The Guardian Read Free Page A

trickle of blood from a corner of his mouth told her he was already dead.
    Lunging past his body, Charity grabbed the reins. She was fighting to slow the racing team when Rueben galloped past her, his coonskin cap gone and his sparse hair blowing in the wind. “Git down!” he screamed at her. “Git down an’ hide!”
    He dashed to the far side of the wagon in an effort to turn her horses into the circle the other wagons were forming. An instant later, Charity heard a whistle and an abrupt thud. When Rueben’s pony reappeared, its saddle was empty except for a single battered boot dangling from the stirrup.
    Choking on her own terror now, she dived for the wagon bed and covered herself with the heavy patchwork quilt she and Silas had used for sleeping. From outside she could hear scattered gunfire. A woman screamed as an arrow struck its target. Charity pulled the quilt over her head to shut out the horror. People all around her were dying on this sunlit spring day, and she could do nothing except try to save herself and her baby.
    The wagon had stopped moving. Dimly, through the quilt, she could hear young male voices speaking in a rapid-fire tongue that made no more sense to her than the gabble of wild mallards. She could hear the jingle of harnesses falling to the ground and the sound of the horses being led away. They would want the horses, of course. Rueben had told her that Indians prized horses the way white men valued gold. Kindly, gruff old Rueben would be lying dead now, with an arrow through his body. Charity gulped back her tears.
    The sounds of gunfire had ceased. In the silence, Charity’s heartbeat filled her senses like a throbbing drum. Was the massacre over? Would the young braves take the horses and go now, leaving her here alone?
    Fear jolted through her as she heard the creak of a footstep and felt, through the floorboards, the pressure of quiet movement. She lay as still as death, feeling the weight of Rueben’s pistol in her pocket. Beneath her body, her hand eased downward until she could touch the grip. As her fingers found the cold metal trigger, she knew that she could never be desperate enough to shootherself or her baby. She would only use the tiny weapon in defense of their lives.
    The intruder was opening boxes and barrels, muttering in disgust and dumping their useless contents into the wagon bed. Charity bit back a groan of pain as the corner of a hardbound hymnal struck her back. Her hand tightened around the pistol grip. If he was going to find her, it would probably be in the next few seconds.
    The angry brave shouted something at his companions outside, telling them, most likely, that nothing in this wagon was worth taking.
    An instant later, he strode to the front of the wagon. The boards creaked again as he jumped to the ground. Charity exhaled, her body limp and dripping with perspiration. The young Blackfoot had freed the horses and probably gathered up the guns. Surely they would leave now. She would only have to keep still a little longer.
    She heard their voices again, muffled by distance this time. Yes, they were going away, leaving her to face whatever lay ahead. Charity’s heart leaped with a strange, desperate elation. She was alive, her baby was alive. Somehow she would survive the grim days ahead and find a way to reach safety.
    The baby, too long confined to one position, kicked. “It’s all right, Little One,” Charity whispered, shifting against the hard boards. “We’re going to make it. We’re going to be fine.”
    The last reassuring word had no sooner left Charity’s lips than an arrow thunked into one of the wooden hoops that supported the wagon cover. Scarcely daring to breathe, she shrank beneath the quilt once more. Her lips moved in silent prayer as she waited, hoping against hope that the Blackfoot would not return.
    Seconds crawled past, then minutes. Huddled beneath the quilt, Charity strained her