Wagon Train Sisters. Shirley KennedyЧитать онлайн книгу.
She hadn’t known him long but already knew Jack McCoy was a complicated man who kept his thoughts and feelings strictly to himself. No simple key would ever open the way to his heart.
Not that she cared.
* * * *
The next morning, Sarah and her parents were packing the wagon when Ma suddenly yelled, “Oh, dear Lord, Indians!” She looked to where Jack and Ben were saddling their horses. “Mr. McCoy, Mr. Longren! There’s Indians coming. What shall we do?”
Five Indians were approaching on horseback. Wearing breechcloths and leggings, they were bedecked in an array of feathered headdresses and bright colored beads. Blue paint covered part of their faces. Odd-looking symbols decorated the flanks of their horses.
These were not the first Indians Sarah had seen along the trail. So far, the ones they’d met had all been friendly and didn’t look the least bit menacing. Some wanted to trade. Some wanted to steal. Every night, Mr. Morehead had to post guards because Indians from various tribes would take the company’s horses or anything else they could get their hands on.
Jack stepped forward. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bryan, they’re not going to scalp us. Likely they’ve come to trade.”
Ma clutched a nervous hand to her throat. “We have nothing to trade. Please, Mr. McCoy, tell them to go away.”
Sarah shared her mother’s panic but vowed not to let it show. “What kind of Indians are they?” Thanks goodness, she’d kept her voice steady.
“Shoshone. I won’t say they’re dangerous, but the calmer you are, the better.”
The Indians rode into camp. They were not smiling. Jack raised a hand in a greeting so calm and easy-going he could have been hailing his best friend. He said what sounded like, “Buh-nuh.”
The lead Indian sat tall and straight. Wide silver bands adorned the upper part of his muscular arms. His face remained expressionless as he raised his hand and returned the same greeting. “Buh-nuh.” He was leading a horse with a stack of beaver skins piled on its back. Pointing at the beaver skins, he said something Sarah couldn’t understand.
“What’s he saying?” she asked.
Jack shook his head. “I only know a few words in Shoshone, but it’s plain he wants to trade.”
“For what?”
Jack pointed at the skins and held out his palm in a questioning gesture. The Indian brought his hand to his mouth, curved it around an imaginary bottle and tipped his head back as if he were drinking. “Oh, yeah,” Jack said. “They want to trade those skins for whiskey.”
Pa shook his head vigorously. “We’re teetotalers, Mr. McCoy. We don’t—”
“For the best. Not a good idea giving whiskey to Indians. What else have we got? Whether you want those skins or not, it would be wise to give them something, just to get rid of—”
Luzena’s scream ripped through the air. It so startled Sarah that, for a moment, she could only gape at her mother in surprise. Luzena screamed again, brought up a shaking hand and pointed. “Look, look!”
“Ma, what is it?”
Wide-eyed and staring, Ma kept pointing a wavering finger at the Indian. She was stuttering, so unnerved she couldn’t get words out. “There—there on his head mixed in with all those feathers. Don’t you see it?”
Sarah took a closer look. Oh, my God. Why hadn’t she noticed? The Indian’s elaborate headdress consisted of rows of turquoise and black feathers attached to a beaded headband. A yellow gold pendant on a gold chain was entwined among the feathers. Shaped like a delicate basket, the pendant was adorned with rose cut diamonds and tiny gems of various colors. Two white enameled lovebirds sat on either side, facing one another.
Sarah recognized the pendant. She knew it well. It belonged to her sister, Florrie.
Chapter 4
When Sarah and Florrie’s maternal grandmother passed away, she left each of her granddaughters a prized piece of jewelry. Sarah treasured her blue sapphire ring with its circle of seed pearls. Florrie adored her yellow gold pendant and wore it most of the time. Now Sarah gasped from the shock of seeing her sister’s beloved necklace adorning the war bonnet of a Shoshone Indian.
“It’s your daughter’s?” Jack asked Luzena.
“There’s only one like it. Of course it’s Florrie’s.” Ma clasped her hand over her mouth. “They’ve killed her, haven’t they? And scalped her and heaven knows what—”
“Stop it, Ma, you don’t know that.” Sarah spoke sharply. Her mother was on the verge of hysteria, not a good idea when talking to a strange bunch of Indians. She asked Jack, “Can you find out where he got it?”
Ben Longren spoke up. “Let me try. I know a few words of Shoshone.” He began an incomprehensible conversation with the Indian, who remained on his horse, stoic and unsmiling. Ben threw up his hands. “There’s no telling where that savage got ahold of your daughter’s necklace. Even if I understood him, he wouldn’t tell me. My guess is he traded for it, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.”
Luzena reached out and clutched Jack’s arm. “I must have it back. Do you think he’ll give it to me?”
“No, but he might trade.” Jack looked toward their wagon. “What have you got?”
No one spoke. They had no whiskey. They certainly wouldn’t trade Pa’s one and only rifle. Their food supply had dwindled. Sarah couldn’t come up with a suggestion, except… Only one possibility, her one precious possession. She hated to give it up, but if Ma wanted that necklace, then she should have it. Pulling the pearl and sapphire ring from her finger, she strode to where the Indian sat imperiously on his horse and held it up. She pointed to Florrie’s necklace and made a give-and take gesture. “What shall I say?” she called over her shoulder.
“Don’t say anything,” Jack called back. “He understands.”
After a long moment of deliberation, the Indian surprised her by holding up his palm in a no gesture. “You don’t want it?” How silly to ask aloud since he couldn’t understand what she was saying. She offered up the ring again, but the Indian shook his head and pointed. She turned to see where he gestured. It appeared to be Jack McCoy’s horse, grazing nearby, saddled and ready to go.
Ben Longren emitted a long, low whistle. “Now, that ain’t right. You can’t give him your horse, Jack.”
“He doesn’t want my horse.” Jack walked to the horse he had just saddled. On one side hung his rifle, on the other, wound in a circle, hung his whip. Jack untied the whip from the saddle. Without hesitation, he walked to where the Indian sat high and proud atop his horse and held it up. With his other hand, he made the same give-and-take gesture. The semblance of a smile flitted across the bronze face of the Shoshone. He nodded. With what sounded like a grunt, he detached the necklace from amid the feathers of his headdress, took the whip, and gave Jack the necklace in return. With a nod to the others, he wheeled his horse around. Next minute, amid a cloud of dust, the Indians disappeared down the trail.
“How can I thank you?” Luzena cried when Jack handed her the necklace.
“Happy to do it.”
Luzena held the necklace lovingly to her cheek. “What do you think it means?”
Jack took his time before he answered. “I don’t know, Mrs. Bryan. If I were to guess, I’d say it’s a good sign. Today you found something that belonged to Florrie. Tomorrow, who knows?”
* * * *
Later, as Jack and Ben followed the wagon along the trail, Ben kept shaking his head, as though he couldn’t believe what happened. “What’s your problem?” Jack asked.
“Wasn’t that whip one of your