Читать книгу High Plains Bride - Valerie Hansen - Страница 8

Kansas Territory

1858

The two solitary riders felt the brunt of the wintry wind at their backs as they urged their weary mounts toward the closest high point in the flint hills. Both men were wrapped in buffalo robes they’d obtained from the Plains Indians they’d encountered near the abandoned Kansa Mission School at Council Grove.

Will Logan, in the lead, was glad they’d brought enough baubles with them to successfully trade for the thick, hairy robes. Though the hides weren’t the sweetest-smelling things he’d ever encountered, without their protection he and his friend would literally be freezing.

He pulled his broad-brimmed, felt hat lower and bent forward in the saddle, bracing against the force of the prairie gale and wishing mightily that he’d had the foresight to grow a beard and let his thick, dark blond hair reach his shoulders instead of keeping it so neatly trimmed.

His fingers were half-numb inside his leather gloves as he tugged on the rope fastened to their pack mule’s harness, urging the stubborn animal to keep pace. Although it plodded along in begrudging compliance, the rangy mule laid its ears back, snorted and blew clouds of condensation from its nostrils, clearly not agreeing that the small party was behaving sensibly by leaving the known route and pressing on into uncharted territory.

“Just a few hundred yards more,” Will shouted to his human companion.

Zeb Garrison kicked his bay gelding and pulled up beside Will’s sorrel. “So you say. I should have known better than to follow you out here in December. We’re both likely to freeze to death. And the horses, too.”

Will laughed in spite of the icy needles of frost pricking his cheeks and nose. “You got soft working in Boston,” he taunted. “This change will be good for both of us. You’ll see. And by getting an early start, we’re far enough ahead of other settlers to lay claim to the choicest plots of land in this neck of the woods.”

“Assuming we live long enough to enjoy them,” Zeb countered. “If the weather doesn’t kill us, those Indians we keep seeing in the distance might. I still say they’re tracking us. Probably want their buffalo hides back.”

“Nonsense. We bought them fair and square.”

With one final lunge, the horses gained the high ground. Will’s pale blue eyes widened, and he shaded them with his hand on his brow, sighing deeply. Below lay total vindication, as lush a valley as he’d ever hoped for and the wide, meandering river that completed their list of necessities. Too bad his doubting father was not here to see what he’d found.

Rising in his stirrups, Will turned to his lifelong friend, pointed and grinned. “There. See? I told you we’d find the perfect place for your mill and my ranch. I can picture it already. The town will go down there, thanks to the generosity of the New England Emigrant Aid Company, and I can use my stake from them to bring in longhorns to graze these hills. Eating switchgrass and big and little bluestem the likes of what grows here in summer will fatten up those critters real fast. They’ll be ready for market in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Zeb’s nod was barely perceptible beneath the bulky buffalo robe, but he did agree. “Maybe you’re right. It does look promising. I think I even see a small waterfall upstream that I can use for power. Still…”

Will wasn’t about to take no for an answer. He’d prayed continually for the good Lord’s guidance and knew without question that this was his personal promised land.

He passed the mule’s lead rope to Zeb, then gave his horse its head and let the animal choose the best route of descent from the wide mesa to the river valley below. Will was so exuberant he paid no heed as the animal’s shod hooves loosened bits of shale and ice that skittered down ahead of them like a miniature avalanche. This was his Eden. He knew it with all his heart and soul.

He had already dismounted on a flat rise of land near the frigid but swiftly flowing river when his friend reined in and joined him.

“Here!” Will shouted excitedly. He spread his arms wide as he spoke, ignoring the buffalo robe slipping off the shoulders of his coat and falling onto the shallow accumulation of snow. “The main street will go across here, abreast of the river, and your mill can be upstream so you can either freight the lumber to town or float it if the water’s high enough. It’s perfect.” His grin widened. “Come on. Admit it. I was right.”

Zeb dismounted, ground-hitched his horse and tied off the mule’s lead rope to a sturdy cottonwood tree. “All right. I’ll go along this time. Just remember, this whole trip was my idea to begin with.”

Laughing, Will shook his head. “Sure, boss me around the way you did when we were boys. You may have money of your own but I had the brains and foresight to convince others to finance me.” He ducked as Zeb feinted a punch to his shoulder. “Grab the hammer and some stakes. We’re home. We’ll call it High Plains.”

He sobered as they paced off the land and then drove the final stake to mark their claim. Removing his hat despite the icy wind that ruffled his hair, he dropped to his knees atop the thick buffalo hide and bowed his head. Zeb did the same.

“Lord, we thank You for bringing us to this place and we dedicate this portion of High Plains, Kansas Territory, to You,” Will prayed aloud. “Keep us mindful of Your plan and continue to guide our paths.”

Zeb echoed his “Amen” and the two young pioneers rose. “Merry Christmas,” he told Will, frowning. “I sure hope you’re right about this being the right place.”

“It is,” his smiling friend assured him. “And a very Merry Christmas to you, too.”