“Of course, Tom. Mr. Vallian does not know us, but he has a right to be skeptical. This is a new life for us, and a hard one. We will have to adjust to many changes, I am afraid.”
“I hope he stays with us.”
“What? What ever put that idea into your head? Why should he stay with us? Mr. Vallian is a drifter, son, so far as we know he just moves from place to place, and from his appearance I would say he doesn’t do very well.”
“He’s been here a long time, I think. And he’s alive.”
She put her hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Yes… yes, you are right, Tom. Whatever one might say about him he is alive, and he’s able.”
Tom kicked dirt into the coals. One after another the coals died out until only a little smoke arose from where the fire had been.
“Come, Tom. We’d better go.” Somewhere an owl hooted, a mournful, lonely sound in the dark trees.
CHAPTER III
Susanna sat in the darkness near the horses. Tom was beside her, and despite his determination to stay awake, he had fallen asleep at last.
Vallian came to them and spoke softly. “I figure to sleep some. Ma’am, you’d better do the same, like the boy here.
“McKaskel, you take the first watch. Listen, learn the sounds that are natural to the night, and you’ll hear most of them in the first hour or so. Any other sound you hear is likely to be them.
“You watch my horse. Those are city horses you’ve got, so you don’t have to pay them much mind. My horse will have his ears up as soon as he hears them coming, and he’ll hear them before you do.
“He’s mustang-wild stock-and all his young life he had to listen for varmints that might attack him, so he’s not likely to miss much. About one o’clock by that watch of yours, you wake me up.”
With his saddle for a pillow he lay on his groundsheet and rolled himself in a blanket. Within minutes, he was asleep.
Duncan McKaskel sat down by his wife. “They’ll find our fire,” he said, “I am sure there will be some smoke. That should take some time, and we may hear them.”
“He’s a strange man,” she said.
“Ssh! He may be awake.”
“No, he’s breathing evenly. I am sure he’s sleeping.” After a moment, she added, “We can learn from him, Duncan. He knows so much that we’d better know.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “I suppose so. The kind of education we have doesn’t count for much out here.”
After awhile Susanna dozed, and McKaskel got up and moved out, closer to the horses. They were cropping grass in the small circle they had chosen for a camp. For the first time he walked all around it, and shook his head in irritation at himself. He should have seen this place at once. The fallen tree barred all approach from one angle because one end was up against some rocks, the other was near the edge of the bluff. Around that tree there was a good deal of old bark, dried leaves and branches.
Behind them was a thick grove of trees, so thick that a man could push through it only with considerable noise. On the other side were the fallen trees, broken brush and old stumps of a deserted beaver pond. The position was not sheltered from gunfire except near the fallen tree, but it was difficult to find or approach by night.
Vallian had seen the place at once, which indicated how much could be learned by observation. A man had to see, not just look.
McKaskel listened, but heard no other sounds than those of the night. He moved carefully, trying to walk without sound, and not to remain in one place too long. He was thinking, trying to understand this new world and to draw on what he remembered from his reading that might help. He sat down on a log and rested, listening.
Several times his eyes almost closed, and after a moment he got up and moved around again, going around the circle of their camp, listening for any new sound. He heard nothing, and when his watch was over he went back to camp and spoke softly to Con Vallian.
The frontiersman was immediately awake. “Time,” McKaskel whispered, “and all’s quiet.”
Vallian sat up and tugged on his boots, slung his gunbelt around his lean hips and took up his rifle. “Get some sleep,” he said quietly. “They know you’re a tenderfoot and they’ll be looking to steal your horses, fast. When they don’t find them they’ll try to get into your camp.”
“Wake me. I’ll be ready.”
Duncan McKaskel stretched out on his blankets. He was tired but he would rest only for a moment. He had to be ready to help, and after all, who was this man to whom they were trusting themselves? He might have plans of his own. Yet even as he thought it he did not accept the idea. He closed his eyes and slept.
A hand on his shoulder awakened him. It was very still. He felt Susanna stir, but although he knew she was awake, she made no sound, listening as he was. He took up his gun, warning himself that he must be careful not to shoot the wrong man.
Shoot a man? He was startled to realize that he had accepted the idea with no accompanying sense of guilt. Was this what environment did? Or was it his subconscious acceptance of practical necessity?
Susanna watched him move away, then sat up, suddenly aware that Tom was already gone.
Gone? Gone where?
She got up quickly, then stood still, realizing she wore a light-colored dress. Gathering up the blanket that had covered them, she gathered it quickly around her. She had no gun but there was a stout stick nearby, and she knelt down and felt for it. Her hand found it and she straightened up. Something stirred among the leaves near her and she tightened her grip.
There was another faint stir, and then a shadow loomed near, a shorter, broader shadow than either of the men in her camp, wider than her son. Whoever it was had a rancid, unclean odor of one long unbathed.
She gripped the stick, which was about two feet long and a good three inches around, in her two hands. She drew it slowly back. The man was unaware of her, but soon would hear her breathing. She swung the stick at his face with all her strength.
The stick struck with a dull smack, and the man cried out, staggering backward. She struck again, over his head this time, and the man grabbed out frantically, scarcely aware of what he did. Dropping the blanket from her shoulders she thrust the stick at his face and he grabbed it.
Instantly, she kicked out, her foot striking his kneecap. He staggered, lost his grip on the stick and fell. She struck wildly, missed, then hit him again, probably on the arm or shoulder. In the deeper darkness toward the ground she could not see. She was panting with the effort.
Suddenly she heard a shot… lighter in sound than Duncan’s rifle, then two more. There was a moment of silence, then the heavy bellow of the rifle and silence.
Something was crawling in the brush. For an instant she thought of following, then recovered her blanket and waited where she was.
There was movement from within the camp and someone loomed nearby. The smell this time was of pine and buckskin.
“You all right?” It was Vallian.
“I hit one of them… several times.”
“Prob’ly more’n we did. What did you hit him with?”
She lifted the stick. “With this. I hit him in the face the first time. With both hands.” She was startled to realize she was speaking with some pride. What sort of person was she becoming, anyway? “I hit him hard.”
He touched the stick. “Reckon you’ll do, ma’am. You surely did hit him. There’s blood on that stick.”
She gasped and let go. The stick fell to the leaves. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize-”
“You done just right.” Suddenly he said, “Your boy is with the horses. He done all right, too. He was over there holdin’ tight to ’em before things started. That’s a good boy.”
“Duncan? Where is Duncan?”
“He’s yonder… with the boy. We won’t have no more trouble this night. You all should get some sleep.”
He moved away in the darkness, leaving emptiness behind. She stood there, holding the blanket around her, feeling the sudden damp chill of the night. Yet she no longer felt secure lying where their bed had been. Taking their canvas groundsheet she drew the bed closer to the wagon.
The wind was stirring, and she looked up. The sky was overcast and the wind rising. The canvas cover on the wagon flapped in the wind.