She closed her eyes and imagined the ocean.  She’d seen the Atlantic once years before when her family traveled from Maryland to visit relatives in North Carolina.  She didn’t remember very much about the trip itself but the ocean had left an indelible impression.   It was a splendid sight!  Nothing but waves of uninterrupted blue as far as her six-year-old eyes could see.  She remembered jumping and splashing about in the waves as they followed their time-worn path to the shore.   Behind her eyelids she could see herself running toward the water and it brought a smile of remembrance to her face. Her arms flailed wildly in the excitement only the very young are capable of to then turn and run, squealing in delight, back to the beach as her playmate chased her to shore, reaching out with its foamy white-capped fingers for the ticklish spot behind her knees.

Yes . . . the ocean.  The ocean was the only thing she could compare the prairie to.  The only difference was the waves were created by grass swaying and bobbing in a fickle prairie breeze rather than the tug of the tide.  It was just as big, though.  Just as splendid, too.  Patches of sunflowers stood like brightly lit islands amidst the waves, their gold fringed faces turned adoringly in the direction of the mid-day sun.  Their wagon was a boat.  No . . . not a boat.  Their wagon was a ship and its canvas covering was their sail.  She could almost hear the sound of the breeze as it collected behind the sail, propelling her magical ship through the sea of thin-bladed grass.  It was a grand ship carrying them to a new land – a land far removed from the threat of a war they wanted no part of. 

She tried to imagine what it would feel like to run through the grass as she had in the ocean.  For a moment she considered taking off her shoes and jumping into the green waves, but she wasn’t a child anymore.  She was a married woman and a married woman didn’t do such things.  At least not while her husband was watching.

He had become adept at handling the horses.  Their journey had begun a little more than three months before with a rough start.  He was not experienced in driving a team but he had learned quickly.  He had to.  If you didn’t keep up with the wagon train, you were left behind.  “We got schedules to keep! Got passes to cross and rivers to ford ’fore the snow flies!”  the wagon master had bellowed with such animation and repetition the travelers had taken to mocking him behind his back.  East-coast born and bred, the young man never dreamed he would be starting a new life in the West.  “The edge of the earth!” his neighbors had scoffed.  The notion of a city boy and his young wife embarking on such a trip – not to mention giving up civilized society for the barbarism of the West – was nothing short of lunacy in their estimation.  But now that their families had passed on and the threat of war was sounding more like a promise than a rumor, the decision to leave Maryland and head west was not difficult to make.

The wagon train’s final destination was California but they, as other travelers along the route, had left the group to move on in accordance with their own plans.  The wagon master had frowned upon their departure and didn’t mince his words expressing his opinion.  “Plum crazy is whatcha are.  T’aint safe out there on yer own.  More’n likely gonna end up playin’ pin cushion for some redskin’s arrow,” he insisted and spit a stream of tobacco juice between the gap in his front teeth.  But the young couple would not be swayed by his tall tales and tossed aside his words of warning.  An exaggerated warning, they were certain. 

Their grisly guide had entertained the travelers around more than one campfire with his tales of the perils awaiting them in the ‘wild west’.  It was obvious from early on the wagon master had a penchant for the overly dramatic.  To be fair, they had encountered a few obstacles on the journey.  There was the wild dog, its mouth lathered with white foam, that had threatened some of the children.  The wagon master had pronounced the dog rabid and promptly put a bullet through its skull.  Then there were the folks from Ohio who had refused to lighten their wagon’s load and had nearly killed their horses because of it.  There had been an occasional broken axle or damaged wheel.  It was a long journey.  Such problems were to be expected.  But overall, the trip had been remarkably uneventful. 

They would join a friend who had made the trek from Maryland earlier in the year at Fort St. Vrain and travel to a small piece of property that had been procured for them by an attorney in Denver.  Farm land.  A  future.  He didn’t know much about farming, but he would learn.  His friend had written to them about this new land.  “The soil is nearly black and anxious to please,” he wrote, his excitement for their certain prosperity flowing through his pen.  “It crumbles to a fine tilth and will support an ample crop.  The climate is agreeable and the sky at sunset holds a hue I have until now not had the privilege to witness.  My friend, I do believe we have purchased a piece of Paradise!”  Rich earth, a new life, safety.  They were almost there.  Another week, give or take a day or two, and the journey would be over.

He noticed the bemused expression spreading across his wife’s freckled face and grinned.  His own skin had deepened in color during the months under the sun, but its rays had only succeeded in darkening her persistent freckles leaving her skin fair.  He loved her freckles but she insisted that she would forever look like a little girl even when she was an old, gray woman. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, rousing his wife from her daydream.

She leaned into her husband’s side and looped her arm through his.  “Hmmmmm . . . all kinds of things.  How big this country is . . .how beautiful.  How happy we’re gonna be.  How good it’s gonna be to get settled.  Lots of things.”

“We’ll be there soon,” he assured her.

“How soon?”

He thought for a moment, his inexperienced eyes scanning the miles of open country ahead of them. “That river we saw on the map is right ahead of us,” he answered with feigned certainty.  “We’ll follow it ‘til it forks.  Then we’ll follow the fork that runs due south and make it to Fort St. Vrain within a week.”

She grinned and threw him a skeptical, narrow eyed look.  “You’re guessing, aren’t you?”

He chuckled, a bit embarrassed that his attempt to sound knowledgeable had failed so miserably.   He should know better than to try to fool her with a confidence he didn’t yet possess.  She knew him too well.  “Yes, I’m guessing,” he admitted.  “But one thing I know for fact.  We’ll be there when we get there.”

She laughed aloud and nodded resolutely in agreement.  “We’ll be there when we get there.”

The mid-day sun was warm and she pushed up the sleeves of her faded lavender gingham dress to cool her arms.  It was a bit tight on her still, especially through the bodice.  A bit uncomfortable.  Maybe once they were settled she could buy a new dress but lavender gingham would do for now.  Keeping their load light, they had brought few belongings with them.  There would be time for new dresses later.  Plenty of time. 

She closed her eyes again and wrapped her arm tighter around his, feeling his newly-hardened muscles flex as he urged the team through the rippling waves of grass.  He had changed on this trip.  He was no longer a city boy – he had grown strong.  Her hero.  Her swashbuckling sailor, steering her magical ship through the ocean of green waves.  She leaned into his side – contented – losing herself in her daydream. 

She could see herself on the deck on the ship, could almost feel the salty spray of the ocean against her flawless, unfreckled skin. The breeze grew stronger, tousling her loose curls and whipping at the skirt of her dress.  But not gingham.    No. . . she would have a new dress.  Blue satin with a hoop skirt.  No... a hoop skirt wouldn’t be right for a ship voyage.  Lace.   Yes. . . blue satin with yards and yards of lace.  Her handsome sailor was dressed in velveteen breeches and a silk shirt complete with ruffled collar and billowing sleeves.  Sensing danger, her gallant captain jumped to her defense as pirates with black eye patches and mustaches curled with wax into tight spirals stole upon the ship and vaulted over the sides with acrobatic ease.  Drawing his saber and wielding the weapon with confident, grand strokes he battled her attackers.  Two against one.  Three against one.   The pirates cried for mercy, pleading for their lives and being a noble man he. . .

A sudden jolt forward of the wagon roused her and she sat upright.  Her husband slapped the reins across the horses’ rumps, urgently pleading the matched pair into a run. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, startled, grabbing hold of the wooden seat as the wagon picked up speed and bounced across the uneven terrain.

“Get in the wagon!” he answered and slapped the reins harder against the team’s glossy backsides.  When she hesitated, he demanded again, louder.  “Get in the wagon!”

Obediently turning to climb over the seat and under the canvas covering she saw them and her mouth dropped open nearly as wide as her eyes.  Her breath caught in her throat and a gasp of fearful disbelief was the only sound she could muster.  They weren’t the make-believe attackers of her imagination.  They were painted, wild looking and real.  She could hear them.  Yelling.  Screaming foreign words. She felt the wagon tilt to the left as a wheel glanced the edge of a rock.  Losing her balance she tumbled over the seat and skidded on the floor, driving a splinter from the dry wooden planks into the palm of her hand.  Gathering her wits she pushed herself to her knees only to sprawl on the floor once more as the air-borne wheel bounced against solid ground.

She pulled herself along the wagon floor to the large wicker basket as the wagon careened dangerously to the left and then the right, back to the left again.  Screaming.  More screaming.  “Shhhh…..”  she pleaded, gently rocking the basket as the wagon continued to lurch about.  She reached into the basket, her hands trembling to the frantic beating of her heart, but stopped, her attention divided between instinct and the panic in her husband’s voice.

“The rifle!  Hand me the rifle! Now!”

Tears beginning to cloud her blue eyes, she covered the basket with a light blanket and hid it under a small wooden table, wedging it between her mother’s trunk and the side of the wagon. Making her way across the floor on her hands and knees she reached for the rifle behind the wagon seat and placed it in his anxious hands. 

Fumbling for ammunition, the box of shells slipped from her grasp and fell open as the wagon rocked precariously again.  She heard the crack of a wooden wheel surrendering under the strain and felt the wagon beginning to slow.   Crawling like a child after a loose marble, she chased the spilled shells across the splintered wooden floor, tearing the lavender gingham as her knee caught in her skirt.  Fear rose up and grabbed her throat, choking her voice into something small and desperate.   “Please dear God,” she pleaded.  “Please. . .”
 

Chapter One

Buck placed the cap back on the canteen and wiped his shirtsleeve across his mouth.  Twisting in the saddle, he arched his back trying to relieve the persistent ache.  It didn’t help much.  Too many days in the saddle and nights in a bedroll had rubbed his joints raw and left his muscles rebelling.  Pulling his left foot from the stirrup he straightened his leg, flexing his foot in an attempt to work out the nagging cramp that had settled in his calf.  He’d been riding a long time and there were still a good many miles between him and his bunk, Rachel’s cooking and the company of his Express family.   The familiar outline of Rock Creek’s rooftops would be a welcome sight even if he didn’t care much for their new station.

He had never been pleased with their move to Rock Creek.  If they had stayed in Sweetwater then Ike wouldn’t have. . . 

“Don’t think about it, Buck,” he ordered himself.  “Just don’t think about it.”

The Pony Express was a private enterprise but “special” runs for the Army, such as this one, were becoming more and more common as the financially strapped owners of the Express eagerly offered their riders as couriers for the military. A parcel of documents was to be picked up from the commanding officer at Fort Kearney and delivered to a unit temporarily stationed at Fort St. Vrain in Colorado Territory, well south of the established Pony Express trail.   It was a long run, likely a ten-day round trip for a single rider, and there were reports that the Arapaho were becoming increasingly hostile in the area.  But the government paid too well for the head office to turn the work down, even if the runs were a bit out of the ordinary.

Buck knew Teaspoon had hesitated before asking him to take the run.   He had seen the worry in the older man’s eyes.  Teaspoon knew Buck was familiar with the area and of all the riders employed by Russell, Majors and Waddell, he was the most capable of avoiding an encounter with hostile Indians. The boy had an uncanny sense of “knowing” about him.  Each of Teaspoon’s riders had a gift unique to them and that was Buck’s.  An ‘awareness’ that was born in the blood.  But still.  It was awfully soon. 

“You sure you’re up to this, son?” the older man had asked as he saw his Kiowa rider off in the gray light of early morning seven days prior.

“I know where I’m goin’, Teaspoon.  I’ve been around there before,” Buck assured him even though he was aware his employer’s concern didn’t rise from whether or not he knew the area.  “I’ll be fine.”

It did seem to Teaspoon that Buck was doing better.  The consuming grief that had swallowed him after Ike’s sudden death had lessened and Buck seemed to be adjusting to the newness of being alone.  But sometimes he still saw it  - a hurtful look casting a long shadow over the boy’s dark eyes, a word caught edgeways in his throat.  They were small things but enough to make Buck’s assertion that he had come to terms with Ike’s death suspect.

In his own mind, Buck had come to terms with losing his friend.  Trapped in a remote darkness by a heartache too big to get past, he had bargained with Ike’s memory.  The conditions of the agreement were simple.  He would be permitted to sleep without Ike’s pale ghost bleeding across his dreams and eat without his stomach tossing back the food forced into it as long as he didn’t think about Ike.  He just couldn’t do it.  Provided he held up his end of the bargain, he would be fine. 

Buck settled back into the saddle waiting for the bay gelding beneath him to drink its fill from the shallow water hole.  He had been worried about finding water.  He hadn’t traveled through this part of the territory for several years but he remembered it being terribly dry during the summer months.  Thankfully, an out of season rain had left scattered pockets of water that were easily located.  He had no difficulty finding the fort either as the route was well marked by a steady trail of tracks left by mounted troops moving in and out of the garrison. 

While grabbing a quick cup of coffee and a little rest in the mess tent after delivering the parcel to the officer in charge, he overheard bits of conversation about the Arapaho uprising.  An overblown account he suspected.  Noticing his presence, the men’s voices grew louder just so he would know of their opinion of Indians in general.  It was nothing new but it still bothered him.  It didn’t matter that he had just spent five days pounding his body black and blue across the plains to deliver ‘their’ mail. It bothered him more that nothing he said or did would sway their opinion and the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.  He sat the tin cup back on the table, still half-full, tossed his weary bones back into the saddle and left.

Its belly cooled, the bay raised his head from the pond, flicking its ears to deflect the flies that congregated around the water hole.

“You ready to go, Red?” Buck asked, leaning forward to give his companion’s neck an affectionate scratch.  As if to answer, the horse pawed the ground impatiently and tossed his black-maned head sending the metallic clatter of bit and bridle into the air.  A slight touch of Buck’s heels was all that was necessary to urge the horse into an easy lope.  Like all Express ponies, its energy and desire to run was close to the surface and both horse and rider would have preferred a faster gait.  But the gelding was his only mount until they reached the nearest Express station at Julesburg, still a day and a half away.  Although he had seen nothing to indicate hostile Indian activity on either leg of the trip, it would be best to conserve the animal’s speed for a time when it might be needed.

Easing into the bay’s rhythmic stride Buck’s thoughts began to wander down the trail toward home.  Teaspoon had promised him some time off to compensate for the long run although there was no particular place he wanted to go.  A few days rest at the station would suit him just fine.  His mouth began to water envisioning Rachel’s steaming blackberry cobbler.  She didn’t make the dessert very often, but knowing it was a favorite she had offered it as a treat when he got home.  A smile slipped across his face as he pictured himself sitting in the rocker on the bunkhouse porch, feet propped up, a dish of cobbler and fresh cream in his hands relaxing while the others grumbled through mucking out stalls and painting the barn.  Buck laughed out loud at the thought causing the bay’s ears to flit in curiosity.  Watching the others work.  Now that would be time off well spent.

Two hours later Buck felt pretty good about the progress he and the bay gelding had made.  Even at the slower pace they had covered a sizeable amount of ground and a few more hours of travel were still possible before darkness stopped them for the night.  Barring bad luck, he would make the station in Julesburg by the next afternoon, bid the gelding a reluctant good-bye, grab a fresh horse and sprint across Nebraska for home.

At first he thought the disruption breaking the straight line of the horizon before him was his imagination.  A long run in the flat lands could do that to a rider.  Reining in the bay horse a bit, he rubbed the dust from his eyes and stood in the stirrups to make sure.  No.  He wasn’t seeing things.  His expression twisted in a grim thought, Buck sat back into the saddle, weighing his options.  A part of him argued to swing a wide berth around the wagon and continue on his way, but that side of his nature had never been very persuasive.  Slowing the gelding to a pace that would hopefully be taken as non-aggressive, he walked the horse closer to the wagon, hoping he wasn’t met with the serious end of a shot gun.   It had happened before. 

A violent death isn’t silent.  The terror of a brutal ending lingers tangible in the air for a time.   Makes it heavy.  Cries linger long after their voices have died. Resisting the call of the hereafter, disbelieving souls hover over lifeless bodies, wringing their hands and sobbing, imploring the Fates to mend the snipped thread. 

Buck had felt it before.  The heaviness.  He had been a small child, six or seven at most, when the Kiowa village was attacked by a thieving band of Paiute.  He remembered it well - the smell of blood, the buzz of flies swarming over open wounds, their steady hum announcing the killings to higher predators.  Taking the reins in his right hand he slowly slid his pistol from its leather holster and nudged the bay forward.  The color in his face drained away when he rode upon them.  He swallowed hard and looked away.  The soldiers at the fort hadn’t been exaggerating after all.

They were a young couple, not much older than he was.  She had been pretty.  Fair haired and skinned.  Freckled.  She reminded him a little bit of Emma, or what Emma might have looked like in her early twenties.   She lay on her side, nearly hidden in the tall grass, her hands folded prayerlike under her chin.  Her eyes were still open and when he rolled her onto her back it looked almost as if she was searching the heavens for her God, reciting her prayers before sleep. 

He tried to remove the arrow protruding from her abdomen, but the pierced flesh had closed around the shaft so it almost looked like the arrow was a part of her – a feather embellished appendage of some sort.  The large bloodstain marring the front of her lavender checked dress told that she had not died quickly.  A still heart doesn’t pulse blood.  Her death had been slow and painful.  Degrading.  Buck wrapped his hand around the arrow and with a quick movement of the wrist snapped the shaft above the wound.  She almost looked grateful.

A young man lay in a lifeless, bloody sprawl a few feet from her.  Buck presumed he was her husband.  He had probably been a good man.  He had made a mistake to be sure.  Heading out on their own through such dangerous country had been foolish, but that didn’t make him any less a good man.  Naïve . . . stubborn maybe.  He guessed they had been part of a wagon train.  The long, winding caravans bound for paradise had become commonplace.  The man had probably been warned about the dangers of traveling alone.   Buck wondered if he thought about that warning as the Arapaho brave bore down on him, his lance raised in intimidation, war cries ripping the air. 

Death is at an arm’s length with a tomahawk. Close enough for the man to have seen the hatred in the Arapaho’s eyes before the heavy, knife-edged blows rained down on him.  Close enough for the warrior to have found the terror in the white man’s eyes as the weapon split his skull in half.  Buck tried to brush the excited flies away from the gaping wound to give the dead man a bit of dignity, but no sooner than he swatted them away, they settled back.

Buck pushed himself to his feet, his heavy steps marking a path back to the gelding waiting patiently nearby. He doubted the animal would stray, but the last thing he needed was for a coyote intent on claiming a meal to spook the horse and be left in this vast emptiness without a mount.  He led the faithful animal to the wagon, looping the leather strands through a wheel. He noticed that several spokes of the wheel were broken, the wood shattered by a stress the mechanism wasn’t meant to bear.  Buck ran his hand thoughtfully over the splintered wood as it told the story.  The entire attack had probably lasted only a few minutes.  The images were vivid and troubled him.  He understood the need of the Arapaho to protect their home against enemies, but this couple’s only crime had been poor judgement. 

They were warring factions in an argument that repeated over and over again in his mind.  In the singular, the white couple posed no threat, but when one came others would follow.  Towns and cities, roads and fences would sprout in the Indian’s fertile homeland and they would be pushed off ground that had been theirs for as long as the land could remember.  Seeking revenge upon those who wronged you was a natural response.  He’d done as much himself.  “No . . . “ he quickly corrected himself.  “Neville was different.  Very different.”  Neville deserved what he got. 

“Don’t think about it, Buck.  Don’t think about it.”

Shaking off the forbidden thoughts, Buck untied the leather straps securing a shovel to the side of the wagon, resigning himself to the task.  The Arapaho had no use for it or the white couple’s belongings.  All they had taken were the horses and whatever weapon the man might have had.  Heaving a sigh laden with unwanted responsibility, Buck walked a few paces from the wagon and plunged the spade into the earth. 

He knew this was the white man’s custom, but it still left him unsettled.  This act of burial.  How was rest possible in a place so cold and heavy?  He dug until the spade hit rock then collected the bodies and laid them together in the grave.  Together they could keep each other warm.  The woman’s eyes bothered him.  He had tried to close them but it was too late.  Although dull and sunken, her gaze was unrelenting and set his nerves on edge.  Buck turned away from their pleading and blindly filled the grave until the woman’s face was covered, her desperation hidden under a layer of soil. 

Buck wiped the dirt from his hands on his trouser legs and placed the shovel back where he found it.  He doubted the grave was deep enough to deter predators for long, but he had done the best he could and was anxious to be rid of this duty.  The abandoned wagon looked strangely out of context in the sea of grass.  If a more fortunate homesteader stumbled upon it, they would be welcome to it.  Buck pulled the reins from the wagon wheel and placed his foot in the stirrup, too tired to merely swing into the saddle.  Grabbing hold of the saddle horn, he started to raise himself in the stirrup when a sound from the opposite side of the wagon stopped him cold.  He slowly lowered himself back to the ground. 

It sounded like an animal whimpering but a quick glance around the area revealed nothing.  He had almost convinced himself the wind was toying with him when he heard it again, louder.  Buck looped the reins around the wheel once more, warily moved to the rear of the wagon and pulled himself inside.

He felt like an intruder standing there under the canvas covering amidst the young couple’s belongings.  Clothing and bedding were strewn about, tossed from their places as the wagon bounded across the rough terrain. A Bible, thrown open to Song of Soloman, lay on the floor near a woman’s hand mirror and an empty ammunition box.   The broken pieces of mirror crunched under his boots as Buck moved further into the small enclosure.  The sound called to him again, directing his movement and in a heart-ripping moment he understood the urgency in the woman’s eyes. 

Buck dropped to his knees and pulled the wicker basket from its hiding place, laying aside the blanket covering.   Sinking down onto the wagon floor, he rubbed his hand wearily across his forehead and pushed his hair back as if it would help smooth out his tangled thoughts.

He wasn’t a good judge of such things, but the child didn’t appear to be very old.   Feeling very inadequate, he reached into the basket, holding the impatient infant at an awkward arm’s length as if there was something dangerous about the child.  Frightened by the stranger’s touch, the baby wailed in a voice that seemed much too large for his small size and wriggled against the unfamiliar hands.

“Shhhhh…..”  Buck pleaded, nervousness spilling into his voice.  “Hush now.  Don’t cry.  Please don’t cry.” 

Questioning what to do with the small, squirming being in his hands, he hurriedly tried to picture the women of his village or the mothers who shopped at Thompkins’ store.  Emulating their actions as best he could, he drew the child to his chest, patting the small back with a stiff uncertainty.  Buck leaned heavily against the trunk beside the table, the weight of his discovery settling on him all at once.  “It’s gonna be all right,” he assured the quieting bundle in his arms, although he wasn’t sure who needed to be convinced more - himself or the baby.  “It’s gonna be all right.”

Once the child calmed Buck drew his knees up and laid the infant back against his legs to get a good look at his new responsibility.   He was taken by the child’s smallness.  The full fist of fingers wrapped around his one finger was small.  His bare toes, his ears.  Everything was small.  The child was healthy looking, well fed and cared for.  He had been loved, Buck was certain of that.  The little boy was fair skinned like his mother had been.  If there was a hair on his head it was so blonde Buck couldn’t see it.  Blue eyes.  Wide trusting eyes that could draw you in and hold you captive if you weren’t careful. 

According to the neatly penned wording in the family registry of the Bible Buck found on the wagon floor his name was Daniel.  Born to Timothy and Lorena McAlister on the fifth of April, 1861. Buck did a quick calculation.  April to August.  Four months old.  He thumbed through the pages in hopes the registry would provide the name of family members – perhaps an aunt and uncle or grandparents who could care for the child but Daniel’s birth was the first entry.   The book was new, the pages crisp and slick, the gilt edges still bright.  Unlike the worn, limp-paged Bible stored under his bunk, a child hadn’t drawn pictures in it yet. 

“Don’t think about it, Buck,”  he reprimanded himself.  “Don’t think about it.”

Buck quickly laid the Bible atop the table and pushed it away.  Rising slowly with Daniel awkwardly cradled in the crook of his arm, he stood and started for the rear of the wagon.  He had lost enough time already, there was nothing more to do there.  He wasn’t quite certain what to do with Daniel. Finding the child had certainly altered his plans, but imagining what would have happened to the defenseless infant if he hadn’t stumbled upon the wagon sent a shudder through him and Buck sent a silent thank you to whichever watchful spirit had plotted his path.   Sad, he thought, that Timothy and Lorena McAlister’s path hadn’t been as divinely directed.

Buck turned around, his eyes quickly flitting through the wagon’s contents, searching for something to bind this child to the parents he would never know.   Though it felt like trespassing, he opened the trunk and carefully sifted through the items stored away inside.  Bed linens, a faded quilt, a few articles of clothing. Nothing he felt was suitable.  No photographs, no treasured keepsakes, no letters professing the depths of a young couple’s love. 

Buck knew all too well that in the years to come Daniel would need something to remind him that he had been loved.  His hand wandered to the cloth pouch hanging around his neck, his fingertips gently stroking the meticulously stitched seams.  His mother had sewn the pouch for him when he reached twelve summers and was ready to begin collecting his medicine.  The same year she died.  The items securely bundled inside were precious to him, but no more so than the pouch itself.  It connected her to him in the same way that Ike’s Bible . . .

“Don’t, Buck.”

Buck drew a deep breath, berating himself for breaking the rule again.  After a long moment of hesitation he reluctantly reached for Daniel’s Bible and tucked the book under his arm. 

Fearing Daniel would wiggle out of his grasp while he mounted the gelding Buck held the little boy so tightly that he wailed in protest causing the bay to side step nervously, wary of the small burden.  Buck’s first thought was to take Daniel with him to the nearest station, but the more he thought about it the more he realized finding a decent home for him there would be unlikely.  Julesburg was a rough town, better known for bar room brawls and loose women than benevolent families willing to take in a newly orphaned child. 

He had witnessed the town’s sinful nature himself having stopped long enough to trade his spent horse for the red gelding and treat himself to a hot meal.  The vision of a half-dressed whore flying down the saloon’s staircase after a drifter who had refused to pay her full fee was fresh in his memory.  The woman spat obscenities as if she was possessed with something vile, the foul language flowing from her painted mouth like water.  Even Teaspoon would have blushed.  Julesburg was a place to pass through, maybe indulge for a moment in its song and drink, but not to put down roots.  It wasn’t a safe place for a child.  The ride itself just to reach the town wouldn’t be safe either. Julesburg was still a good day and a half away, now it would take even longer.  He had no way to feed or care for a baby in the middle of the prairie.  With Daniel in tow it would be difficult to watch for signs of the Arapaho and he certainly couldn’t outrun a raiding party with a child in his arms. 

Buck slouched back in the saddle and grazed his teeth over his bottom lip, remembering.  He knew of a closer place.  They could be there in a few hours.  His decision was made with some reluctance, but he didn’t have much choice.  His arm crossed over Daniel’s back securely holding the small bundle in place, the little boy’s cheek resting against his guardian’s shoulder, Buck reined the bay to the northwest in the direction of a home for orphaned children and more memories than he cared to face.
 

Chapter Two

“Our Lady of Sorrows School for the Orphaned and Abandoned” was a generous title for the cluster of tired, graying buildings held together by the grace of God and the backbone of a few sturdy Catholic nuns.  The school had been founded in the fall of 1841 by a group of missionaries sponsored by an altruistic St. Louis parish.  “Sorrows”, as the school came to be known, fancied itself the model of Christian charity opening its doors to unfortunate young ones orphaned by the maladies of the plains or abandoned by parents too full of their own misery to be burdened with the care of a child.  Over the years a steady stream of children flowed into Sorrows’ front door where they were blessed with a bed, an education and the moral upbringing deemed suitable by the Catholic church.  The children didn’t stop coming but as purse strings tightened, the stipend from St. Louis did.   As years passed without a benefactor, but no fewer number of young souls in need, the model of good intentions began to truly live up to its name.

Sorrows had been in a sad state of disrepair when Buck had been a student there and the years since had not been a friend.  The compound consisted of the school building itself, a storage shed and barn which housed two sway-backed horses, older than anyone at the school could remember, a bone-gaunt Guernsey masquerading as a milk cow and a smattering of chickens.  The limestone foundation supporting the barn had begun to crumble on one side so the structure sat decidedly out of square.  Buck noticed the odd lot pieces of lumber used as a temporary fix for a hole in the barn roof five years before were still there along with an assortment of new patches.  The wood used for the repairs had originally served as pieces of siding on the storage shed but the smaller structure had been asked to sacrifice itself for the sake of the more crucial barn.  No longer used, its frame reduced to a near skeleton in places, it appeared that a stiff breeze or an unkind thought could send what remained of the shed toppling to the ground. 

When the mission was constructed a picket fence had been built around the school building in an attempt to keep the youngest children in the yard and animals out.  Years later it failed miserably at both.  A snarl of vines tangled around the old wood had grown so heavy the fence cowered under the weight giving the impression of an overgrown bully intent on choking its opponent into submission in a schoolyard wrestling match. 

The school building itself was a large three-story structure built atop a foundation similar to the barn that had, luckily, not suffered the same deterioration. Clad in rough sawn pine siding, the school once sparkled in a coat of white but the paint had long ago blistered and cracked under the intensity of the prairie sun leaving the bare and unprotected wood easy fodder for wood ants and termites.  Two towering chimneys of native stone stood on opposite sides of the building like bookends holding it together.  The fireplaces provided a pleasing warmth to the immediate area but failed to heat the space in between leaving the center of the building drafty and nearly unbearable once the January winds began to blow.  The first floor housed an office, the kitchen, cafeteria and chapel.  Classrooms, the nun’s sleeping quarters, the nursery and an infirmary comprised the second floor and on the third, tucked under the eaves and separated by the center stairwell were the dormitories – boys on the north, girls on the south. 

Buck wearily drew his right leg over the saddle horn and slid carefully to the ground.  Locating a section that still stood fairly upright, he draped the bay’s reins over the fence with one hand, a fussing Daniel held securely by the other. 

The bay’s easy stride had placated the child for the first hour of their journey, the rocking motion of the horse and almost hypnotic melody of rustling grass lulling him to sleep.  Buck’s initial awkwardness softened under the touch of Daniel’s small body lying warm and trusting against him.   Much to his surprise, he found himself enjoying the feel of the little boy’s light breath on his neck and the way Daniel’s white blonde head fit so perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder.  But an empty stomach brought on cries of hunger and Daniel awoke irritable, struggling against Buck’s firm hold.  His only experience with an infant being the baby left on the Sweetwater station’s doorstep, Buck was at a loss.  Assuming Daniel’s discomfort stemmed from either a soiled diaper or hunger, he reined the bay to a stop and a brief rest desperately hoping for the latter of the two ailments.  Remembering the biscuits leftover from his breakfast, Buck reached blindly into his saddle bag, his eyes anxiously scanning the countryside for any sign of the Arapaho. 

The outer crust of the biscuit was hard but the inner part seemed soft enough for a child, or at least he hoped so.  Buck had no idea if a four month old baby could eat such a thing, but, having planned on replenishing his supplies in Julesburg, aside from a few strips of jerky his stores were nearly depleted.  He tore one of the biscuits apart and coaxed Daniel into accepting a small piece.  The little boy seemed somewhat interested in the new taste, his features serious as he moved the piece of biscuit around in his mouth experimenting with the texture.  Buck’s hopes that the biscuit would tide Daniel over until they reached the mission crumbled as the child’s face puckered in disappointment and a fat tear slid down his cheek.  Daniel pushed the dough out of his mouth with his tongue, the partially dissolved pieces dribbling down his chin, and began wailing again in earnest.    Having nothing else to offer, they set out again, Daniel’s cries coercing Buck into asking a slightly quicker pace of the gelding, certain that the sound would alert every hostile Indian for miles in any direction of their presence.  The little boy eventually found his thumb and, much to the relief of both horse and rider, the pacifier quieted him. 

Buck unfastened the saddlebags and withdrew the McAlister’s Bible, silently surveying the school grounds.  The yard was quiet and empty, the children’s chores completed for the night.  Gray shadows growing tall at the buildings’ feet cast a further gloom over the somber scene and deepened his already sagging spirits.  Buck tucked the Bible under his arm and rounded the drooping fence line.  Growing impatient, Daniel wiggled in his arms as they climbed the steps to the small plank landing before the front door.  Buck’s stomach turned uneasily like a key in a rusty lock releasing a vulnerability hidden away there.  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the door, questioning his intent.  Daniel seemed to sense his protector’s distress and whimpered, fussing all the more. 

“I know, Daniel.  I know. . .” Buck mumbled apologetically.  “. . . but I don’t know what else to do.”  Squaring his shoulders, Buck rapped his knuckles against the door before he could change his mind and quickly stepped away turning back to the yard.  His eyes wandered across the empty playground, down the fence line, lingering for a moment on a sprawling quince bush, onto the lonely cottonwood standing guard at the south end of the yard.  The tree welcomed his gaze like an old friend but then as if something frightful had come into view, Buck’s back stiffened and he turned sharply toward the door.

“Don’t think about it, Buck.  Don’t look at the tree.  Don’t do it.”

After eyeing him closely, Buck and Daniel were ushered into the Reverend Mother’s office by a black garbed sister he didn’t recognize to wait while she retrieved the older nun from the chapel.  He really couldn’t blame her for looking at him suspiciously.  It wasn’t every day that a bone weary, half-breed, Pony Express rider with a baby in one arm and a Bible in the other appeared on Sorrows’ doorstep asking for the Reverend Mother by name.

The worn spots in the wine colored upholstery on the arms of the desk chair were larger than Buck remembered, the fabric raveled away exposing the wooden frame in one spot, but that was the only change he noticed in the office.  Aside from being a few inches taller and dressed differently he might very well have been thrown back in time four years to when he last stood in the room. 

The oversized oak desk still sat squarely in the center of the office as he remembered – the same spot it had occupied since the school had been built.  In its earlier days, the desk had been a striking piece of carpentry with smoothly turned legs, precise dove-tail joints, hand carved trim and a lustrous finish – a gift to the new school by a St. Louis parishioner aiming to buy himself into God’s good graces.   Years of use had dulled the varnished surface and the dry climate had caused the wood to shrink and pull away from the carefully crafted joints.  A few pieces of the trim had been broken away and the crispness of the hand detailing had been obscured by years of dust settling into the finely carved lines.  Save for a painstakingly neat stack of papers in the middle, the desktop was completely clear, not at all like the clutter of files, wanted posters and waxed sandwich wrappers that littered Teaspoon’s desk in the Marshal’s office in Rock Creek.

The chair was centered precisely behind the desk – not an inch further to the left or right.  The rigidly straight backed chair had always looked terribly uncomfortable to Buck, but considering the posture of the woman who had overseen the school for its twenty years, he decided it was a perfect fit. 

With the exception of a silver crucifix mounted on the wall behind the desk, the office was void of any decoration or other furnishings.  The room didn’t strive to be hospitable.  That wasn’t its purpose.

Bouncing Daniel a bit as he walked in an attempt to quiet the little boy’s whimpering, Buck laid the Bible on the corner of the oak desk and crossed the rough plank floor to the window that overlooked the garden at the rear of the school.   Although only remnants of fading light fell across the yard he could still make out the lines of Sorrows’ garden plot. The Reverend Mother’s garden always seemed to turn out larger than planned.  Every year the earth was turned into neat furrows, the precious seeds dropped into the nurturing soil.  Sorrows’ crop varied widely from the snap beans and okra that grew with little attention to more difficult varieties that required special care. Just as Buck expected, each tidy row ran exactly parallel to the next - each cabbage plant, every stalk of corn or mound of squash precisely spaced from its neighbor.  Buck’s expression twisted in a displeased frown.  That fairly well summed up Sorrows he supposed - strict order in the midst of despair.  A knowing eye would understand that each plant was carefully cultivated, its growth and individual needs meticulously tended, but Buck couldn’t see past the rigid lines.

Gazing out the window into the waning light he wrapped his arms around Daniel’s small body holding the little boy tightly against his shoulder while the child sucked his thumb and tangled his fingers in a strand of Buck’s dark hair. What kind of life was he committing this innocent child to?  Daniel should have better than this.  Better than this place that never had enough meat, enough beds, enough books, enough love.  They all should.  None of Sorrows’ children deserved the hand they had been dealt.  The circumstances bringing them to this place were not their doing. 

Maybe it was because like the McAlister’s abandoned wagon left on the prairie, Daniel belonged to whoever found him or perhaps it was the kinship he felt to this parentless child that made Buck question his actions.  He had intended to simply hand over the child and be on his way but seeing Sorrows again, faded and failing, made him think twice.  Holding Daniel, Buck felt a protective instinct he had never before experienced take root inside him.  He could do better than this.  Buck drew a determined breath and turned away from the window to retrieve Daniel’s Bible intending to slip out the front door unnoticed.  It would be difficult, but. . . 

“It really is you,” came a voice from the doorway stopping Buck in mid stride.  He recognized the voice, but the hint of surprise in the words was new to him. 

His quick glance confirmed that Reverend Mother Mary Augustine hadn’t changed since he had left the school.  She was a small woman, barely five feet tall weighing no more than a tumbleweed. Tiny in stature, she stood with a firm posture as if her back had no bend in it. Demanding order from herself as well as the children she supervised, even the creases on her face were symmetrical.

Answering the call to servanthood at the tender age of fourteen after a cholera epidemic left her motherless with a drink-hardened father, Mother Augustine had spent the past forty years in service to her Lord, half of those years at Sorrows.  Although dwarfed physically by the heavy, dark habit she wore, anyone who made the error of mistaking her lack of size for lack of grit was quickly corrected.  Buck remembered thinking once if a tornado threatened Sorrows, Mother Augustine would firmly stand her ground in the yard staring down the swirling green monster, demanding with a point of her finger that the whirlwind back up and go around her children.  If he were a wagering man, Buck would still put his money on the Reverend Mother in such a contest of will.

“I wasn’t quite certain Sister Agnes had the name correct when she informed me you were waiting,” the tiny black robed woman said as she crossed the room to take her place of authority behind the desk.  Shifting Daniel so he could be held with only one arm, Buck quickly smoothed down his clothing making himself as presentable as possible and unconsciously moved to the side of the desk opposite her assuming the position of a schoolboy.  “We don’t get many visits from former students,” the Reverend Mother added, explaining her surprise. 

Mother Augustine nodded to the squirming bundle in Buck’s arms.  “However, I assume this young one has something to do with your return and it is not a social visit that has brought you back to us.” 

Buck felt her steady gaze make note of the length of his hair and the medicine bundle around his neck.  He was a grown man now, twenty years old, but this tiny bit of a woman still made him feel like an awkward thirteen year old boy. “No, Reverend Mother.  It’s not a social call,” Buck answered, trying to bounce and pat away the little boy’s discomfort as well as hide his own. “I found him a few hours’ ride southeast of here. His parents are dead,” he concluded simply, hoping he wouldn’t be pressed for further details.  Even though there was no love lost between the Arapaho and the Kiowa, he was still hesitant to divulge the particulars of the incident that had orphaned Daniel.  He wasn’t there to debate the rights of the Indians to protect their land against the rights of the white man to take what didn’t belong to them.

To his relief, Mother Augustine asked for no explanation. Every child at Sorrows had a sad tale to tell.  The individual stories might vary but the ending was always the same.  “I assume you gave them a Christian burial?” she asked, her eyebrows arched inquisitively as if inquiring about an assignment.

“I buried them,” Buck answered, although he wondered if laying the bodies closely together in one grave so they wouldn’t be cold would really be considered ‘Christian’. Buck picked up the leather bound Bible, offering it to his former teacher.  “His name is Daniel . . . Daniel McAlister.  His parents’ names are listed in here, but no one else. I didn’t know what to do . . . so I brought him here.”

“Such a pity for one so young,” she said quietly, her solid countenance wavering a bit at the sight of the little boy.  Accepting the Bible she thumbed through the pages, confirming that no family was listed.  “And of course, you did the right thing by bringing him to us.  We have two others about his age but we can always make room for one more.” 

Yes, they could make room but that wasn’t good enough.  Buck shifted uneasily. “But . . . I’m thinkin’ maybe. . . maybe I’ve changed my mind.  Maybe I want to keep him.”

The nun’s tone was skeptical.  “Are you able to provide for a child?”

His thumb no longer fooling the insistent hunger pains, Daniel arched his back and tossed his small body in protest, his face reddening as his fussing gave way to anger.   Buck tightened his hold on the little boy trying to control the extra set of arms and legs Daniel seemed to have sprouted and raised his voice enough to be heard over the child’s cry.  “Well. . . not  exactly,” he said nervously, the baby’s flailing and the nun’s look of doubt converging upon him.  “I was thinkin’ I might take him home with me instead.  Maybe find a family for him there.”  His voice revealing  both his growing weariness and inexperience, Buck sighed heavily as Daniel squealed again. “I think he’s hungry.” 

The older woman nodded.  “Yes, he is,” she agreed, her calm reply contrasting with Buck’s increasing level of distress.  “I will ask Sister Ruth to prepare a bottle for him.”  Rounding the corner of the desk she reached for Daniel although Buck made no move to release his hold on the little boy.  “As the one who found him it is your choice, but I must say I believe it would not be wise to travel on horseback for any distance with an infant.”  Leaving no room for discussion she concluded, “It will be dark soon and I believe the Lord is about to bless us with another rain.  You will stay with us tonight and your decision can be made in the morning after you have given more thought to the matter.” 

Buck remained quiet for a moment considering his options until he realized they were limited.  Daniel needed to be fed and cared for.  Remembering his earlier inept attempt at feeding the child, he reluctantly nodded in agreement and handed Daniel over feeling more like the bundle in his arms was a late grammar assignment than a child.  Daniel and the Reverend Mother were half way out the door before he could even think about changing his mind.

“I need a place for my horse, too, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“You will find what you need in the barn.  I doubt that Blossom and the horses will mind sharing.” 

Stopping in the doorway, Mother Augustine added, “We were just about to serve supper.  Please join me in the dining room after you have tended the animal.  As I mentioned earlier, we very seldom see former students.  I would like to know how you and the McSwain boy have faired since leaving us.”

“How the McSwain boy has faired.”  Buck leaned back heavily on the desk, Mother Augustine’s words falling with a sickening thud to the bottom of his stomach.  Returning to Sorrows was a mistake - he was certain of it now.   This wasn’t included in the terms of the agreement he had made with his grief.  A memory he was forbidden to think about lurked in every corner.  A silent ghost waited for him behind every door.