yes,” O’Shannon said. “Chuparosa. It’s Spanish for Hummingbird. The Apache often use Spanish appellations—Geronimo, Magnus Colorado—beyond that . . .” He shrugged. “It was her name before I knew her and it continues to be so. I see no reason to call her anything else.”

Drum grunted through a full mouth of meat and turnips. “This meal prepared by your lovely Hummingbird is a perfect example of what I’m talking about.” Other than a backhanded gesture toward Trap’s mother, he ignored her completely. “She has learned to cook as good as any white woman.”

The man’s flippant tone made Trap grip his knife tighter and chased away any thought of an appetite.

“See what the savage Indian is capable of when properly schooled and trained.” Drum pushed ahead, unwavering in his rude behavior. “Left to her own devices—her natural and carnal state, if you will—who knows what kind of grubs we’d be eating. Likely a feast of stolen horse and potent corn tiswin.”

Reverend O’Shannon put his fork and knife on the table and took a deep breath. His fists clenched white beside his plate. Trap had seen his father box many times, and wondered if Drum knew he was about to get a sound whipping.

“You’ve overstepped your bounds, sir, in speaking this way of my wife.”

Drum dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin and flicked a thick hand. “I meant no offense, Reverend.” It was a halfhearted apology at best, and Trap felt compelled to bash the man’s stodgy face against the fine oak table. A look from his mother held him back.

“I did not intend to insult your family. On the contrary. I only mean to point out that you have done exactly that of which I speak. ‘Kill everything in them that is Indian,’ the Army says. ‘Civilize them and teach them solid Christian doctrine.’ That’s what we are to do with our charges here at White Oak.” Drum looked suddenly at Trap from under a bushy brow and pointed at him with a fork.

“How about you, boy? From what I’ve heard, you’ve grown up here. Are you a Christian or an Indian?”

“Can’t I be both?” Trap said, though his thoughts at the moment were anything but Christian.

“I don’t believe you can,” Drum said, banging his fist on the table. The dishes rattled and water sloshed out of the glass at his side. “And neither does the Army. This was a tasty meal, Reverend. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long trip and wish to retire early. I’ll have a look around the school tomorrow on my own. You’ll be on your way the day after?”

“We will,” Trap’s father said. He pushed back his chair and rose. Trap could not remember him ever looking sadder. “I’ll show you to your room.”

When the men had gone, Trap noticed his mother hadn’t eaten a bite. “Are you all right?” he asked, knowing the answer before it came.

“I am afraid for you,” Hummingbird said. “You will find that some people are like one-eyed mules. No matter how you turn them, they can only see a single point of view.” She pushed her plate away and put a hand on top of Trap’s. “Hard things await you, my son. I only hope we have prepared you well enough.”

CHAPTER 8

Reverend Drum’s presence hung over the school like a putrid illness. He lurked around every corner and at the end of every path, always with a sour look of disapproval on his pink face. For the most part, he held his tongue until the O’Shannons left. He didn’t have to wait long for that.

The students threw a quiet going-away party at supper on their last night, and took turns giving the O’Shannons small, handmade tokens to remember them by. Trap’s normally stoic father was moved to the point of tears by the time the meal was complete. His mother wept openly throughout the entire affair. Drum stood in the corner with his hands behind him, the tiniest hint of a sneer on his carplike lips.

As the party began to wind down, Trap felt a gnawing urgency to spend a few moments alone with Maggie.

It was Maggie who suggested they go for a walk—not with words but with a casual glance toward the door. Trap looked up at his mother, who also spoke much without speaking at all.

Hummingbird nodded gently, then turned to occupy her husband’s attention while Trap and Maggie slipped out together. Drum gave the young couple a sidelong eye, but Mrs. Tally swooped in to intercept him like a fluttering mother dove when a fox is too near her nest, as if she were working in concert with Trap’s mother to allow the two youngsters a few moments alone together.

Trap had never been much of a talker, finding himself more at home alone in the woods than with any other human being—until Maggie Sundown came along. He talked to her more than he’d talked to anyone, and still much of their time together was spent sitting quietly.

“The Apache value silence,” his mother had always told him. From what he could see, the Nez Percé thought a lot of it too. Maggie appeared to enjoy his company, but she was just as content to sit and study the earth as he was. To Trap’s way of thinking, more got said between him and Maggie in an hour of near silence than most people accomplished in a whole day of wordy conversation.

The evening was crisp, with a waning half-moon that cast dark shadows along the gravel path beyond the root cellar. Once in a while, Trap could hear the patient, baritone voice of his father drifting out amid the more tentative students’ voices through the kitchen door.

Maggie found a spot on the stone wall along the path and sat down among the shadows. She said nothing.

Trap sat beside her, a few inches away, and folded his hands in his lap. A million bees buzzed inside his chest.

After a time, Maggie broke the silence.

“My people, the Nimi’ipuu, are a people of the horse.” Her voice was soft and throaty—almost a whisper. She turned to look at him in the scant moonlight. “I haven’t seen too many horses around here.”

Trap stared down at his feet, afraid he might say something foolish if he met her eye. “I used to have a nice little bay, but we had to sell them all for this move. The school owns the ones that are left—mostly cart horses.”

“I miss watching the herds running together. . . .”

“That would be a beautiful sight,” Trap whispered. He could only think of leaving the next day. He wanted to say more, but didn’t know how. When he looked up, Maggie held a small bracelet in her hand.

“I made this from the hair of my father’s finest horses. I braided in some of my own hair as well.” She held it out to him. “I wish you to have it . . . to remember me when you are in Arizona.” Her voice was barren of emotion, but her eyes shone bright and clear in the moonlight. “Perhaps you will find a beautiful Apache girl and have many children with her. If you do, you should throw the bracelet away so it doesn’t haunt your marriage.”

He took the gift and slid it over his hand, pulling it snug with the intricately braided button of hair. “Thank you,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “I would never throw anything away I received from you.”

Surely this was what his father had meant when he spoke of meeting the person who would mean more to him than anything else. He’d thought about giving something to her as well, but never would have had the courage to be the first to mention it.

He fished in his trouser pocket for a moment.

“It’s not much.” He held a silver coin out on the palm of his hand.

Maggie took it and held it up in the moonlight to get a good look.

“It’s the O’Shannon crest. Three stars over two hunting dogs.”

“What does it say around the edge?” Maggie traced the face of the coin gently with her finger.

“It’s the family motto in Latin—Under the Guidance of Valor.”

Maggie held it up next to Trap’s face. Her fingers brushed his cheek. He squirmed.

She smiled—it at once calmed him and sent his mind spinning out of control. “I will put this in my medicine bag where I keep things most important to me,” she said.

Arizona seemed like an ax ready to chop off his head. Trap had little experience with such things, but felt pretty certain that girls like Maggie Sundown didn’t come along more than once in a person’s life. He felt like he should give her more than a silver medallion before he left. The idea that he might never see her again was unthinkable.

“Maggie . . .” he whispered.

She took the small leather bag from around her neck and slipped the coin inside. She must have moved closer to him when they exchanged gifts, because he could feel her body move with each breath. Her thigh was warm against him through their clothes. He found it almost impossible to think, let alone speak a coherent thought.

“Maggie, I . . .” he tried again.

Drum’s acid voice cut the night like a knife.

“When the lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.” Drum stepped out of the shadows beside the low roof of the root cellar.

Trap shot to his feet. Maggie stayed where she was.

“What’s going on here, young Master O’Shannon?” Drum was on them in a stride.

“Nothing, sir,” Trap said, upset at his own nervousness. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I was . . . am saying good-bye to Miss Sundown.”

“I’m certain you were,” Drum said, raising his brow. The way his eyes slid slowly up and down over Maggie’s body made Trap want to bury the man then and there. “It’s a blessing I happened to need some fresh air when I did. Saved you from your own sinful nature, I believe. You had best get back inside with the party, young man. I believe it would break your father’s heart if he found his son out here in near fornication with one of his students.”

“Near fornication? You know that’s a lie.” Trap gritted his teeth and took a half step closer to the much larger man.

“Don’t begin something you aren’t prepared to finish, little hero.” Drum smiled through a crooked sneer as if he’d won a fight already.

“I should say my good-byes to your mother.” Maggie’s voice came soft and steady from the shadows. “Come with me, Trap. We have nothing to be ashamed of. The Reverend Drum came out here for some air. Let’s give it to him.”

“Go with her, boy. Say your good-byes,” Drum spit.

“Mr. Drum.” Trap refused to call him Reverend anymore. “My family and I are leaving tomorrow. I’m only sixteen, but you should remember this: My mother is Apache, which makes me half Apache.”

“O’Shannon,” Drum sneered. “You and your kind are no more than a boil on my rump. A trivial inconvenience, but tomorrow I’ll be shed of you. Your sweet little Miss Sundown will pine away for you to be sure.” He winked and shook his head back and forth behind a wry grin. “But don’t you worry, son. I’ll see that she is well taken care of.”

Trap found himself so mad his head throbbed. Fists clenched at his sides, he stood on the balls of his feet. His voice was quiet and sharp, as merciless as a steel blade. Like his father, Trap became stone cold when he was truly angry. He didn’t so much lose his temper as focus it in a single beam of white-hot fury.

“Drum,” Trap hissed. He doubted Maggie could even hear him, and she was only a few feet away. “I may not be very old, but you have my word on this: If you act anything other than the complete gentleman to Maggie, I’ll cut that black heart out of your worthless body and send you straight to Hell where you belong.”

“Listen here, boy . . .” Drum tried to interrupt.

Trap held up his hand. His voice remained calm, but it pierced as surely as any arrow. “No, you listen to me. I’m not fooling. I leave tomorrow. If you say another word to me or Maggie, I’ll kill you now, if I have to do it with my teeth.”

Trap’s shoulders heaved. He almost wished the big man would try something.

Instead, Drum shrugged, tossed his head like an insolent horse, and walked into the darkness.

All the anger drained from Trap’s body when Maggie came up behind him and touched his arm.

Trap turned and looked at her. He wanted to tell her he would come back for her someday soon, wanted to tell her she meant more to him than anything he’d ever known. But such words didn’t come easy to his lips. The notion of leaving her behind was unthinkable, but he was only a boy. What else could he do but respect his father’s wishes?

“Thank you for that,” Maggie whispered, moving closer to him in the chilly night air. “I don’t think people often stand up to him. He looked like he believed you.”

Trap let out a deep breath. The aftereffects of the run-in with Drum and the warmth of Maggie’s body combined to make him feel dizzy. “I hope he believed me, because I would have killed him.”

Maggie held his arm with both hands and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I know it,” she whispered in his ear, her voice matter-of-fact. “And I would have helped.”

CHAPTER 9

The O’Shannons’ wagon was not yet past the tall oaks that skirted the gravel drive before Drum made his first sweeping edict. The students were still lined up in neat, uniformed rows from saying their goodbyes. Maggie saw bad things coming in the smug grin that spread over the new superintendent’s face the further the Reverend O’Shannon got from the school.

She had watched in silence as Trap climbed into the wagon behind his parents and sat facing backward on a wooden trunk. His face was stoic, but Maggie could see the pain in his eyes. Neither had spoken a word that morning. They had said their good-byes the evening before.

“Mrs. Tally,” Drum barked. Fully in charge now, he set his bottom jaw after each phrase like a jowly bulldog. Two rough men, wearing low hats and leather braces over course work shirts, stepped from the yard behind the kitchen. The taller of the two wore a set of worn Army trousers. The shorter was as stout and wide as he was tall. A thick wad of gray hair sprouted up from the collar of his threadbare woolen shirt.

“These are my associates Pugh and Foster.” Drum nodded at the men. “From here forward they will act as orderlies to assure discipline and structure at all times.”

“We’ve never had a problem with order and discipline before, Reverend.” Mrs. Tally cocked her head to one side and gave the two new arrivals a quick perusal. “Are you certain the elders would approve such an expense?”

“Don’t concern yourself with the elders, Mrs. Tally. That will be my job. Concern yourself with the new rules and see that the students obey them.”

“New rules?”

“First,” Drum said, clasping his hands behind the small of his back and stalking up and down the line of wide-eyed students. “As of this moment, any utterance of a heathen tongue will not be tolerated. God’s own English is the language of learning and that is what I expect to hear.”

Frank Tall Horse stood at the end of the line next to Maggie. He smiled softly and nodded his head. He often commented that the constant jabbering of the other students in their assorted languages gave him a headache.

“Washite,” he said under his breath. It was one of the few Sioux words he knew. “Fine by me.”

Drum spun when he heard the boy speak. “What did you say, young man?” Small stones crunched under his boots as he strode across the yard.

The smile fell from Tall Horse’s lips. His brown eyes went wide and he cowered under the scrutiny of the new superintendent. “I said English is fine by me, sir.”

“Before that. You said something else before that.” Drum’s heavy face was inches away from the boy.

“I said washite. It means good.”

“Did I not just explain the rule to you regarding use of heathen tongues?”

“Yes, sir,” Tall Horse whispered. His face was ashen white. “It was.... I mean I was. . . .”

“Do you intend to mock me?”

“No, sir.” All the joy appeared to flow out of Tall Horse’s normally bright face.

“He doesn’t even speak Sioux,” Maggie said. She could see where this was leading and it made her sick to her stomach.

“Be still,” Drum snapped. “He knows well enough not to disregard my mandate only moments after I made it.” He nodded to Pugh and Foster, who shuffled up on either side of Tall Horse.

“I am a fair man,” Drum said, puffing himself up like the self-important adder that he was. “But I must abide by my own rules or there can be no order.” He nodded again at the two men.

They each took one of the boy’s arms. He did not struggle.

“This is your first offense, so I will limit your punishment to five stripes.”

Maggie stepped forward. “I told you, sir. He doesn’t even speak Sioux. He is happy to speak English. You don’t have to do this.” She knew if she spoke what was truly in her heart, Drum would only take it out on Frank.

“I said be still, young lady.” Drum turned to a quivering Mrs. Tally. “Fetch me a strong switch from that willow tree yonder.”

“Sir?” Mrs. Tally’s mouth fell open. “You don’t truly intend to . . . ?”

“Dear Lord, forgive me my thoughts about these imbeciles with whom I am forced to work,” Drum muttered. “I’ll get the blasted switch myself.”

Foster and Pugh made Tall Horse take off his shirt, and then took him again by each arm. There was no need; he endured his whipping without a word. When Maggie took a step forward, he only gritted his teeth and shook his head to keep her back. The younger students looked on with blank eyes. This was not the first time many of them had seen cruelty, only the first time they’d seen it at the school.

Drum could barely contain his smile as he administered the cruel lashes. When he finished, Drum dismissed the group to return to morning classes. He pitched the offending switch unceremoniously on the ground at his feet and turned a snide face to Maggie while he straightened his frock coat and tie.

“I’ll see you in my office at three P.M. sharp,” he said. The fire in his eyes from the enjoyment of meting out Tall Horse’s punishment had turned to a lecherous glow. “I admire your spirit, young lady. I won’t put up with it, but I admire it nonetheless.”

Maggie knew her own limits. It would take more than Drum’s pitiful orderlies to hold her. There were certain things she would never stand for. But Drum had his limits as well—he’d shown that.

She helped a tight-lipped Frank Tall Horse back inside the school, and wondered if she would be alive by nightfall.

CHAPTER 10

A thin gash of yellow light cut the dark hallway from the door to Reverend Drum’s office. Maggie stood outside until she heard the downstairs clock chime three. She steeled herself for what was sure to await her and put her hand on the knob. She was not afraid to die. A month ago, she would have welcomed the thought, but since she’d met Trap O’Shannon and seen there was still something right with the world, she was not ready to rush into death either.

The door creaked when she pushed it open and stepped inside. Drum sat at his desk, a pair of black-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. He glanced up when he heard her and gave a cursory nod to one of the high-backed chairs in front of him before going back to his reading.

He ignored her for some time. The shuffling of papers and the sound of his heavy, nasal breathing were the only sounds in the room.

When he finished, Drum closed the folder of papers in front of him. An artificial smile flashed across his face. He came around to sit on the edge of the desk, peeling off his wire glasses with thick fingers. His knees hovered only inches away from her.

“I’ve been reading your file,” he said as if to gloat.

Maggie sat motionless, staring at the floor.

“You know that it can only help you to cooperate with me.” He licked his lips.

This Maggie understood, but she pretended like she didn’t. “I am cooperating with you, Reverend. All the students have always cooperated here at the school.”

Drum rubbed his face and changed tacks. “Miss Sundown, you haven’t been here for two weeks and have been branded as a troublemaker already.” He nodded toward the papers on the desk at his side. “Your file has a complete report and affidavit drawn up by the delivery boys from Van Zandt’s Creamery.”

Maggie didn’t know what an affidavit was, but if the wicked boys from Van Zandt’s Creamery wrote it, it couldn’t be any good.

He continued. “I am not sure what Reverend O’Shannon intended to do about it, but my course appears to be clear. You assaulted local townsfolk. We can’t stand for that, can we?”

“They chased me into the cellar,” Maggie said, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference.

Drum shook his head. “I have to go by the facts, young lady, not your fanciful stories.” He inched to the edge of the desk. He was close enough now that she could smell the foul smell of the sausages he’d eaten for lunch on his breath. “I should tell you, the Van Zandts would see you hang.”

He studied her face for a reaction. She gave him none so he plowed ahead. “I could help you,” he said. “I believe you would find me as powerful as I find you alluring.”

“I do not understand what that word means,” Maggie lied. She’d never heard alluring before, but she understood all too well.

He chuckled, obviously thinking she was falling under his spell. His voice was low and throaty. “It means I am attracted to you. I find you pleasant to look at.”

He reached to touch her hair. Maggie’s stomach churned, but she sat completely still while his clumsy fingers slid slowly, lecherously down her cheek. When they were near enough to her mouth that she knew she couldn’t miss, she turned and sank her teeth deep into the flesh at the base of the reverend’s thumb and hung on.

Drum tried to jerk the hand back, erupting in a fearsome growl. He clubbed Maggie brutally in the temple with his free fist, hitting her at least three times before the skin on his thumb gave way.

Stunned, Maggie slumped to the floor. Her head reeled and the room spun around her. She tasted blood and flesh in her mouth. It took her a moment to realize it was Drum’s. She spat out the chunk of meat in disgust and crawled backward across the floor. If she could only make it to the door . . .

The reverend advanced on her. His hungry look had turned to a blaze of pure hatred. Grabbing her by both shoulders with powerful hands, he hauled her up to face him.

“I’ll see you do worse than hang, you deceitful little bitch. . . .”

Maggie spit more blood—his blood—in his face and drove a knee hard into his groin.

He groaned, but his grip held firm and he pulled her to him, pinning her arms by her side. He kissed her brutally on the mouth, stifling the scream that hung there with the press of his cold lips.

Mrs. Tally opened the door and stepped inside.

“Reverend, I . . .” Her mouth hung open as she took in the scene in front of her.

Drum released his hold and Maggie fell to the floor, panting. He wiped the blood from his face with his good hand and made a feeble attempt to straighten his clothes.

“I . . . What happened, child? Reverend Drum, you’re bleeding. What’s the matter with your hand?” Mrs. Tally’s face was ashen white.

Maggie took the opportunity to scramble to her feet and stand behind the head matron.

“Mrs. Tally, take this young trollop out of my sight. She still has a long way to go before she is anywhere near civilized,” Drum fumed. “We must yet kill everything in her that is Indian. We’ll begin with that long mop of unruly hair. See that it’s cut to a respectable length at once.” He took a length of white cloth from his desk drawer and began to wrap his hand. “Bring them around to God and away from their heathen ways of savagery.”

Mrs. Tally bit her lip and turned to go. Maggie could feel the woman’s heavy shoulders trembling next to her.

“I’ll personally inspect the haircut tomorrow morning,” he said through clenched teeth. “And Mrs. Tally . . .”

“Reverend?” She stopped in her tracks but didn’t turn around. She swallowed hard.

His voice was acid and venomous. “If you ever enter my office without knocking again, I’ll have Pugh and Foster escort you off the grounds so fast your head will spin.”

CHAPTER 11

The train out of Lebanon didn’t leave until after ten in the morning. It was a great, leaking beast that blew off more steam than it used to turn its massive wheels and lumbered along at a mind-numbing pace that tore a hole in Trap’s nerves.

The hole in the boy’s gut grew deeper with every slow, excruciating mile the rattling train took him from Maggie Sundown.

By the time they reached Carthage, the engine had about boiled dry and had to stop and take on water. It was early evening and the sun hung low on the western horizon.

A cloud of mosquitoes and biting gnats pestered a gray Brahma bull across the split-oak fence. Trap squatted next to the bottom rail looking alternately at the dusty ground and the long line of trees to the north—back toward the school. He shooed a gnat out of his face. Behind him, the train vented a gasp of steam and covered the crunch of his mother’s footsteps until she was almost on top of him.

“I can see you are badly troubled, Denihii.” She called him by the Apache nickname she’d given him when he was a small boy. It meant Tracker.

“I am fine, Mother.” He knew she didn’t believe him.

Hummingbird sighed and knelt on the ground next to her son. Trap would always remember that though his mother was the wife of a reputable Presbyterian minister and wore decent, respectable dresses, she never hesitated to sit on the ground.

“It is a good thing to respect your father,” she began, studying a blade of broad grass. “But when your heart tells you something is good, there are times you must follow what it says.”

Trap looked up at her. “I understand you want to be with your people.”

Hummingbird smiled. “Trap, I left the Chiricahua when I was yet a girl. You and your father are my people. I go to Arizona for the same reason you do—to honor your father.”

“But he said you . . .”

She put up her hand. “It will be good to see my relatives. But I was not the one that asked him to go. The church was. He will not admit it, but there are some on the board of directors—as well as in the Army—who do not approve of the way your father ran White Oak. I’ve heard them say he used too soft a hand.” She cast her eyes down at the grass again. “Likely because of you and me.”

It had always been her custom to speak frankly with her son, but she’d never spoken so openly to him about his father. “The church asked him to go to Arizona to get him out of the way.”

“I didn’t know.” Trap found it a difficult thing to grow up—to learn that his father had a bit of an ego.

The conductor called for all to board, and the engine vented more steam in preparation to move.

Trap shook his head as if he could shake off his thoughts. “I didn’t know,” he repeated himself.

“He wouldn’t want you to.” Hummingbird let Trap help her to her feet. She took his hand and pressed a wad of money into it.

“What is this?” He stood with her beside him.

“In the world of the whites a man should always have at least a small amount of money. You are all grown up now. So much like your father—and yet your own man . . .”

The conductor called again, giving them an impatient glare.

“Walk with me to the train,” she said, still holding his hand. “I have a little more to say. People will tell you that you must choose between your Apache and your white blood. Do not listen to them. Choose only the good from each. My forebears were tenacious and often ferocious people. Though it is not always evident, your father is much the same if he has to be.... As you will soon learn, both Indians and whites can be cruel beyond belief.”

By the time they reached the train Trap was speechless. He’d never had a need for money, and couldn’t understand why he would need any now. He stared down at the wad of bills in his hand.

“It is not much,” Hummingbird said. “But if you are careful, you will have enough to buy a good horse and a few other things you may need.”

She took a small bundle of red cloth from under the smock she wore to protect her dress and placed it in Trap’s hand on top of the money.

“This belonged to my father.” She stepped up onto the train so she was looking down at him. A shrill whistle split the air as the huge arms on the steam engine sprang to life and jerked at the metal wheels.

Trap unrolled the cloth to find a gleaming, bone-handled hunting knife.

“It is a hard world, my son. I wish I could give you more, but it has always been my experience that wits are your best weapons—and you have plenty of those.”

She stayed in the doorway, blocking Trap’s path while the train began to pick up speed. She was kicking him out of the nest. A warm breeze tugged at a stray lock of hair over her high forehead. She smiled softly while she looked at him.

Trap moved along at a fast walk, shaking his head.

The train picked up speed in earnest now. Hummingbird reached out with a slender hand and touched Trap’s outstretched fingers. “I’ll talk to your father,” she said. She had to shout as the train began to move faster than Trap could walk. “I was foolish to let you come this far. Go back and get that girl, Denihii. In the future, when you see that something is right, do not wait this long to do it.”

CHAPTER 12

“It’s nothing short of dreadful,” Mrs. Tally sniffed. “The plight of womanhood in general, I mean to say.” She stood behind a stoic Maggie, a pair of shears poised over the girl’s head. “Understand, dear, that I am loath to speak out against the superintendent, but I see no reason to cut this beautiful hair except his spite for your rebuff.”

Maggie sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes shut. She could hear the metal blades whisper as they came together. She felt the gossamer softness of each lock of hair as it fell down her shoulders and gently brushed her arms on the way to the floor.

Mrs. Tally spoke through her tears as she cut. “I mean to say, I know it’s the way the Good Lord made us. We are after all the weaker sex—born to a life of servitude, the bearing of babies, and the pleasures of wicked men.” She stomped her foot. Maggie could hear her gritting her teeth. “But sometimes, when I meet a man like Drum, I wish I could take these snips and do some quick surgery.”

She stepped back and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, a sure sign the normally fastidious woman was nearing a complete breakdown. “Still,” she sighed. “We have to be reasonable as women and know our own limitations. Sometimes it’s better to give in a little rather than suffer. What I mean to say is, if something is inevitable, perhaps one should make the best of it to survive the situation.” The poor woman’s face was drawn, and looked ten years older than it had the day before.

Maggie said nothing.

Mrs. Tally handed her a small mirror. “There now, I left it over your ears. You are still as lovely as ever. Perhaps he will leave you alone—now he knows I’m on to his game.”

“You know that will never happen,” Maggie said. “I’ve made him angry. Cutting my hair is but a small thing compared to what he plans to do with me. This no longer has anything to do with his pleasure; it is about resentment.”

Mrs. Tally flashed a sorrowful smile. “It most usually is, my dear. It most usually is.”

“I will kill him when he tries to touch me again.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, child. But I am just as certain the people in town will hang you for your trouble. The sad truth is. . . .” Mrs. Tally wrung her hands and stared at the floor, biting on her bottom lip. “What I mean to say is, if you were to let him . . . have his way, he might hurt you some in the process—but if you fight him, he’ll kill you for sure.” She suddenly looked up, new tears welling in her weary eyes. “I fear your options are but few and far between.”

Maggie picked up the small mirror and looked at her new hair. It made her face look bigger, maybe a little older—but not as old as she felt. Fourteen was not so young in the great scheme of things. Back in the Wallowa she would likely have been married very soon.

“Options,” she whispered to herself. The sound was so soft it must have sounded like a sigh to Mrs. Tally.

There was another option. She could run.

CHAPTER 13

Maggie Sundown began to plan her escape the day she’d first set foot on the grounds of the White Oak Indian Academy. She’d stashed a water jug and a small carving knife she’d stolen from the kitchen under her bed. Her geography textbooks contained decent maps, and she had spent several evenings gazing at the angled lines that represented the mountains and rivers of her beloved Wallowa Valley. One map in particular showed hash marks representing railroads and a detailed rendition of the entire United States over a two-page spread. She’d torn out both pages, folded them carefully, and put them in the small poke with her food—some dried beef and two small jars of strawberry jam sealed with wax. The jam was sweet, and she reckoned a spoonful would keep her going for some time on the trail.

She decided to leave during the evening meal, fearing that if she waited until after dark, Drum might call her to his study again before she could get away.

The older girls took turns helping in the kitchen. It wasn’t Maggie’s turn, but she volunteered to trade with a timid Cheyenne girl to give her a little extra time out from under the headmaster’s nose.

Drum’s eyes burned at her constantly throughout the entire meal. Her stomach knotted at the thought of food, but she knew she would soon need all her strength. When she’d cleaned every last morsel of chicken from her plate, she carried it to the kitchen, retrieved her meager supplies, and walked straight out the back door.

Gray dusk had settled over the grounds by the time she made it down the little path that led to the stables. Cool air pinked Maggie’s cheeks. Gut-wrenching tension sent a trickle of sweat down the small of her back, and she looked behind her in spite of herself. The headmaster was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Tally was in the dining hall with the other students. If she noticed Maggie’s absence, she wouldn’t be likely to say anything.

Pugh and Foster had disappeared into the root cellar before supper. There was a supply of medicinal liquor in there that would keep them busy for some time.

Maggie knew she’d be easier to track on horseback, but she needed to get as far away from the school as she could in a night’s time. Most of the animals in the barn were heavy draft types, meant for pulling one of the school wagons or plows. The choice of which one to take was easy.

Drum’s brown Thoroughbred nickered softly when she stepped into the stall. It was a leggy horse with a flowing mane and long head. Built for speed, but unlikely to have the endurance for long days on the trail like the spotted ponies of the Nimi’ipuu, the gelding had the lean look of a racehorse. For the time being at least, a racehorse was just what she wanted.

She decided to saddle in the cramped stall, in case anyone happened to come in. Drum rode a light plantation saddle with no horn, a padded leather seat, and metal stirrups. It was not meant for strenuous cross-country riding, but it looked comfortable enough. Small brass D rings behind the low cantle enabled her to tie on an extra saddle blanket rolled to contain her poke of gear. The Thoroughbred turned its head and sniffed Maggie’s arm as she finished tightening the girth strap. She hummed softly, and the big animal released a rumbling sigh.

Once she’d saddled the horse, Maggie slipped out of the blue-gray uniform skirt and picked up the fawn-colored skirt she’d had on the day she’d come to the school. It was lighter, but made with a fuller cut so she could straddle a horse without exposing most of her legs as she rode. She kept the gray kersey uniform blouse, but left the tail out and unbuttoned the top two buttons so it hung open at the collar. She fastened a wide leather belt around her waist and tucked the hunting knife in next to her side. Untucked, the blouse was just long enough to cover the wooden handle.

The thrum of deep voices at the outer door sent Maggie’s hand to the handle of her knife. She ducked her head behind the horse and held her breath. Slowly, the voices faded as the speakers moved away.

Maggie swallowed hard. She couldn’t stay in the stall much longer without being seen. She reached over the door and moved the metal latch. Her hand trembled and she took a deep breath to calm herself. If she could only make it out to the trees, she knew she could disappear in an instant.

Poking her head around the stall door, she chanced a look up and down the dim alleyway of the barn. She led the gelding out, turned her back to the door, and put a small foot in the stirrup to climb into the saddle.

A heavy crunch of gravel behind her sent a cold chill up Maggie’s spine. Her throat tightened. Reins in one hand and the stirrup leather in the other, she made ready to spring aboard the horse and run for it.

“Washite,” a soft voice said from the doorway. It was Frank Tall Horse. “I’m glad you’re getting away from here.”

Maggie gave a sigh of relief and turned to face him, the reins still in her left hand. The gelding seemed to feel her mood change, and hung its head to sniff the ground. Lips gave off loud pops as the horse nibbled at the bits of hay that littered the stable floor.

“You could go too,” she said. “You are old enough to make it away from this place.” It was a difficult thing, leaving the tenderhearted boy behind.

Frank toed the dirt. “No. I got nowhere else to go. I been at this school nearly my whole life. I’d probably get lost and wander into all kinds of trouble.”

Tall Horse stepped closer and rubbed the gelding’s long neck. “Thank you for trying to help me this morning.”

“You would have done the same for me.”

“I’d like to think so,” he said. “But I don’t know. I believe you are braver than me.” He smiled at her with deep brown eyes. “Watch yourself, Maggie Sundown. There are people out there just as bad as the reverend—maybe worse.”

Maggie gave a solemn nod. “I know.” She took the map from her breast pocket and unfolded it. There was just enough light to make out the lines. “Am I right that we are here?”

The boy studied the map for a moment, then nodded. “This is Lebanon and this is us. It doesn’t show you much of what else is out there—only the big rivers and some of the mountains.” He pointed to the area south and a little west of them, just north of Texas. “They call this Indian Territory, but from what I hear, it’s mostly outlaws and cutthroats. I’d steer well clear of it if it was me.”

Maggie shrugged that off. She tapped the map with the tip of her finger. “I am told the Nimi’ipuu, my people, are imprisoned somewhere in Kansas. That is this place?”

Tall Horse smiled. “That’s what I have heard. But you can’t fool me.” He tapped the map on the outline of Arizona. “You are going here.”

He clasped both hands and held them at waist level in front of him to give her a step up into the saddle.

“Good-bye, Frank Tall Horse of the Ogallala Sioux. You are a good Indian, do not forget that. Perhaps we will meet again,” Maggie whispered, knowing the chances were unlikely.

“Good-bye.” Tall Horse patted the horse on the shoulder and handed Maggie the reins. “You are a good human being. Do not forget that. Say hello to my friend for me when you see him. I hope I can meet your children someday.”

* * *

The road away from the Indian school led directly south, and Maggie kept to it for the first hour. Though the moon waned to less than half, the road was bumpy and rife with low branches and sinkholes. She held the powerful horse to a gentle lope for several minutes, fighting the urge to gallop until it was worn completely out or worse.

She calculated she had about nine hours until the sun rose, and she intended to use every minute of it.

Lamplights from small farmhouses flickered every few miles in the trees along the roadway and kept her moving forward. Dogs barked here and there, but none came after her. As long as she was around people, she would be in danger. The further south she got, the less of a problem that would be. According to her map, the city of Springfield lay somewhere to the southwest, but she intended to stay well away from there.

The big gelding proved to be tireless as long as she kept him pulled back in the easy, ground-eating lope. She pointed south until the lamplights were spaced further apart and she felt she was well past town. When she found a stream she took to it, hoping to throw off any would-be pursuers until she could make more distance. Twice, she wasted precious minutes to double back on her own trail, working her way through a fetid swamp, full of dark shadows and hanging vines as big around as her wrist. The terrain was anything but flat, and she made much slower progress than she’d hoped. She could only hope the thick hardwood forests and rocky creeks slowed Drum as well.

Two hours before daylight, Maggie began to look for a place to hide. She hadn’t seen a house for some time, but wanted to be well entrenched before daybreak and out of the eyes of any wandering travelers who might be able to help Drum when he did come looking.

Thoughts of the wicked man sent her hand to the knife at her side. She wished for a gun, but consoled herself that it was better to play the rabbit than the wolf for the time being. If she could hide long enough, perhaps Drum would give up and she could make it to this place called Arizona.

CHAPTER 14

Trap figured the train had gone a little over a hundred miles to reach the water stop outside of Carthage. The tracks did a fair amount of snaking back and forth through the hills, so he could cut off a third of that distance if he took a more direct route. A night and a day of hard riding could get him back.

As usual, Trap spent little time planning for the future. He had no idea what he would say when he reached White Oak, but figured his father would be proud of him for letting the Good Lord take care of the morrow. He’d decide what to do when he got there.

To get there at all, he had to buy a horse. Though he was almost seventeen and comfortable enough in the saddle, he’d never had occasion to buy much of anything, let alone something as important as a horse. He knew a good one when he saw it, and hoped the money his mother had given him would be enough.

The livery stable was located about a block from the water tower across the tracks from Carthage proper. It was a low structure, cobbled together of rough-hewn lumber and rusty tin. A low sun shone through a multitude of old nail holes on the large open door, proving that the forlorn building was little more than a pile of previously used scrap.

Trap stopped halfway there and divided his bankroll into three small stacks. He put one in his vest pocket, a second in his front trouser pocket with his jackknife, and the rest he slipped inside the belly of his shirt. He knew enough to be sure there would be some bargaining involved in any horse trade, and didn’t want to be in a position where he played his entire hand at once.

When he started walking again, he saw a boy about his age come out the double doors and dip two wooden buckets in the long water trough out front under the eaves. Trap waved at him. The boy looked up while he pushed the buckets down in the water and let them fill. He spit and turned his head to wipe his mouth on his shoulder. A grimy spot on his pale yellow shirt showed this was a regular habit.

“Help you?” the boy said, hoisting the brimming buckets. He was hatless, blond, and several inches taller than Trap.

“I was hopin’ to buy a horse,” Trap said. He came up beside the trough. “Want a hand with one of those?”

The boy shook his head. “Nope. I’d lose my balance and keel over if you took one.” He stuck out his chin to point toward the doors. “My uncle’s inside pouring oats while I do the waterin’. He’s the man you’d wanta talk to about a horse.”

Inside, the livery was as spotless as a horse barn could be. The wide alleyway was clean and uncluttered. The warm, comfortable smell of fresh hay and saddle soap hung in the cool shadows. Well-groomed animals stuck contented noses out of nearly every stall. The interior was in all ways the opposite of what the outside of the place looked to be.

A row of polished saddles on pegs along the far wall reminded Trap that he’d not only have to buy a horse, but tack as well. He chewed the inside of his jaw and tried to look like he knew what he was doing. The boy went to fetch his uncle from a back stall.

“What can I do for you, lad?” A smiling man strode forward on a wooden leg. He wiped his hands on a towel he had stuck in his belt and reached to shake Trap’s hand. “Nathan Bowdecker. I’m the proprietor hereabouts.”

“Trap O’Shannon.” He shook the offered hand. It seemed honest enough—if a person could tell that sort of thing from a handshake. “I need to buy a horse.” He tried to keep his voice from sounding urgent.

Bowdecker rubbed his chin in thought. He looked Trap over with deep-set eyes. “It’s awful late,” he finally said. “How’d you get here?”

“Train,” Trap said simply.

“You James O’Shannon’s boy?”

Trap nodded. He wasn’t surprised. His father often traveled to do a little preaching. It helped tone down his otherwise restless nature. “Yessir.”

“He’s a fine man, your pa,” Bowdecker said. “I’ve heard him go to expoundin’ a time or two. I’m a Lutheran myself, but I do enjoy hearing the good word of God from you Presbyterians once in a great while.” His gaze narrowed. “It don’t add up, James O’Shannon’s boy running around Missouri this time of an evenin’ looking to purchase hisself a horse. You’re either running from somethin’ or to somethin’.. . .”

Nathan Bowdecker had the forthright look of a man who would see straight through a lie, so Trap told him the whole story, including his observations of Drum.

“Sounds like you’re on a mission,” Bowdecker said when Trap finished. “I reckon a man oughta follow his gut.” He rubbed his face in thought, then tapped his wooden leg. “My gut told me to go to sea on a whalin’ ship when I was still a lad. Lost my leg, but I saw things I’d never seen otherwise. I reckon it was worth the price.... Let’s get our business done then so you can be on your way. I got just the mount for you.”

Mr. Bowdecker said he felt duty-bound to supply Trap with a sound animal, capable of making it all the way to Arizona.

“I ain’t runnin’ any charity ward here.” Bowdecker smiled as he led out the short-coupled black. The gelding had a round spot at the point of its croup and a shock of white hair tucked into the thick black tail. “Skunk here will do you a good service, but he won’t come cheap.”

When he heard the price, Trap sucked in air through the corner of his mouth like he’d seen his father do when negotiating the price of mutton.

“I don’t feel right about sellin’ you anything less,” Bowdecker said. “The Comanche are still hittin’ it pretty good down Texas way and the trail between here and Arizona is chockablock full of outlaws and bandits. A man’s horse is sometimes the onliest way out of a pickle—particularly a half-Apache Presbyterian who doesn’t even appear to pack a pistol.”

“Is that your bottom dollar?” Trap’s heart sank as he figured out how little money he’d have left over. He’d have to live off the land most of the way to Arizona—and without a rifle, that would be a pretty tall order.

Bowdecker nodded. “Son, take a lesson from the Greeks; never trust a man who is willin’ to let you have a horse for less than market value. It’s a good bet such a beast has a bowed tendon or some other such malady—or at the very least is ornery as all get-out.” He leaned in close to Trap. “Tell you what I’ll do. You take ol’ Skunk off my hands and I’ll throw in all the tack as a gift for the service your pa did for this little part of God’s vineyard. Those Greeks never said a word about a gift saddle.”

“He handles good?” Trap already had his mind made up to take the deal.

Bowdecker gave him the lead. “Clamber on up and give him a try. You’ll find none better in all of Missouri for what you have in mind.”

* * *

It was nearly dark by the time Trap paid the liveryman his price and finished tacking up. He had nothing in the way of supplies, so it didn’t take him long to pack. The kind-hearted liveryman gave him a small coffee sack with some biscuits and a battered canteen full of water. Along with the money, Trap gave Bowdecker his heartfelt thanks.

Skunk had a remarkably smooth gait for such short legs. He seemed to sense the urgency Trap felt to get back to Maggie, and covered the ground with a vengeance. Five minutes away from the livery, the stout little horse settled into a five-beat trot so smooth, Trap took a drink from the canteen and didn’t spill a drop.

He was dog-tired, but that didn’t matter. Maggie was ahead—at White Oak. He couldn’t wait to see her, to see the look on her beautiful face when he rode up and finally told her how he felt.

CHAPTER 15

The Right Reverend Tobias Drum drew back and slapped Mrs. Tally across her round face. He wanted to punch her, but there were too many witnesses. A slap would be easier to explain away. The heavy woman staggered, swayed, and then fell back on her broad rump with a loud whoompf. Her face reddened, but it was not as red as Drum’s.

“You were fully aware she was going, weren’t you?” the headmaster raged. He towered over the pitiful woman, contemplating how good it would feel to give her a swift boot to her heaving belly. “You let her slip away to make me look foolish.”

Mrs. Tally gulped for air trying to catch her wind. A river of tears poured down her cheeks. She could only shake her head.

Drum waved her off in disgust. She was too stupid to draw breath. A useless breather, that’s what she was, a pure waste of good air. She contributed little to society but snivels and weakness.

He turned his attention to the red-eyed duo of Foster and Pugh. Both reeked like a whiskey keg.

“And look at you two,” Drum spit. His voice shook. Dark eyes looked as though they could melt stone. “The one and only reason I hired you two idiots is to keep this sort of thing from happening.”

Pugh opened his mouth to speak, but Drum raised his fist and gave it a vehement shake. “Do yourself a favor and keep quiet while you leave the grounds. I’ll not have buffoons in my employ.”

The useless breathers taken care of, Drum turned his attention to the problem at hand. He couldn’t let the girl escape unpunished. She’d taken his horse, but worse than that, she’d usurped his authority. The Army and the church would surely look down on a man who couldn’t even keep fourteen-year-old Indian children in custody.

Drum knew he’d have to follow her, catch her, and teach her a lesson she’d not soon forget—a lesson he’d enjoy teaching very much.

Van Zandt’s Creamery wagon clattered up the drive, a sullen Cleveland bay mare in the traces. The boy driving it had an equally sullen look. A yellow bruise healed slowly in front of his left ear. A brindle hound slouched on the wooden seat beside him, lips pulled back in a smiling half snarl.

Drum nodded to himself. This was perfect.

“Does that dog know how to track?” Drum asked when the wagon came closer.

“It do at that,” the boy said. “Toot can trail anything livin’.”

“How about Indian girls?”

“Injun gals got enough stink to ’em, I reckon just about any old dog could trail one,” the boy said with a grin. He knew most of the children surrounding Mrs. Tally could understand everything he said. “Why, you got one that’s escaped on you?”

Drum nodded. “I do. What’s your name?”

“Harry Van Zandt.”

“That’s what I thought,” Drum said. He walked up to the wagon, ignoring the growling hound. “The girl who’s gone missing is the same one who’s responsible for the bruise on your face.”

Harry rubbed his ear and took a deep breath. His face grew dark and began to resemble his snarling dog. “The O’Shannon runt done this to me, then slipped outta here before I could get even with him.”

Drum raised an eyebrow. “O’Shannon may have done it, but he did it for the girl. And now she’s run off with my horse. I’ll be putting up a hundred-dollar bounty to those who ride with me. . . .”

“And help bring her back?” Van Zandt finished the sentence. His eyes sparkled at the mention of such a large sum of money.

Drum shrugged. “Let’s just see how it turns out. She’s a fighter—and she has stolen a horse. I’m not sure she’ll let us bring her back. Some around here might say hanging’s too good for the likes of her.”

Harry’s scowl blossomed into a full-face grin. Even the dog appeared to glow with added enthusiasm.

“I’ll go get my pa. He’s the best hunter you ever laid your eyes across. Toot can track with the best of ’em, but Pa’s dog, Zip, he’s got a mean streak, I’m here to tell you. Pa won’t let us bring ol’ Zip on our rounds on account of he hates redskins with a purple passion. He’d chew these young nits to pieces in no time.” The Van Zandt boy giggled. “When ol’ Zip catches the little tart, he’ll rip her to bloody red shreds.”

Drum heard Mrs. Tally gasp behind him, but she said nothing. The pathetic woman was too weak to make any sort of stand against him. At least the Nez Percé girl was a fighter.

“Very well,” he said to Harry Van Zandt. “You go get your father and his mean dog, Zip. We’ll leave in two hours time. She’s a wily one, this Sundown girl. Be prepared to spend a night on the trail.”

A string of drool dripped from the brindle dog’s mouth. She growled and licked her lips in anticipation.

CHAPTER 16

Trap had covered more than half the ground he needed to by the time the sun crested the line of green-topped hickory and smaller ash trees on a tumbled line of low hills to the east. Bolstered by the warmth of the rising sun, fatigue settled around him shortly after dawn. Every few steps Skunk’s smooth gait rocked Trap to sleep. Dreams of Maggie jerked him awake. Each time, the little gelding pushed on in the direction it was pointed.

Trap followed the train tracks some, cut through a newly planted field of black soil, then moved to a brushy trail along a river he didn’t know the name of by the time the sun was full up.

Shaking off the weariness, he thought of Maggie trapped at the school with Reverend Drum. Dread and worry chased away the thought of sleep. He took a biscuit from the coffee sack tied to his saddle horn, eating while he rode to make better time.

Half an hour later, the heat of the day and the food in his belly sent another wave of sleep rolling over him.

It was too powerful to fight and he lolled, relaxed in the saddle, falling forward when the gelding stopped dead in the trail. He grabbed a handful of mane to keep from tumbling into a locust bush. His eyes snapped open and when his vision cleared, he saw a muscular blue roan facing him, sniffing noses with Skunk.

A sleeping boy about Trap’s age sat astraddle the new horse, his wide-brimmed hat thrown against a leather stampede string behind broad shoulders. He wore an ivory-handled revolver on his hip. His fancy white shirt was covered with dust. Sweat rendered it almost transparent.

Trap cleared his throat and the boy clutched at the saddle horn, jerking awake.

“Jeez-o’-Pete!” he said, rubbing his eyes. “How long you been sittin’ there starin’ at me? It ain’t polite.”

Trap grinned. “Wouldn’t know,” he said. “I only just woke up myself.”

The boy chuckled and settled the hat back on his head. He urged his roan up next to Skunk and reached a big hand across the pommel of his saddle. “In that case, I’m Clay Madsen hailin’ from Bastrop, Texas. Glad to meet you.”

Trap shook the offered hand. “Trap O’Shannon.”

Madsen threw a quick glance over his shoulder before he turned his attention back to Trap. “You don’t look Irish.”

“O’Shannon is Scots-Irish.”

“You don’t look Scots either,” Madsen said, looking behind him again.

Trap saw no reason to start explaining his heritage to everyone he met on the trail. He didn’t have time to sit and jabber the morning away, so he picked up the reins to take his leave.

“Well,” he said. “It looks like you’re waiting for somebody. Guess I’ll just push on.”

The other boy shrugged and cocked back his hat with a knuckle. “I ain’t waitin’ for no one,” he said, casting another glance over a muscular shoulder. He brought the blue roan up beside Trap so they faced the same direction. “Mind if I ride along with you for a little spell? I could use a speck of friendly conversation.”

“I reckon I’m friendly enough,” Trap said. “But I’m not much of a talker.”

“Perfect.” Madsen gave him a wide grin. “You’re just the sort of feller I like to converse with.”

Trap picked up the pace and Clay Madsen matched it with ease. With the sun higher in the sky, the day grew warm and sticky. Moisture hung heavy in the hot air, and felt thick enough to drown anyone who took in a full breath.

The talkative Texan had the relaxed yet supremely confident air of a man three times his age. He spoke the miles away as the two picked their way through hardwood forests and loped through knee-high grass along lush floodplains. Even the blue roan, who must surely have heard them all before, cocked an inquisitive ear back to listen to Madsen’s stories.

The Texan recounted that he’d left his father’s ranch in south central Texas three months earlier to strike out for adventure and fortune on his own. In gritty detail, he described how he’d wiled away the last few weeks with a pretty young whore in St. Joe, who’d befriended him without charging a cent for her time.

Trap never considered himself a prude, but all Clay’s talk of drinking, gambling, and half-naked women needled at his conscience. His father would have had him reciting Scripture until his tongue fell off.

The most bothersome fact was that he found Madsen’s stories interesting. The way the boy told them made Trap feel as if he was being trusted with a family confidence.

“Her name was Vera,” Clay said as their horses lugged up the crest of a red clay embankment. The going was steep, but he spoke on without any concern. He was a superb horseman and rode as an extension of the handsome blue roan. “Course, that was her given name. I called her Popper.”

Trap shook his head. He didn’t really think he should hear why anyone would give a nickname like Popper to a whore.

Clay gave him no notice and pushed ahead, twirling the end of his reins absentmindedly as he spoke. “Called her that on account of the way she was always a-poppin’ her knuckles and what not.”

Trap relaxed a notch. That wasn’t so bad.

“Sometimes she’d have me give her a big squeeze around the middle, like a bear hug. Her spine would pop like a row of dominoes clinkin’ over.” Madsen leaned over in the saddle across the gap between the two riders. He raised dark eyebrows under the brim of his hat and spoke in a hushed tone. “Once in a while, she even had me tug on her little ol’ toes and give each of them a pop.” He grinned at Trap. “You ever hear of such a thing?” He sighed, looking away. “She had danged fine toes too, like peas in a pod. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Why didn’t you stay with her?” Trap heard himself ask. His mouth felt dry and he found himself pondering on Maggie’s toes. He could still picture the tiny impressions they made from the first time he’d tracked her to the root cellar. As a student of tracking, if there was one thing Trap noticed, it was feet. Now that he thought of it, Maggie Sundown had some danged pretty toes herself.

Madsen interrupted his thoughts.

“A no-account son-of-a-bitch gambler named Haywood.”

“What?” Trap snapped out of his reverie over the details of Maggie’s body.

“You asked why I didn’t stay with Popper. It was that sorry pimp gambler of hers named Haywood. He reckoned I owed him money even if she decided not to charge a handsome young feller like myself. I may be long on charm when it comes to the womenfolk.” Clay winked. “But I don’t have two shinplasters to rub together. I coulda taken the bucktoothed bastard in a fair fight, but I knew he’d force my hand. Be a hell of a poor start if I had to go and kill somebody before I was gone from the home place three months.”

“That’s good thinking,” Trap agreed, but his mind was elsewhere.

They topped a hill overlooking a valley choked with tall grass. A swift creek wound its way through groves of pecans and other hardwoods. They were still a good thirty miles away from the school.

A glint of steel and movement a scant half mile to the north caught his eye. It was late afternoon and the sun was behind them, casting long shadows to the fore. Trap figured he and Madsen were all but invisible to the four approaching riders with the sun in their eyes.

Something about the lead rider—something he couldn’t put his finger on—made Trap pause.

“I need to get closer,” he muttered under his breath. Thoughts of Maggie’s toes still lingered, giving the boy a warm knot, low in his belly.

“It ain’t Haywood,” Madsen said. “Not unless he’s lost, comin’ from that direction.” He took a brass spyglass out of his saddlebag and held it up to his eye. “I don’t recognize any of them. But them dogs sure look mean. We best give them a wide berth.” He passed the telescope to Trap.

O’Shannon caught his breath when he moved the metal tubes into focus. The only reason Tobias Drum would ride this far south with a group of hard cases like the Van Zandts and their vicious dogs was to hunt someone who’d left without permission. The only person he knew with enough guts to run away from the school was Maggie Sundown.

* * *

The two boys backed down the hill and watched Drum and his men move methodically through the groves of nut trees. One of the striped dogs kept his nose to the ground and tracked, the other, the bigger one, sniffed the air. Even from a distance, Trap could see the animal was a mean one, capable of tearing an unarmed man to shreds.

It took an hour for Drum and his group to move far enough away that Trap considered it safe to approach the trail below.

Trap dismounted and looped Skunk’s reins around a low limb of scrub oak. Clay remained in the saddle, keeping watch.

“This Indian girl you’re looking for,” Madsen said. “If she knew you were comin’ back for her, why’d she take to the woods like this?”

Trap knelt and touched the ground, studying the tracks left by the Drum and the others. A fifth set of tracks caught his attention. Most of the hoofprints had been walked over by the others, but a few were still visible.

“Drum must have forced her hand after I left.” Trap didn’t think he’d ever be able to talk about Maggie with the same easy detail Clay used to speak about women. He tapped the loose soil with his fingers. “I’m betting this is her horse. It’s dragging its toes like it’s getting tired. She’d likely ran it a good ways before she got here. The way it’s movin’, I’d say it’s picked up a stone in the forefoot.”

Trap stood and led Skunk toward the shallow stream. “She would have dismounted and gotten the stone out.”

“This Maggie girl must know her horses,” Madsen said. He threw back his hat and slid a hand over his thick, chocolate hair. “I believe I’d like to meet her someday.”

Trap looked up and shielded his eyes from the low sun with the flat of his hand. “Sounds like you got women a-plenty from all the stories you tell. I only got the one. I’d be much obliged if you didn’t try to steal her.”

Madsen gave him a good-natured grin. “I may not have to try. She’s likely to fall into my arms all on her own.”

Trap stood and studied the tracks at his feet beside a leaning cottonwood. Two moccasin prints straddled a damp spot in the earth where Maggie had made water. He didn’t tell Clay; it seemed too private a thing to talk about out loud.

The thought of Drum and the others chasing her gnawed hard at Trap’s gut, but another, more sobering thought filled him with a feeling he’d never quite experienced. It was the same feeling he’d had as he contemplated Maggie’s toes earlier, only multiplied until he felt his insides might burst.

She was not only running away from the school. Maggie Sundown was running to him.

CHAPTER 17

Maggie used a rock to kill a fat grouse just before sunset. Fearful of being seen if she started a fire, she hung the bird on her saddle string and rode on. She wanted to keep riding throughout the night, but her horse stumbled more often now and groaned for a rest at every step. He was a lanky beast not cut out for this type of labor, and Maggie knew he would lose flesh rapidly if she didn’t give him plenty of time to graze.

The trees began to thin out not long after sunset. Here and there a lamp flickered in the window of some farmhouse, but Maggie was careful to steer clear of those. She turned more south to keep to thicker country, and was relieved when the forests began to come back. Guided by the stars and little more than the feeling inside her, she worked her way southwest until midnight. A crescent moon cast black pools of shadow among the trees and bushes.

The weary gelding jerked to a twitchy stop as something crashed through the bushes in the thicket to the right ahead of them and splashed in the water on the other side. Maggie leaned forward in the saddle and patted the horse’s neck. A warm wind blew across her face.

The darkness and unseen noises might have frightened a lesser girl, but Maggie had been chased by the Army, shot at, clubbed on the head with a pistol, and assaulted by Reverend Drum. Worse, she’d had to watch while her once-proud people were conquered. Few things in the night were as frightening as that.

* * *

Maggie dismounted under the protection of a large cottonwood, loosened the girth, and let the saddle slide to the ground. Her bones ached from the constant pounding of riding over rough terrain. The brown gelding nosed her hand and gave a rattling groan. She blew softly into its nose and hummed a soothing tune her mother used to sing when she worked around horses.

Maggie used her knife to cut a strip off the saddle blanket about three inches wide. She knotted one end, and after cutting a slit like a button hole in the middle and the opposite end, wove the cloth back and forth through itself to make a set of figure-eight hobbles. The horse was sweat-stained and exhausted enough, it would likely stay near her little camp while it grazed, but she had to be sure.

Once the animal was watered, she turned it out, hobbled, and sank down at the base of a tree against the soft fleece pad on her saddle. She still didn’t want to risk a fire, but the weather was cool and the grouse would keep a while longer.

A breeze blew across her neck, and she reached up to smooth her hair. She’d forgotten Reverend Drum had ordered it cut. She hated the greasy man as much as she’d ever hated anyone. Her heart told her she’d have the chance to kill him someday. Not for cutting her hair or even what he did in his office—no, when next they met, Drum would surely give her a reason much more vile.

Leaning her head back against the rough bark on the tree, she gazed up at the myriad of stars that speckled white on the night sky, like the blanket on an Appaloosa horse.

She wondered if Trap O’Shannon would be surprised to see her—if she made it to Arizona. She wondered if he might be thinking of her at all since he left.

Drum would follow her, there was no doubt about that. She’d made good time, but he was close; she could feel it. The Thoroughbred needed rest; that was something she couldn’t get around. Without the big gelding she’d move so slowly, she was sure to be caught. But the horse also left an easy trail to follow. She had to do something to discourage her pursuers—to slow them down.

Her breathing came deep and steady as drowsiness tugged at her body. Asleep only a few seconds, she was startled awake by a familiar whistling grunt in the bushes beside her. When she figured out what it was she smiled, a plan already forming in her mind.

CHAPTER 18

“I’m not too keen on them dogs hearing us,” Clay whispered. Drops of dew covered the grass in front of their faces. A black and yellow spider the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece scuttled up and down the damp stems to repair a glistening web only inches from the Texan’s nose. He paid it no mind, concentrating instead on the brindle dogs below. “I got bit by a dog once when I was a boy and I gotta tell you, I’d rather be in a gunfight without a gun than go through that again.”

“Wind’s wrong,” Trap grunted beside him. “We’ve stayed well away so they won’t even cross our trail.”

The two boys watched from a thick stand of tall grass and berry brush on a chalk bluff above the river bottom. The sun had been up less than an hour when they saw Drum pick his way though a thin layer of fog that hugged the waterline. The Van Zandts followed, rifles at the ready, as if they were hunting escaped convicts instead of a fourteen-year-old Indian girl. The brindle dogs ranged in front of the group, padding up to this tree or that, pausing to sniff out every possible trail.

The small one took the lead, while the meaner one hung back a little.

“Looks like the monster’s waitin’ for his little buddy to flush out something for him to rip to pieces,” Clay whispered.

Trap nodded slowly. The morning felt so quiet, he didn’t dare speak.

Without warning the smaller dog, who sniffed at the base of a large cottonwood, let out a mournful howl and ran yelping back to Harry Van Zandt. The bigger dog broke into a ferocious snarling fit. It faced another tree, not ten feet away from the first along the water’s edge.

Trap’s heart jumped in his chest. He shot a glance at Clay. “I’m afraid she might be in those bushes. Wish we had a rifle.”

“We don’t need no rifle to shoot that little piece,” Clay scoffed. “I could part their hair with this peashooter at this distance if they try and do the girl any harm.”

The big dog suddenly tore up to the tree and pawed at the ground around it. Seconds later, it flipped over backward with a yowling cry, more wildcat than hunting dog. Regaining its feet, the yelping animal retreated to a dismayed master, tail between its legs.

Clay took up the telescope and studied the scene in more detail. He chuckled and passed it to Trap.

“She’s a smart one, this girl of yours,” Madsen whispered. “She must have got herself a porcupine last night and set some snares with the quills. Both dogs got a snootful. That little one looks to have three or four up around the eyes. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s blinded. The kid holding it looks mad as a hornet.”

* * *

Unable to move without being seen, Trap and Clay lay still in the grass and watched the scene below them. The Van Zandt boys were furious at the injuries to their pets. Their vehement curses and oaths carried on the stiff breeze, but it was impossible to make out more than a few words.

It took an hour to get all the quills out of both dogs. The monster bit Roth in the hand during the process, and they had to use a belt to muzzle the snarling thing. It took more time to doctor the wound.

In the end, the two brothers left with their injured little dog, while Mr. Van Zandt and Drum followed the monster up the trail that ran along the water.

Ten minutes later, Trap and Clay moved down to take a look at the sign. Five minutes of study and Trap began to chuckle. He swung back on his horse, shaking his head.

“They’re following the wrong trail,” he said. “You’re right, she is a smart girl.”

Madsen stood dumbfounded, holding the roan’s lead in his hand. “How do you know it’s the wrong trail?”

Trap smiled. “You ever have a dog mix it up with a porcupine?”

Madsen nodded.

“Could you ever break him of it?”

“I guess not,” the Texan admitted. “Seems like they get more quills each time they tangle with one. It’s like they hold a grudge or something.”

“Exactly. They get all caught up in a blind rage and can’t think of anything but revenge,” Trap said. “Drum’s relying too much on the dog.” He nodded back to the northeast. “There are rocks turned over in the water heading upriver. I reckon Maggie will go that way a spell before she turns back south.”

“If she headed back upriver, who’s the evil reverend followin’?”

“He’s following the dog.” Trap waited for Clay to make the connection.

A smile slowly spread across Clay’s face. “And the dog’s followin’ the porcupine where Maggie got the quills. . . .”

CHAPTER 19

1910
Montana

 

“You were some woman then and you’re some woman now, Maggie darlin’,” Clay said, bouncing his fist on top of the table. “I still don’t see why you didn’t take up with me all those years ago. . . .”

“Mr. O’Shannon, I’m amazed you didn’t shoot this scoundrel two days after you met,” Hanna said.

“He never had the need to.” Clay shrugged. “I can’t figure it out, but she picked him over big, strappin’ me.”

Hanna leaned forward on the table. “Clay was telling me you all rode from St. Louis to Arizona, dodging Comanche troubles, whiskey peddlers, and outlaws all the way. I suppose there were still buffalo back then.”

Trap nodded. “Some. Hide hunters had already made a good mark against them, but we ran across several sizable herds.” It was funny, but looking back, he’d been so focused on finding Maggie, he’d likely let half the country slip by him without really taking the time to notice it.

A blast of cold air tore through the narrow dining car when the conductor poked his head inside. His face was flushed, his hat dusted with snow.

“Sorry to bother you folks,” he panted as if he’d just run the length of the train. “But Mrs. Cobb, have you by chance seen that man you said looked ill earlier?”

Hanna shook her head. “It’s just us,” she said. “I’m hearing an awfully good story, though. You should take a rest and join us.”

“Wish I could,” the conductor said, setting his jaw. “But I need to find that fellow. I’ve had a bucketful of complaints on him, but he keeps giving me the slip.” The door shut as he withdrew his head to continue his search.

“Brrrr.” Hanna leaned across the table to take Clay’s hands. “It’s freezing in here. Come now, I still don’t know how you three got together and came to know your good Captain Roman. Finish telling me about how you got to Arizona. I wish I could have been there.”

“So does Clay.” Maggie grinned.

CHAPTER 20

1878
Arizona

 

“You ever notice how that gal of yours has a knack for pickin’ the routes with the best grass for her horse?” Clay let his boot swing free of the stirrups as if there weren’t a dozen rattlesnakes per square yard that might spook his horse and dump him on his hind parts. “You sure she hadn’t been this way before?”

Trap grunted. Over the past few weeks he’d grown accustomed to having Clay Madsen along, even come to count on him when they spotted signs of a Comanche raiding party or any of the dozen other dangers they faced on the trail. For the most part, the brash Texan was an easy keeper, content to yammer on about whatever might be running though his mind at the moment, happy to hear himself talk as long as Trap gave him an occasional grunt or nod to show he hadn’t gone to sleep.

Maggie had stayed south when she left Missouri, just nicking the northwest corner of Arkansas before she turned due west into Indian Territory.

Trap felt certain they would be able to catch her in the wide-open country of the Texas Panhandle, but she always stayed a step or two ahead. By the time they crossed into the high country in northern Arizona, Trap felt like they were getting close.

For weeks, there had been no sign of Drum or the remaining Van Zandt and his dog.

“You certain we’re still on her trail?” Clay asked the same question about every three days. Trap assumed it was when the boy’s mind ran dry and he needed time to reload new ammo for his dissertations. On these occasions Madsen required more than a grunt.

“Pretty certain,” Trap said. “She’s a sly one. I’m able to follow her, but I have to go slow. She’s an expert at blending in with game trails or old Indian roads.” He was on the ground now, looking at a spot where a set of new tracks joined Maggie’s in the red earth.

“Looks like a wagon,” Madsen said, nodding down from the back of his horse.

Trap nodded. “Stagecoach maybe. Whoever it is, there are three riders following it.” He ran his hand over the parallel lines in the ground.

“Maybe outriders,” Clay shrugged. “Guarding a payroll or something.”

“Maybe,” Trap said. He took off his hat and squinted at the blazing sun overhead. It beat down like an unrelenting forge. “Stage throws up a lot of dust. Look how it’s settled here in the wheel tracks and all of these hoofprints.” He toed another set of tracks off to the side. “Not as much dust in these. I’m thinking they came along sometime later. . . .”

A low whine echoed across the barren earth, barely audible behind a long jumble of red sandstone and cactus ahead on the trail. Clay and Trap looked at each other.

“What was that?” Trap said. He shaded his eyes with his hand and stared toward the rocks.

Clay gathered up the reins and speared both boots into the stirrups. “I ain’t certain,” he said. “But I think it was a gunshot.” His hand drifted toward the pistol at his belt.

So far, the boys had eluded contact with much of anyone but a stray cowboy or two. Following the gunshot was sure to change that.

Trap climbed back into the saddle. “Whatever it was, it came from the direction Maggie’s headed. Might as well check it out, we’re going that way anyway.”

* * *

The boys nearly stumbled onto the robbery before they knew what was going on. Trap drew his gelding to a skittering stop. Clay’s blue roan plowed into him from behind.

“. . . when we find an innocent girl out here all by her lonesome like this, we got to do somethin’ about it.” A raspy voice came from around the red rock outcrop in front of them.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it, our hands are tied,” another, higher voice cackled. “We got to do somethin’ about it. It’s almost a law out here.”

“I am Pilar de la Cruz,” a fiery female voice spit. “My father is Colonel Hernan de la Cruz of the Mexican cavalry. He will surely hunt you all down for this outrage. Poor Gerardo did nothing to deserve being shot.”

“Pilar de la-la-ti-da Cruz,” the cackling voice said again. “Ain’t that somethin’? We done captured the daughter of a real live Mexican cavalry colonel.”

“You boys shut up and drag her outta the coach,” another voice said. This one was calm and in complete control.

Trap looked at Clay and held up three fingers.

The Texan already had his pistol out. “It was four months last week since I left home. I guess I been good as long as can be expected. I’m sure wishin’ you had a gun about now,” he whispered.

Trap drew the bone-handled knife and took a better grip on the reins. “Me too,” he said. “What do you think? Can you shoot all three without hitting the girl?”

Clay shrugged. “I won’t know until we ride around the rock and take a look. For all we know, there could be another ten of them who haven’t said anything.”

“Stop it!” Pilar de la Cruz screamed. “Take your filty hands off me.”

“Careful, Buster, she’ll cut you,” the raspy voice snapped. There was a yowl from Buster and a laugh from the other men.

Trap set his teeth. Attacking at least three bandits with nothing but a knife in his hand was a foolish endeavor and he knew it, but he couldn’t very well let Clay do all the work by himself.

“That’s enough,” the calm voice said. “You listen to me, your little highness; I don’t give a mule’s dirty ass if your daddy’s the potentate of your stinkin’ greaser country, you got no choice in the matter. My compadres are in need of a little company.” The voice grew in volume and timbre as he spoke. “Now get out of the damned coach or I’ll shoot you in the gut. It won’t bother the boys a speck if you got a little hole in your belly.”

Clay settled his hat firmly. “I do believe I’ll shoot that one first,” he whispered.

As the two boys gathered their reins to charge, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air high in the sandstone above them. Trap shivered in spite of himself. The cry came again, echoing like a banshee scream from one of his father’s stories, through the cactus and sheer cliffs above them. Trap fully expected to see either the devil himself or a whole party of Apache warriors swoop down at any moment.

The black gelding bolted around the rock in the excitement and Madsen’s roan followed.

Three men stood by the coach. One of them went for the pistol at his belt and Madsen sent a bullet through his chest. The pistol slipped out of his hand and he tumbled out of the saddle as his wild-eyed horse squirted out from under him. Trap grabbed the animal’s reins as it went past.

The remaining two men stood with their hands above their heads, frozen in time on the ground beside the coach and their intended victim. Dressed like gamblers, they looked out of place in clothes too fancy for desert travel. Closer inspection showed their dirty faces and hands didn’t quite match up with the rest of the outfits they’d likely stolen from unsuspecting travelers on the trail.

When the men saw they were being faced by two boys, they both relaxed a notch. The one nearest Clay grinned.

“What do you aim to do now, kid? You think you can take both of us before one of us gets you?” He tipped his head toward Trap, then shot a nervous glance at the rock above. Beads of sweat dotted his grizzled upper lip. “Your partner there don’t even have a gun. And even if you do kill us, you’ll still have them Apache to deal with.”

Clay kept the pistol pointed at the pair. Trap slid a Winchester out of the dead outlaw’s saddle scabbard, worked the lever, and leveled it at the rough talker.

Clay sighed. “We just can’t let you boys bother a poor innocent girl out here all by her lonesome like this.” He mimicked the man’s gravel voice. “Our hands are tied, you no-account bastards.” Clay dipped his head. “Señorita de la Cruz, I apologize for my harsh choice of words there.”

The Mexican girl smiled. “Think nothing of it, kind sir.”

Trap heard a skittering of rocks from above and chanced a look. In the low sun, he could just make out a shadowed form working its way down a narrow trail. When the lone form dropped below the rim and into the shadows, he could see it was no Apache war party.

It was Maggie.

“Don’t look now, boys,” the outlaw with the cackling voice whispered. “But the Injuns are sending a squaw down to cut our cojones off. Shoot me if you have to, but I aim to kill me at least one more redskin before I die.” He grabbed for the pistol at his belt.

The man’s head exploded like a ripe melon and Trap levered another shell in the Winchester. The second outlaw got his gun out and ran for the safety of the coach. Both boys cut him down and he pitched headlong into the sand.

When the smoke cleared, one horse was down and bleeding in the traces while another wild-eyed beast stood blowing and shaking beside its fallen companion. Three outlaws lay dead on the ground. An ashen-faced Pilar de la Cruz trembled as badly as the surviving horse.

Clay saw to comforting the young woman while Trap spurred his gelding over the rocks and dismounted. Maggie slid down the mountain and into his arms.

The shock of finally seeing her mingled with the feeling in his gut. He’d never killed anyone before, and it made him go hollow inside at the thought of it. Then he looked at Maggie and the hollowness filled up to overflowing.

CHAPTER 21

“Your hair,” Trap said. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of Maggie’s hand.

She gave him a self-conscious smile and ran her fingers through her short locks. “Drum decided I needed to look more like a white woman.” The smile faded and she set her jaw. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll not cut it again. Not for Drum, not for anyone. I’d die first.”

“Oh, Maggie darlin’,” Clay said from the coach where he’d sidled up to a dazed Pilar de la Cruz. “You say that now, but poor ol’ Trap would rather have you plumb baldheaded as not to have you at all.”

Trap nodded toward Madsen. “He says pretty much whatever pops into his mind.”

“Well, it’s the damned truth and you know it.” Clay pretended to sulk for a moment, but couldn’t keep it up with Pilar at his arm. “Your little friend is not near as talkative as I am, but believe me, he’s easy to read when it comes to you. We been trackin’ you for so long now I feel like I know you already.”

Maggie’s dark eyes glistened. “You were tracking me?” She looked back and forth from Clay to Trap.

“Doggone right he was tracking you,” Clay said. “This boy’s like a danged hound when it comes to findin’ you.”

A party of six Mexicans in civilian dress clattered over the sandstone with rifles drawn and wary looks on their faces. They rode with the tight formality of soldiers. Pilar put her arm around Clay to show he was friendly and waved at a young man in the lead. He had a thin mustache and brooding black eyes. A wide sombrero fell back on a leather string around his shoulders. He kept his gun trained on Clay and appeared to want to shoot him on general principles.

“Norman,” Pilar cried. She spoke to him in rapid Spanish.

Norman reined his bald-faced sorrel to a clattering stop. He lowered his rifle grudgingly after Pilar repeated herself.

“I told him you saved my life,” she said out of the corner of her beautiful mouth. “May I present Captain Norman Francisco Garza of my father’s cavalry command. They are my escorts on my trip to the United States.”

Garza dipped his head slightly and spoke to Pilar in Spanish. His tone was polite, but strained.

Trap’s mother spoke Spanish and he’d learned a little as a child. From what he could pick out of the conversation, Pilar had slipped away from the rest of the group to do some exploring on her own. The captain could barely contain his anger and embarrassment that his charge had gotten away from him and almost gotten herself killed.

Trap wondered if Clay could see this man harbored strong feelings for the commander’s daughter. If he did, it didn’t slow him down.

Madsen stuck out his hand. “Clay Madsen out of Bastrop, Texas,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain Garza. I assume you will be escorting the young lady back to safety. I’d be happy to accompany you and assist if . . .”

“That will be most unnecessary, Señor.” Captain Garza turned to Pilar. “Señorita de la Cruz, we must be going. Your father expects us back in three days time. I do not wish to disappoint him.” He broke into clipped Spanish again and Pilar nodded her head.

“Might I see you again, Señor Madsen?” she said while Garza’s men tended to the body of the fallen driver, cut the dead horse from the traces, and hitched one of the saddle horses to the coach.

“I’ll be in Arizona for some time, I believe,” Clay said. He took her hand in his and gently kissed the back of it. Trap marveled at the simple act and wondered how Madsen knew to do such a thing. “I would say you can count on seeing me again, ma’am. Wild horses or a whole unit of Mexican cavalry couldn’t keep me away.”

Pilar smiled and handed him a slip of paper. “Perfecto.” The words clicked off her tongue. “You may find me at this address. Please consider this a formal invitation to come call on my father and me at any time you find convenient.”

Garza spurred his horse up and opened the coach door from the saddle. “Pilar,” he said curtly, holding the door ajar. The stern look he gave Clay Madsen was as much a challenge as Pilar’s little scrap of paper had been an invitation.

* * *

Clay fell into a blue depression as soon as Pilar and her entourage rumbled out of sight. He vowed to hunt her as hard as Trap had hunted Maggie—a feat that shouldn’t prove too difficult since he had her address.

Only the sight of the dead outlaws’ firearms helped bring the young cowboy out of his love-struck stupor. He stood beside a dusky, jug-headed horse and picked through the saddle kit. He whistled under his breath when he slid a rifle out of its sheepskin scabbard.

“I do believe this is the most handsome rifle I’ve ever set my eyes on.” Madsen ran a hand over the rich wooden stock. “A .45-90 buffalo Sharps. You can shoot .45-70s out of these too.” He threw the gun up to his shoulder and sighted down the thirty-two-inch barrel. “I feel like we just saved her from a life of crime.” He cocked his head to one side, like he was trying to drain something out of his ear.

Trap looked at Maggie. “He does that sometimes when he’s thinking on something important.” Through all the talk, he’d not moved an inch from her side.

“Seems like a good man.” Maggie giggled at the funny faces Clay made while he pondered. “How long has he been with you?”

“I’ve got it.” Madsen slapped his leg and let his head bob back to a more natural angle. “I’ll call her Clarice.” He held the rifle up to Trap and Maggie. “She weighs as much as a small pony, but I always did like my lady friends on the beefy side.”

Clay lowered the gun slowly and stared into the pink glow in the west. The drawn look of melancholy washed over his face again. There was a catch in his voice. “You ever feel like you’re riding off from your one true love?”

Trap looked at Maggie and smiled.

“I guess I have,” he said.

CHAPTER 22

Van Zandt squatted next to his brindle dog and let a handful of sand sift through his fingers. “She ain’t far now,” he said, spitting a slurry of tobacco juice onto the ground. Remnants of the brown goo dribbled down his chin.

“That’s the same song you’ve been singing for the past three weeks.” Drum took off his hat and mopped his brow with a dirty rag from his back pocket. His oily look had taken on a wilted appearance, like a piece of fatty bacon left too long in grease not quite hot enough to cook it.

Van Zandt rubbed his dog behind the ears. “Ol’ Zip knows we’re close. Tracks don’t stay too long in this wind and sand. If we don’t get ourselves kilt by Apaches, we should have her by tomorrow night.” He squinted up at Drum. “How do you aim to get her back to Missouri once we catch her?”

Drum patted the thick leather reins against his thigh and thought about his answer. Take her back after all this? That was a funny notion. He’d be lucky if the church would let him return at all after he left without giving any notice. Of course, that idiot Mrs. Tally had surely given a full report of what she’d seen, no doubt blowing everything out of proportion as if Maggie Sundown was a white girl.

The sun throbbed against Drum’s head with a vengeance and threatened to boil his brain. He squinted through the endless waves of sand and stone and heat and tried to keep his eyes from crossing. He’d sweated through his clothes many times over, and his rump was chaffed raw from weeks in the saddle on a gimpy horse.

This little Indian tramp had not only run off with his favorite horse. She’d stolen his career, his comfortable life, and his reputation. No, she’d not be going back to the school. Neither of them would.

Drum had seen the fight in the girl’s eyes before, when she’d bitten him. It warmed him inside to think of it. He hoped she fought again this time. It would make what he planned to do all the sweeter. And, in the end, it would make it easier to kill her.

CHAPTER 23

A day south of old Fort Defiance, Trap decided he wanted to buy Maggie a new dress. A passing stranger, likely a deserting soldier, had told them there was a town a few hours ahead. They were still a few days out of Camp Apache, but Trap didn’t know how many opportunities he’d have to buy anything like that. From what he’d seen of the frontier, new clothes and shops to buy them in were seriously lacking.

Maggie insisted her faded skirt only needed time with a needle and thread to render it good as new, but Trap showed he’d inherited his father’s Scots-Irish resolution and insisted right back that she was getting a new dress. If she wanted to mend the old one, then she’d have two.

Of course, he had no idea how much such a thing might cost. He had a few dollars of the money his mother had given him, and figured he could get a little more for the extra pistols he and Clay had taken from the dead outlaws.

Buying Maggie a dress seemed like a good idea, but leaving her to do it, even for a minute, was like pulling out a perfectly good tooth. Trap held her hand from the back of his horse, looking down at her eyes.

“Jeez-o’-Pete,” Clay said from atop his own gelding, stirrup-to-stirrup with Trap. “You two beat all I ever seen. She’s made it by herself across half the country. I reckon she’ll survive one afternoon without us.”

Trap let his fingers slide away.

“We should be back before dark,” he said. “You keep the Winchester with you.”

“Clay is right,” Maggie said. “Everything will be fine. There is a nice pool down at the river. I’ll have a cool bath while you are gone.”

“Well, then.” Madsen winked. “That changes things. I reckon I oughta stay around and see to your safety after all.”

Trap took off his hat and slapped Clay’s horse on the rump. The startled roan jumped forward and broke into a fast walk toward town. “She needs protection from you. Let’s get gone so we can get back.”

Trap looked over his shoulder as he urged his horse into a trot. He wondered if it would always make him so sick when he rode away from this woman.

* * *

Maggie watched the boys ride into the swaying waves of desert heat. It didn’t take them long to disappear among the Joshua trees and barrel cactus. She rubbed the sweat out of her eyes and sighed. Her memories of the cool mountain air of the Wallowa Valley tugged at her heart—but her future lay with Trap O’Shannon. If he was to go to Arizona, that’s where she would go as well.

A new dress seemed a silly extravagance, but she supposed it would be nice to look her best when next she met the Reverend and Mrs. O’Shannon alongside their son.

It felt strange to be alone again after days with the two boys. Trap was quiet for the most part, but Clay Madsen spoke enough for all three of them. Maggie walked toward the line of shimmering acacia trees that lined the riverbank. The catclaw thorns on just such trees were responsible for most of the rips on her shredded skirt.

She smiled to herself at the thought of the fun-loving Texan. As quiet as Trap was, it was easy to tell he possessed strong feelings for her. Clay flirted constantly, but it was obvious he loved all womankind—the one he was with at the moment just a little more than all the rest.

Black streaks lined the red sandstone cliffs that towered over the slow-moving river like a castle wall and provided a comfortable shade from the midday sun. Long strands of lime-green moss swayed like hair in the lazy current where the river widened into an emerald pool in the mountain’s shadow.

Maggie took a quick look around and leaned the Winchester against a low bush of salt cedar at the water’s edge so she could get to it in a hurry if she had to. She hung her medicine bag beside the rifle before slipping nimbly out of her skirt and pulling her loose blouse over her head. Her knee-high moccasins came off last, and she hung them across a low branch. It was a tactic she’d learned the hard way to discourage scorpions and other stinging crawlers from making a home in the dark recesses of her tattered footgear.

Naked on the bank, she let the hot breeze blow across her skin while she inspected the ragged clothes. Miles in the saddle and countless nights sleeping on the ground had taken their toll. Cactus and acacia brush had ripped the threadbare garments in countless spots. Maybe the new dress wasn’t such a bad idea. She carried her old clothes into the water with her. Hopefully, they would stand up to one more good washing.

The water was warm, a refreshing contrast to the blazing air, the rock bed slick with moss. Gradually, she waded deeper into the stream until she had to hop to keep her head above water. Letting her legs come up, she floated on her back and gazed at the perfect blue sky while she kicked slowly across the deep pool. She was happy to be alone with her thoughts until Trap returned—happy to make herself feel and smell clean for him.

With her ears underwater she couldn’t hear the rocks skitter down the red sandstone bluff above.

Two ravens circle overhead, cawing and playing with one another like the tricksters they were. Suddenly, one of the birds dipped its wings and plummeted straight for her. Inches above the water, the raven pulled out of its dive and flew to the acacia tree beside her rifle.

Startled, Maggie sat up to tread water. She brushed a lock of wet hair out of her eyes. The bird cawed again, then turned its head sideways and blinked a shining black eye.

A hot wind rippled the water in front of her, sending a wave of goose flesh over her body. Something was wrong.

Two strong kicks took her to the shore. Dripping wet, she picked up the Winchester and scanned the shadows among the bushes and rocks before she wriggled into her wet clothes one arm at a time.

The raven flew to a nearby mesquite and began to preen while its mate soared among the cliffs above.

Water dripped from Maggie’s hair and ran down her spine beneath her shirt. A familiar feeling tugged at her chest, as if she had walked through a spiderweb. She nodded her thanks to the bird for its warning and backed slowly into the trees.

Someone was out there, watching her.

CHAPTER 24

Trap had the skinny Mexican girl at the mercantile wrap the new dress in brown paper and string. He figured Maggie hadn’t been able to open too many presents in her life, and thought she might enjoy it. It took a few minutes to pry Clay away from his flirting, but after a quick trip to the dry-goods store for a few supplies, the boys were on their way back to camp.

Trap was anxious to get back, and kept his horse to a trot. He would have galloped if he hadn’t been afraid the heat would kill his horse.

Skunk’s ears perked up a half mile away from the river. Trap felt the little gelding tighten its gait, and scanned the area ahead. If he’d learned anything in his short life away from civilization, it was to trust his mount’s instincts. He shot a glance at Clay, who was neck-deep in a convoluted story about his plans to ride to Mexico and marry Pilar de la Cruz.

Madsen stopped in mid-sentence. “What’s wrong, partner? Looks like you just swallowed a bug.”

“Can’t tell.” Trap gave the gelding its head.

Both horses slid to a stop in the trees beside the remains of Maggie’s small fire. The pungent smell of cedar smoke hung heavy in the still air. Trap swung a leg over the saddle horn and hopped to the ground. His voice was tight as a skin drum.

“I shouldn’t have left her.”

“Aw, she’s likely just enjoying her little bath,” Clay said from the back of his roan. He raised his dark eyebrows up and down. “I’d be happy to go check on her.”

Trap squatted and studied the petite moccasin tracks that led through the dark portal of acacias along the river. “We been gone a good while. I can’t see her taking a bath that . . .”

The sharp crack of a Winchester creased the hot evening air. It came from the river.

Trap was back in the saddle in a flash. Clay drew his pistol and the boys spurred their horses into the trees.

A dead man lay facedown in the water, legs bobbing in the current, his hands clawed at the bunchgrass along the rocky bank. Blood oozed from a wound underneath him and mingled with the green moss. A brindle dog lay a few feet away. A shotgun blast had torn the animal in half. Blood streaked the rock and grass where the mortally wounded animal had tried in vain to drag itself to the dead man in the water. A swarm of flies buzzed around the dog’s shining entrails and the man’s open eyes. Neither had been dead very long.

“Van Zandt,” Trap said in a tight whisper.

Clay scanned the waterline, his eyes following his pistol. “Yeah, I recognize that mean critter layin’ dead beside him. Glad I don’t have to fret over him anymore. I reckon that means Drum’s lurkin’ around here somewhere.”

Trap nodded, walking along the river’s edge in search of tracks. “Van Zandt got it with a shotgun. Maggie only had the Winchester.”

“Drum killed his own man?”

“Here.” Trap found the cloudy boot prints in the slow-moving water where Drum had crossed. He swung back on his horse and splashed across, keeping his eyes on the water. “Clay,” he said without looking up. “I’d be much obliged if you’d keep your eyes peeled and see that I don’t get shot while I figure out where Maggie went.”

Madsen gave a curt nod. “I’m hurt you thought I’d do anything else. Be happy to kill that son of a bitch Drum for you too.”

“If he’s harmed Maggie, there won’t be anything of him left for you to kill.”

Two hundred yards downriver, past the swimming hole, they heard voices coming through the trees. Trap dismounted and motioned silently for Clay to follow suit. The boys tied their horses and crept forward on foot.

The evening was already warm, but Trap’s mind burned at the thought of any harm coming to Maggie. All he’d wanted to do over the last few months, all he’d thought about was to find and protect her. Now, he was afraid he’d failed.

Dwarf willows and salt cedar grew thick along the sandy bank. Drum’s deep voice filtered through the coarse foliage.

“. . . you really believed you could get away from me, you filthy little whore? Well, let me tell you something. When a woman makes eyes at me the way you did, I know what she wants. . . .” His voice was strained and breathy.

Maggie screamed.

“Go on and yell your fool head off.” Drum laughed manically. “There’s nobody out here to save you.”

Trap had heard enough. He crashed through the trees with Clay tight on his heels. What he saw was like a kick to his stomach.

Maggie’s shirt hung from her shoulders. Drum knelt on top of her, pinning both arms up above her head with a powerful left hand. His right gripped cruelly at her face, pinching her cheeks into a pitiful grimace.

Her screams came out in a muffled groan and she arched her back, trying to throw him off. He was a big man and as feisty as she was, Maggie was no match for him in strength. Blood oozed from a jagged bite wound on her neck. The ground was plowed around them. Her bare feet bled from her kicks and struggles.

Trap felt Clay bring up the pistol on his left. He raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t want you to have to live with this one,” he heard himself say.

Trap’s bone-handled knife hissed from the sheath and he flew at Drum with a fury he’d never known. A brutal kick to the big man’s ribs sent him flying off Maggie with a whoof as the air left his lungs. Trap heard bones crack, but Drum lashed out with a powerful hand and swiped him off his feet. Buoyed by rage, the boy rolled quickly and was on his feet in an instant.

Maggie ripped away the remainder of her torn blouse and moved in with him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Blood from her nose and the wound at her neck covered her heaving chest. A blade gleamed in her hand.

“Good Lord,” Clay gasped.

Drum lay on his side, panting and clutching his injured ribs. His eyes grew wide when he saw the knives. He shot a glance at the shotgun ten feet away, then raised a hand to ward off the attack, trying to push himself to his knees.

It was too late.

Trap and Maggie fell on him as one, a flash of steel, blood, and teeth—a flurry of black hair, bronze skin, and righteous indignation.

It was over as fast as it had begun.

* * *

“Van Zandt wanted him to share me. Drum didn’t feel like sharing.” Maggie stooped to clean her knife and hands in the river. “I guess I need another bath.”

Trap stood beside her. They were both covered in blood. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was distant in his head, as if it were coming from someone else’s mouth.

Maggie used a bit of her torn shirt to dab some blood out of his eye. It didn’t appear to bother her that she was naked from the waist up. “He never got to do anything but bite me.” She touched the same piece of cloth to the crescent-shaped wound below her ear. “I hid in the trees as long as I could. I knew you would make it back in time.” Her eyes sparkled in the low light. Her bare shoulders trembled, but she didn’t cry.

Clay Madsen, who talked about naked women more than any single thing in the world, took off his own shirt and held it out to Maggie. “You need this more than I do, Maggie darlin’,” he whispered gently. For all his talk, he kept his eyes pointed at the ground. He shook his head, his face a little on the pale side. “You two beat all. I seen of some strange ways of con-summatin’ a relationship in my short years, but I ain’t never even heard of anything quite so unifyin’ as two lovebirds fighting side by side to hack a common enemy to pieces.”

CHAPTER 25

1910
Idaho

 

The train chugged over Lookout Pass a little before noon, belching thick clouds of smoke and steam, a long black snake against a white backdrop. It lumbered slowly through the deep snow, and the engineer made frequent stops to clear downed trees or heavy drifts in the narrow canyons.

The passengers were used to such stops and starts, so when gears ground and wheels squealed against wet tracks and they began to slow, hardly anyone gave it a second thought.

“We oughta be getting into Mullan anytime,” Clay said. His eyes sparkled with the memories of their conversation. “I could use a little stretch. How about . . .”

The throaty boom outside the train cut him short. Trap shot a worried look at Clay, then at his wife.

“Was that what I think it was?” Hanna’s green eyes went wide.

Trap stood, his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Let’s move away from the window until we figure out what’s going on out there.” He took a black pistol from under his coat and gave it to Maggie. “We’ll be right back.”

Clay gave Hanna a peck on the nose. “Stay with Maggie.”

* * *

They met the red-faced conductor stepping back inside the door.

“What’s the news?” Clay put a hand up to stop the blustering man. “Somebody get shot?”

“Not as of yet.” The beefy conductor’s face glowed red, more from a brush with death than the cold. His chin quivered a little as if he might start to sob at any moment. “There’s a mob of men out there threatening to shoot anyone who gets off the train.” He took his hat off and ran a hand over a sweating scalp. “This has been one hell of a day: a phantom passenger, that high-toned Baker woman, and now I almost get my head blown off. I don’t get paid enough for all this.”

“Did they give you a reason?” Trap needed answers, not a bunch of talk about the conductor’s bad day at work.

The man scoffed. “Said they had orders to keep us on the train to protect the good citizens of Idaho.” He scuttled past in the narrow hallway, eager to get the train moving again.

Clay put his hand on the door handle and shot a grin at Trap. “I was lookin’ forward to wettin’ my whistle in Mullan. Shall we see what’s eatin’ these folks?”

“Move slow so they don’t get antsy with that scattergun,” Trap said. “I don’t like the idea of buryin’ two friends on one trip.”

“You always were the brains of this outfit,” Clay said as he pushed open the door.

A cold blast of air hit them full in the face. A bellowing order followed.

“We mean business,” a gruff voice shouted from the tree line. “I’ll cut down the first man who steps off that train.”

Clay held both hands out the door. “We’re not armed.”

“I don’t give a ding-dong damn.”

Clay turned to Trap and shrugged. “Never heard that one before.” He shouted back out the door. “You want to tell us what’s got into you folks? Mullan used to be a right hospitable place.”

“We got orders from the United States marshal to keep all of you on that train. Deputized me over the phone, he did.” The voice was pinched, as if the speaker had a hand caught in a vise.

“The marshal?” Trap began to chew the inside of his cheek, wondering how Blake might fit into all this.

“That’s right. So you best stay on that train just like I tell you and nobody’ll get hurt.”

“You allowed to tell us why?” Clay always sounded like he was in charge—mainly because he believed he always was.

A buzzing silence followed while the men at the tree line conferred with each other. Finally, the leader spoke up again. “We’re supposed to keep you on this train until a deputy gets here from Montana this evenin’. Somebody on your train has the smallpox.”

“Smallpox?” Clay pushed the door open and put his foot on the top step. “Do I look like I have smallpox?”

The roar of a shotgun split the cold air. A splattering of snow kicked up on the ground twenty feet away.

Clay moved back in the doorway beside Trap. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m not gettin’ off the train.”

He slammed the door shut behind him.

“Good thing he fired another warning shot.” Trap smirked and let out a tense sigh.

“I don’t believe it was a warnin’.” Clay winked. “I reckon that ol’ boy just didn’t know the shotgun would shoot so low at that distance. You think Blake is the one comin’?”

“A deputy from Montana . . .” Trap mused. “The chances are good. I guess we’ll have to wait and see. I want to get back to Maggie as quick as we can.” Waiting was something Trap was never good at.

“Know what you mean,” Clay whispered, digesting the news. “I should check on Hanna.”

“A word with you, sir!” a low voice said from the wood-paneled aisle behind them.

“Me?” Trap said, turning. He relaxed his shoulders, ready to block a punch.

A broad man with wire glasses and a thick neck stood square in the middle of their path. The sleeves on his white shirt were rolled up to reveal thick forearms and huge hands. “No, not you. I’ll deal with your issue later. I’m looking to settle with this man here.” He nodded his balding head at Madsen.

“Are you Mr. Baker, the postmaster of Dillon, Montana?” Clay moved up beside Trap, shouldering in front of him slightly.

“I am.”

“Well, sir, that’s impressive, a real live, honest-to-goodness postmaster.” Clay fawned, bringing both hands up to his face as if he was smitten with a bad case of puppy love. “Now . . .” Madsen’s face grew dark. He let his hands fall to his side. “We have business elsewhere and you’re in our way. I’ll ask you once to step aside. I hope you heard me because I said once.”

Baker’s eyes flamed. He wasn’t going anywhere. “You, sir, were extremely ungentlemanly toward my . . .”

Clay’s right hand shot out and connected with Baker’s nose. The man’s glasses shattered, then swung from one ear. Blood covered his lips and chin. He swayed for a moment, blinking, then pitched across the back of a padded bench.

“Now, that’s what I wanted to do to his wife.” Clay smirked. He rubbed the back of his hand, grimacing when he touched his knuckle. “Damn, those postmasters sure have hard faces in Dillon, Montana.”

* * *

Sidney, the waiter brought four coffees and set them on the table. Jittery about the prospect of smallpox, but resigned to a long wait, the passengers were circumspect. Every seat in the dining car was full, but conversations were hushed and tense. Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t you think Mr. Baker will come for you again?” Hanna said. She was sitting beside Clay now and Trap was next to Maggie.

“I hope so.” Clay grinned. “Hate to leave anything unfinished. Trap and I were in a hurry to get back to you beautiful womenfolk so I didn’t have time to do things proper.”

Trap lifted his coffee, eager to change the subject. “Here’s to Hezekiah Roman, the best captain a man could have.”

Clay clinked his cup against Trap’s. “You got that right, partner.”

“So you joined the Army and got assigned to Roman’s Scout Trackers after you made it to Arizona?”

“Not exactly.” Clay shot a knowing glance at Trap. “We didn’t meet up with him for some time—and the Scout Trackers didn’t even exist before us. We were the first.”

Hanna peered across her cup at Maggie as she took a sip. “But you and Trap got married as soon as you got to Fort Apache?”

“Not for a while,” Maggie said. “And Camp Apache wasn’t even a fort yet. It was still just a pile of buildings and squad huts.”

“This is all so fascinating. Here you are taking your captain—your dear friend—back to his wife in Arizona to be buried—that’s an extraordinary friendship.”

“Ky Roman was an extraordinary man,” Maggie sighed. “When Trap went out under his command, I knew things would be all right.”

“I should write down all those stories you told me.” Hanna leaned her head against Clay’s shoulder and sighed. “A half-Apache tracker, his beautiful Nez Percé wife, a stalwart Mormon captain, and a handsome Texan who flirts with everything in petticoats . . .”

Clay let the comment about his past indiscretions slide. “It was a moment in time, Hanna, darlin’. When the Scout Trackers were up and runnin’, we were a force to be reckoned with . . . and the force behind us was Captain Hezekiah Roman.”

“Tell me more,” Hanna said.

Trap shrugged. “I’ll leave the storytellin’ to Clay. He’s got a way of making tales considerably more interesting than they really were.”

Hanna snuggled down in her shawl, like a child getting tucked in for her nightly bedtime story. “I’ve read my last good book,” she said. “What else is there to do on such a chilly afternoon?”

Clay grinned down at her through narrow, wolfish eyes. “I can think of a thing or two.”

“You hush,” she said. “Now, go ahead and start telling. I’m waiting. . . .”