“What was her name?”
“Na-lin. Yours?”
“Winona.”
For a span of moments Nate felt a strong bond with this man he hardly knew. Then he raised the spyglass and applied it to the dark realm to the north. He was on his sixth sweep when his attention was drawn to a spot to the northeast.
“Something?” Maklin asked.
“Could be.” Or it could be Nate’s imagination, but there seemed to be the faintest of fire glows. “Here. Take a gander and see what you think.” He pointed and gave the telescope to the Texan.
Maklin raised it to his right eye. He was still a bit, then said, “If it’s them they’re off a far piece.”
Nate slid the spyglass into his parfleche and off they went. He held the bay to a walk, both for its own sake and for the fact that sound carried a long way at night and two horses at a trot or gallop made a lot of sound.
Maklin reverted to his usual laconic self and didn’t say a word until more than half an hour later when he declared, “We’re getting close.”
Nate judged the fire to be a quarter of a mile off yet. The pale patch had grown but not by much. He went on until he came on a stand of cottonwoods and willows. Dismounting, he led the bay in among them and tied the reins to a drooping willow branch. Shucking his Hawken from the sheath, he padded to the other side of the stand. The stretch of prairie beyond appeared flat, but in the dark appearances were always deceiving.
As silently as a specter, Maklin materialized. “Too bad the wind’s not blowing from them to us.”
“At least it’s not blowing from us to them,” Nate said. It was out of the northwest and blowing to the southeast and the glow was due east.
“You lead, I’ll follow.”
In a crouch Nate crept into the open. The high grass rustled against his legs but not loud enough to be heard more than a few feet away. Every dozen steps or so he raised his head. He had the glow pinpointed, but he couldn’t see the fire. The reason became apparent when he came to a basin. Flattening, he crawled to the edge and peered over. To say he was surprised was an understatement.
Four people were below. They were white, not red, and judging by their shabby clothes and six swayback horses, they were not well off. A family, Nate reckoned. The father, a large husky with a big-boned frame, had a bushy beard and wore suspenders. The mother, her dress and bonnet faded homespun, was stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. The children were about ten or twelve, one a girl and the other a freckled boy, ragamuffins who stared at the pot as hungrily as starved wolves.
“The fools,” Maklin whispered.
Nate stood and held the Hawken out from his side. “Hail the fire!” he called down. “We are friendly and we’d like a word with you.”
The four leaped to their feet. The girl and boy ran to the mother while the father picked up a rifle and stepped between his family and the rim, shielding his family with his body. “Who’s that? Who’s out there?”
“My name is Nate King. I am with some freighters who are camped to the south. May I come down?”
“So long as you do it nice and slow and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Nate took a few steps and thought to add, “I have another man with me. Is it all right if we both descend?”
“The same applies to your friend.”
Nate smiled to show he was friendly. He took in the sorry state of their effects and noted that their packs were tied with twine and not rope. Up close, he could see that the man’s coat and the woman’s dress had been patched many times over. “How do you do, folks?”
“Gosh,” the boy said, peeking past his mother. “He looks almost Indian, Ma.”
“Be polite,” the woman cautioned.
“Well, he does.”
“Quiet, Phillip,” the father said sternly. He hadn’t lowered his rifle. “What do you want, mister? If it’s food, we’ll share. But we don’t have much.”
“We already ate, thanks,” Nate said. “I wanted to warn you. There are Pawnees in the area. It’s not safe.”
“I have this,” the man said, wagging his rifle, “and I am a fair shot if I say so myself. Injuns don’t worry me.”
Maklin said, “They would if you had any sense.”
“Here, now,” the man bristled. “I won’t be insulted. Who are you, anyhow? What do you know?”
“I know you are loco to be out here alone like this.”
“We’re on our way to Oregon. There’s land to be had. Good land, fertile land. The crops practically grow themselves, folks say.”
“You’re a farmer,” Nate guessed.
“Yes, sir. Wendell is my name. We hail from Missouri. Our county got so dry last year we lost our farm. In Oregon we aim to start over. I hear they never lack for rain.”
“You’ll never live to reach it,” Maklin said.
Wendell took exception. “What a cruel thing to say, with my wife and young’ns standing right there.”
Maklin turned to Nate. “Tell them. Make them see.”
“Make us see what?” the farmer demanded.
Nate smiled at the mother and the children to try and put them at ease. “He’s concerned for your family. You should be with a wagon train, not by yourselves.”
“It costs money to sign on with a train,” Wendell said. “It costs money for a wagon and money for a team and money for supplies, and money is one thing we are short of.”
Nate could see that for himself. “You’re taking a risk.” Which was putting it mildly.
“You think I don’t know that?” Wendell countered. “I’m not dumb. I talked it over with Maddy and she agreed we would cross the prairie as quick as we could and stick to cover once we’re in the mountains. By sticking close to the Oregon Trail we should be in Oregon in five to six weeks.”
Nate felt sorry for them. They thought they had it all worked out, but they were infants. “The Sioux, the Blackfeet, they know the routes the whites like to use.”
“We’re being careful,” Wendell insisted, and motioned at the basin. “We made our fire where nobody can see, didn’t we?”
“We saw it,” Nate said.
“It’s too late for us to turn back.”
Nate knew that the dangers ahead were far worse than anything they had experienced so far. “Listen to me. Here’s an idea. Join the freight train I’m with. Their captain won’t mind. After I’ve guided them to where they want to go, I’ll take you to a valley where my family and I live. You can stay with us, rest up a spell, and then we’ll take you to the Oregon Trail and lend you the money to join a wagon train.”
“We don’t have a wagon,” Maddy said.
“We’ll ask the wagon master if you can ride with them anyway. Odds are he won’t mind.”
“You would do that?” Wendell asked.
Nate had more than enough in his poke at home. “I would do that.”
“But you don’t know me from Adam.”
Maklin stepped past Nate. “What the hell is the matter with you? He’s giving you a chance to go on breathing and you quibble?”
“Watch your tone,” Wendell said.
The Texan pointed at the woman and children. “Think of them, damn you. Think of her after she’s been raped and had her throat slit. Think of your boy and girl there after they’ve been cut to bits.”
Wendell shook with fury. “How dare you talk to me like that? With my family right there. Who in hell do you think you are?” He started to jerk his rifle to his shoulder.
Maklin’s hand flicked and a pistol was in it and pointed at Wendell, who froze in consternation. “Your temper is liable to get you killed someday, farmer. Set your long gun on the ground.”
Reluctantly, Wendell tucked at the knees and carefully placed his rifle on the grass. As he unfurled he said, “I don’t like you. I don’t like you a whole lot.”