Glory Page 17

  Her eyes widened. “What’s going on? I’ve never seen you wearing a sidearm.”

  Jackson looked the other way. “I’m going for a little ride, Miss Nosy.” He reached inside the wagon, grabbed his shotgun, and handed it to her. “Look, I didn’t want to upset anybody here, so I was hoping I could come and go without an interrogation.”

  “What’s that big word mean?”

  “It means you ask too many questions.”

  “You don’t have to get so cranky about it,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “You’ve told us to stay alert. I was just following orders.”

  “Oh yes,” he murmured, “you’re good at following orders all right.” When he saw the hurt look on her face, he softened. “Look, I need your help.” He noticed that she immediately brightened. “I need to check on something. Do me a favor: Stay here and guard the camp with my shotgun. Only please don’t upset the others. They’ll never get to sleep if we get them stirred up, and Mary needs all the rest she can get.”

  “You got it,” she said, her eyes bright even in the low light. “Where are you—oh, that’s right. I’m not supposed to know where you’re going.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in an involuntary smile. “I shouldn’t be too long,” he said, turning away. Then spinning back around, he added, “But no matter how long I’m gone, you stay here. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave him her best rendition of a salute.

  He shook his head and swung into the saddle. One touch of his heels, and the mare took off in a soft trot.

  He was careful to approach the campsite from the woods. He tied his mare to a tree and walked the last quarter mile, staying low and moving stealthily. When he neared the campfire, he stayed behind a low bush, from where he could spy one man, squatted low, pouring himself a cup of coffee. There was only one bedroll on the ground and one horse tethered nearby.

  Slowly, Jackson drew his Colt from his holster and waited. Ten minutes passed as he waited to make sure there was no one else around.

  The man looked to be around thirty, slim and broad-shouldered. Jackson focused on his gun belt. Somehow, he didn’t think this man fit Glory’s description of Uncle Amos, but the girl tended to exaggerate at times, and Jackson was taking no chances. He waited till the stranger had both hands busy, his coffeepot poised in the air ready to refill his cup.

  “Put your hands in the air nice and easy,” Jackson called solemnly from the underbrush as he cocked his pistol. “Try something foolish, and I’ll shoot.”

  The man set his cup on the ground and the coffeepot beside the fire. His eyes narrowed. “You might join me for a cup and a chat,” he said in a measured, even tone, slowly unbuckling the belt of his holster and removing it. He tossed it aside a few feet. “Might be, we could straighten things out before somebody gets hurt.”

  “Could be.” Jackson lifted his head and scanned the clearing. “You alone?”

  “Usually am. Tonight’s no exception.”

  Jackson paused, listening intently. Hearing no sign of anyone else nearby, he stood and slipped through the underbrush into the clearing. “We’ll start with your name.”

  The man raised his hands and looked Jackson up and down. “Name’s Dylan McCall.” He paused for a beat. “U.S. marshall.”

  Though he tried to maintain a neutral expression, Jackson knew his eyes registered surprise. “Don’t see a badge. Wouldn’t have proof of that, would you?”

  The corner of the man’s mouth lifted a fraction. “Right here,” he said, dipping his chin to his left, “in the pocket of my vest.”

  “One hand—slowly remove it and slide it on the ground my way.”

  The stranger complied, his eyes never leaving Jackson’s face. He seemed to be assessing him calmly.

  “Have a seat,” Jackson said, preferring the man not be in a crouched position, ready to spring. “And keep those hands high.”

  The man sat down. “Mind if I take a sip of my coffee before it gets cold?”

  “Not yet.” Jackson kept his gun trained on him, while squatting to pick up the flat leather square the man had tossed on the ground. He opened it and dropped a quick glance down. The silver star flashed in the firelight. Opposite the badge was a card identifying one Dylan McCall, U.S. marshall. Jackson locked eyes with the stranger. “Looks real enough,” he said, smoothing his thumb over the star. “How do I know it’s yours? Could be you took it from an unfortunate Marshall McCall after you met up with him?”

  “Well, take a look at my horse, bears the U.S. brand on his hip. Check out my gear, strictly government issue. And in my saddlebag here, you’ll find an extradition order to fetch one nasty little gunslinger from Denver City back to Kansas City to stand trial.”

  Jackson promptly dragged the saddlebag to his feet, reached inside, and drew out a long envelope. His fingers lifted the flap and withdrew the paper inside. With a flip of his wrist, the paper unfurled. Quickly he scanned the contents. He looked up and assessed the man across from him. “Well, you look as official as the documents you’re carrying.”

  The man nodded. “You’re not the trusting type.”

  “You’ve been tracking us for weeks. I’d like to know why.”

  “I haven’t been tracking you. This happens to be the only halfway reliable trail in these parts. I’ve been about my business, checking in with the county sheriffs as I pass through their territories, sometimes escorting some unsavory types to their new quarters in jails and penitentiaries along the way.”

  Jackson looked at the man for a long moment, made a decision, and uncocked his pistol. After slipping the Colt back into his holster, he motioned toward the coffeepot. “Believe I’ll take you up on your offer and have a cup.”

  Dylan reached inside his pack, drew out another cup, and filled it. As he handed it to Jackson, their eyes met.

  “I owe you an apology, Marshall. I’m not in the habit of sneaking into camps with my pistol drawn.”

  “Call me Dylan. And I don’t get the feeling you’re a dangerous felon on the loose.”

  “Lately,” Jackson chuckled, “I’d have to believe that would be an easier life. I’m Jackson Lincoln, wagon master, escorting a group of mail-order brides to Denver City.”

  “Women?” Dylan exhaled. “That would tend to make a man a little jumpy.”

  Jackson nodded. “Especially since one of the girls has a crazy uncle who’s threatened to do her harm. That reminds me, I can’t leave the girls alone for long. I need to get back. I am sorry for busting in on you like this. Least I can do is offer you a meal. The ladies will have supper ready by now. I’d feel better if you’d join us. You can share our camp for the night. Storm’s brewing and it feels like a bad one.”

  Dylan paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Thanks. I’m tired of my cooking, and I could use the company.” The marshall loaded up while Jackson went for his own mare.

  A short time later, the two men rode into camp. The girls beamed when they saw they had company. Male company. After introductions were made, there was a flurry of activity as everyone rushed to accommodate their handsome guest, everyone except Glory, who stood staring, eyes wide, the shotgun still tucked under her arm.

  Jackson quietly moved to her side and gently confiscated the shotgun. “I think we can put this away for now.”

  She glanced up at him with a small furrow between her eyes. “What’s a U.S. marshall doing in these parts?”

  She looked so serious he succumbed to teasing her. “Here to bring back a dangerous murderer.” He wondered only briefly at the frown that clouded her face as he hurried to the back of the wagon to stow his guns.

  After supper, everyone lingered around the campfire, eager for conversation with a new face, and such a handsome one at that. “I feel safer knowing we have Marshall McCall in our camp tonight,” Mary announced, and there were affirming nods all around.

  “Call me Dylan,” he said with an inviting smile. He pronounced the name Dill-an.

&nbs
p; “Dylan,” Lily purred, trying out his first name before the others, “I can’t imagine what could bring you to this desolate place.”

  “The job, ladies. Where there’s a felon to be apprehended or transported, I’m your man.”

  “Then you travel this trail regularly?” Ruth asked.

  The handsome marshall rested his eyes on her. “As regularly as weather permits, ma’am, but you could say I know every mile and every town from Westport to San Francisco.”

  Glory felt her heart begin to thump wildly. If this lawman knew every town on the trail, then he’d surely been through Squatter’s Bend and heard of the female murderer who was still at large. She was surely on his list of felons. She shrank back in the shadows.

  Her crime was never far from her thoughts, especially during her nightmares, and more recently during her evening prayers. The more she read the Good Book, the more she realized the enormity of her sin. She had killed another human being. She had broken a commandment: “Thou shalt not kill.” Those words haunted her. She’d killed Charlie Gulch. And according to his friend, she would pay.

  She only halfway listened to the banter and giggles surrounding her. No one seemed to notice her, except Jackson. When she glanced up, she caught him staring at her quizzically. It was then that she made her decision. She couldn’t tarnish the reputation of a good man like Jackson Lincoln by letting him continue to harbor a fugitive.

  “I’m a murderer,” Glory announced in a clear voice.

  The chatter around her ceased. Gazes flew in her direction.

  She extended her wrists, ready for the handcuffs. “Arrest me.” She lifted her chin resolutely. “I just want to say that these people had nothing to do with my escape. They are totally innocent, especially the wagon master, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “Uh, just a minute, Dylan,” Jackson began, looking intently at Glory in that way she’d come to understand meant that he wanted her to shut up. “This girl is overly tired and just a little dramatic at times. We’ve been pushing her to read, and I think she’s gotten some crazy notion—”

  “Please don’t try to cover for me, Mr. Lincoln. I’m of sound mind, and I know what I’ve done. It’s time to confess my sin. Every night I’ve prayed for God’s forgiveness, but it’s time for me to pay society for killing Charlie Gulch.”

  There were whispers all around, but Ruth cleared her throat to silence them. “Marshall McCall, this innocent girl was attacked by an evil man; she did … what she did … to protect her virtue and her life. It was clearly a case of self-defense.”

  Mary spoke, her voice thin but clear. “I don’t think you should take her in, Marshall … uh, Dylan, that is. She’s a good person who deserves another chance out West.”

  Dylan raised his palms in the air to stop the remarks that were beginning to pour from all sides. Even Harper was shaking her finger at him.

  “Ladies, ladies,” he began; then glancing at Jackson, he added, “and gentleman.” His authoritative tone settled a hush over the group. “Let’s clear up a few things before we jump to any more conclusions, shall we?”

  There were nods all around.

  “Good. Then I’ll ask the questions, and Glory will answer first. Then if anyone has a comment, we’ll speak one at a time. Clear?”

  Glory sat up straight and tall, feeling as pale and luminous as the moon above. She nodded that she was ready.

  “Glory,” Dylan began, “could you be speaking of Charlie Gulch of Squatter’s Bend?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise and then sadness. “Did you know him well?”

  Dylan nodded. “Still do, if I’m correct. He’s the town drunk. Everybody knows Charlie Gulch.”

  “No, sir. I killed him three months ago.”

  Dylan shook his head. “I shared a card game with him two months ago, and he was very much alive that night, I assure you.”

  “But,” Glory said, confused for a moment and then certain as the memory sprang to her mind, “I hit him with my rifle. His friend touched the blood that was everywhere. He said—I’ll never forget his words as long as I live—he said: ‘You killed Charlie. You killed Charlie Gulch. You’ll hang for this. You’ll hang.’”

  “And that was three months ago?” Dylan asked incredulously. He shook his head. “I remember … around three months ago Charlie was wearing a bandage around his head. Claimed he’d been hurt when he’d apprehended a gang of thieves trying to rob the bank. But his sidekick said Charlie got frisky in a dark alley with a girl who whopped him upside the head.” Dylan’s features colored. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  “No offense taken, Marshall,” Ruth assured him.

  Dylan nodded, returning to his story. “Town was pretty evenly split over which version of the tale to believe. I figured there wasn’t a shred of truth to either one. Most likely Charlie had fallen down drunk and banged his hard head against something harder.”

  There was an audible sigh of relief around the campfire, but Glory still looked confused. “You mean he isn’t dead?”

  “No, ma’am, not unless he’s passed on in the last several weeks since I stopped in Squatter’s Bend. I think your conscience can be clear, young lady.” Dylan smiled at her. “The deceased is probably tipping his glass as we speak.”

  Glory felt an enormous relief. A terrible burden had been lifted from her heart. Then she looked at Jackson, who was smiling at her, and she felt foolish. Once again, she’d done an impulsive thing without checking with him first. She sighed and looked down as the girls around her reached to hug her.

  Glory met Jackson’s eyes over Ruth’s shoulder as Ruth embraced her, and he was shaking his head and grinning at her.

  Starting first thing tomorrow, Glory resolved, she would never do another impulsive thing. Never, ever would she give Jackson Lincoln another moment’s grief.

  Later that night, Glory dissolved into tears, crumbling into Ruth’s arms. The past few hours had taken an emotional toll on Glory. To be free of the awful burden of taking another person’s life left her feeling drained.

  Holding her tightly, Ruth soothed her, tenderly consoling her as Glory poured out her heart.

  “I’ve been so afraid, Ruth.” Glory sobbed, hot tears washing away three months of misery and self-recriminations. She hadn’t killed Charlie Gulch, and Amos wasn’t following her. Could he be dead? No, he had been breathing when she ran off. Thank you, Lord, she silently cried.

  “I know, dear. I know.”

  Patience and Lily drew near. By now, sleet pelted the sides of the wagon, but inside, the girls were warm and cozy.

  Draping her new blanket over Glory’s shoulder, Harper scooted closer into the friendship circle. “Now don’t go crying,” she sniffed. “You’ll have us all bawling, and we should be celebrating. Won’t have to worry about some lawman breathing down our collars when we reach Denver City. And it looks like that mean uncle of yours just plain gave up on finding you.”

  “I know, Harper, and I’m grateful, honest. It’s just that what if I had killed a man? The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’” She’d written the Ten Commandments over and over until she knew them by heart. Killing was powerful wrong; how would she have explained to God what she’d done?

  “Oh, Glory, the Lord understands if we kill in self-defense,” Ruth consoled. “He wouldn’t hold you accountable for defending your life.”

  Glory sniffed, wiping her nose on the handkerchief Mary discreetly pressed into her hand. “You’re always so confident, so sure, Ruth. Why can’t I be more like you?”

  “You are like me.” Ruth’s smile was close to angelic in the dim lantern light. “We are all nothing, the lowest of sinners, without God’s grace.” She took Glory’s hands, holding them tightly in her own. “Grace—the love and forgiveness of God—is a gift. You have everything you will ever need to claim his love.”

  Frowning, Glory sniffed. “I don’t have anything except the clothes on my back, you, and Jackson’s Bible.” Her eyes traveled the circle of friends, meeting eyes t
hat looked back at her with love and affection. “And you and you,” she whispered, reaching out to touch the hands of each one of them.

  At that moment she realized that she did have everything: people who loved her, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in the world. A worn Bible entrusted to her care by a man she admired more than any other.

  Her eyes returned to Ruth. “But you have something more: an inner peace, a contentment, a joy. You never get upset or mad or yell or scream or cry, even when you have every right to fuss. You hardly raise your voice to the animals. How do I get to be like you, Ruth? How do I get up each morning, sure that whatever happens, I will have the peace that the Bible speaks about, the peace that passeth all understanding?”

  Smiling, Ruth touched the Bible resting in Glory’s lap. “The key is right here, Glory. All you have to do is read it and accept it.”

  Laughter mingled with tears as the girls shared a group hug. Tonight they felt their bond grow even closer. The next day they would reach the high divide between the Arkansas and Platte Rivers. Once safely through, their time together would come to an end. The thought weighed heavily upon them all.

  “We’ll write each other,” Lily promised.

  “Every month,” Patience echoed. The girls held hands tightly as Patience verbalized the pact. “We promise to write each other every month, and if we should be confined or otherwise unable to correspond, we promise to have a loved one write and inform the rest about the other’s welfare. We pledge to pray each day for each other, for our soon-to-be husbands, and the children we will bear.” They sealed the accord with a unanimous tight hand squeeze.

  When they opened their eyes, Glory gazed at them. “What about me?”

  Mary smiled. “What about you?”

  “I … won’t be marrying—leastways, not anytime soon. I paid my own way, and Jackson said I’m not obligated to take a husband.”