gray streaks of rain slashing down from the sky, but it didn’t look or feel as if the rain would come this way.
What did Tom mean when he said that he had killed his wife? He had not elaborated on the subject. Surely he didn’t mean that he had killed her in a fit of jealous rage, did he? She knew that some men did that from time to time.
But Tom?
No, he couldn’t have. She could not be that wrong about him.
Still, it was obvious he was running from something. There was so much of his past that she didn’t know. And she had never seen a man so out of place as Tom was here. He was obviously educated, extremely educated. It appeared as if money meant little to him. He was silent, but not sullen, a gentleman, but not a weak sister.
No, he wasn’t a murderer. She was as sure of that as she had ever been sure of anything in her entire life. If he had killed his wife, it had to have been some sort of tragic accident, something that had scarred his soul. All she had to do was get through that scar tissue.
Marcus Doyle had rounded up fifteen men. He and Seth Lovejoy brought the number to seventeen, and now they were waiting on the south side of the Cimarron.
Seth Lovejoy had been a Colonel in the Union Army during the war, and he understood the tactics of cover, concealment, and overlapping fields of fire. Because of that, he had his men well-positioned.
“Morrell is coming back,” Doyle said, and even as he spoke the others could see a single rider galloping toward them.
Lovejoy and his men had been in position for two days, and he had sent Morrell out both days to keep an early lookout for the approaching herd.
At this point the Cimarron was broad, but only about a foot deep. This was the only ford for several miles in either direction that would accommodate a herd of cattle. Lovejoy knew about it, because it was used in the spring by all the Texas herds that were coming north.
Morrell continued the gallop across the river, his horse’s hooves sending up splashes with each footfall. When he reached the south side of the river he dismounted.
“They’re comin’, Mr. Lovejoy,” he said.
“How far back?”
“No more’n three, maybe four miles. I expect they’ll be here in an hour or so. The wagons is just over that ridge. They’ll be here in about ten minutes or so.”
“Do we kill the wagon drivers?” Doyle asked.
“They’re women,” Morrell replied, answering before Lovejoy could respond to Doyle’s question.
“What?” Lovejoy asked.
“The wagon drivers,” Lovejoy said. “They’re women. Three of ’em.”
“Three wagons?”
“No, only two wagons, but one of ’em is bein’ drove by two women.”
“I ain’t goin’ to be shootin’ no women,” one of the men Doyle had recruited said.
“Me neither,” another said.
“All right, we’ll let the women on through,” Lovejoy said. “The only one I’m really wantin’ to kill is the one that shot my boy.”
“Like I said, Mr. Lovejoy, them wagons will be here any minute now.”
“Right. Good job, Morrell. Now, get your horse out of sight and take a position.”
“Whoa, mules,” Sally said, pulling back on the reins and using her foot to push on the brake.
Sally’s wagon and the one behind it squeaked to a stop as the dust trail that had been following now moved up to envelop them.
“The first thing we need to do is get a fire going,” Sally said as she climbed down. “Not only for cooking, but for warmth. It’s getting cold.”
Sally reached up to help Maria climb down, just as Rebecca came up to them.
“Maria, are you all right?” Rebecca asked.
“We may as well tell her,” Sally said. “She’s going to be with us every day for the next month.”
“Si,” Maria replied. Then to Rebecca. “I am going to have a baby,” she said.
“Maria,” Rebecca said with a broad smile. “That is wonderful!”
“Nobody knows except Clay,” Sally said. “And Maria would like to keep it that way.”
“I won’t say a word,” Rebecca said. “Why I’ll be as quiet as ...” Rebecca halted in mid-sentence and the expression on her face changed from one of joy for Maria to one of concern as she stared across the river.
“Rebecca what is it?” Sally asked. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
“I just saw Mr. Lovejoy,” Rebecca said. “He’s on the other side of the river.”
Sally chuckled. “You mean you did see a ghost? Isn’t he the one that Matt shot?”
Rebecca shook her head. “No,” she said. “This is Seth Lovejoy. He is the father of the man Matt shot.”
Now Sally’s face showed concern as well. “That’s not good,” she said. “It can’t just be a coincidence that the father of the man Matt shot is waiting on the other side of the river. If he is over there, he has something in mind.” She looked across the river. “I don’t see anyone,” she said.
“He’s—” Rebecca started to raise her hand to point, but Sally reached out to take her hand and prevent her from raising it.
“Don’t point,” Sally said. “If he is over there, we don’t want him to know we have seen him.”
“He’s not the only one over there,” Maria said. “I just saw some more men.”
“How many?”
“Three. Maybe four,” Maria said.
“Maybe we should leave,” Rebecca suggested.
“No, if we try and leave now, he would know we saw him. Chances are he would chase us down to keep us from warning the others,” Sally said.
“Then what can we do?” Maria asked.
“We’ll start a fire,” Sally said. “Rebecca, you start gathering firewood. Keep moving over toward the wood line over there. Once you are far enough inside the wood line to be seen, drop the firewood and start back toward the others, going as fast as you can. Tell them what we have seen.”
“I hate leaving the two of you here all alone.”
“We’ll be all right as long as they don’t suspect anything,” Sally said. “Now, get going. Maria, we’ll start a fire with the wood we’ve got.”
There was a canvas sling beneath the chuck wagon and as Rebecca moved around picking up pieces of wood, Sally and Maria pulled the wood from the canvas sling. They began building a fire.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What are they doing?” Lovejoy asked.
“Looks like they’re getting ready to fix dinner,” Doyle said. “Should we stop them?”
“No, let ’em cook,” Lovejoy said. “After we take care of the others, we’ll be hungry. Might as well let them cook for us.”
The others laughed, and Lovejoy put his finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “We can’t let them know that we are here.”
Rebecca moved steadily toward the wood line, picking up a piece of wood here, a stick there, discarding some and keeping others as if she were really gathering wood. She wanted to break and run, and had to fight with every ounce of her being not to do so.
Finally she reached the edge of the woods, went in, came back out, went in, and came back out again as if merely searching for the best pieces. Then, the last time she went in, she continued on until she was sure she was
