Noble Savage

  NOBLE SAVAGE

  Behind the Ranges, Book IV

  By

  Judith B. Glad

  Something hidden. Go and find it.

  Go and look behind the Ranges--

  Something lost behind the Ranges.

  Lost and waiting for you. Go.

  Rudyard Kipling: The Explorer

  Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon

  2006

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001,02006 by Judith B. Glad

  Previously published by Awe-Struck E-Books

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-012-0

  ISBN 10: 1-60174-012-3

  Cover design by Judith B. Glad

  All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

  Published by Uncial Press,

  an imprint of GCT, Inc.

  Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

  Dedication

  This one is for the Clan,

  a wonderful, indescribable collection of relatives-by-choice, friends-through-thick-and-thin, and support-group-beyond-belief. It's about time I thanked you for helping memake it this far.

  Drink deeply. I love you all.

  Especially Neil.

  * * * *

  Author's Note

  Andrew J. Russell documented the building of the first transcontinental railroad with unforgettable images. His photographs were published and republished over the years since East met West at Promontory Summit in 1869, but the man himself was all but forgotten. In 1969 many of his original negatives were rediscovered, after having been lost for almost a hundred years, and he was identified as the photographer.

  Westward to Promontory (Crown Publishers, Inc., in cooperation with the Oakland Museum and Union Pacific Corporation, 1986) contains many of his photographs, opening a window to a chapter of the past that had long fascinated me. Standing at the historical monument commemorating the long-gone town, I had the feeling that the ghosts of people in Russell's photo were still walking the rutted street of Bear River City between shadowy log cabins and board-and-batten shanties.

  The only trace of Bear River City, Wyoming, today is an interpretive sign marking its location. In its brief life it was perhaps the wildest of all the Hells-on-Wheels along the Union Pacific route and its sudden death on 19 November 1868 was as violent as its brief life--and even more dramatic than this book tells.

  Chapter One

  Luke stared at a pool of blood spreading in the dusty street. The acrid bite of hot gunpowder burned in his nostrils.

  "Why?" he said hoarsely. "Why did you make me do it?"

  The eyes that stared back into his were blank, the face slack. Japhet Breedlove would never answer his question.

  A hard grip on his arm caused an automatic reaction, one learned where to be careless was to die. His Colt's barrel wasn't six inches from the Marshall's belt buckle before the star pinned to the man's vest registered. Swallowing hard, Luke forced his hand down, loosened his fingers. The Colt dropped in the dirt.

  "I saw it," the Marshall said, his hard face showing no pity and no blame. "You was forced into the fight, but that don't make no difference. The law says no gunfights in this here town and my job's enforcin' it."

  His voice caught somewhere in his tight chest, Luke could only nod.

  "I'll let you keep your gun, seein' as how you might need it where you're goin'." The Marshall gestured. "Pick it up."

  The body that bent over didn't feel like his, nor did the hand that grasped the gun. "I...uh..." The dryness in his throat caught at the words and held them. "What'd you mean? Where I'm goin'?"

  "Don't make no difference to me, just as long as it's somewheres else. If I see you in town after sundown, I'll have to arrest you. Fightin' in the street's worth sixty days at hard labor, and bein' a public nuisance ought to get you another thirty."

  Luke looked again at the man he'd killed. A green fly crawled across Japhet's sunken cheek. On his belly, the blood, no longer bright red and glistening, was already congealing in the afternoon sun.

  "God!" Luke said, not sure whether the word was blessing or curse. He knelt and closed the sightless, accusing eyes.

  * * * *

  "More roses, ma'am. And pink ones this time!"

  Katie Lachlan took the bouquet and looked for a card. There was none.

  It was the twelfth bouquet she'd received in as many days--except Sunday--and none of them had a clue to the sender. "Throw them away!"

  At first she'd been thrilled. A secret admirer. How romantic!

  Her sister had agreed, when the first flowers arrived, a lovely posy of dainty white roses in a silver filigree holder. Ellen had hugged Katie. "Oh, honey, a mystery suitor. How exciting! Maybe he'll come to our box at the opera tonight,"

  But he was still a mystery, and the flowers were no longer romantic. If the men of Boston were as proper as she'd been told, then why was one of them sending her roses? Once was romantic. Twice was perhaps a bit daring. Thirteen bouquets was rude.

  "Throw them away," she repeated handing the flowers back to the maid. "I don't want them."

  Walking to the window, Katie looked out into the small garden behind her sister's house. The Michelmas daisies were blooming profusely, but an early frost had touched some of the other flowers. Although it was only September, winter was giving its warning.

  "Katie? Oh, there you are. Colleen said you told her to throw your flowers away?"

  Not turning, Katie said, "Yes." She leaned her face against the cool glass. "I have a bad feeling about them, Ellen. I don't know why."

  Her sister came to her and put an arm about her waist. "You're just feeling gloomy because the days are getting shorter. You never did like to see summer end."

  Katie forced herself to smile. "Of course. That must be it." She linked arms with Ellen and guided her sister to the sofa. "If I weren't so determined to see what you're hiding in here--" patting Ellen's swollen belly--"I'd be back home already."

  "And I'd be tempted to go with you, if I could convince Charles to let me." Ellen shivered. "I swear, Boston winters are twice as cold as Idaho's. And longer, too."

  "And dirtier." Katie leaned back and stretched her legs out before her, a position that would have scandalized her classmates at Seminary. "I never saw gray snow until I came East. Did you?"

  "Never. But I came to talk to you about tonight. Charles just sent a note. Something has come up and he can't escort you to the theatre."

  "To tell the truth, Ellen, I'm ready for a quiet evening at home. I've never gadded so much in my life." For a moment she thought of the long evenings in the cabin when she was a child. Ma would read aloud while Pa carved. Or sometimes he'd play checkers with one of the older children. How thrilled she'd always been when it was her turn.

  She never had figured out whether he let her win or not, but when she did, she'd worked hard for it.

  Ellen sighed. "I wish you weren't going home. It seems as if you just got here."

  "Just got here? Ellen, I've been East for nearly three years. That's almost forever!"

  "And I've been here six. It doesn't seem possible, does it?"

  They fell into reminiscences of home, and Katie forgot her unknown--and unwelcome--suitor.

  Until the next bouquet arrived on Monday.

  * * * *

  From Manassas
to the Siege of Mobile, Luke Savage had fought as he must, not knowing the faces or the names of the men he fired upon--only that they were the enemy. After the War, he came home to a ragtag Kansas farm and three graves. He built a fence around the plot where his only family rested, then sold the farm and livestock to a neighbor. When a herd of longhorns passed nearby, he followed like a cocklebur on the tail of a cow.

  In the next three years, he ate a lot of dust, and learned many things. That there were harder ways to earn coffee and beans than in the Army. That no matter how much a man tried to forget the broken, bloodied bodies of friend and foe, some nightmares came back again and again. And that the railheads were as dangerous as the battlefields, for a man took his life in his hands, just walking down the street.

  As he had today. Now he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the look on Japhet Breedlove's face as the bullet struck his chest haunted him.

  All around him his fellow passengers slept, curled or slumped in their seats. Some snored, some shifted restlessly, as if trying to find a comfortable position. Down at the end of the car, a baby cried fretfully, and its mother's soothing voice was a low, soprano murmur, barely audible over the clackety-clack of the wheels.

  The train stopped once more. A lantern up toward the engine showed the supports of a water tank. Luke wondered where they were. Somewhere between Topeka and Kansas City was all he knew.

  His ticket was for Kansas City. After that maybe he'd go wherever the next freight was headed. It wouldn't be the first time he'd ridden the rods.

  The train lurched once, twice, before setting out again. It all but threw Luke from his seat. Giving up any hope of sleep, he picked up his bedroll and saddlebags and made his way to the end of the car, stepping over feet and legs and even one oblivious sleeper as he reeled down the narrow aisle.

  The vestibule was noisy, but it was a simple, mechanical noise. There was no one to see him, no one to pay attention to what he did. Luke opened a saddlebag and removed the gun belt he'd stowed before boarding the train. Its leather was supple, well oiled. The brass buckle was shiny with wear, catching light from the gibbous moon he could see through the open vestibule window.

  The revolver's grip felt familiar to his hand, a natural fit. This gun, an Army Colt .44, was an old friend. He'd carried it through the last year of the War, worn it night and day for the three years since. His hip felt curiously light, almost undressed without it.

  He turned the gun in his hand, looked down the wide aperture of its barrel. Tentatively he touched the front sight to his upper lip, rubbing it back and forth. He'd heard that the most certain way to blow out your brains was to stick the barrel as far into your mouth as it would go.

  A chill went through him. Was this how Japhet Breedlove had felt, looking down the barrel of this gun? Cold? Scared? Aware that the future could end here and now?

  Luke lowered the revolver, spun the cylinder. The steel was cold in his hand. As cold as his soul, when he'd looked into Japhet's dying face.

  The Colt caught the moon's light as he turned it before his face. A beautiful gun. A tool that did exactly what a man needed, and did it well. His hand tightened on the grip as once more he tilted the Colt, touched the barrel to his lips. One bullet. That's all it would take. And he'd never again be haunted by Japhet Breedlove's ghost.

  One bullet, one man.

  "No, damn it!" He pulled the barrel key, detached the barrel. For a moment he held it in his hand, weighing it. Weighing his regrets. With a deep breath, Luke rejected guilt, but accepted responsibility.

  "He'd have killed me! He wanted to kill me!" He threw the long steel barrel into the night.

  The cylinder slid easily free of the grip frame. Light caught on the faceted side of it, showing the six little compartments of death--cold, gray, leaded death. He threw it as hard as he could, watched it disappear into the formless night.

  The grip-frame felt curiously light in his hand, without the weight of heavy steel and lead that he was used to. Luke looked at it in the dim light from the railcars he stood between. It appeared harmless. Just an odd-shaped piece of steel, knurled to set easily in a man's hand, cast to accept cylinder and barrel, machined to function perfectly.

  Designed to kill.

  He held the grip-frame out the vestibule window. The train was moving fast now, swaying as it rounded a low hill. As Luke relaxed his hand, he smiled. A body would have a hell of a time finding all the pieces.

  Again he ran his hand over the finely tooled gun belt. He'd paid a pretty penny for it, back when such things mattered. Now he couldn't wait to be shut of its deadly cargo. With no regret, he detached a small leather bag from it and emptied its contents into his hand. His fist clenched around the cartridges, then opened. One by one, he let them drop from the window.

  The rhythm of the train changed. Looking out, Luke saw the lights of a town ahead. Folding the gun belt carefully, he replaced it in a saddlebag. Empty, it was just a piece of finely tooled leather. It should bring him a fair price in Kansas City.

  Luke's soul was less cold as he made his way back to his seat. Now he would sleep.

  * * * *

  My dear Miss Lachlan,

  Your beauty has enthralled me. Your manners and behavior have charmed me. For many weeks I have observed you. I have made my decision.

  My family is an old one, and well respected in Boston society. For these reasons, I have been slow to choose a wife. The woman I marry must be capable of moving in the best circles, her gentility must be unquestioned, and her beauty unparalleled.

  You will be honored, I know, to learn that you are my choice. I will give myself the pleasure of calling for you tomorrow, Thursday, at two in the afternoon, so that I may introduce you to my parents. You may, if you wish, invite your brother-in-law to accompany us, in loco parentis, as it were. It would be inappropriate for your sister to appear in company at this time, of course.

  I remain, Miss Lachlan, your devoted admirer,

  Hamilton Steens Whitney III

  Katie read the preposterous letter a second time. Part of her wanted to laugh, but another part, the cautious, suspicious part, wanted to take it to the police.

  Oh, yes. And what would she tell them? That this letter, following a month of anonymous daily bouquets, made her uneasy in an inexplicable way.

  They would think her mad.

  She folded the creamy vellum and carefully returned it to the envelope. A few deep breaths and the hollow feeling in her middle went away. She left her room and went down the hall.

  "Ellen?" She tapped at her sister's door. "Ellen, are you awake?" Her sister was napping daily. She had laughingly apologized, saying she might as well get all the sleep she could now, because she wouldn't get much after The Heir was born.

  "Come in, Katie. I'm just being lazy." Ellen scooted herself up in the bed, moving awkwardly. In the past week her belly had enlarged enormously. Her back hurt all the time, she'd told Katie, and she couldn't breathe if she sat upright.

  "I got a letter this morning--"

  Ellen reached out. "From Ma?"

  Katie shook her head. "It's from...here, you read it." She held out the envelope.

  Extracting the note, Ellen opened it. Almost immediately she gasped, "Who--" She looked at the signature. "Hamilton Whitney. Where did you meet him?"

  "I don't know," Katie said, shaking her head. "I don't think I've ever heard of him, so how could I have met him?"

  "You must have," Ellen said, but with little force. Her eyes were skimming over the note. "Oh, my! How strange!"

  "Yes, isn't it? I think he's the one who sent the flowers, Ellen."

  "But Hamilton Whitney! Katie, don't you know who this is?"

  "An extremely conceited young man, I think."

  "As well he should be. The Whitneys have been here forever. Or at least since the Mayflower. If it weren't that people would think they had Indian blood, they'd probably claim to have gotten here first.

  "And they're enormousl
y rich! Why when Hortense Whitney made her debut, they had great big ice swans on all the tables. In July! Imagine!"

  "So why is he writing me a letter like this?" Katie twitched the vellum from her sister's hand and read, "'You will be honored, I know, to learn that you are my choice.' His choice! As if I haven't any say in the matter." She jumped to her feet and stalked around the room, narrowly missing the small table on which stood a delicate porcelain figurine. "And saying you shouldn't appear in public. What nerve!"

  She spun around and glowered at Ellen. "Well, I'm not even going to answer this stupid letter. I don't want him to think I even care that much."

  "Oh, Katie, maybe you should--"

  "No! Let him think I didn't get it, or thought it was a joke, or...or something. With any luck he'll decide I'm not worthy of him."

  "Maybe you should talk to Charles. He knows the Whitneys," Ellen said. "He'll know what to do."

  "I'll talk to him, but only because he's a man." She made a face as she crumpled the envelope in her hand. "Something tells me this self-important son of a knock-kneed turkey wouldn't pay attention to anything a woman had to say."

  "Katie--"

  "Don't worry, I won't ask Charles to do anything dreadful. Just write a letter." She struck a pose in the doorway, nose in the air, mouth pursed as if she'd been sucking limes. "How about, 'Miss Lachlan does not welcome your attentions. I suggest that you look elsewhere for the future Mrs. Full-of-Yourself Whitney, the Umpteenth.' "She put her hand on the doorknob, turned and grinned. "Go back to your nap, Ellen. You want to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when Charles comes home, don't you?"

  Ellen's answering smile turned into a grimace. After a moment, she said, "I'm not sure I can be. I seem to be about to have this baby."

  "Ellen!" Katie shrieked. "Why didn't you tell me?" She ran from the room, calling to the housekeeper and to the nurse already installed down the hall.