The Warhunter 3, page 10
“That’s good news,” said Ella.
“Speaking of news,” the reporter continued, “I sent off two more War Hunter stories to my paper late this afternoon.”
“Do you have copies of them that I could read?” Ella wanted to know.
“I have my first drafts of them, yes. I’d be happy to let you have them. Perhaps Warfield might read them, too,” he suggested, as if Hunter wasn’t sitting right across from him. “He might realize that I mean no harm with these articles, and maybe then he’d change his mind about giving me an interview.”
“No, he wouldn’t change his mind,” said Hunter sardonically. “You seem to be doing just fine without his help.”
“When can I see those two stories?” Ella asked, trying to change the subject.
“Right away, if you like. I’ll go get them from my room. I’ll be back by the time the coffee’s ready, okay?”
Without looking at Hunter, she said, “That would be fine. You’ve got about five minutes.”
As soon as Bryce left, Hunter stood up. “I don’t want to be around while you’re reading and talking about those stories,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
“I promised Nadine Ballantine that I’d stop by her camp for a few minutes and meet her brother-in-law. I’ll be back in a little while.”
Ella didn’t want him to see Nadine Ballantine, but there was nothing she could do about it. The sympathy she felt for Hunter just a short while ago was replaced by jealousy. Ella understood the power of a memory left to simmer for ten long years. Nadine Brown Ballantine was a genuine threat, and Ella was worried.
But then Eric Bryce returned with his two stories in hand, and Ella found herself amused and entertained by the reporter’s wit and easy conversation. For the time being, at least, she forgot about Nadine Ballantine ... and even Warfield Hunter.
“Charles,” Nadine said sweetly, “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Warfield Hunter. Warfield, this is my brother-in-law, Charles Ballantine.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Hunter politely, shaking the older man’s hand.
“The pleasure is mine,” Ballantine said smoothly. “But excuse me, I’m not sure that I heard your name correctly. Did Nadine call you Warfield Hunter?”
“That’s right.”
“Excuse me again, but you wouldn’t also be known as War Hunter, would you?”
“I’m afraid I would.”
“Well, I am, indeed, pleased to meet you, Mr. Hunter. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Charles? What is this War Hunter business?”
“Don’t you know, Nadine?” said her brother-in-law with surprise. “Your old friend, Mr. Hunter, is a well-known man out here on the frontier. I’ve heard his name mentioned many a time since we left Missouri. I’m astounded that you weren’t aware of it.”
“Warfield,” she exclaimed, “is what he’s saying true? Is Charles making sense?”
“I think, perhaps, that Charles is overstating things a bit,” he said modestly. “Some people know me, but not really all that many.”
Nadine eyed him suspiciously. His clothes were worn, almost threadbare. His face was creased and browned from a lifetime of work in the sun. Hunter neither looked like a famous man nor acted like one. She suspected that her brother-in-law was building Hunter up as a joke, and that Hunter was too ignorant to realize it.
“No matter what your reputation is out here in the West,” she said carefully, “to me you’re still Warfield Hunter.”
“That’s just the way I prefer it,” stated Hunter, affably.
“Please, sit down,” said Charles.
“Yes, please,” echoed Nadine. “I’ll pour you some coffee.”
As she poured, she gave Hunter a fleeting glance. Yes, his clothes were nothing to brag about, and his look and manner were somewhat rough; still, there was something undeniably appealing about Hunter. Something strong and manly. And that, of course, she realized, was what had appealed to her ten years ago. In fact, it was what had almost won her.
She shivered at the thought.
How different her life would have been had she married Hunter. No money, no trips abroad, no expensive clothes or jewels, certainly no home high up on a hill with servants and cooks. Though she had never been fully in love with John Ballantine during the more than nine years of their marriage, thinking about how poor and deprived she might have been had she married Hunter, Nadine, at that moment, felt a full measure of gratitude to her dear departed husband.
Chapter Seventeen
NADINE FILLED THE evening with her sweet, lilting voice, and both men sat, in rapt attention, listening to the history of her last ten years. As always, Charles Ballantine was completely captivated. Hunter, however, while finding her story intriguing, still managed to keep his distance from the storyteller.
It was late when Hunter finally left. Virtually everyone bound for either California or Oregon had long since turned in.
Charles Ballantine contemplated the quiet darkness of a sleeping wagon train and wondered once again how it had come to pass that he should be here.
Part of the reason was that he had had an affair with Nadine just a short while before his brother died. Since then, there had never been another woman for him but her.
Another part of the reason was that he was desperate. He’d spent virtually all of his money and he had no means for making more. But Nadine had money. As far as he could tell, she had quite a lot of it. His brother had left her everything. Charles needed her ... and he needed her money. Which of the two he needed more, however, was an issue that was in considerable doubt.
Nadine called to him from inside the wagon, pulling Ballantine out of his reverie.
“What was that, dear?” he asked.
“I said, that wasn’t very nice of you to make fun of Warfield like you did.”
“Fun of him? I didn’t make fun of him,” he countered.
She opened the canvas flap at the rear of the wagon. Ballantine saw that she was wearing only a slip and a low-cut sheer chemise. “You certainly did,” she said. “You made up that story about Warfield being famous so that he would look foolish!”
Charles stepped up close to her and lifted his hand underneath Nadine’s silk slip, caressing the back of her thigh. “I wish I had,” he replied. “It would have been a good joke. But in this case, my dear, I was telling the truth. Hunter is indeed a famous man.”
Charles thought it was his hand moving up her thigh that excited her. She kneeled at the edge of the wagon bed, his hand sliding comfortably up to her smooth, bare bottom. He stroked her and she responded by swaying forward, exposing the swell of her breasts to his face. Charles pressed his lips between her two soft mounds of tender flesh.
Nadine’s hands came up to grab Charles by the hair and pull him away.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“You,” she said with cruel petulance. “Your face is soft and puffy. Your hands have no strength, no power. You don’t make me feel the way I ought to feel!”
“You sang a different tune back in St. Louis,” he reacted angrily. “In fact, you had no complaints a couple of weeks ago, after I had to beat up that farm boy you’d been flirting with.”
“I’m not saying I don’t care about you,” she said airily, “I’m just saying that a woman may want something more ... ”
“Something like War Hunter?” he challenged. Nadine smiled.
“Of course,” said Ballantine, bitterly. “I should have realized you would want another conquest. I must have been crazy to tell you Hunter was famous. Now he’s far more desirable, isn’t he?”
“Don’t be foolish,” she scoffed. “What would I want with a poor man like him?”
“I know very well what you’d want with Hunter!”
Nadine slapped him. The sound had the impact of a thunderclap in the otherwise silent night.
“What I do, and with whom I do it, is still my business, Charles,” she hissed. “We’re simply traveling together, you and I. You claim you want to marry me; I said I’d consider it. Now don’t he difficult, Charles. You’ve always been a gentleman. I hope you will continue to act that way.”
“Nadine,” he suddenly pleaded, taking her hands, “I asked you so long ago to marry me. Why won’t you give me your answer?”
“Perhaps I’ll give you my answer soon,” she said coyly, “or perhaps I’ll wait till we reach California. I’ve been thinking, you know, that I might like to see the land holdings you’ve been telling me about.”
The blood drained out of his face, leaving Charles completely white. In the darkness, Nadine couldn’t see his deathly pallor.
There were no land holdings. He had lied, hoping to marry her long before she could discover that he was practically penniless. He was counting on her love, and on her money. Without her, he was nothing.
“Forget about Hunter,” he said in a quivering, desperate voice. “Forget about all those other men. Think only of me, Nadine.”
“Give me time, Charles,” she said sweetly. “Just give me time.”
Nadine sensed that Charles was doubting her. She needed to pacify him, win his devotion once again. And knowing Charles as well as she did, Nadine knew just how to destroy his doubts.
She swept her long fingers into his hair and pulled him toward her. Her hands came down to caress his shoulders and arms, finally guiding his hands underneath her chemise. A few moments later he was beside her in the wagon, with no other thought in mind than the soft touch of her lips upon his.
Ella had gone to bed, but not to sleep. She was torn between the flattering attentions of Eric Bryce and her longstanding feelings for Hunter. Was Eric Bryce serious in his pursuit of her affection? Was Hunter a man she could trust with her love?
Her thoughts remained on Hunter.
He said he’d return in just a little while, but he’d been gone all evening. Ella tried to visualize this Nadine Ballantine. Was she very beautiful? Was she thin and slinky, or was she buxom? Did she have big eyes? Was she quiet, or was she the vivacious type, with something to say about everything? Finally, Ella wondered, why was Hunter with Nadine Ballantine and not with her?
That thought kept her awake long into the night, until she heard the sound of boots on hard clay. She knew the sound of his walk very well. During all the past months they’d been together, Ella had learned to distinguish the sound of Hunter’s walk, and to find comfort and security in his nearness.
She waited for him to climb into the wagon. But Hunter didn’t join her. Instead, rather than disturb her at this late hour, he decided to sleep out under the wagon.
In his innocence, he thought he was doing Ella a favor. In actual fact, he was sowing still more doubt in her mind by not going to her immediately upon his return.
The false dawn was only just breaking, but Soda Springs was already alive with activity. There was a long way yet to go before these weary travelers could stop and call someplace home. Into September, with mountains to traverse and rivers to cross, there was no time to waste.
Their stay in Soda Springs was pitifully short. And now, upon their departure, there was but one last thing to do: wish tearful farewells to friends made on this journey who now were parting company.
Most were heading on up the Oregon Trail to the fabled Willamette Valley. Others were following their dreams to California. There was little chance these people, who had traveled so far together, who had suffered so many hardships together, would ever lay eyes on each other again.
The women knew it, and they wept. The children were told it was to be a final good-bye, but children have little understanding of forever. Even the men, hardened by their epic journey, nearly immune now to death and deprivation, suffered misty eyes, unashamedly. It is no easy thing to say good-bye to someone who helped your family when you were sick, and who comforted you when your child had to be buried in a lonely grave, in a place you would never pass again.
But the parting time had come.
The line of white-canvas-topped wagons stretched out along the Oregon Trail, rolling off to the northwest. In the light of the dawn, with the sun sending long shadows out across the land, the wagons looked like an endless string of sailboats on a calm and gentle sea. They sailed in the direction of those shadows—to the west. And they sailed in the direction that shadows represent—the unknown.
The California-bound wagon train was supposed to leave Soda Springs the same time that the Oregon train left, but it didn’t. The major difficulty that kept them from an early start was the election of a wagon master.
Hunter was nominated for the job, but he declined. He had led the small party from Fort Bridger to Soda Springs, leaving Eric Bryce an open field with Ella. Hunter wasn’t making that mistake again.
The next man nominated was the deposed wagon master who had been replaced, en route to Soda Springs, by Glennon O’Shea. His name was Jack Strunk, and he still had a considerable following. He also had a considerable number of detractors.
Hal Murdock was nominated by his cousin, Zack Taggert. No one, however, was betting on Murdock to win.
The third nominee, Joseph Graham, had a reputation as an impulsive but otherwise steady man. He also had a reputation for not getting along with Jack Strunk.
Out of the forty-three wagons signed up for California, there was a total of sixty-seven men who were eligible to vote. Thirty-four votes were needed to elect a wagon master.
Everyone expected the election to be close, and it was. Joseph Graham polled an even thirty; Jack Strunk was right behind him with twenty nine; and coming in a distant third, with eight votes, was Hal Murdock.
The sun was up, the teams were hitched, and everyone was anxious to be on their way. But instead they had to take a second ballot. And then a third, and a fourth.
There was very little movement among the votes for Strunk and Graham. You were either strongly for one, or strongly for the other. The key was Hal Murdock’s eight votes. And strangely, there was no movement there, either. Even though Murdock clearly couldn’t win, his eight votes remained firm. Four of those votes were from his three Taggert cousins and Murdock himself. The other four votes came from men who did as they were told. If they didn’t, they were promised the beating of their lives.
The cool morning hours were passing. Something had to be done to break the deadlock. Graham stormed up to Murdock and demanded that he withdraw his candidacy.
Murdock laughed in his face.
Jack Strunk was more cunning. It was his guile and his behind-the-scenes manipulation of people that had lost him his job as wagon master before, but he was willing to wheel and deal again in the hope of reclaiming his position.
“What is it you want?” he asked Murdock. “I’m willing to trade.”
This was just what Murdock was waiting for.
“Me and my cousins don’t pull any guard duty. Any easy jobs, we get ’em. Our wagon rides up at the front of the train so we ain’t chokin’ on everyone’s dust. And one last thing: If anyone complains about me or my cousins, I’ll expect you to take our side. These votes buy us your protection. You got it?”
“I’ve got it,” replied Strunk. “As long as you and your relatives don’t get too far out of hand, I’ll stand by you. Anything else?”
“That’s it,” said Murdock.
“Then we’ve got a deal,” Strunk stated.
On the fifth ballot, Jack Strunk was elected wagon master with thirty-seven votes.
That some under-the-table bargain had been struck was obvious. Strunk expected a storm of protest, but he was a big, barrel-chested man with a loud, commanding voice who knew how to hold his own against an angry crowd.
As soon as the final vote was announced, he jumped up on a table and bellowed above the din of the enraged voters: “It’s a long way to California! We can stand here and exercise our jaws, or we can get on our wagons, put some miles behind us, and get a little closer to home. Let’s pull together now and get on our way!
“You, Brian,” he called to a friend in the crowd. “What do you say? Shall we go to California?”
“Aye!” he shouted. “To California!”
“And you, Mathew?” he called to another friend. “Where shall we go?”
“To California!”
Pretty soon most everyone was cheering, yelling, “California! California!” The protest was forgotten. Within the hour they were rolling westward toward the Great Salt Lake Desert.
The very size of the huge wagon train that had reached Soda Springs the day before had been its protection against attack from the Utes. There had been little worry or thought given to the rumors of Indian trouble. Besides, it was widely known that the Utes were far more active to the south and to the west of Soda Springs than they were to the east.
Now, however, the situation was changed. While the wagon train moving out of Soda Springs on the Oregon Trail was still quite large, the California-bound train was a much easier target. In addition, they were heading deeper into Ute country. Guards would have to be posted every night at the wagon train’s perimeter. Scouts would have to be sent out. Everyone would have to be ready for trouble.
It was likely to be as many as three days yet before they would reach the Great Salt Lake Desert. During those days, this wagon train, almost a full third of it made up of new people picked up in Soda Springs, would have to get trail-broken in a hurry.
Chapter Eighteen
THEY STARTED SO late that morning that Strunk decided they would skip the usual nooning break. It was rough on the livestock, and rougher still on the men and women who walked beside their wagons.
While the nooning break would have been a good chance to practice the very things this wagon train needed to learn, Jack Strunk was a man who measured success in miles, and with September upon them and the Sierras still a month away, there was at least a small measure of logic in his decision. So on they moved, making up for the time they had lost that morning in Soda Springs, driving themselves till the heat and their exhaustion was all but too much to bear. Only then did Jack Strunk give the order to camp.
