“Hang on tight, Maddie Sue. We’re going for a horsie ride.”
Bless Gwen, the main weight of caring for the children had always fallen on her. As a mother, she was a natural, while Deb didn’t have near the knack for it. The children loved her too, but they just plain preferred Gwen.
Deb was all right with that, because if Gwen did most of the cuddling and rocking, she wasn’t doing all the heavier work. Deb wanted to shoulder as much of the burden for Gwen and Mrs. Scott as possible. It was the way she’d done things with her mother, and the way she’d had to do things with her father. It came naturally for her to try to ease the workload of others.
One of the reasons she had convinced Gwen to come west was Deb’s determination to use all her hard work to build something of her own.
Deb didn’t pretend that caring for two such young children was a small job, not at all. Gwen worked very hard. And with Mr. Scott leading this splintered-off group of the wagon train, all the driving and much of the horse care fell to Mrs. Scott. Deb always wished she could do more to make the lives of those she loved easier.
“Let’s head out.” Trace looked at Gwen. “You holdin’ on tight up there?”
She smiled and gave a firm nod. “We’re ready.”
“Give me a few yards’ head start so I can study the trail before you walk on it.” Trace moved out. As Deb walked along, leading the stallion, she realized she had a thousand questions. Pa had never much cared for a chattering woman. Of course, that’s because he was the family’s main chatterer.
“Can I ask how far it is to your home?” She winced as she remembered Maddie Sue, who, about two minutes after the wheels had started rolling back at the beginning of the wagon-train journey, asked if they were there yet.
“You see those tracks there?” Trace pointed at the ground.
“I see at least a hundred tracks from wagon wheels. This is the trail we came down yesterday.”
Trace shook his head. “Did you notice anything missing from the wagon train?”
Deb stared at him, thinking maybe he’d lost his mind. “Everything was missing, or dead and burned.”
“I’m sorry, that was a cruel question. What I mean is, there were a few dead draft animals, probably from stray bullets, but most of the horses and oxen were gone from the traces. They weren’t lying there dead.”
“I didn’t even think of that.” How could she when she was busy searching and trying to keep from emptying her stomach after seeing such horror?
“The men who attacked the train stole them, along with everything else they could find.”
It wasn’t much. It was only five wagons, and Deb had found money caches in nearly every one. Mr. Scott had been the one to devise hidden boxes for any wealth the folks going west hoped to keep for the journey’s end.
“There are also tracks from some cattle.”
Deb nodded. “There was a small herd being driven along behind the wagon train.”
“Those have all been stolen, too.”
Deb looked at the trail. “You can see all that on a trail churned up yesterday by the wagon train?”
Trace hunkered down and pointed. “Yep. That track is a horse, a shod horse, and to someone who knows how to read signs, a hoofprint is as good as a man’s signature. I’ll know every critter with those men if I see them again . . . horses and cattle both. This one has horseshoes with a diamond mark on them, some blacksmith’s mark, and it’s distinctive.”
He moved to another hoofprint. “This is one of the stolen horses. I can tell because it’s not as deep as, say, this one.” He pointed to another track. “See? It’s not carrying a rider.”
He indicated yet another track. “This belongs to one of the thieves. It’s got a broad pace, and the tracks are deep. Big horse, big man riding it. And the tracks are heading east, when all yesterday’s tracks were heading west. This track is distinctive, as are a few of the others, and they’re from horses carrying the men who killed your friends. This print here is huge—it must be quite a horse.”
“One of the wagons was being pulled by a big Belgian, another by a pair of massive Holstein oxen.”
“Those are all unusual animals. That helps. Thanks.” Trace glanced sideways at her. “I’m surprised you haven’t told me this was done by Indians. Most people blame Native folks for all the trouble out here.”
“I heard the attackers yelling, and they were clearly speaking English. Of course, I’m sure some Native people can speak English, but not the way these men did. And . . .” Her voice faltered.
“What?”
“I saw one of them.”
Trace surged to his feet and turned to grip her arms. “You saw his face?”
“Yes. In the firelight, just as dawn broke. I would recognize him if I saw him again.”
“That puts you in considerable danger.” Trace looked and sounded grim.
A shiver raised the hair on her arms and neck. “I suppose it does, but it eliminates all chance that Native folks can be blamed.”
Nodding, Trace said, “I’m glad. I could see that by reading the signs, but it was staged, even a few arrows left behind to look as if this was done by Paiutes. But the real killing was done with bullets and, well, there was damage to the bodies that I’ve seen before. As if someone who doesn’t know Indian ways has a twisted belief that there’d be some knife wounds, so they—” Trace stopped and cleared his throat, then gave his head a hard shake, not finishing what he’d started to say.
“The Paiutes are the main tribe around here. And some Washoe. I have friends among ’em, and they’re a peaceable people
