“If it will help, you can talk about it.”
“All talking will do is make me feel worse.” But Nate couldn’t keep it in. “We raise them and nurture them. We are there as they grow day by day. We grin at their antics and smile at their silliness and feel our hearts fit to burst when they hug us and tell us they love us. We do the best we can to make them ready for the world and one day they go off to take up their own lives and we pray to God nothing bad will happen to them.”
“Evelyn didn’t go off to live somewhere. She went buffalo hunting.”
“We love them so much and it hurts that the world will do to them as it does to everyone. It will rip at them and claw at them and try to crush them and there’s not a thing we can do.”
Shakespeare chuckled. “Aren’t you exaggerating just a tad?”
“You think it’s funny, but it’s not. Every parent’s worst fear is that something terrible will happen to their children. It is the worst that can happen, even more than a wife or husband dying.”
“Good Lord. For all we know, she’s fine. Pull yourself together. Your fear is getting you carried away.”
“I know,” Nate said, and sighed. “I can’t help it. It’s like wrestling with your own heart.”
“Sometimes I wish Blue Water Woman and I had been able to have children,” Shakespeare said wistfully. “But it wasn’t meant to be.”
They could smell the smoke now. A low rise hid the source. Nate placed his Hawken across his saddle, his thumb on the hammer, his finger on the trigger. Not all whites were friendly.
“I hear voices.”
So did Nate. A lot of them, talking in low tones. He slowed as he neared the top of the rise and drew rein the moment he could see over so as not to show himself before he was sure it was safe.
“By my troth,” Shakespeare said. “Freighters, unless I miss my guess.”
Nate came to the same conclusion. He counted ten wagons of the prairie schooner variety. All were red and blue and covered by arched canvas tops. The wagons had been drawn up in a circle, and close to thirty people were moving about or seated at the fire. The wagons hid some from his view. Oxen were being taken from their traces and horses had been gathered to one side. “Bound for Bent’s Fort, I reckon.”
“Let’s ride down and introduce ourselves,” Shakespeare suggested. “We never know. They might have word of Evelyn.”
Nate slapped his legs and rode over the rise. Almost instantly a man with a rifle appeared, a sentry Nate hadn’t noticed. The man hollered and all the men in the circle grabbed rifles and came to watch Nate and Shakespeare approach.
“They are well trained,” Shakespeare remarked. “Whoever is in charge runs a tight train.”
“I bet that’s him there.”
A broad man with bulging shoulders had stridden to the forefront. His big hands were on a pair of pistols. A short-brimmed hat crowned rugged features. From under it poked brown hair a shade darker than the several days’ growth on his square chin.
“I’ve seen that redwood somewhere,” Shakespeare said.
Nate brought the bay to a halt and nodded at the human tree. “Howdy. My name is Nate King. I’m—” He got no further. The man broke into a smile and many of the others glanced at one another and commenced to whisper.
“The Lord, He works in mysterious ways,” intoned their captain. “I’m Jeremiah Blunt. This is my train and these are my men. I can’t tell you how pleased we are to meet you.”
“Why would that be?”
“We have something that belongs to you, in a manner of speaking.” Blunt chuckled, and turning his head, raised his voice. “It’s all right, girl. It’s safe for you and the others to show yourselves.”
For one of the few times in his life Nate was struck speechless when a squealing vision of budding womanhood bounded toward him with glee writ all over her.
“Pa! Pa! It’s you!”
Nate vaulted down. No sooner did his feet touch the ground than Evelyn flew into his arms and hugged him close. Choking off a sob, she said softly, “You don’t know how happy this makes me.”
Nate couldn’t talk for the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes and held her and his thankfulness knew no bounds.
From around the wagons came five people dressed in green buckskins: Wakumassee and his family. Warm greetings were exchanged and then everyone sat around the fire at Jeremiah Blunt’s invitation and over coffee Nate heard of how the scalp hunters had chased his daughter and the Nansusequas and would have slain them had it not been for the freighter captain.
“I’m in your debt,” Nate said, pumping the other’s hand. “Anything you want of me, any time, you have only to ask.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Nate learned that the freighters had made for Bent’s Fort, only to be delayed by a Sioux war party.
“There must have been sixty or more,” Blunt told him. “I circled the wagons expecting an attack, but they stayed out of rifle range. For ten days they rode around us and whooped and waved their weapons, but they never once came at us.”
“The Lakotas aren’t stupid,” Shakespeare threw in.
“No, they are not,” Blunt agreed. “Our rifles would have taken a fearsome toll. They held us there, maybe figuring to starve us or have us run low on water, until finally they lost interest and went elsewhere.”
“I was awful glad,” Evelyn said. “If they had caught Waku and his family and me alone…” She didn’t finish.
“That makes twice you saved my girl’s life,” Nate said to Blunt.
“Thank the Lord, not me. We are all sparrows in His eyes.”
The time passed so quickly that before Nate knew it, twilight was falling and Blunt’s men were preparing supper. He drained his tin cup of coffee and said, “I take it you are on your way to Bent’s Fort and after that Santa Fe?”
“You take it partly right,” Blunt replied. “We were taking your daughter and her friends to Bent’s. From there she said they could make it home safe by themselves. But it’s not Santa Fe, after. Normally it would be, but this is a special trip.”
“How so?” Shakespeare wondered.
Jeremiah Blunt regarded them thoughtfully. “From what I hear, hardly anyone knows the mountains better than you two. Is that right?”
Shakespeare shrugged. “I’ve lived out here longer than most, so naturally I know them pretty well. Horatio has been all over, too.”
“Horatio?” Blunt repeated.
“His nickname for me,” Nate explained. “From William Shakespeare’s play Hamlet.”
“Ah.” Blunt grinned at McNair. “I’ve heard about your quirk. You are as devoted to the Bard as I am to my Bible.”
“A man can be devoted to both,” Shakespeare said.
“True.” Blunt turned to Nate. “But my point in asking how well you know the mountains is that I am thinking of taking you up on your offer.”
“I’m listening,” Nate said. He would do whatever he could for this man. He owed him that.
Blunt swept a stout arm at the ring of wagons. “The freight I’m carrying has been bought and paid for by a group of Shakers. I gave them my word I would get their supplies to them and I always keep it.”
“What are Shakers?” Evelyn asked.
“A religious order, you might say,” Jeremiah Blunt answered. “They broke away from the Quakers some time back. For a while they were called the Shaking Quakers, but now it’s just Shakers.”
“What a funny name. Why would anyone call them that?”
“Because, girl, that’s what they do. When they worship they dance and tremble and, well, shake. They call it growing close to their Maker. Others call it having fits.”
“What do you say?”
“Judge not, girl, lest you be judged. They believe in the Lord and that’s enough for me. But a lot of folks see it differently. They want nothing to do with them, which is why this group came West to start a new colony.”