Trail Angel Read Free Page B

took a pot of coffee that had been warming on a stone next to the fire and sidled among the men, smiling prettily so none would be offended at having her privy to their discussions.
    â€œYou’re not bothered by all these Yankees?” one of the men asked as she poured coffee into her uncle’s tin cup.
    â€œIt’s only for the journey,” he said. “Where we’re going, it’s practically a southern colony. Why do you think they call it Virginia City?”
    â€œThat ain’t half of it,” one of the others said. “They wanted to name it Varina, after Jeff Davis’s bride, but some Yankee judge went and changed the paperwork.”
    Annabelle noticed her father watching as she circulated. With a nod, she alerted him to a man grousing about the former slave who traveled with the guides.
    â€œI heard they got a Sambo with ’em.”
    â€œA freed slave,” her father corrected.
    â€œHis name really Lord Byron?”
    Her father shrugged. “They encouraged him to take a free man’s name. As the Colonel tells it, this was the freest-sounding name the man knew. It’s a tale I believe he enjoys telling.”
    â€œI didn’t know Yankees had a sense of humor,” another said.
    Annabelle moved to where the northerners were clustered. Most were farmers, drawn by the prospect of homestead land. They hoped to make a good living feeding the burgeoning population around the gold fields. Miners had to eat, and most of their food had to be hauled in from Salt Lake City and other distant parts.
    â€œIf it’s a guide we need, why not hire a single man?” one of the Yankees said. He was red-faced with drink and his voice carried above the rest. “Do we need to hire three?”
    Annabelle motioned to her father, who hurried to the man’s side. Her father’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, a vain effort to have the red-faced man match his tone. “We’ll be thankful for the extra labor when we must watch the stock at night.”
    â€œI’ll be thankful for the extra guns if we run into trouble,” another man said.
    Annabelle drifted toward the third group in their company, the one her father called the bachelor miners because none traveled with families. They were the poorest of the lot, mostly southerners, though none seemed to hold loyalty to any cause but getting rich. That made them the most eager to reach Montana, feeling every day they were in camp was another day somebody else might find the gold they already deemed theirs.
    Her ears perked at mention of the gunman who served alongside the Colonel. He had such an outsized reputation even Annabelle heard stories in town.
    â€œWhat kind of name is Josey Angel?” asked the youngest of the miners, a boy from Indiana.
    â€œIt’s not his real name, Nancy-boy.”
    The youth ignored the insult. “Well, what is it?”
    The older miner looked peeved to be pinned down on something he didn’t know. “It’s Josef something. Something Polish, even harder to speak than Indian.”
    Seeing the youngster’s uneasiness, another miner started in. “I heard he killed his own troops ’cause they couldn’t say his name proper.”
    â€œThey would have hung him for that,” the boy said. He didn’t look certain.
    â€œI heard he killed the witnesses.”
    The man laughed and others joined in, a game to see who could stretch the tale to the most ridiculous lengths. They might have talked all night, swapping opinions like poker chips because that was all they had.
    Everyone fell silent when the two riders arrived. Annabelle watched, wondering if everything she had heard was really nothing more than tall tales.

C HAPTER F OUR
    Josey Angel was nothing like Annabelle expected.
    The afternoon light was fading as he rode up with the Colonel, and the newcomers were silhouetted as they dismounted. Stepping from the shadows of one