Abby awoke when she heard Yahnai, Isaac, and Riddle return from the store. Still groggy, she wondered for a moment if she were dreaming. Yahnai jumped on the bed and wrapped his arms around her. His touch was better than any dream.
“Oh, I’ve missed you!” She sat up to soak in his warmth, the smell of his clean skin, and the sight of his bright eyes.
“We bought you a dress,” Yahnai said.
Isaac held up a maroon-colored gown, which was far nicer than anything she owned. It was almost as nice as the yellow dress she’d worn while with Scooter.
“Uncle Isaac bought me some paper and a pencil!” Yahnai said, and he promptly plopped down on the floor and began drawing. She remembered the last time he’d drawn that way—before the winter camp and all of the horror. It melted the tension and fear in her heart, and she felt that spring had surely come. In that moment, it occurred to her that she’d never have to give Yahnai up again, even for winter camp.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry,” Isaac said. He wore a new, crisp red shirt.
“Famished.”
“Is famished the same as hungry?” Yahnai asked without looking up.
Abby laughed. “Yes. Famished is the same as hungry.”
“Change clothes, and we’ll eat,” Isaac said. “The restaurant is next door.”
“Not there,” Abby said. “Not with my bedsheets on the tables.”
He laughed. “There’s another restaurant up the street.”
“I have money,” she said, retrieving the gold coin from her pocket. “I can buy.”
He looked surprised. “What money?”
“Scooter gave me this,” she said with a trace of malice. “Just like the one Carl and Winny have. It was a gift. But now I’d like to get rid of it. It’ll just remind me of him.” She fought the urge to run her fingers over it, to think of Scooter’s kisses.
“Very well,” he said happily as he took the coin. He gave her a thin-lipped grin and winked his sharp hazel eyes. “Now, you put on that dress. I’ll wait outside.”
Abby changed her clothes while Yahnai continued to color. She noticed that he was drawing a picture of their home in Franklin. Straightening her hair as best she could, she tried not to remember Scooter and focused on Isaac’s kindness. Her family was together again because of him. Nothing else mattered.
After the languor of the hotel room, the warm spring air was bracing. Freight wagons passed along the street as the trio walked to the restaurant. Abby thought about Scooter. His wagons wouldn’t be here until tomorrow.
Horsemen clad in various articles of Union-blue clothing clomped past. Abby took scant notice of them as they descended toward the creek, but suddenly something caught her eye. One man, seemingly surrounded by the others, had his back to her. Hair the color of the sun streamed from beneath a dark felt hat, just like Scooter’s. It couldn’t be him, of course. He was probably preparing to come into town the next day and sell his wares, lamenting the fact that his conquest had escaped his clutches.
The blue-clad men’s coarse talk and laughter reminded her of Cad. They passed along a brown bottle, taking long swigs. A few of them seemed to speak louder with every swig. One said, “We should have left a big tree instead of cuttin’ ’em all down.”
“We don’t need a tree. We’ll build our own gallows.”
“We could just shoot ’im and get it over with.”
“Naw. I want to see a hanging. A genuine hanging.”
Abby felt a chill. The level of civilization in Bannack City certainly wasn’t very high. The men had to be deserters. Worse men than those under the command of Colonel Connor. Was there no law here? Why the men were intent on hanging the man with blond hair was beyond her. Had the blond jumped one of their claims? Stolen gold? Cheated in a card game? In this lawless town, it could be anything.
Behind them, another man followed on a black horse. Red hair, matted, stringy, showing from beneath a funny hat. Cad?
Abby found the restaurant plain and unappealing. It was smoky and overcrowded. She could smell the sweat of the hardworking miners mingling with the smell of roasted and fried meats. There were kitchen noises and the sharp sounds of silverware on plates and the thump of cups going down on wooden tabletops. Customers had settled in at every table, like they were happy to linger over their meals despite the line of people waiting to be seated. Germans sat at one table, telling stories and singing about the Fatherland. Painted ladies sat at another, giggling. The other tables were full of miners and freighters. As soon as a table emptied, a little man with an unruly mass of dark hair cleared the wreckage of plates, cups, and utensils and sat impatient patrons there.
In a corner Abby caught the sight of seven men crowded around a table meant for four, all leaned back expansively on their chairs, enjoying themselves like they owned the place. They were all a little red in the face from the liquor they were consuming. Six of them were listening to the seventh. Abby saw why. The seventh man had a star pinned to his black shirt, easy to see—it had to be either the sheriff or one of his deputies. The other six men hunched forward, elbows on the tables, conspiratorial, nodding back and forth. A few minutes later, all seven men left. She wondered if she should warn him that a group of men was preparing a hanging just yards away. Somehow she doubted he would care.
Her food was served on a thick china plate. Maybe Scooter had brought them here. Each plate held a medium-sized steak, a pile of beans, a large mound of potatoes, and a smaller mound of fried onions. She drank water from a chipped glass. Her steak was tough, the beans average, but the potatoes and onions, from Utah Territory, were tasty. All in all, probably much better than the meal miners were getting in their grimy camps.
The sun was still out when they finished eating. But it was low in the sky, and the streets were in shadows. The dance hall was close to the creek, not far from Yankee Flat. Most miners walking toward it wore red, blue, or green flannel shirts with soft collars and neckties. A few wore suits, dragged out of trunks, aired, and pressed. Even fewer sported white shirts with stiffly starched fronts. Abby saw a few husbands and wives, even a few children. Everyone shuffled along at a happy pace.
“Do I have to dance?” Yahnai asked.
“Only if you want to,” she said.
“We’re going to celebrate,” Isaac said. “We’re all together again.”
Abby allowed Isaac to wrap his arms around her and give her a tight hug. She didn’t pull away. Locked arm in arm with Isaac and Yahnai, she floated toward the dance hall bounding with the rhythm of fiddle, banjo, and tambourine music.
“Why, hello. Are you folks new in town?”
The voice behind Abby was female and pleasant. Abby twirled to find a young lady wearing a brown calico dress. The man with her sported a blue suit foxed with buckskin. A silver badge reflected off his chest. She gave him a quizzical little glance. It was the same man she’d seen in the restaurant. He had changed clothes and expressions. There he’d been conniving. Right now he was relaxed, eyes full of fun.
Abby smiled her answer. “We’re from Utah Territory.”
“Why, I declare,” the young woman said. “We have to thank folks like you for freighting us goods. I’m Electa. This is my husband, Henry Plummer.”
“I’m Abigail. This is Isaac Jacobs. And my adopted son, Yahnai.”
“An adopted Indian boy?” Electa looked surprised.
The sheriff shook Isaac’s hand and asked, “Is this young lady your daughter?”
“No,” Isaac said, gritting his teeth. “We are engaged to be married.”
“Oh,” said the sheriff. “That seems unusual. You must be twice her age.”
Electra scrutinized Yahnai. “So this is your boy.”
“That seems unusual too,” the sheriff said, as if Indians were a scourge.
“Oh, Henry,” Electa said, “that means Abigail has a big heart. He’ll fit in just fine. There are other children here tonight.”
Plummer tipped his hat. “Shall we go in?”
Abby nodded, told Riddle to say outside, and stepped toward the hall. The brief conversation seemed like something she’d have to get used to when she married Isaac—the questions, the defensive flexing of Isaac’s jaw. There had always been raised eyebrows about Yahnai. She’d adapted to that, so she could adapt to this.
As Abby entered the hall, she was hit with a wall of sound and warm air. Dancers jostled around her. Most were men dancing with men. The sheriff’s silver badge had its magical effect. The miners parted in a courteous manner, as if they were all wanted men.
“Your dress is darling,” Electa said.
“Isaac bought it for me just today. Yours too.”
“It’s the dress I wore at my wedding,” Electa said. “Just a short time ago, up north at my parent’s place, not far from Fort Benton. Any dance you favor?”
“The quadrille,” Abby answered. It was a lively dance with four couples facing each other and forming a square. “I’ve danced it in our meeting house in Franklin.” With a pang, she remembered that Evan had died just before the building was complete.
Electa tapped the sheriff on the shoulder and spoke in his ear. Plummer threaded through the dancers and spoke to one of the fiddle players. When the current dance ended, the fiddle player announced a quadrille. The sheriff and his wife made one couple, Abby and Isaac another. Electa selected three other children. With Yahnai, that made eight people.
The dance began. Miners whooped and hollered, turning silly and glib.
Midway through the quadrille, with everyone shifting partners often, another man with a badge on his chest rushed into the hall. He didn’t look smart, and he didn’t look pleasant. He pulled on Sheriff Plummer’s arm and whispered in his ear. Whispered primly and smugly with a degree of certainty, as if he had access to insider information. Plummer’s eyes calculated. He nodded often. Once, he pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. He whispered into Electa’s ear, and the two men immediately left.
Abby assumed trouble. She wondered if it had anything to do with the string of men she’d seen riding past the restaurant, ready to lynch their prisoner. Almost without skipping a beat, Electa found another partner. Apparently such interruptions for her husband were common. She acted like they were. The dancing resumed.
When the quadrille ended, the fiddle player announced a Virginia reel. As the music took up again, Abby unconsciously thought of Scooter. But she was startled out of her thoughts when she saw a familiar barrel-chested man jostling his way through the dancers. He was coming straight at her, his strides resolute and quick. It was Oscar. Surprised, she put a hand to her heart. “Oscar. What are you doing here?”
He looked like he’d seen a ghost. His face was grim, sallow, and stern. He began pulling on her arm more urgently than the deputy had tugged on the sheriff. “Lord a-mercy, Abby! Scooter’s in danger. They’re gonna hang him.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Hang Scooter? Then he was the man she’d seen riding away with the group of Yankee soldiers. Panic charged through her as she realized she’d put him in danger by not alerting the sheriff earlier. “You weren’t due to be here until tomorrow,” she said, still refusing to believe.
“We realized you were gone, and we hurried here. But they found him first.”
She felt Isaac go quiet beside her. She exchanged uneasy looks with him and with Yahnai. It took her a few seconds to respond. In a shaky voice, she asked, “Who’s ‘they’? Who’s going to hang him? What for?”
Oscar spoke the words half out of breath, in short, rapid clips, with a worried twist to his mouth. “Union guys, a peck of trouble. A dozen or more of them. Maybe two dozen by now. At Yankee Flat. Not far from here. They think he’s a Confederate agent sending his profits back to the South. For the Confederate war effort. I heard the sheriff was here, but I don’t see him. We need him or one of his deputies or all of them.”
The explanation left Abby weak and dizzy. Her head swam, and her throat seemed to be choking shut.
“I’m the sheriff’s wife,” Electa said. “Can I help?”
“The sheriff needs to come quick,” Oscar said.
Abby wrung her hands together. “A deputy dragged him out a few minutes ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Electa said.
“Maybe he’s already at Yankee Flat,” Abby said hopefully.
Electa shook her head. “No, some kind of trouble at Alder Gulch.”
A strangled sob escaped Abby’s throat. “What shall we do, Electa?”
Electa said, “Things like this happen all the time. More than my poor husband can handle. The best thing for you to do is fight force with force.”
Abby grasped Yahnai’s hand, motioned at Oscar and Isaac, and then took her first uncertain steps toward the door. “How far is Yankee Flat?” she asked.