A Home for His Family. Jan Drexler
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him all over the West as he had searched for Mattie the years since then. Nate owed him everything.
Scout nudged his shoulder.
“Sorry, boy. No carrots today. We’ve got work to do.” He stroked the dark cheek under the bridle strap, holding Scout’s gaze with his own. The horse understood. He would get the wagon back onto the trail.
With shouts from the bullwhackers and the crack of whips, the train started out. Nate called to his team, “Hi-yup, there!”
The horses strained, the wheels turned in the mud and the wagon lurched up and onto the road. But as it did, Nate heard a sickening crack. Halting the team, he stooped to look under the wagon, dreading to confirm his fears.
The front axle was splintered and twisted along a narrow crack from one end to the other. A stress fracture. But it was still in one piece. He’d have to try to drive the wagon into Deadwood for repairs.
He stamped his feet to get some feeling back into them. The weather was turning bitter, and fast. He had to get the children into some sort of shelter for the night. The wind seemed to take a fiendish delight in whistling down the length of the canyon. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this weather was bringing snow behind it. But this was May. They couldn’t have snow in May, could they?
He’d have to walk to keep the strain off the axle. He glanced up at the wagon. Should he have the children walk, too? He shivered and buttoned the top of his coat. No, they’d be better off in the wagon, out of the wind. He pulled at Scout’s bridle, and the horses started off.
Glancing upward, he breathed out a single word. “Please.” As if he really believed someone would hear him. The wind pulled water from his eyes, and he ducked his head into the blast. When the gust eased, gathering itself for another onslaught, he looked straight up into the pewter sky, at the light breaking through the gray clouds in golden rays. He had to keep the children safe. He had promised.
* * *
“Oh, not again!”
Sarah caught hold of the branch of a juniper shrub as her boot slipped on the muddy creek bank. The night spent in the snug cabin Uncle James had built when he came to Deadwood last summer had been a welcome relief after days in the stagecoach, but she was quickly getting chilled and miserable again on this afternoon’s mission of mercy.
“Are you all right?” Aunt Margaret puffed as she tried to keep up with Uncle James’s pace.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Sarah pulled at the juniper until she was on the trail next to her aunt again and brushed a lank strand of wet hair out of her face. Uncle James reached out a hand to steady her, shuddering as a gust of wind struck them.
“This storm is getting worse, and it’s starting to snow. We need to be getting home.” Uncle James took Aunt Margaret’s arm.
“I’m glad we went, though. Mr. Harders would have been frozen solid by morning in that cold cabin with no fire.” Sarah buried her chin in her scarf.
“The poor man.” Margaret clicked her tongue under her breath. “If he was this sickly, he should never have come to Deadwood.”
James tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “His doctor told him to come west for his health.”
“And this place is healthy?”
“Wait until the weather clears, my dear. I know you’ll love it as much as I do.”
Sarah took her aunt’s other arm. “Let’s hurry and get home where it’s warm.”
“Wait.” Margaret clutched at James. “What is that? An Indian?”
Sarah peered through the brush along the creek. “She doesn’t look like a Sioux, unless they wear calico skirts.” Sarah started toward the girl, who was now bending to dip a pail in the creek. A few steps took her around the bushes and face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun.
“You stop right there.” The gun barrel wavered as the eight-year-old boy holding it stepped into view. The same boy she had seen yesterday afternoon, peering out of the covered wagon. Charley, wasn’t it? She looked past him to the empty trail. Her stomach flipped at the thought of seeing Nate Colby again.
“Young man, put that gun down right now.” Margaret’s voice was as commanding as if she was reprimanding one of the Sunday school boys.
“Uncle Nate said to keep a gun on any strangers coming around, and that’s what I mean to do.” Charley squinted down the barrel and raised it a bit higher to aim at Margaret’s head.
This was getting nowhere, and Sarah was wet and cold.
“Come, now, surely you can see we’re no threat.” She smiled, but Charley only swung the gun barrel around to her. The gun wavered as he stared at her. “I know you, but I don’t know them.” He turned the shotgun back toward Uncle James.
“Charley, what are you doing?” The girl with the water pail came up the path behind him, and the boy tightened his grip on the gun.
“Keeping a gun on them, just like Uncle Nate said.”
The girl, half a head taller than the boy and a little older, eyed Sarah as she pulled a dirty blanket tighter around her small body.
“Are you two out here alone?” Sarah smiled at them. “Where is your uncle?”
The children exchanged glances.
“No, ma’am, we aren’t alone,” the girl said. “Uncle Nate went hunting, but he’ll be back soon.” She pulled at her brother’s sleeve. “Come on, Charley. We have to get back.”
Charley let the gun barrel droop and backed away.
“There aren’t any cabins around here.” James sounded doubtful, as if these children would lie.
“We have a wagon. We’ve been traveling the longest time.”
Charley turned on the girl. “Olivia, you know Uncle Nate said not to talk to strangers.” His voice was a furious whisper.
“They aren’t strangers. They’re nice people.” The girl’s whispered answer made Sarah smile again.
“Why don’t you bring your family to our cabin for a warm meal? You can wait there until this storm blows over.”
The two looked at each other.
“Uncle Nate said to stay with the wagon.” Sarah could hear doubt in the boy’s voice.
His sister pulled on his sleeve again. “Lucy is already cold, and night’s coming. It’s just going to get colder.”
“We have stew on the fire,” Sarah said. The thought of the waiting meal made her stomach growl.
“Why are you even asking them?” Margaret stepped forward and took each of the children’s hands in her own. “Now take us to your wagon, and let us take care of the rest.”
The children looked at each other and shrugged, giving in to Margaret’s authority. They led the way to the covered wagon, listing on a broken axle, at the side of the trail. The canvas cover whipped in the wind. So Mr. Colby had made it almost all the way to town before breaking down. Another half mile and he would have reached safety. But where they were now... Sarah glanced at the bare slopes around them, peppered with tree stumps.
As they drew close, Olivia dropped Margaret’s hand and ran to the wagon.
“Lucy! Lucy, where are you?”
A curly head popped over the side of the crippled wagon, and a young girl with round eyes stuck her thumb in her mouth and stared. Sarah guessed she looked about five years old.
Out here, away from the shelter of the trees and brush along the creek, the wind roared. Sarah marveled at its fury, and the children huddled against the gust.
Margaret stepped to the end of the wagon and looked in. “Is