Silver huntress, p.29
Silver Huntress, page 29
“‘Cor,” she said once, “can you imagine what old Barlow would say if he could see me now? His poor old heart would stop in its tracks.” She laughed and grabbed for Samantha’s elbow. “I tell you, I don’t even have to ask for another glass of whatever they’re servin’ up there. I finish one, and the next thing I know there’s this dark gent in a white coat, and he’s askin’ me as nice as you please, would I like another?” Another laugh, this one slightly uneasy. “It ain’t right, y’know, not really. Sometimes I think they’re going to come up and grab me off, tell everyone I ain’t what they think I am. I don’t mind tellin’ you, it scares me sometimes.”
They strolled on, past one of the huge covered sidewheels, to the stern where they watched the river churn away from them.
“They say,” Katie told her, “it ain’t never the same twice in a row. Every time the captain comes by it’s changed. A new curve here, a new bay there. The river just keeps eatin’ away and makin’ itself new.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if he’s puttin’ me on.”
“He’s not,” Samantha said, leaning out over the low rail. “All rivers are alive, Katie. Like the mountains. They wear the same coats for each season, but underneath they change. Sometimes I see them growing. They straighten out, or they find a new way to get from one place to another. And everything alongside changes too. If you do not know this, you cannot live with it. Like the mountains, it will beat you. You will leave, or you will die.”
Katie looked at her fearfully. “Is that what it’s going to be like?”
Samantha smiled and forgot her role long enough to slip an arm around Katie’s waist and hug her once, tightly. “No, it is very wonderful. Every day is a new life. You hunt and cook and eat the same, but the animals change, the trees change, the sky changes. If you look hard enough, if you really see, then you cannot help but want to laugh all the time.”
“I don’t know,” Katie said doubtfully. “I ain’t never lived in anything but a house in the city. This living outside … I just don’t know.”
Samantha couldn’t help laughing. “You’ll have a house, Katie, I promise you. But you’ll have to build it first.”
“Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into now?” Samantha asked herself the same question, but silently. She’d only just realized she had no idea to what she was returning. The valley, of course, but what else? A scattering of graves, remains of charred buildings, vivid dreams of the night her world had fallen apart? She had never really considered what she would do after she reached home. Her single thought, the drive and dream that sustained her, was to get home again, to find the valley where she’d been born, and to sing the Song of the Dead over her father’s grave. Nothing more.
Not even Stanhope was able to make a prediction as to what lay ahead. They spoke often, though only for a few minutes at a time and mostly of his concern that Captain Conner not think anything untoward was happening between him and Katie.
The day before they docked at St. Louis, however, he changed.
They were alone at the bow, watching the Mississippi froth and boil at their feet. The banks were crowded with warehouses and ramshackle homes; occasionally, on roads paralleling the river, they saw contingents of the Confederate Army, uniforms brightly gray, horses prancing and pulling behind them a gleaming black cannon. They showed no signs of the horrible rumors circulating about the battles farther east, and the astronomical casualties left in their wake, nor did they seem dispirited. In fact, had it not been for the searches conducted by soldiers at every port and the occasional conscription at gunpoint of young dock workers, the notion of a war being waged in this country could easily have been disputed.
Stanhope lounged against the railing. In a white suit with black velvet vest, gold watch chain, and polished black boots, he seemed perfectly at home on the river. His lean face had tanned, his rich brown hair was faintly streaked from the sun, and his dark eyes looked almost languid as they scanned the view before them.
“Samantha,” he said casually, “I’m worried about you.”
“There is nothing to worry about,” she assured him.
“I don’t know.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ever since we left New Orleans, you’ve been awfully quiet. Too quiet, it seems to me.”
“I’m not to be your friend, William,” she reminded him. “I am Katie’s maid.”
“Yes, yes, I understand all that,” he said impatiently. “But whenever we’re together you act as if I’ve insulted you or said something terrible.”
The water was deep and dark, swirling to either side of the bow as if reluctant to grant passage.
“See?” he complained. “You’re doing it now.”
She thought she detected an overlay of worry in his tone, one not connected to her possible ill health, and that angered her. At what should have been a momentous time in her life, she was increasingly incapable of taking anything at face value. She weighed every word he said, hunting for the one slip that would cast her firmly into James’s camp. When she should have been filling Stanhope’s ears with plans for the future, she was reluctant to speak, suspicious each time he touched her, doubting when he attempted to console her as he mistook her brooding silences for a sign she was caught in a sorrow beyond his comprehension.
And it was all James’s fault.
Dead once, he had been resurrected; left behind a second time, he had followed her halfway around the world to plead his case; and at their parting she’d promised not to say a word to anyone. It was an easy promise to keep; until she knew her own mind again, what possible good would it do to entrust her problems to someone else?
“Dammit, Samantha!” Then he softened and moved closer, eyeing the other passengers on both the upper and main decks. “Listen, I’m sorry, but it isn’t easy being separated from you like this. And there’s all that gold I’m carrying. Some of those ruffians would just as soon slit my throat for it as look at me.”
He brushed his fingers over the back of her hand quickly, then hooked his thumb in his vest pocket. Samantha gripped the railing tightly, feeling herself weaken.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said as he scanned the river, “as soon as we get to Fort Laramie, I shall find us a proper man of the cloth, what do you say? After all, we can’t live together in the wilderness without tying the knot, as they say around here, eh? It would be perfect, Samantha! It would be marvelously perfect!”
She felt as if she’d been bludgeoned. The air left her lungs with a hiss, and she had to close her eyes tightly to keep the river from spinning out of its bed. Stanhope instantly grabbed her arms and steadied her, whispering apologies for his thoughtlessness while she had her homecoming so much on her mind.
“We shall speak of this another time,” he said with a smile, and stepped away just as Conner joined them. “Well, David,” he said expansively, “it won’t be long now, will it?”
“Been talkin’ with the captain,” Conner said, throwing a brief, concerned glance at Samantha. “He says we shouldn’t have any trouble hookin’ up with another boat tomorrow. Trouble is, there are places along the way where some folks are on one side of this war, some on the other. He says he hears they cause the boats a spot of trouble now and then, ambushin’ them where the river gets narrow.”
Stanhope waved the warning away. “After our escape from that Union ship, Captain, I have no doubts that Dame Fortune is firmly on our side.”
“Yes, sir,” Conner said skeptically, taking off his cap and scratching his bald scalp. “Still and all, it might do us good to be armed before we leave again.”
“You worry too much, Captain,” Stanhope laughed, clapping the seaman on the shoulder. “You worry far too much.”
“Better to worry too much than not at all.”
Samantha nodded without turning around. “I think he is right, William.”
“Samantha, really!”
“Yes, I think so.” She pointed to the city growing slowly around them. “Where we are going it is not like this. You have only been there once; I have lived there always. You know there is fighting out there, too. Commanche, Sioux, perhaps even my own people now.”
“Very well,” Stanhope yielded gracefully. “In this you are the expert.”
She grunted at the reluctant compliment but said nothing more. The sky was already darkening, and as the air began to chill, drifting blankets of fog slipped over the tangled river banks. She clung to the railing for more than an hour, watching the water turn ebony while she wondered how Stanhope could be an enemy and propose marriage. What purpose would it serve to have an Indian wife? Were he bent on something more sinister, he would not even consider such a proposal. And even if he’d been involved with Malcolm Deery at the outset, his feelings toward her surely had changed him. Perhaps saving his life had been the turning point.
Perhaps—and perhaps he was still one step ahead of her, even now.
Oh, damn you, James, for coming back!
Stanhope’s luck held when they docked in St. Louis. With Conner’s help he prowled the wharves until, on the fifth try, he found a shallow-bottomed steamer heading for Plattsmouth in Nebraska. The grizzled pilot was more than willing to admit four more passengers onto his already crowded craft, though it took all of Stanhope’s persuasive powers to convince him Samantha was not one of the Plains Indians currently rousing themselves to battle across the width of the territory. By evening their baggage had been transferred, and the bargelike vessel was almost ready to push off.
Samantha stood on the bustling dock, ignoring the distrustful looks the other passengers and onlookers cast in her direction. She was searching every face for a sign that James had kept his promise, and when Stanhope finally lost patience and joined her, he demanded she get aboard at once.
“This so-called captain has taken a great deal of my gold for the privilege of squatting on this foul thing, Samantha,” he said, “and I don’t intend to lose it because of your dawdling.”
“I am not dawdling,” she said, standing on tiptoe to see over a motley procession carrying bundles and crates.
Stanhope took hold of her arm and tugged at it gently to regain her attention. When he failed, he sighed heavily and tapped her hard on the shoulder. “Samantha, I can understand your reluctance. The closer you get, the sooner you’ll have to face … the valley. But this is no way to go about standing up for yourself.”
“Please,” she said. “Just for a few more minutes.”
“No! Now, Samantha, this is ridiculous. I really can’t have any more of it.”
“You sound like Sir Malcolm,” she said without turning around.
Stung, he dropped his hand, then was nearly knocked off his feet by a gang of trappers who swept past them, leaving behind a strong odor of raw liquor. Stanhope’s dark eyes narrowed at the rude contact, but he said nothing. Instead, he sighed impatiently.
“You know, Samantha,” he said, pulling her away from the foot of the swaying gangplank, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were looking for someone.” He glanced over the unkempt crowds milling around the docks and grimaced his distaste. “Swine,” he muttered. “They don’t live or act any better than swine.”
“Then go with the others and leave me alone.”
He could no longer stand it. Grabbing a rough hold of her shoulders, he spun her around and pushed her toward the boat. She protested loudly, twisted to get away from him, and tripped over a coil of greasy rope.
She never reached the ground.
A hand shot out of the crowd, caught her around the waist, and lifted her back to her feet. She struggled automatically to free herself and stopped only when she heard a familiar laugh soft in her ear.
Stanhope only stared. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “If it isn’t Mr. James Sinclair.”
“You may well be,” James smiled. “And I certainly am who you say.” He looked down at Samantha, who was trying desperately not to grin. “Starchild,” he said, “it seems you and I are heading in the same direction.”
TWENTY-NINE
A piercing whistle split the air above the barge, and rough voices were raised to clear the decks and get the vessel moving. Orders were barked out amid a cloud of profanities, and the grizzled captain stormed from one end of the flatboat to the other, pushing and shoving bodies, crates, and bundles until he was satisfied the clumsy vessel’s weight was not dangerously unbalanced. Then he ordered the whistle sounded again and screamed a warning at those still lingering on the dock.
Without a word, Stanhope took Samantha’s elbow possessively and led her up the unrailed gangplank. James followed close behind, shouldering a bedroll and pushing through the chaos with ease. A few men glanced at him and snarled; a few more suddenly began whispering among themselves and pointing. Samantha noticed the reaction, but she allowed Stanhope to take her to the blunt stern and seat her on a low crate, just under an awning of sagging, dirty gray canvas that stretched over the back half of the barge, protecting those lucky enough to get there first against sun and rain. Then he buttoned his white jacket and adjusted the set of his narrow-brimmed white hat before he stared out over the river.
“Why is it, my dear, that I get the distinct impression you knew he was coming?” he mused thoughtfully.
“How could I?” she answered. “I have been with you since we left England.”
“Not quite all the time.”
She bridled. “I told you I was lost. New Orleans is a big place. I am not used to such big places with so many people. I really was lost.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, so you’ve told me.”
An old man whose face was more beard than skin stumbled over a loose plank in the deck and fell against him. He recoiled and disdainfully shoved the old-timer away with a muttered oath. Samantha watched him and wondered. Was his short-tempered reaction to James’s being there born of guilt, or was it the result of the natural rivalry between two men in love with the same woman? She glanced down to her lap when he turned around, his unreadable eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. Nothing, she cautioned herself; say nothing unless you have to.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and shook his head slowly. “He has a fair amount of nerve, I’ll say that for him. After what he’s done, to come after you again like that and … my God, Samantha, the man’s practically a murderer!” He scowled. “I will see to it, of course, that he doesn’t travel with us.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Why?” He looked down at her, frowning, trying to fathom what was going on in her mind. “Samantha, the man engineered the destruction of your home. He survived—through what devilish miracle I could not say—and now he’s haunting you again. I would think—”
She cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “William, you know I have not been convinced James has done all you say.”
“Samantha, really! I am not in the habit of spinning tales.”
“I do not say you are lying,” she said quickly. “You have told me what you know. You have also told me what Sir Malcolm has said, and you know what that man is like. He has driven us both out of our homes, and I do not trust him even when he is not here. Perhaps James is as Sir Malcolm claims and as you still believe. But if you send him away, I will never know.”
Stanhope wiped a hand slowly over his face. When his eyes were visible again, they did not quite match the rueful smile on his lips.
“What you say about Sir Malcolm is all too true, and I have wondered myself where his reality ends and his lies begin. Or if, in fact, they are one and the same.” He considered the back of his hand and nodded to himself. “Samantha, if you wish me to suffer this man’s presence, then I will do so. But only for you, I want you to know that. It would give me great pleasure to assist you in finding the evidence you require, but I would be less than honest if I did not admit that it would give me even greater pleasure in seeing the man hang.”
“He will not hang,” she said solemnly, and looked straight into his eyes. “The man who did this to me will not live long enough to hang.”
After a moment he grunted as if in approval, stiffened suddenly as Sinclair walked up to them, and leaned his elbows atop a stack of empty crates. He dug his chin into a wrist and braced himself as the clumsy boat wallowed away from the dock, the four long oars, each worked by three husky men, beginning to propel them upriver.
“Well—” James began, but Stanhope interrupted him.
“I think we will all feel better, Mr. Sinclair, if we don’t pretend that this is all a rather jolly coincidence. And I trust you’ll tell us what you’re doing here.”
James’s gaze shifted but did not soften. “Unfinished business.”
“I have a good mind to get off at the next port and contact the local authorities,” Stanhope huffed. “There is a limit to which civilized people can be pushed. And you, Sinclair, have just about pushed me to that limit.”
“Mr. Stanhope, I could probably make a fair guess as to what you’ve told Starchild here about me. I might even begin to guess why. But where I travel, and when, is my business and none of yours. The princess and I have a thing or two to work out, and once that’s done … well, the future has a habit of looking after itself.”
Stanhope drew himself up to retort, but James would not give him the chance. He touched a hand to his hat in a sketchy salute, smiled at Samantha, and moved away, losing himself in a huge group of Swedish immigrants who had congregated by the far rail.
“I don’t understand how you managed to keep from tearing out his throat,” Stanhope said, his face flushed dark with anger.
“He has said nothing bad to me,” she told him. “If he does, you will know it.”
“All right,” he said reluctantly. “But I sincerely hope, Samantha, that you know what you’re doing.”
The flatboat lumbered on toward Plattsmouth and the beginning of the Oregon Trail. Samantha spent most of the next few days sitting at the stem, dozing in the uncomfortable shade of the canvas awning, waiting for an opportunity to talk with James alone. Stanhope, however, saw to it she was never without company. When he was elsewhere—though never far away—either Katie or Captain Conner were with her. They were worried about her unusually long bouts of brooding silence, but they did not try to force her into conversation. Instead, they watched with her as the land grew as flat as any she had seen. Far from the wild beauty of the Mississippi’s embankments there was a continuous plain that stretched without interruption to a distant horizon unrelieved by even the slightest suggestion of a hill. In addition, the unrelenting sun had begun to bake everything a uniform brown, so that the merest hint of color was almost a reason for a major celebration.
