Читать книгу Beloved Outcast - Pat Tracy - Страница 11

Logan strained to hear the muffled question. Battered and hurting from the beating Windham had ordered, he’d lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been locked inside the stockade. He’d drunk the last of his water a few hours back.

“Sir, I asked you who you are,” came that suspicious sounding voice again.

Logan shook his head to clear it. He must have been unconscious for most of the day. It had been the glorious aroma of cooking food that nudged him to full alertness. He could have sworn someone had pitched camp outside his cell door.

Saliva pooled in his mouth, and his tongue seemed twice its normal size. Hot food. His stomach shuddered in sweet anticipation.

“The name’s Logan,” he growled, relieved the newcomer’s arrival hadn’t been a hallucination. “Logan Youngblood. How about letting me out of here and sharing some of that food? While you’re at it, I’d appreciate a drink of water.”

The only response to his request was more silence. Frustration, and the possibility that he was going to pass out again and never come to, snapped Logan’s patience.

“What are you waiting for? Open the damned door!”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. The soldiers who put you in there must have had a good reason.”

Outraged, Logan couldn’t believe he’d heard the newcomer right. “You mean you’re going to leave me in here to die?”

There was another silence.

“That would make you a murderer,” Logan pressed, anger gnawing holes in his control.

“I—I wasn’t the one who put you in there.”

“When they locked me up, they took away my gun,” he pointed out, just in case the nature of his plight wasn’t clear. “I’m unarmed and ready to pass out.”

More silence.

“Even if you’re alone, you’ve got to be carrying a rifle or a shotgun or a pistol,” Logan persisted. “How can I be a threat?”

Silence.

He ground his teeth, which made his head hurt all the worse. “Say something, damn you.”

“You swear too much.”

“Say something relevant.”

“I’m not letting you out until—”

“Hell freezes over?” he said savagely.

“Are you wounded?”

The words seemed closer. For the first time, Logan thought he detected a note of concern in the stranger’s tone. His hopes rose about the time his legs gave out.

“Some cracked ribs, and a headache that’s strong enough to split my skull in two,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

“Then let me out.”

“What did you do?”

Even though the question was reasonable, Logan’s control unraveled further. “What does it matter? I told you, I’m too weak to cause you any trouble.”

“You could be lying. Perhaps you have a.club. If I were to open the door, you could attack me,” came the husky voice.

“So shoot me.”

More silence. An incredible notion struck him.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have a gun!”

Silence.

Logan swore feelingly. “What kind of fool comes poking around Idaho Territory without a gun?”

“Fortunately, there happens to be a cannon nearby,” came the snippy answer.

Logan suddenly was struck by a mental flash of what the unexpected visitor might look like.

A boy.

That would explain the odd fluctuations he heard in the low voice from time to time. It would also explain why the lad had such tender ears, and why he was afraid to let Logan out of the stockade. It all fit. A wave of reluctant sympathy tugged at Logan. A lot of young men had shown up in Trinity Falls, hoping to fill their pockets with gold. To them, every stranger was a potential enemy.

“You don’t have to raise the bolt to feed me, kid. Just shove some of that food you’ve been cooking through the small opening at the bottom of the door. I’ll pass you my canteen, and you can fill it at the well.”

“Why did you call me kid?” came the definitely edgy query.

“Hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?”

“I’m no child.”

“I’m sure you’ve traveled far and faced your share of hardships,” he conceded. “Now how about that food and water?”

The metal grate came up abruptly. No light flooded through the puny opening. Logan realized night had fallen. He fumbled in the darkness for his empty canteen and pushed it through the open grate. Then he waited.

“Here,” came the gruff voice.

Logan cupped his hand beneath the slot. A fragrant, warm lump fell into his palm. When he took his first bite of the biscuit, his taste buds wept more saliva. Considering the exacting standards he expected from the hotel chef at the Prairie Rose, his starvation must be at an advanced level for him to take delight in such humble fare. Of course, when he lived with the Shoshone, he’d learned to appreciate simply cooked foods.

Moments later, his canteen rolled to his feet. He sat on the ground with his back against the log wall and tipped his head, letting the life-sustaining liquid trickle down his dry throat. Nothing had ever tasted so good, except for-”Do you have any whiskey you’d like to share, kid?”

“Certainly not! And stop calling me kid.”

“Don’t tell me,” Logan said. “Your folks don’t approve of a man enjoying liquor now and again.”

“That’s right!”

Somehow he wasn’t surprised. “I finished my biscuit. Do you have any more?”

The grate came up, and Logan held out his hand expectantly. Three more biscuits filled his palm. If he was a religious man, he might have burst into hallelujahs.

“You’re a good cook, kid,” Logan said around a mouthful of filling bread. “Do you do it for a living?” In between sips of water, Logan savored his third biscuit. “What’s your name?”

A hesitation followed his question. What else was new?

“Amory.”

Despite his desperate circumstances, Logan discovered, he could still smile. “That a first or a last name?”

“Last.”

“Got a first initial you’d like to share, or do you want me calling you Amory?”

Silence.

“You don’t talk much.” A feeling of welcome fullness coupled with incredible fatigue washed over Logan. “That’s fine with me, Amory.”

Silence.

Logan’s eyelids drifted shut.

“V.!”

The strident shout fairly rocked the stockade door. Logan chuckled. His ribs made their presence known. Grimacing, he sank onto a pallet. That he could find anything amusing in his present predicament suggested that he might live after all.

“V.A. it is.” Logan was going to have to tell him that each time he lost his temper, his youthful voice went up several notches.

Now that he had some food in his stomach, Logan’s exhaustion caught up with him. He told himself he’d rest a bit before trying to convince the youth to release him.

Victoria looked down for several moments at the small, square hole into which she’d shoved the prisoner’s food and water. Then she pushed shut the metal grate and stepped from the cell.

She bit her lip, trying not to feel guilty about keeping the wretched man inside the stockade. Yet the plain and simple truth was, she did feel sorry for Mr. Logan Youngblood. Not sorry enough, however, to risk her life by setting the foul-spoken criminal free. At least not until she’d discovered what he’d done to warrant such harsh punishment. Only a simpleton would ignore the fact that he’d been abandoned to certain death. It stood to reason that Logan Youngblood’s sins must be black indeed.

Victoria set about tidying the campsite. The familiar ritual brought a measure of peace. Later, she stretched out upon the blankets she’d spread beneath the wagon. For once, because of the smoothness of the military yard, no sharp sticks or rocks poked through her bedding and into her skin.

Even though the fort was filled with available beds, Victoria wasn’t tempted to spend the night in any of them. Too fresh in her memory was the eerie sensation of standing in empty rooms and feeling the ghostly presence of their former occupants.

“Amory, get your butt over here!”

The surly command jerked Victoria from the few minutes of extra sleep she’d tried to steal from the brightening dawn. She sat up and promptly rammed her forehead against the wagon’s underbelly. A disorienting wave of pain shot through her skull. Simultaneously, her back muscles protested the sudden movement. She pressed her eyelids shut and waited for the shocks to her body to lessen before crawling from beneath the wagon.

“Move it, Amory. We’ve got to get out of here!”

Victoria glared balefully at the stockade.

“I was asleep,” she said, her voice groggy.

“Kid, if you don’t haul your butt over here and let me out, we’re both going to be meat for the buzzards.”

In the morning light, the stockade was a small, crude building that looked both forbidding and forlorn. She steeled herself against any further sympathy for Mr. Youngblood, locked inside its dark interior. Again, she reminded herself that the man must be an evildoer of the blackest sort, and therefore was suffering only what he deserved.

Her jaw tightened. “Relax, Mr. Youngblood. No buzzard is going to get you while you’re inside your cell.”

As she waited for the prisoner’s response, Victoria’s stomach rolled over. She’d forgotten to disguise her voice as that of a man! Apprehensive, she awaited Logan’s next words.

“Kid, just how old are you?”

Victoria couldn’t tear her gaze from the small log building. She coughed once, then cleared her throat and tried to speak from the region of her toes. “Old enough.”

“Ten? Twelve?”

“None of your business.”

“I’m going to make this simple. Any time now, several bands of Indians are going to ride down upon this fort. If the United States Army didn’t care to hang around for the outcome, don’t you think you should reconsider setting up a camp here?”

At the open scorn coating the prisoner’s question, Victoria winced. She looked toward the fort’s gaping entrance. Perhaps she should have closed the gate behind her.

“Look, kid—” The man broke off. “Amory, the Indians plan on burning Fort Brockton to the ground. They don’t intend on taking any prisoners. Unless you want a burning arrow through the gut, I suggest we get the hell out of here.”

“How do you know they’re coming?” Victoria asked, her throat muscles tight.

“That doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we—”

“What do you mean, we?” she demanded, hating the new fear Logan Youngblood’s words had unleashed within her. “I told you, I’m not letting you out until you tell me what your crime was.”

“Do you honestly think you have a choice?”

“Yes, I think just that.”

“Dammit, you need all the help you can get. One snotnosed kid isn’t going to hold off a band of revenge-minded Indians.”

“I told you, I’m not—”

“I’ve got ears, Amory. You sound about ten to me. I don’t know what in blazes you’re doing running around the Idaho Territory on your own. But I do know that, if you intend to see eleven, you better haul yourself over here and unbolt this door.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?” Victoria asked, wondering if Logan Youngblood was making up this new threat to scare her into freeing him.

“I was only thinking about the hole in my stomach that needed filling,” came the clearly grudging admission. “I must have passed out afterward.”

“And this morning you came to with the sudden recollection that this fort was about to be attacked?”

“That’s right, boy. We need to get to Trinity Falls.”

Trinity Falls—exactly where she wanted to be.

“Why did they lock you up, Mr. Youngblood?” she repeated, wondering if she could believe anything he told her. Obviously, it served his best interests to lie.

There was a distinct pause.

“I brought the warning of the attack.”

“And they put you in the stockade for that?” Victoria couldn’t suppress her disappointment that he would prevaricate in this dire situation.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what was it exactly, Mr. Youngblood?”

“They wanted to know how I knew the Indians’ plans.”

“A most sensible question,” she pointed out.

“I told them Night Wolf had warned me.”

“Night Wolf?”

“He’s an. acquaintance of mine.”

“Really?” Victoria asked, intrigued that anyone should count an Indian among his circle of acquaintances. “How did you meet?”

“That’s hardly important.”

“I suppose not.” Still, she was curious about such an odd circumstance. “Why did Night Wolf warn you about the attack?”

“He realizes that more bloodshed will only make it harder for his people to coexist peacefully with the white man.”

“I see.”

Victoria knew she was in the minority in sympathizing with the primitives. To her, they seemed like beautiful and free people who were rapidly losing their home in a land that had sheltered them for generations. If only there could be an end to the violence that raged between the settlers and the Indians, and a place could be preserved for the country’s native inhabitants.

“You still haven’t told me why they locked you up.”

“I refused to lead Colonel Windham to Night Wolf’s camp.”

“Why on earth would you object to doing that?”

“I told you, Night’s Wolf’s people are at peace.”

“Then they have nothing to worry about.”

“Boy, you can’t be green enough to believe that.”

Victoria’s teeth clicked together. “I’m smart enough to stay out of jail.”

“But foolish enough to land in the middle of Indian country during a war.”

“Mr. Youngblood?”

“Yes?”

“Are you comfortable in your cell?”

“Not really.”

“That’s unfortunate, because at this rate you’re going to remain there.”

“Amory, we’re running out of time.” A pounding blow sent a flurry of dust motes flying from the stockade door.

She jumped back. “Stop that!”

“Listen to me, you stubborn brat—the Indians are coming.

“So you said.”

“And you don’t believe me?” he asked, his tone furious. “Where the hell do you think everybody went? To a barn raising?”

Victoria stood before the barred entry and eyed the heavy beam holding it closed. For the first time, she was tempted to unlatch it. If the man was telling the truth about having brought news of an attack, he didn’t deserve to die.

The sun’s rays bore down. She closed her eyes and sent a hasty prayer heavenward, asking for divine guidance.

“Kid?”

The deep voice was relentless.

No answer came to her prayer, at least not in the form of words. But as she stared at the stockade, a sense of inevitability washed over her. The plain and simple truth was that she was incapable of leaving Mr. Youngblood to rot inside his log prison.

“I’m going to open the door.”

“When?”

She struggled to lift the heavy bar lodged tightly between the metal posts. “Now.”

“Smart move, Amory,” came the approving voice. “We’ll ride hard and fast for Trinity Falls.”

“And, once we’re there, we’ll be safe?”

“Since the last gold strike, the town’s swollen to more than five thousand miners,” he informed her. “It’s in no danger of being attacked. Do you have a good horse?”

“No.” A splinter stabbed her index finger. “I’ve got a team of oxen.”

“Well, hell, what kind of time do you think we’re going to make with oxen?”

“They may not be fast, but they’re steady. And they’ve had time to rest. They’ll pull my wagon just fine.”

Victoria gave up trying to raise the bar with her bare hands and went to fetch her cooking fork. She was sure it was sturdy enough to dislodge the metal beam.

“You’ve got a wagon?”

Her efforts began to noticeably budge the crossbar. “That’s right.”

“I don’t like the idea of using a wagon.”

The heavy iron arm finally came free and toppled to the ground. The stockade door swung outward, revealing a sinister black hole.

The prisoner stepped toward the light. “Wheel tracks are too easy to follow.”

Without the barrier of the log portal between them, the deep voice sounded alarmingly close.

“We’re going to need the wagon. I refuse to leave my precious cargo behind.”

Mr. Youngblood emerged from the shadowed doorway, blinking against the sudden onslaught of sunlight.

“Precious cargo—?” He broke off abruptly. She saw his dark eyes narrow at the sight of her. “Well, hell.”

The observation was his, the sentiment hers.