Allegiance Page 14

  "All right. You'll find out the details sooner or later. You see, they're not really garden tools. At least, not many.” She explained the events that led up to her agreement with General Houston to smuggle muskets into Santa Fe.

  Jeb frowned. “Let me get this straight: you traded our furs to Henri for half of the muskets, and after we haul ‘em to New Mexico, we get some land?"

  "Yes."

  "No banknotes, just a piece of ground?"

  "Right."

  "Thunderation, Amy! We need money! How are we gonna survive? We can't eat dirt. I was expectin’ to sell the furs and buy trade goods. How am I goin’ to build up the freight business? I wish to hell you'd asked me first."

  "I tried to, Jeb. Anyway, the Texas treasury is almost broke—this is the only way Houston can do it.” She bit her tongue to keep from reminding him how lucky he was to be included in the arrangement at all. “Anyway, Henri is sending a lot of his merchandise with us: sugar, flour, tobacco, seed grain, those tools. We can sell all that at round premiums, too, and take a cut."

  "We should be hauling our own merchandise! I don't care to set stakes in Mexico."

  "East of the Rio Grande is Texas, Houston says. At least it will be when he wins the war."

  "Maybe I don't care to set stakes in Texas, either.” His bruised and swollen face twisted into a ghoulish scowl.

  She sighed. “Jeb, where do you want to settle down? You're wanted by the law in New Orleans. American Fur doesn't want you competing with them in St. Louis. Look what happened to Papa. So what does that leave? You can't wander around the territories like a lost sheep. With Papa gone, I'm afraid you'll turn into a panhandler or a drifter."

  "I can't make money setting in one place."

  "We'll have the freight business, but we still need a place to come home to. A ranch where we can raise mules and oxen for the merchant caravans. Perhaps a trading post. Buy furs from the trappers and let Henri sell them in New Orleans. You've got no imagination, Jeb."

  "You plan on haulin’ imagination? Stockin’ your tradin’ post with imagination? We need money—that's the point I'm tryin’ to make.” He grumbled through the rest of his meal, but she ignored him. What was the use of arguing?

  Ever since Papa had gone broke on that sun-scorched Missouri farm, she had never stopped dreaming of a ranch with green fields and lush gardens. And now that the biggest man in Texas was making it possible, Jeb wanted to quibble. Of course it would be hard work, but the reward would be all the sweeter for it. What's more, the responsibility might keep him out of trouble.

  Jeb reached up, gripped the railing, and hoisted himself to his feet. He swayed only a little, steadying himself with a hand on the top rail. “Let's take a look at those muskets."

  "Not now, Jeb! We can't take a chance on someone spotting them."

  "I got a right to know what it is I'm part owner of.” He pulled his knife from its sheath and slipped the blade under the edge of the lid on the top crate. Captain Stott had returned his hunting knife to him the night they pulled out of New Orleans, though his pistol would remain in safe-keeping until St. Louis. The lid popped up and Jeb looked inside. He rummaged under the shovels and finally came up with one of the firearms. “What the hell is this?"

  "A carbine—what does it look like?"

  "They all like this?"

  "Yes, they're—"

  "This is what you bought for the Texan Army? Does Houston know?"

  "Of course he knows. He approved them."

  "It's bad enough they're not rifles. I could see buyin’ some Kentucky long rifles. But muskets ain't goin’ to shoot straight unless they're close to three feet long. These look like toys!"

  "Now, Jeb. He says the military has different needs than hunters."

  "You couldn't wait ‘til we got to St. Louis so we could buy some good Hawkens rifles? My God, we've got the best gunsmith in the world right in our backyard, Amy!"

  She sighed, exasperated. “Talk to Tyler about it. You're cross as a bear with a sore paw, you know it? And since I can't seem to do anything right, I'm going upstairs. When Tyler comes back, he can keep you company. You deserve each other.” She stood up and collected the dish and cup. “Hurry and close the lid!"

  "Hey, send down my buckskin shirt, will ya? I about froze last night in this outfit."

  "After the time you spent in jail, I'll have to throw out that outfit. Just like I threw away that horrid old buckskin shirt of yours ages ago.” She stomped off down the dim aisle, wishing a lady could swear aloud.

  She turned a corner and nearly collided with a man loitering between the cotton bales—one of Jackrabbit's pals. For one awful moment, she thought her heart might stop beating completely. He swept off his hat, revealing long straggling black hair, and stepped aside to let her pass. She passed him and almost ran up the stairs.

  How much had the man seen and heard? Tyler needed to know about this.

  * * * *

  The sun was sliding toward its rendezvous with the western horizon when Jeb strolled to the rail to look around. His head swam when he moved quickly, but the pounding ache was gone, thank God. If he could just get his wind back, he'd feel more like a whole man. Not that it wouldn't help to get his feet back on solid ground. Somehow, he could never rest easy cooped up on a floating contraption with no back door. The only way to escape The Missouri Belle would be to jump overboard. And not many men could battle the strong currents of the Mississippi River for long.

  He tugged his wide-brimmed hat down to block the long rays of the sun, then fished a chaw of tobacco out of his pocket, bit off a piece, and wedged it in his cheek. He glanced down at the clean clothes Amy had sent down for him to wear. A god-awful yellow coat over a white shirt and black-checked trousers. He'd stuffed the black cravat in his pocket—damned if he'd choke his neck with that. The outfit might pass in the settlements—Pa had bought it for that purpose—but he couldn't believe his sister had thrown away his buckskin shirt. If she knew what that shirt had been through with him, what it meant to him, she wouldn't have done it.

  On the other hand, he couldn't remember when she hadn't nagged him about the dang thing. Why couldn't she understand that what a trader wore was a matter of survival? He wanted the Mexican merchants at the trade fairs to recognize him for what he was. Wearing buckskin, why, they'd walk right up to him and start haggling for goods—a few yards of linsey-woolsey, or a copper kettle, or perhaps a mirror for the señora. And if a band of Kioways spotted him coming across the plains, they might wait to see if he wanted to swap whisky and blankets for beaver pelts afore they climbed all over him with their tomahawks. He dreaded to know what would happen if they caught him out on the high plains looking like a greenhorn.

  Jeb whirled as someone laid a hand on his shoulder. The bruised muscles over his ribs grabbed sharply; he sucked in his breath.

  "Sorry, Jeb.” The major smiled and handed him a bowl of fried chicken.

  "Oh. Much obliged.” Jeb spat his chaw into the river and pulled a drumstick out of the bowl.

  The army officer leaned his forearms on the railing. “I wish I could have gotten you better accommodations upstairs. I didn't know you'd be joining us."

  "That's all right. Thanks for the grub, Major."

  "We don't want the wrong men to hear you call me that. Better call me by name.” He straightened and shoved away from the rail. “Let's move down where big ears won't overhear us. This morning, Amy caught a fellow eavesdropping on your conversation."

  Jeb followed him down the deck until the throbbing of the engines vibrated through his boots, bones, and teeth.

  O'Donnell turned to face him. “Your sister says you're not happy with the arrangement she made with Houston."

  "Ah, it ain't just that. I reckon the carbines will serve Texas all right against the Mexicans in their monkey suits."

  "What is it, then?"

  Jeb stripped the drumstick clean with his teeth and tossed the bone overboard. “You didn't happen to bring me a bottl
e of whisky, did you?"

  "No, I sure didn't."

  Jeb broke apart a wing-joint and chewed on it until it was down to bones and the silence had drawn out to the breaking point. “Amy thinks she's fit to partner me in the freightin’ business. Now, what would a woman know about that, I ask you? She ought to stay in St. Louis where she belongs!"

  "She's nobody's fool, as far as that goes. But now you're here, she probably won't want to go."

  "You don't know her! She'll want to go, and she'll keep such a tight grip on the purse strings, I won't be able to turn a dime."

  "She's clever with figures, though. I noticed that."

  "Yeah, but a man's got to be able to hold his head up.” Jeb glanced at his companion and noted the frown. “Well, you know what I mean. Henri finally broke down and told me how she saved my life. She and that housekeeper of his broke me out of jail all by themselves! And drat if it don't work me worse'n castor oil just to think of it!"

  "Why, Jeb? She really cares about you."

  "I know that, goddammit! It has nothin’ to do with that. Bein’ a man and walkin’ tall is what it's about."

  O'Donnell gazed at him thoughtfully. “I guess I see your point."

  Jeb set aside the bowl of chicken. “She can't understand how foolish it would be for her to go through Injun country. In New Mexico, only one in a hundred women are white. I only know of one livin’ in Santa Fe, and she regrets goin’ there. Right now, she and her husband are busy raisin’ a ransom for some white women the Comanches stole in Texas."

  "You're right. I'd sure hate to see anything happen to your sister. I'll try to talk her into waiting for us in St. Louis.” He placed a hand firmly on Jeb's shoulder. “I want you to know that this mission is very important, not only to us, but to the Union. President Jackson authorized it, and Sam Houston approved."

  "I figured it was a weighty matter."

  O'Donnell's steady gaze pinned Jeb in the angle of the railing. “You must realize how essential you are to its success. I've a lot to learn if I'm going to pass myself off as an ox-driver, or whatever they call it. Without the experience you've gained on the trail and the advice I'll need, I don't know if I could do it."

  Jeb squared his shoulders, feeling like he'd just passed muster. “I'll do what I can, Maj—I mean, Tyler. I might look like a fool in the grand drawin’ rooms of St. Louis or New Orleans, but you put me out in the open country, and I'm right at home. Bullwhackin’ is what I know, and I'm good at it."

  "Once we get rolling down the trail, you'll be in charge. I'll defer to your better judgment on anything having to do with the freighting end of it. I'll handle the security of my cargo, any inspections at the border, and the negotiating I'll have to do with the rebels when we get to Santa Fe."

  "That's fair.” Lordy, it was amazing how the major, dressed like a simple chawbacon, still walked and talked like an officer, taking command right through his humble garments. But he treated people square, the major did.

  The officer's gaze was uncomfortably direct. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate your keeping this under your hat. I know it all got dumped in your lap unexpectedly, but if you can go along with me on it, you'll have the gratitude not only of our country, but of Texas, too."

  A warm feeling buoyed Jeb's spirits. He liked the way the major hauled a man up on his feet and gave him somethin’ to live for. “I love the Stars n’ Bars as much as the next fellow. I don't always get my hands on a ballot at election time, but I reckon I ain't the sorriest citizen in the Union, either. Texas has been gettin’ the short end of the stick lately, and I gener'ly tend to pull for the runt of the litter.” Jeb grinned and extended his hand. “I'm in."

  "Thanks, Jeb.” Tyler gravely shook his hand. “I knew I could count on you."

  * * * *

  The warm darkness enveloped the mismatched freight containers, the stacks of cotton bales, and the labyrinthine aisles running among them. Gnats peppered the air around a glowing oil lamp, and now and then, one of the tiny insects sizzled on the heated glass chimney.

  Jeb, sitting on a crate, leaned to spit tobacco juice through the railing, then cursed when it didn't reach. He turned back to Henri. “So then they offered Pa this pretty little Cheyenne bride and permission to trade with any tribe along the Picketwire River. He turned ‘em down flat—prob'ly the dumbest thing he ever did."

  Across from him, Henri's mirthful face caught the yellow light, a vivid chiaroscuro against the backdrop of darkness. He shook his head, chuckling. “Sacrébleu! That Royal Baker, I sure do miss him!"

  "You ain't the only one.” Silence fell as Jeb sifted through his bittersweet memories.

  Suddenly Henri reached over and squeezed his arm. “Shhh!"

  Jeb froze, but heard nothing except the grumble of engines below deck, and the solid beat of the enormous paddles. Any small noise would be lost.

  Henri eased from his seat and crept into the aisle between the cotton bales. Padding on silent feet, he vanished from sight.

  The sounds of a scuffle—an impact, trampling boots, a guttural curse—brought Jeb to his feet. “Henri?"

  Clearly, the Cajun had met with trouble, and the code of the frontier required Jeb to uphold his claim to friendship. Without hesitation, he rushed into the darkened tunnel where he met a jumble of elbows, knees, boots, and fists. Three struggling bodies tumbled over him, crushing him to the deck. He couldn't have been more defenseless if a buff-cow had rolled over him; he bellowed in confusion and rage.

  The mass of bodies fell into parts around him. He scrambled to his knees, grabbing for his hunting knife. One of the attackers leaped astride him, knocking him flat again. Knees like anvils pinned his arms to the boards; rigid fingers closed on his throat.

  Jeb bucked and twisted, fighting for air. The blood pounded in his skull as sparks of light swam behind his eyes; fuzzy darkness blotted his vision. His strength ebbed away in desperate agony.

  * * * *

  Amy held her book up to catch the flickering light and gazed at the faded picture under the title, The Last of the Mohicans. A noble savage stood half-clothed before a group of sissified dandies, putting them all to shame with his proud bearing. She yearned to read a chapter or two before retiring, but the two oil lamps on the table weren't bright enough for her to finish hemming her latest creation—a red satin dress, let alone make out the fine print in the text.

  She rubbed her eyes and rose to her feet. Perhaps the men in the parlor wouldn't be too offended if she joined them for awhile before retiring for the night. Notwithstanding the card playing and cigar smoking, it was better than sitting alone in her room. With a shawl draped around her shoulders, she stepped out on deck and locked the door behind her. She had almost reached the salon doors when the patter of feet behind her brought her to a halt.

  One of the young roustabouts ran up, his eyes enormous. “Miss! Come quick below! There's trouble, lots of trouble!"

  "What happened?"

  "Massa Jeb's been kilt!"

  "What! No, that can't be!” Dread squeezed the breath from her body.

  "Please, come quick!"

  Amy sucked in a shuddering breath. “Run into the salon and fetch Tyler. Tyler O'Donnell. You know who he is, don't you? Tell him to hurry!” She ran for the stairs, her heart pounding.

  On the lower deck, her bulky skirts dragged against the bales of cotton forming the narrow path. The yellow light at the end of the tunnel beckoned her onward. “Jeb! Henri! Where are you?"

  Henri stepped into view, blocking the light. “Stop, chère. You don't want to come down here now."

  "What happened? Where's Jeb?” She crowded past Henri, pushing away his hands when he tried to detain her. Her brother lay on a pallet in the shadows, his wrists crossed limply on his chest. She screamed and ran to him. “Jeb!"

  He blinked his eyes. “I'm all right—thanks to Henri."

  She knelt beside him. “That boy said you were dead!"

  "Nearly was.” His voice was a hoarse wh
isper.

  "What happened?” Tears filled her eyes. She groped in her pocket for a handkerchief, shaky with relief.

  His voice gained strength. “Jackrabbit's flunkeys come down here lookin’ for a rough-an-tumble. They got more than they bargained for, though, by God!"

  "What's going on?” Tyler's voice rang with authority as he stepped into the circle of dim light.

  Jeb tried to sit up, groaned, and fell back. “Nothin’ much to report, Major. Jackrabbit swore he'd get even with me, and he ain't one to let bygones be bygones. Sent his two henchmen after me—the coward. We defended ourselves and dispatched ‘em on the spot.” He gestured toward the railing.

  Henri crouched there on hands and knees, scrubbing with a wet rag over a trail of crimson leading over the edge.

  Amy didn't quite grasp his meaning. “You mean, they're—You and Henri—"

  Jeb mimed tossing something large overboard.

  She shuddered. “But you couldn't have, Jeb, not in the condition you're in!” The full picture clicked together in her head suddenly, and she stared at Henri.

  The Cajun shrugged. “I'm a pretty fast knife, me."

  Gratitude swelled her heart. “Bless you, Henri! If it hadn't been for you..."

  Tyler's voice held a hard edge. “Well, that clinches it."

  Amy glanced up. “What? Aren't you glad that—"

  "What happened to Jeb and Henri is living proof that this mission is too dangerous for you.” Tyler's eyes narrowed “From now on, you're out of it. St. Louis is as far as you go with us."

  She rose to her feet. “Now, wait, Tyler—"

  "No appeals.” His gray eyes flashed cold fire, and there was no doubting he meant what he said. The intensity of his gaze riveted her in place.

  Words failed her; every argument, reason, and defense died on her lips.

  He reached for her arm. “Come on. I'll escort you to your quarters."

  Amy glanced from Jeb to Henri, seeing mercy and kindness reflected in their faces, but no encouragement. They sided with Tyler, she realized. Her heart sank. Feeling like an outcast, she shook off Tyler's hand and turned her back on them all. She marched toward the stairway, shoulders square and head erect. Tyler called after her, but she didn't look back.