Frontier Courtship by Valerie Hansen Page B

stealing wasn’t a sin, it was merely a contest of skill and daring, a besting of one’s enemies. Instead of feeling guilt after a raid the way he would have, they celebrated victory.
    Bedding down by the communal fire, Connell worked out his next moves in his mind. First, he’d return to Faith, explain what he’d learned, and tell her not to look for him at Independence Rock. Then he’d head for Black Kettle’s camp and try to convince the chief that, as Irene’s betrothed, he had the right to claim her no matter what her current status. Even if the woman captive turned out to be a stranger, he’d liberate her and see her safely to the nearest fort before he resumed his original search. The plan was simple. All he needed were trade goods, courage and a colossal marvel.

     
    Early the following day, Connell packed the fresh buffalo meat he’d been given for his participation in the hunt, bid his traveling companions goodbye and headed out to intercept the emigrant trail. It was nearly sunset when he finally spied the smoke from the cooking fires of the Tucker train.
    Reining in his horse, he paused on a slight rise to watch the activity in the camp and see where Faith’s modest rig had wound up when they’d stopped for the night.
    As was the routine, each wagon was backed up over the tongue of the one behind, forming a large circle and leaving only a narrow passage from the outside into the enclosure. Stretched across that passage, wheel to wheel, was a heavy chain that formed a gate and kept the loose livestock secure for the night.
    Connell spotted the Beal wagon just to the right of the makeshift gate. Inside the circle, oxen milled around with horses, mules and an occasional goat brought along for milk when no freshened cow was available. Attached to the side of several of the wagons were slatted coops containing laying hens, although he imagined they’d wind up in the stew pot before long rather than have precious food and water wasted on them.
    Dismounting, he led Rojo behind a hill where they could hunker down against the rising north wind and dropping temperature. No chance to keep a fire going tonight, not with the weather worsening.
    He shivered, looking up at the gathering clouds and smelling the moisture in the air. Chances were, he and everything he owned were going to get good and soaked before morning.

     
    “Over my dead body,” Ab grumbled as he climbed into the supply wagon.
    Stuart snorted in derision. “That can be arranged. I don’t make the rules, old man.”
    “But criminy, Stu, we’re gonna freeze out there and get soaked to boot. Why couldn’t he pick a dry night?”
    “How do I know? Probably figures most folks’ll be inside, keepin’ out of the storm, so’s we won’t be so likely to be seen. You ought to thank him.” He reached into a burlap sack and pulled out a beaded band of bedraggled feathers and three sorry-looking arrows.
    “Don’t suppose any of these green settlers will notice that’s a Blackfoot headdress and Sioux arrows, do ya?” Ab remarked, stripping off his shirt and sitting down to remove his run-down cavalry boots.
    “Naw. Not a chance. To them, an Indian’s an Indian. Besides, we’ll be in and gone with the girl before most of ’em even wake up.”
    Ab sighed. “One of these days we’re gonna get shot playin’ Injun for Tucker.”
    “Just as long as we don’t get separated like last time. You’re lucky you were able to handle the Wellman woman alone.”
    “Yeah.” Ab busied himself lacing up the tall tops of his moccasins.
    “Tonight, we sneak in together, grab this one and ride. No fancy stuff, you hear? The cap’n said.”
    “Okay, okay.” Ab stood, shivering in the icy dampness that had invaded the supply wagon. “Get the blasted war paint and let’s get this over with before I freeze to death.”
    Stuart soon finished decorating himself and his unwilling companion, picked up the arrows, selected one and put the others back.