Trail Angel by Derek Catron Page A

their people to cholera, smallpox, measles. One of the many gifts we’ve brought to the land. Now, so long as the white men stay on the trail and avoid trouble, the Indians in these parts usually keep their distance.”
    â€œUnless they’re out begging or stealing,” the other Daggett said.
    â€œA lot of them beg,” the Colonel confirmed, “but that’s not always the case. Many Indians have a custom of giving a token to strangers—and they expect something in return. That can seem like begging if you don’t know better. But when there’s trouble in these parts, it’s not always the Indians’ fault.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Annabelle’s mother asked.
    The Colonel never needed much encouragement to tell a story. “We passed a shallow stream not long after leaving Omaha—you probably didn’t take much notice. It’s just a little thing the locals call Rawhide Creek.”
    Interruptions were rare once the Colonel started a story, but he liked to pause for effect. He took a moment to brush his mustache with his fingers, clearing any trace of dinner that remained.
    â€œSome years back, during the gold rush to California, a young man set out all full of himself and sure as blazes the only good Indian was a dead Indian. He swore to anyone who listened he’d kill the first Indian he saw.”
    â€œWhat was his name?” Caroline asked when he paused to draw on his pipe.
    â€œHush. Don’t interrupt,” her mother said.
    â€œThat’s all right,” the Colonel said, a pleased look on his face. He had a sweet spot for Annabelle’s light-haired cousin. “I believe his name was Davey.”
    She nodded as if that sounded right. “Davey.”
    After a puff of smoke, the Colonel continued. “Even then, there weren’t many Indians along the trail. It wasn’t until he got to the creek that he saw his first Indians . . . a squaw and a little girl sitting on a log by the water.”
    Annabelle didn’t like where she thought the story was headed.
    â€œOne of the men in the train sees this and teases the braggart. ‘Here’s your chance, Davey.’ Of course, this man never thought Davey meant to kill a woman or a child. He was just having fun. But wouldn’t you know it—Davey pulls out his rifle, and as his wagon draws near the Indians, he shoots the woman dead.”
    Everyone had drawn closer around the fire. No one spoke. Annabelle wasn’t sure anyone breathed. Even the mosquitoes seemed to quit biting.
    â€œThe settlers were so shocked, no one knew what to do. They were more afraid of Davey than Indians at that point. So they rolled on, ignoring the cries of the child with the dead woman, treating the incident no differently than if Davey had shot a wolf or wild dog.” He drew deeply on his pipe, holding his breath a moment before slowly exhaling. Annabelle smiled. He enjoys the attention as much as the tobacco.
    â€œTheir attitude changed that night when a tribe of Pawnees surrounded their wagons. The little girl was with them and recognized Davey right off. He wasn’t so full of sand face to face with a whole pack of braves.”
    â€œWhat did the other settlers do?” little Jimmy asked. Too late, Annabelle wondered if her younger cousins would sleep that night.
    â€œThey just stood aside,” the Colonel said, sweeping his arm as if inviting guests into a parlor. “No one was going to risk his life to protect Davey after what he’d done. They watched while the Indians dragged him off.”
    The Colonel sat back. The silence lingered, and in the soft glow of the fire Annabelle saw a twinkle in the old man’s eyes as he measured the moments and waited for their patience to run out. Annabelle’s aunt Blanche gave in first, practically bursting out, “Well, what did they do to him?”
    The Colonel leaned forward, his voice barely a