“Please.”
Now here Chickory was, riding parallel with the Platte, the heavy flintlock in his hand, his thumb on the hammer. He needed to get close. Pistols didn’t shoot as far as rifles. Even he knew that. “Where did you get to?” he wondered under his breath.
Some sparrows took wing, chirping merrily, and Chickory watched them in amusement. He loved the wild, loved all the creatures, the birds and the butterflies and the many other kinds of animals.
Most of all, Chickory loved being free. He never liked being a slave, never liked it at all. To be owned by someone else, to have to answer to their every whim, to work from dawn till dusk and have nothing to show for it but calluses and scrapes—that wasn’t the life for him. He was all for running when his pa brought it up.
Better to run free than to die as property.
Chickory couldn’t wait to reach the valley the Kings had told them about. They’d have their own cabin. They could hunt and fish and plant crops; Winona said she had seeds they could have. They could do what ever they wanted with no one to tell them different.
That was the glory of being free.
Chickory had long imagined how wonderful it would be. But it was even better. To have the right to decide for himself what he should do with each day, instead of being told what to do. To be his own— what was it his pa called it?—his own lord and master. There was nothing finer.
Suddenly movement under the trees caught Chickory’s eye. The buck had stopped and was staring at him. He raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger but nothing happened; he’d forgotten to pull back the hammer. Quickly, he remedied his mistake, but when he went to take aim, the buck had moved into a stand of cottonwoods, and he didn’t have a clear shot.
Chickory jabbed his heels against his horse. He would give himself five more minutes. If he didn’t shoot the buck by then, he’d turn around and head back. Anxiously, he scanned the cottonwoods. The buck had somehow disappeared.
“Where did you get to, you tricky critter?”
Chickory reined to the right to go around the cottonwoods, thinking he could beat the buck to the other side. Intent on spotting it, he didn’t realize he was no longer alone until someone laughed.
“Blind as a bat, ain’t he?”
Startled, Chickory drew rein. Fear clutched at him as he laid eyes on six riders who had appeared out of nowhere. He recognized one of them—the lean, hawk-faced man in buckskins, holding a Kentucky rifle.
“You!”
“Me,” the man said.
“You’re that slave hunter,” Chickory blurted. “The one they call…”—he strained to remember— “the one they call Wesley.”
“Good memory, darkie.”
“You’re after my family and me.” Chickory went to raise the flintlock but a whole bunch of metallic clicks changed his mind. The other five were pointing rifles at him.
“Don’t try it, boy,” said a short man whose dark eyes glittered with the threat of violence.
Wesley brought his mount up next to Chickory’s and held out his hand. “The pistol.”
Chickory hesitated.
“The pistol, or die.”
Emala wrung her pudgy hands and paced. She gazed anxiously back the way they had come and declared, “You shouldn’t have let him go.”
“He wanted to help out,” Samuel said.
“And you for certain shouldn’t have given him that gun. He’s just a slip of a boy. What on earth were you thinkin’?”
“In case you ain’t noticed, he’s pretty near a man. He has to learn to hunt anyway, and it might as well be now as later.”
“What you know about huntin’ wouldn’t fill a thimble.”
“Careful, woman,” Samuel said. “You’re much too free with insults these days.”
“Can you blame me, with the strain I’ve been under?” Emala felt her eyes moisten. “The trials I’ve endured. The tribulations you’ve brought down on our heads.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one who took it on himself to make runaways of us. You’re the one who hit Master Brent.”
“Would you rather he raped our daughter?”
“Don’t change the subject. We’re talkin’ about you.” Emala gnawed on her lip. “Oh, Lordy. What will we do?”
From behind them came a kindly voice. “Perhaps I can help. What has you so upset?”
“Mrs. King!”
Winona had overheard a few of their remarks and divined from Emala’s expression that something was wrong.
“We’ve imposed on you enough as it is,” Emala said. “Since my Samuel was the one who let him leave, he should be the one who goes after him.”
“Him?” Winona counted heads and horses. “Your son is not back from his ride yet?”
“It wasn’t so much a ride as a hunt,” Samuel said. “I told him we were only stoppin’ for an hour or so, and he promised me he’d be back in plenty of time.”
“Only he’s not here,” Emala said accusingly.
Samuel turned toward the horses. “But you’re right. It’s my doin’. I’ll go after him. If we’re not back before Mr. King returns, go on without us and we’ll catch up.”
Winona walked up to them. “My husband took Mr. Harrod and went to scout ahead. One can never be too careful near Sioux country.”
“Oh, Lordy. What if they got my Chickory?”
“You three wait here. I’ll go find him,” Winona offered.
Samuel shook his head. “I’m his pa. It’s mine to do.”
“Begging your pardon,” Winona said politely, “but it needs to be done quickly. I am a better rider and I have more experience at tracking.” She also knew the landmarks and the wildlife, but she didn’t bring that up.
Emala nodded vigorously. “Let her go, Samuel. She’ll find Chickory and be back in half the time it would take you.”
Winona hurried to her mare, swung on, and reined around.
“You be careful out there,” Emala urged. “What with buffalo and bears and snakes and things, this country is enough to give a body fits.”
“Stay here until I get back. It should not take long.” Winona goaded her mare.
The tracks were plain enough. Chickory had gone east, back the way they came, staying close to the river so he wouldn’t lose his way.
Winona rode with her Hawken cradled in the crook of her elbow. She wasn’t overly worried. There hadn’t been any sign of hostiles. Nor had she heard any shots or roars or screams. What ever had happened to the boy, she was sure it would turn out to be something minor. Maybe he had just lost track of time. Maybe he had climbed down from his horse for some reason, and the horse had wandered off. It could be any number of things.
Winona smiled as she rode. She was fond of the Platte. It wasn’t much as rivers went; in the mountains it would be called a stream. But it flowed year round, and in the driest months it was the only source of water to be had over hundreds of miles of prairie. All sorts of animals depended on that water.
The oaks, cottonwoods and willows were home to squirrels and birds. The brush was home to deer and elk. Rabbits were everywhere. Raccoons, skunks and opossums roamed its banks at night. Herds of buffalo came to drink, churning the water brown and trampling the vegetation.
Winona spied a pair of ducks paddling quaintly in a pool. A male and female, judging by their markings. Mallards, her husband called them. They betrayed no alarm. She wanted to stop and admire them, but she had the boy to find.
