Nate stood. “I’ll go get ready.” He made for the bay. As he crossed the circle he glanced back.
Jeremiah Blunt and the man called Maklin were huddled together, and Maklin was fingering one of his silver- inlaid pistols.
No matter how small the fire, at night the glow could be seen for miles. Even when the fire was kindled in a hollow or a ravine as a precaution, a pale patch always stood out against the black ink of the night sky, especially when someone used a telescope to look for it as Nate was doing now. He sat astride the bay half a mile from the freighter camp and slowly swept the spyglass back and forth, seeking a telltale lighter patch.
“Anything?” Maklin asked.
“Not yet.” Nate was convinced Kuruk was out there somewhere plotting to rub him out for the death of Red Rock.
“Ask you a question?”
“So long as it’s not about anything personal.”
“You say the Shoshones adopted you into their tribe. Did it mean something to you, or did you go along with it so as not to hurt their feelings?”
Nate lowered the spyglass and looked at him. “I like the Shoshones. They have my highest respect and I’m honored they’ve taken me as one of their own. Why do you ask?”
“A lot of whites don’t care for Indians.”
That was putting it mildly, Nate thought. Out loud he said, “A lot of people, white and red, can’t see past the color of another person’s skin.”
“I can,” Maklin said without a hint of brag. “I saw through that Lipan gal’s skin to the beauty she had inside. I loved her, King. I loved her more than I’ve ever loved anything, a lot like you must love your Shoshone gal, I reckon.”
Nate acknowledged as much.
“A lot of whites looked down their noses at me for taking her for my wife,” Maklin detailed. “One day in a saloon a man called me a no-account, stinking Injun lover. His very words.”
“What did you do?”
“I used the stock of my rifle on his face. I broke his nose and split his cheek. I told him if he ever pressed charges I’d come back and finish what I’d started. He never did.”
“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.
