“It’s for their sakes,” Emala said.
Wesley thoughtfully regarded her. “You really think they would do as you ask?”
“They’ve become good friends these past weeks. They’ll do as I ask if I ask real nice.”
Now it was Olan who objected. “Don’t listen to her. We
“Next time you might get more than a bop on the jaw,” Emala warned. “Did you think of that?”
“I ain’t scared of Nate King,” Olan boasted.
“Then you’re a fool.”
“That mountain man is a hellacious fighter,” Trumbo said.
Emala stared at Wesley. “So, what will you do? Will you or won’t you let me?”
Wesley came and stood over her. “Oh, you’ll get to write Nate King a note, all right. But it won’t be what you were going to write. You’ll say what I tell you.”
“What would that be?”
“You’ll beg King and his squaw to help you. You’ll say you’re afraid of what will happen to your husband when we get him back to the plantation. You’ll say the Kings are your only hope, and to come quick.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
Wesley pointed his rifle at Chickory and put his thumb on the hammer. “You’ll do it or you’ll be shy a son.”
“We’re worth more money to you alive,” Emala countered. “You said so yourself.”
“Money I can’t spend if I’m dead.” Wesley pressed the muzzle to Chickory’s temple, and Chickory flinched. “I’ll gladly give up some of it to be sure I live to collect the rest.”
Emala stared at her son and then at the rifle and then at the slave hunter holding it. “You’re a vile man.”
“Is that a no?”
“Don’t shoot. I’ll write your note, but I’ll hate every word you make me say.” Emala’s eyes moistened.
Wesley motioned to Trumbo. “Go look in the packs for the paper.”
“What I want to know,” Olan said, “is how you aim to get this note to Nate King? It’s not as if we know where to find him.”
“We don’t have to. He’ll come to us.” Wesley walked to the center of the clearing. “We’ll pound a stick in the ground right here. We’ll split one end and put the note in it. King will come along, read it, and light out after us hell-bent to rip out our guts.”
“What good does that do us?” Olan asked.
“Don’t you see? We’ll find a perfect spot for an ambush, and he’ll be so fired up to save the darkies, he’ll waltz right into our guns’sights.”
“I like it,” Olan said. “I like it a lot.”
“I pray to God that Nate doesn’t fall for it,” Emala said.
“Quit with the God talk, woman,” Olan said. “I don’t believe in that stuff. There’s no God Almighty and there’s no hereafter. As Nate King and his wife will find out soon enough.”
Chapter Seventeen
They jogged tirelessly for hours. They were both in superb condition, but Winona had to stop now and again. Once, she apologized, saying, “I am sorry, Husband. The pain.”
“You’re holding up fine.”
Nate would wait, Winona would nod, and they would set out again.
They weren’t near the Platte. They weren’t in the woods that bordered it. They were at the edge of the prairie where the going was easy and they could cover a lot of ground quickly. They had a lot of ground to cover.
“I hope this works,” Winona said between deep breaths. “I do not want to go to all this trouble for nothing.”
“It’s the last thing they’ll expect.”
On they jogged, through the heat of the morning and the haze of the afternoon. They stopped to rest only once, at midday. Making their way to the river, they lay on their bellies and stuck their sweat-slick faces in the water.
“Oh, my. This feels so nice, Husband. You rest on the bank. I will pretend I am a fish.”
Rolling onto his side, Nate watched her dip her head back in. He reached over and lightly touched her shoulder, whispering, “If you only knew how much…” Then, easing onto his back, Nate laced his fingers under his head and exhaled a long, tired sigh.
Bright blue painted the vault of sky save for a few fluffy white clouds. A finch flew past, a spot of yellow dwarfed by the blazing yellow higher up. Nate started to close his eyes but snapped them open again.
Winona came up for air, and grinned. “I used to do this a lot when I was little.”
“You’re weird.”
Winona laughed, then stiffened and pushed up on her hands. “Did you hear something?”
“No. Relax. We’re well ahead of them by now.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so. I checked the ground. If they’d already passed, there would be fresh tracks.”
Gaining her knees, Winona turned. “I would be more confident if we had guns.”
“We have these,” Nate said, and tapped his temple. “Guns or not, when it happens it will be fast and brutal.”
“Killing usually is.” Winona lay next to him. She ran a finger over a welt. “This is one time I will not mind. Were my mother still alive, she would be upset with me.”
“For wanting revenge on the men who did that?”
“Morning Dew had a gentle heart. She would fight when she had to, as the time our village was raided and when those Blackfeet attacked us. But she did not like violence. When my father talked about counting coup, she would say he had no need to prove he had courage. She knew he did.”
“What did your father say?”
“Black Kettle always smiled and told her that he didn’t count coup for her, he did it to protect our people.”
“I liked your father and mother.”
“They liked you.”
For a while they were quiet. Then Nate grunted and sat up. “Enough rest. We have to keep going. I figure we’re a mile and a half ahead of them by now. By nightfall I’d like to be three or four.”
“I am not an Apache, Husband. I cannot run forever.”
“If you tire, I’ll carry you.” Nate bent and offered her his hand. As he pulled her to her feet she came into his arms and kissed him on the neck. “What was that for?”
“When two hearts are one, neither heart needs a reason.”
They stood in silent embrace, his chin on her head, until the chirp of a robin brought them back to the here and now.
“When we get home I am barring our cabin door and we are not stirring out of bed for a week.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Nate said, and gave her a playful smack on her bottom.
They hiked to the edge of the prairie and resumed jogging. Minute after minute, hour after hour. They saw deer and elk. They saw rabbits and squirrels. They spied a few buffalo far out on the plain. Once they spotted a young black bear that ran off when it spotted them.
