Trail Angel by Derek Catron Page B

whisper over the crackling fire. “I’m not sure I should share the rest in mixed company.”
    â€œYou have to tell us,” Mark and Jimmy sang out together.
    â€œMaybe he shouldn’t,” Annabelle’s mother said, pulling her blanket tighter around her shoulders.
    â€œPlease,” Caroline said, adding her voice to the boys.
    â€œIt’s not a pleasant ending,” the Colonel warned, trying to sound stern, though his mustache had curled into a smile.
    â€œGo on.” This time it was Annabelle’s uncle Luke encouraging him.
    The Colonel nodded. “They dragged Davey away from the camp and tied him to a tree near the creek. Then they took their sharp knives and set to work.”
    â€œDoing what?” Mark asked, his eyes big as gold dollars.
    The Colonel leaned toward the boy. “You ever peel an apple with a knife? That’s what the Indians did to ol’ Davey. They peeled him like an apple.”
    Both boys and their sister squealed in the delighted disgust only children can muster. Annabelle felt ill.
    â€œThey say the screams went on for hours. Nobody slept that night, even once the screams stopped. By sunup, the Indians, and most of what was left of Davey, were gone. But Rawhide Creek got a name that’s stuck ever since.” The Colonel sat back, looking pleased.
    Annabelle looked toward Caroline and the boys. She needn’t have worried about them. The children’s eyes were aglow. Caroline would probably have a song composed about the story before Sunday. Annabelle’s mother looked pale, even in the amber glow of the fire. Annabelle’s plan to put her mind at rest had backfired, but she didn’t mind. A smile crossed her face as she watched her family and new friends. Even without walls and a roof, there was no place else she would have rather been.
    This world possessed a simplicity that appealed to her. So many things weren’t the way she imagined them when she lived on a cobblestone street lined with houses, a place where Indians seemed no more real than Amazons or centaurs. The world seemed small then. Now she lived in a place where the sky stretched forever, where it seemed she could walk in any direction and never reach an end, where even the most fantastical story sounded more real than the news in the papers at home. Anything could happen.
    The Colonel watched her from across the fire, a grin behind his pipe as if he read her mind and agreed. He was probably just pleased to see his story well received, but Annabelle smiled to imagine someone understood.

C HAPTER E IGHTEEN
    Walking alongside her family’s wagon, Annabelle envied the guides on their horses. She and her father had sold their horses before setting out, knowing they couldn’t properly feed animals raised on oats while on the trail. Her father consoled her with the belief that horses were one thing they would find in ample supply in Montana. Of course, he spent his days driving a wagon. Perched in the only seat equipped with springs, it was easy for him to think a horse an unnecessary luxury.
    On dry days when the wind didn’t blow too fierce, Annabelle preferred walking to riding in the wagon, which jostled so much her stomach grew queasy. Her mother spent the better part of her days reading in the back of the wagon, but more than a few minutes made Annabelle ill. On a bright, cloudless day, she led the family’s cow by a rope, the Colonel having instructed her in the best methods for training the animal to follow the wagons.
    He rode up alongside her, tipping a hat in greeting. The Colonel and the scouts rode Indian ponies that were accustomed to foraging on grass. They were smaller and not nearly as handsome as the riding horses Annabelle had known, but they were sure-footed and appeared tireless despite their diet. Recalling their meeting with General Sherman, she couldn’t resist a gentle tease.
    â€œMay I call you Marlowe?”
    â€œYou