Winona had been studying them and listening while they waited for the three called Trumbo, Bromley and Kleist to return. She remembered Wesley from before. Olan and Cranston were new to her. The former was a strutting fool, always belligerent, always angry. The latter was a boy in a man’s clothes, but a vicious boy who had never learned that kindness was a worthwhile trait.
Winona shifted to relieve a kink in her leg and caught Wesley studying her even as she had studied them. “Yes?”
“You sure are a thinker, squaw. I’ll give that to you.”
“How about if we make a deal?” Winona requested. “You will not call me squaw and I will not call you son of a bitch.” She recalled that white men did not like that; they did not like that at all.
Olan howled with delight. “Ain’t she something? She talks better than I do and she’s a redskin, for God’s sake.”
“I can kick her teeth in if you want,” Cranston said eagerly.
Wesley, cradling his Kentucky, shot the younger man a glare of annoyance. “I’m tired of telling you to leave them be.”
“I thought it was the blacks you don’t want touched? You didn’t say anything about no Injuns.”
“She stays alive and unharmed,” Wesley said. “At least until we bag her husband. He won’t lay a finger on us so long as we have her.”
“Scared of him, are you?” Cranston snickered.
In a blur Wesley was on him. He shoved the Kentucky’s stock in the younger man’s gut and Cranston doubled over, gasping. He thrust out a hand to ward off another blow to the ribs, and Wesley clubbed him in the head instead.
Cranston sprawled, unconscious.
“Was that necessary?” Olan asked.
Wesley spun. “You heard him. I’m tired of playing nursemaid. He’s one of yours. That’s your job. Have a talk with him or the next time he gets a slug between the eyes.”
“That’s the first threat I ever heard you make.”
“It wasn’t a threat,” Wesley corrected. He turned back to Winona. “Now, where were we? That’s right. I was saying how you impress me. You’re smart for a female, red or white.”
“I was smart enough to marry a good man who will not rest until you are six feet under.”
“I might have a surprise for you. Has this good man of yours ever taught you a game called checkers?”
“Checkers and chess and other games besides. We have spent many an evening playing them.”
“Then you know that the key to winning at checkers is to remove the other player’s pieces. And that’s exactly what I’ve done with your husband.”
Fear filled Winona, but she did not let it show. Another thing she had learned from the man she loved was something called a poker face. “Removed him how?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Wesley turned to the Worths. “How about you three? Cat got your tongues? You can talk if you want, so long as you talk civil.”
“I hate you,” Emala said. “And I’ll hate you more if anything happens to my baby girl. You hear me?”
“Spare me, lady.”
“I am, you know.”
“Am what?”
“A lady. I trust you and your friends will remember that and not try to take liberties.”
Olan, who was helping Cranston up, let out a snort. “Poke a darkie? That’ll be the day.”
“You’re perfectly safe in that regard,” Wesley assured her.
“Poking you would be like poking a hog or a cow,” Olan added.
Chickory started to come up off the ground but found himself looking at the Kentucky’s muzzle. “Don’t talk to my ma like that! She is a lady, you hear?” He twisted toward his father, who sat with his arms over his knees and his head bowed. “Pa? Didn’t you hear him? Say somethin’, will you?”
Samuel didn’t respond.
“What’s the matter? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“I thought we were free, son. Finally and truly free. I thought we would have a place of our own and be happy.”
“What does that have to do with how he insulted Ma? He called her a hog and a cow.”
“I’ve never been so happy as these past weeks. I could do what I wanted. I could hold my head high and say I’m a man.”
“Of course you’re a man. What else would you be?”
Winona was concerned for Samuel. All the fight and much of the life seemed to have drained from his hardy frame. He hadn’t said a word until now. It wasn’t his body that was broken so much as his spirit. “We must never give up, never lose hope,” Winona said.
“Even if my family and me got away from this bunch, they’d only send more after us. There’s no escape.”
“I’ve been telling you that all along,” Wesley said.
“It’s all that wool between his ears,” Olan taunted. Just then hooves thudded to the west, and around a bend in the trail came riders.
Olan grinned and pointed. “No one escapes us for long.”
Chapter Twelve
For hours Nate King had worked at loosening the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, but he didn’t have much luck. The rope around his wrists yielded enough for him to wiggle his forearms, but the rope around his ankles was knotted too tight.
It would have to do. Nate couldn’t wait much longer. They could come on the slave hunters at any time. Again and again he raised his head as high as he could and scoured the terrain ahead for a place to make his move. So far, providence wasn’t being kind.
Presently Harrod slowed and rode with extra caution.
Nate could guess why. They were near the clearing where he had left Winona and the Worths.
“Well, that’s peculiar,” Harrod remarked.
“What is?”
“Take a gander.”
Ahead was the clearing. It was empty.
“Where could they have gotten to?” Nate wondered aloud.
“How should I know?” Harrod appeared genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t left your side all day.” He let go of the bay’s reins and rode in a circle, examining the ground. “Looks to me as if they just up and rode off, back the way we came.”
“Why would they do that?” Nate knew Winona as well as he knew himself. She must have had a compelling reason. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what.
Harrod contemplated the woods. “My first thought was that the Sioux drove them off, but we’d have heard something.”
Nate decided the time had come. “Maybe it was. The Sioux are clever about hiding their tracks.” He looked up and pretended to give a start. Pointing with both hands across the river, he yelled, “Look! There’s a bunch of Sioux over yonder!”
Harrod fell for the ruse. He snapped around in the saddle, blurting, “Where?”
Nate smacked his arms against one side of the bay and his legs against the other and the bay did what most every horse would do—it broke into a gallop, flying out of the clearing and along the trail to the east.
Harrod bellowed for him to stop.
“Fat chance!” Nate yelled back. The jostling was ferocious. The saddle horn gouged his ribs. He bit at the knots on the rope around his wrist, but he had no more success than before.
“Consarn you, King! How far do you think you’ll get?” Harrod shouted after him.
A good long way, if Nate had any say. He would have a minute, maybe two, before Harrod caught up. They swept around a bend; on the left was a grassy incline lapped by a pool.
Giving the bay another whack, Nate pushed off from the saddle. He landed on his shoulder, the grass cushioning him, and rolled. Wetness wrapped him in its embrace—he was on his belly in the Platte. He scrambled backward. The water rose to his nose, to his eyes. Hooves drummed up above. Taking a deep breath, he hugged the bottom.