staring at the empty plains, frowning slightly. Before they left the wagon train because of the outbreak of cholera she had heard stories of what the vast plains did to people. Men had gone insane from that appalling emptiness, unable to cope with such a change.
Duncan had been shaken by what had happened, finding it hard to believe there could not have been some other way, some better way. She knew how he felt, or thought she did.
Duncan was a gentleman, by breeding as well as education. His family was an old Scottish-English family as was her own. In America they had produced clergymen, physicians, teachers, and statesmen as well as planters. Some branches of the family had wealth, unfortunately, theirs did not.
Too proud to live in genteel poverty they had chosen to go west. They had no desire to seek gold, for to them wealth lay in the ownership of land and in its cultivation. They wished to find a green valley where they could sink roots and live out their lives.
Now they were alone, and until now she had not realized what loneliness meant, nor what it had meant to live in an ordered, law-abiding community. There had been occasional thefts, and she could remember a murder once, some years before, but the law had been there, and public opinion, with its protective shield of what was accepted and what was not.
There had been so many restraints, legal and social, between them and the savagery that lay innate in so many people. Out here the bars were down. There was no such restraint ... not yet.
Duncan drew up again. "Got to rest the mules again. It's hard on them, with no proper trail."
"Do you think that man was right? Are we loaded too heavily?"
Duncan shook his head, but his eyes did not meet hers. "What could we get rid of? Some of those things belonged to your family."
"Yes, yes, I know." The thought stayed with her. Did she really need them? Yet the thought of leaving her things behind gave her a pang. She would need furniture when they made a new home and it would be nice to have them then. If they ever got there.
"I wonder where he is?" she asked suddenly.
"Who?" he asked, but he knew the answer. He was thinking that a blind man could follow their deep-cut tracks, and it was now two hours until noon and they had come nine miles. It was good time ... or would have been had they not been so eager to put distance between them and the river.
His eyes swept the country ... vast, empty, still. Above them a buzzard soared. How like a speck they must seem to him, a speck in this tremendous ocean of grass. He started the team again but he did not ride the wagon. He walked beside it.
Noon came and passed, but nobody mentioned hunger. Nor was there any place to stop. It was all the same, only the grass, the sky, and the soft wind.
At mid-afternoon they came up to a buffalo wallow. There was water in it, collected from the rains. He unharnessed the team and led them to water, then let them graze for an hour before hitching up again.
The sun was down before they reached Black Jack Creek, and he drove the team through and up the other side, then along the creek for a short distance before stopping.
Duncan found a flat place and started to gather wood. When he put the wood down to start a fire, a voice said, "Don't do that. There's a better place down here."
He turned sharply, realizing he had left his gun in the wagon, and cursing himself for a fool.
The stranger was standing under the edge of the trees, watching him.
"Where'd you come from?" he demanded.
"Been waitin' for you all. I got no coffee, and after that shootin' I didn't figure to ride into town and buy none."
There was a fold in the ground where a trickle of a spring ran down to the creek. On a flat bench beside the spring he had built a small fire. "Can't see it until you're close up," he explained. "No use showin' 'em where you are."
"Do you think they'll come?"
"Uh-huh ... couple, maybe three hours from now. They'll ride out, scout around,
Duncan had been shaken by what had happened, finding it hard to believe there could not have been some other way, some better way. She knew how he felt, or thought she did.
Duncan was a gentleman, by breeding as well as education. His family was an old Scottish-English family as was her own. In America they had produced clergymen, physicians, teachers, and statesmen as well as planters. Some branches of the family had wealth, unfortunately, theirs did not.
Too proud to live in genteel poverty they had chosen to go west. They had no desire to seek gold, for to them wealth lay in the ownership of land and in its cultivation. They wished to find a green valley where they could sink roots and live out their lives.
Now they were alone, and until now she had not realized what loneliness meant, nor what it had meant to live in an ordered, law-abiding community. There had been occasional thefts, and she could remember a murder once, some years before, but the law had been there, and public opinion, with its protective shield of what was accepted and what was not.
There had been so many restraints, legal and social, between them and the savagery that lay innate in so many people. Out here the bars were down. There was no such restraint ... not yet.
Duncan drew up again. "Got to rest the mules again. It's hard on them, with no proper trail."
"Do you think that man was right? Are we loaded too heavily?"
Duncan shook his head, but his eyes did not meet hers. "What could we get rid of? Some of those things belonged to your family."
"Yes, yes, I know." The thought stayed with her. Did she really need them? Yet the thought of leaving her things behind gave her a pang. She would need furniture when they made a new home and it would be nice to have them then. If they ever got there.
"I wonder where he is?" she asked suddenly.
"Who?" he asked, but he knew the answer. He was thinking that a blind man could follow their deep-cut tracks, and it was now two hours until noon and they had come nine miles. It was good time ... or would have been had they not been so eager to put distance between them and the river.
His eyes swept the country ... vast, empty, still. Above them a buzzard soared. How like a speck they must seem to him, a speck in this tremendous ocean of grass. He started the team again but he did not ride the wagon. He walked beside it.
Noon came and passed, but nobody mentioned hunger. Nor was there any place to stop. It was all the same, only the grass, the sky, and the soft wind.
At mid-afternoon they came up to a buffalo wallow. There was water in it, collected from the rains. He unharnessed the team and led them to water, then let them graze for an hour before hitching up again.
The sun was down before they reached Black Jack Creek, and he drove the team through and up the other side, then along the creek for a short distance before stopping.
Duncan found a flat place and started to gather wood. When he put the wood down to start a fire, a voice said, "Don't do that. There's a better place down here."
He turned sharply, realizing he had left his gun in the wagon, and cursing himself for a fool.
The stranger was standing under the edge of the trees, watching him.
"Where'd you come from?" he demanded.
"Been waitin' for you all. I got no coffee, and after that shootin' I didn't figure to ride into town and buy none."
There was a fold in the ground where a trickle of a spring ran down to the creek. On a flat bench beside the spring he had built a small fire. "Can't see it until you're close up," he explained. "No use showin' 'em where you are."
"Do you think they'll come?"
"Uh-huh ... couple, maybe three hours from now. They'll ride out, scout around,
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