A Place Called Harmony, page 17
Momma Roma was a worker, Truman would give her that. She was up making coffee before the others crawled out of their bedrolls. After breakfast she’d pack up a snack for each man while her mother scrubbed the pots. When they stopped at dusk her little boy would make the fire while she cooked up food that seemed far too fancy to serve on a campfire menu. When she wasn’t busy trying to teach her sons to speak English, she sang.
Truman could hear her voice from a mile away. Though he couldn’t understand the words, he smiled, thinking how nice it sounded.
Her sons made up in effort what they lacked in skill, and the old dog they brought along barked at everything that moved near the wagons.
On the fifth day, they stopped by a stream a few hours before dark. The day was sunny, the air still. Everyone needed a break.
Clint took a bath and switched into his other set of clothes, the ones Karrisa had mended. He ran his hand along her fine stitching and thought that she’d cared enough about him to sew up all the tiny rips he’d simply gotten used to. She’d altered the new clothes she’d bought too. He was a big man, slim in the waist and wide in the shoulders. The new clothes fit him better than any he’d ever had.
With the good weather and steady progress, they’d be home in three days, ahead of schedule. He wasn’t sure he’d thanked her for the clothes, but he’d remember to do that when he got back to her.
Neither of the regular drivers had brought along extra clothes, so they simply pulled off their boots and waded into the water with a bar of soap. Without taking off a stitch, they washed body and clothes at the same time, then lay in the grass to dry.
Momma Roma and her mother rigged up a tent between two of the wagons. She boiled water in her pots, and then the women washed in privacy.
The Roma boys didn’t move toward the water. Apparently they’d just gotten their winter coat of dirt and didn’t plan to wash until spring. Truman did his best to communicate with the young men using hand signals and the few words they knew. North, south, right, left. Hello. Thank you. They were good boys who earned their pay and respected their mother. That went a long way in Truman’s book.
The next afternoon he rode away from the camp, planning to shoot a few rabbits and take a good look back. If anyone followed them, he wanted to know before they got close enough to fire off a shot.
The rabbits were easy to find but he saw nothing, not even a dust devil along the road behind them. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, was out there watching.
After a supper of the best hare stew he’d ever eaten, Clint climbed up a rise about a quarter of a mile from camp and studied the horizon. This time of day, just before dark, the wind settled and all the land stilled. If anything, or anyone, was out there, his best chance of catching sight of them was now.
Something had kicked up dirt toward the north, but trouble wouldn’t be coming from that direction. Clint decided wild ponies must have been running, or deer.
A thin line of smoke rose toward the western sky, almost too thin to be a campfire. Clint watched it disappear and thought of a dozen things that could have caused the wisp of smoke: a low-hanging cloud, an animal darting across fine dust. Or maybe his nerves were simply causing him to see things.
In the shadows he watched one of the drivers, either Jack or Harry, who must have walked away from the camp earlier and was now strolling back. Clint had seen the same shadow moving other nights and guessed whoever it was liked to make sure he was alone when he visited nature’s outhouse, or maybe one of the drivers drank a little and wanted no one to see him. After all, the last driver had been fired for drinking.
Clint made a note to watch them both carefully. He didn’t care about the drinking at night, but he wanted both men alert in the morning.
He flattened against the earth and listened as he watched his small band make camp within the square of four wagons. He knew how men hunted, even those who hunted other men. If anyone tried to move in on the camp, he’d see them long before they saw him. Also, there was a good chance the dog would bark or one of the men in camp would spot something moving. Since the first night he’d had the men guard in two-hour shifts.
The boy’s dog barked suddenly and ran out of the square of wagons. Someone let out a whistle and the mangy animal returned to the camp. They were settling in for the night.
Clint watched and waited. Two days, three at the most and he’d be home. Strange how he could think of one room above a trading post as home. The supplies he carried would build his house, but home was where Karrisa stayed. The little farm they were starting would be awfully quiet with just the two of them in a house. He’d kind of gotten used to all the talking and laughing at the trading post. He wouldn’t miss Ely’s snoring, though.
A little after midnight, he moved down into camp. With a low whistle he let the man on guard know that he was returning.
One of Momma Roma’s boys whistled back.
Clint took care of his horse but didn’t move close enough to the fire to feel the warmth. He’d put up with the cold in trade for the ability to be unseen.
As he had every night, he climbed up on one of the wagons and stretched out.
Watching the silent shadows of the night, he thought of his wife. Funny, in all the days they’d been together she hadn’t been on his mind as much as she was tonight. Maybe folks don’t see the good or bad in people until they step away.
He tried to stay alert. If trouble was going to come, it would probably come by tonight. After that they’d be too close to the trading post. Clint didn’t close his eyes all night. Everyone else must have felt the promise of trouble following them, for they were up and ready to move soon after dawn.
The progress went well all morning and into the afternoon, but as evening approached so did the clouds. By the time they stopped for the night, Clint couldn’t see twenty feet beyond the circle of the wagons.
Everyone was tired. Momma Roma didn’t sing and none of the men talked as they ate their supper and turned in. By dark the low fog seemed to blanket them in and the cold frosted their breaths.
If outlaws were near, this was the break they’d been waiting for. It didn’t matter how good a shot Clint was, if he couldn’t see the target, he couldn’t fire.
Lack of sleep from the night before wore on them all. Clint took the first watch, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stay awake long. With his rifle on the crook of his arm, he walked around the wagons. They’d pulled the mules inside a wider circle tonight and hadn’t even tried to keep the fire going. Though embers still offered some light, Clint knew that by midnight they’d be in total darkness.
Most of the crew elected to sleep on top of the wagon loads. It might not be as comfortable and could be deadly if someone rolled off in his sleep, but the height seemed to offer a bit of safety. Anyone storming the camp would be looking down for bedrolls, not up.
Clint guessed if it started raining, they’d all move under the wagons. He swore. How had he become a mother hen to this group? A month ago he could barely take care of himself and now he had seven people and a dog to worry about. He’d even made Granny Gigi a place between the boxes where she and her old musket would be out of the wind.
While they all slept, the mutt followed Clint on his rounds. Every time Clint stopped to stare into the fog, the dog stopped too as if somehow helping.
A little after midnight, when Clint was waiting for Jack to replace him, the dog growled low.
Clint lifted his rifle even though he guessed it was probably Jack circling around the outside of the wagons looking for him. Only, the dog usually didn’t growl at anyone in the group.
“Jack?” Clint whispered. “That you? You’re late taking watch.”
No answer.
Maybe it was a rabbit or groundhog or snake getting too close to the camp?
Clint moved between two of the wagons and continued to watch the night as the dog stared into the fog at something he saw. The hair on the back of the dog rose. Clint sensed trouble he couldn’t see.
Curling his finger around the trigger, Clint waited. Anyone coming up in this fog wouldn’t be a friend.
A sound came from the tall grass on the other side of the wagons. The old dog turned his head and barked but didn’t leave his watch.
Trouble was approaching from two sides and Clint couldn’t see five feet in front of him. He did hear movement above him and guessed the dog’s bark had alerted the others. Clint wanted to yell for them to stay put. To stay safe. But if outlaws were moving in, he didn’t want to give away his location.
He circled, the rifle ready. If rushed from all sides, he’d have time to get off one shot, maybe two, before they reached him or a bullet found him. No one else on the caravan claimed to be much of a shot except for Granny and her one bullet, so he had to make his few shots count.
A swishing sound reached him a second before a board creaked above him. Something hard and flat slammed into his head. He tumbled forward, losing his hold on the rifle a moment before he saw stars in the cloudy night.
Clint hung on to consciousness by a thread and remained still on the ground. Several men were moving around him. Shuffling in the dirt, whispering orders about where to look.
A guttural voice came through loud and clear in the still air. “Where in the hell are the others, Jack?”
The realization that Jack West had betrayed him hurt far more than the knot on Clint’s head. He’d trusted Jack. Even looked the other way when he thought the man was drinking.
“I don’t know.” Jack’s voice was low and close, a whine in the night. “I thought they were all on top of the wagons or bedded down by the fire. The old woman sometimes sleeps underneath, but even she’s disappeared.” He swore and added, “She’s a hundred years old, she couldn’t have gotten far.”
“They couldn’t have all disappeared.” Dollar Holt’s voice came through, angry and impatient. “Find them.”
“In this fog? I was lucky to even see the top of Truman’s head.” Jack’s words held a hint of panic. “He’s the one you want. Who cares about the others? Let’s hitch the wagons and move out.”
“Not before I end Truman’s miserable life.” Dollar laughed. “A couple of you men grab him and shake him awake. I want him to know I’m the one killing him. I plan to shoot him in both legs so he’ll beg before he gets the final bullet. He caused me a hell of a lot of trouble and I plan to repay the favor.”
As two of Holt’s men lifted him up, Clint heard Jack whisper to Dollar, “We got to kill Harry too. He knows me. The others will probably die out here, and even if they manage to find a post, no one will listen to them. But Harry, he’d be a witness. He might be standing ten feet away watching right now. Before we move out, we got to kill Harry.”
Dollar laughed. “That’s your problem, Jack. When you decided to go in with us, you took your chances. He probably doesn’t know you’re involved. Ran off with all the others would be my guess. Maybe you should stay behind and pick them off one by one while you try to stay alive walking to the trading post.”
“No.” Jack puffed up, ready to argue. “I go with you. These four wagons will bring a good price and I want my cut. I’m not in this for the fun of it. After all, I’m the one who told you about this shipment in the first place.”
Clint was pulled to his feet by two thugs. He raised his head just in time to see Dollar draw his gun from his holster and shoot Jack West in the heart. The driver crumbled as if boneless.
Dollar stood over him and fired another round, making the body seem to twitch in death. “There. That’s your cut. Never ask for your money before the job is done.”
Clint straightened. If this was his turn to be shot next, he’d face it head on. Blood dripped from where he’d been clubbed, blocking out most of his vision from the left side. If he could get one arm free, he’d have a chance, but the men holding him were powerful enough to make sure that didn’t happen.
Dollar still stood over Jack’s body, as if fascinated by the dark stain of blood pooling in the dirt. Finally, he raised his attention to Clint. “You going to die so easy, Truman?”
“No,” Clint said, showing no sign of being afraid. “I plan to haunt you all the way into hell, Dollar, just as probably all the other men you killed will. You’re not worth the air it takes to keep you alive. You never have been.”
Dollar Holt raised his gun, and Clint braced for the bullet. He figured if he made the outlaw mad enough Dollar would forget about shooting him in the legs first.
Only before Dollar could pull the trigger, what sounded like a cannon going off behind them rattled the air as a flash blinked bright in the night before the world fell back into total blackness.
One of the men holding Clint let out a cry of pain and dropped to his knees, then fell forward in the dirt.
Clint saw his chance. He swung the other man around as the bullet from Dollar’s gun fired, hitting the man in the back.
Suddenly, all was chaos. The old dog barked. A woman screamed and what sounded like blow after blow hitting flesh came out of the darkness.
Clint pulled his Colt but couldn’t make out the shadows clear enough to fire. One shadow, bigger than the others, moved through the low clouds just beyond the wagons. Clint fired at the big man, once, twice, but it was too dark to know whether he hit his mark.
He heard running and swearing and then the sound of horses galloping away.
In what seemed like a blink, silence settled over the circle of wagons. Then whispers in Italian as Momma Roma checked on each of her boys. Clint didn’t breathe until the third boy answered.
Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness, but he didn’t move. One of Dollar’s men could be ten feet away. Clint hadn’t been able to count the robbers. There could have been four, or five, or maybe even six if he counted Jack. He couldn’t tell how many had ridden away. Two, maybe three.
In the stillness, he heard the strike of a flint and saw the flicker of flames. The little boy was lighting a fire. A minute later the campfire ignited and the inside circle of the wagons was visible. The mules were still stacked at one side. The wagons were all in place. And his people?
Clint began to count. The two Roma brothers were sitting on a man who looked like he’d been beaten. Both boys had patches of red on their faces but were smiling as they tied the outlaw up. The man must have weighed as much as both of them, but they’d fought him and won.
Harry Woolsey, the other regular driver, was rubbing the back of his head and holding a rifle. “I had one of them cornered, but something hit me from behind. I was only distracted for a minute, but the one I thought I had for sure got away.” Woolsey moved closer to Truman. “You mind if I put another bullet in Jack? He wanted me dead. I was close enough to hear what he said to the leader.”
“I know how you feel, but no, you can’t. It might scare Granny.” Clint looked around. “Where are the women?”
Everyone started searching, well aware that the fight might not be over yet. It took only a few minutes to find the women. Momma Roma was leaning over her mother, crying softly.
“Is she dead?” Woolsey asked.
Momma Roma shook her head. “I think’a the kick from the old musket knock’a her off the wagon.”
Gigi moaned and everyone let out a breath. Momma Roma shouted in joy and hugged Woolsey, who didn’t seem to mind a bit.
Clint lifted the old woman up from where she’d fallen between the wagons and cradled her as if she were a child. “Tell her thank you for saving all our lives.”
“I no have to. She know.” Momma Roma straightened proudly. “I tell’a you she only ever need’a one bullet.”
“You tell her that from this night on”—Clint said the words slowly—“tell her she and her family are my family.”
Momma Roma cried as she translated, which made Gigi cry and then the boys, still high on adrenaline, start shouting.
Clint turned to Woolsey. “It appears I’ve claimed a very noisy family.”
The next morning, the Roma boys buried three outlaws. Jack West was the only name scratched on a cross. The one Granny shot and the outlaw who took the bullets meant for Clint were buried as unknowns.
Clint walked out in the direction he’d fired last night. In the spot where he’d seen the big shadow of a man, blood dotted the ground until horses’ hoofprints scattered the dirt. He’d hit Dollar, but the man had managed to climb on his horse and ride away. From the looks of the trails, five men had ridden in and two rode out, with one dripping blood.
An hour later, with the one outlaw tied up and nestled in with the supplies, and Granny Gigi surrounded by blankets as she rested, Clint discovered another fact. Momma Roma, who didn’t weigh a hundred pounds with rocks in her pockets, could drive a wagon as well as any of the men. Clint wanted to relieve her, but he needed to stay in the saddle and circle, making sure Dollar Holt and his one remaining gang member weren’t close. They’d be fools to try to strike again, but Dollar didn’t seem a man long on brains.
Late that afternoon Granny Gigi began to cough up blood, and everyone worried. They stopped to rest the horses, but no one wanted to stop for the evening. Momma Roma made coffee, but no one ate. As darkness settled in, the nightmare of the fight stayed with them.
Harry came to Clint and said he knew the trail from here on in and could lead the way, so long before dawn they were moving again. All with one goal: to reach the trading post as fast as possible.
Clint kept circling by the wagon that held the old woman. She tried to sleep, but pain kept her awake. By dawn she looked pale and the coughing was worse. The blow to her chest and shoulder might have done more damage than she was willing to admit.
When he suggested stopping for a while so she could rest easier, Momma Roma shook her head. “She say’a she want to get to the town you call’a Harmony.”
Clint shook his head. “Harmon Ely owns the place. It’s not even a town yet.”
“Granny say she will not’a stop until she is in’a this place called Harmony. We must keep’a going.”
