SIX

As he crouched beside the fire he'd kindled an hour or so before, Charles gazed at his traveling companion. The boy had just returned from checkin' on the horses. He was edgy at best and downright nervous if the truth be told. Alan kept a constant vigil at the perimeter of the camp and Charles wasn't sure if he had slept at all since they'd stopped. They had traveled through the night. Fortunately, the moon was waxin' full and it had lit their way, almost as if it had been a rainy day. As the dawn broke they stopped to sleep. He'd fallen where he stood. After all, he'd put in a full day at the farm before travelin' the six or so hours east toward Mankato, and partin' from his children and wife had been hard. When he woke it was to find the boy sittin' on the opposite side of the fire, sharpening his knife and watching him.

The picture did little to put his mind at ease.

The curly-haired man wondered once again just what he had gotten himself into. Though gettin' words out of Alan was just about as hard as pullin' hen's teeth, he'd managed to piece together his story, or at least the story he was tellin'. Seems the boy had met his grandfather when he'd been a teener, and they'd met on and off for four or five years without his mother or her parents knowin' about it. Then, one day, Lame Horse had simply disappeared. He had a notion that it was just bout that time that U.S. Marshal Jim Anders had made mission of finding the Sioux chief and makin' him pay for the death of the settlers who had died in the Dakota war. Jack Lame Horse had been forced to go into hidin' and that had taken away from the boy the one thing he just couldn't live without.

After that, Alan had traveled lookin' for Lame Horse and someone along the way had mentioned his name. Charles imagined it was one of the men who had been ridin' with Anders when the blizzard struck. Wouldn't be much of anyone else would know anythin' about it. Anders had probably told them the whole tale when he'd joined back up with them and then, when they were in their cups, they'd told the whole world. Apparently, it was well-known that Charles Ingalls was a fool who had near got himself killed stumblin' out blind into a blizzard and that it was an Indian who saved him. Now, most men couldn't comprehend that, so they had to put their own stamp on it. The boy hadn't said much, but he got the distinct impression that Alan didn't believe him when he said he'd had nothin' to do with that U.S. marshal bein' there, waitin' in the cabin when he arrived with Lame Horse. 'Course, Charles mused as he sat back, nursin' a cup of coffee an lettin' it warm his fingers, that was nothin' new. So far as he could tell, Alan didn't believe anything a white man said.

In his own way, the boy was as much a bigot as Jim Rhodes. Charles snorted as he took a sip.

Not that he'd be tellin' Alan that any time soon.

"You find something amusing, white man?"

White man.

He was gettin' awful tired of that.

"I've got a name," Charles said before taking another sip. When he'd finished, he added, "Until you use it, you can forget gettin' any answers."

Alan's mouth was a rigid line; his jaw tight. His piercing eyes locked on him. They'd startled him, those eyes, the first time he'd noticed how pale they were. They were unusual for an Indian; a mix of green, brown, and gold. Some might have called the color 'hazel'. To him, it looked more like tarnished brass.

Their color gave the boy a feral, hungry look.

"So," Alan repeated. "You find something amusing, Ingalls?"

It was a beginning.

He was sitting with his back braced against a fallen log. Truth to tell, not only did it make his back feel better, but it made him feel better to have somethin' between it and the possibility of the boy's knife. Charles shifted, easing a place where the bark bit into his flesh.

"Not amusin', no. Ironic."

He liked that word. His school teacher wife liked it too. She usually used it when it came to him gettin' on his high-horse about somethin'.

"You hate white men, don't you?" he asked.

The boy's brows drew down into a dark 'V' as though he sniffed a trap. "Yes," he said at last.

"Why?"

Alan scowled. "You are not to be trusted."

Charles mobile eyebrows danced. "All of us? Every one?"

He nodded.

"So how many do you figure that is, I mean, countin' all the states back east? Twenty-five, thirty million, maybe?" Charles took another sip, relishing the warmth as it coursed through him. On a chilly late spring mornin' there was nothing like coffee to satisfy. "Seems to me you're right arrogant judgin' all of us to be of one kind."

The boy remained silent for another. "I have never met a white I could trust."

"Oh," Charles said as he sat the cup on the ground beside him, "now you're talkin' from experience. I can respect that. Though, truth to tell, even experience can lead you up the wrong side of the tree. How many white men have you met in your life?"

"Why should you care?" Alan snapped back.

Well, at least he had him talkin'. "Because I am one."

"I suppose you will tell me all white men are good! That I have just misunderstood them," he snorted.

Charles chuckled. "The Good Book says not to lie," he answered. "There are good men, but son, sometimes you have to work your way through an awful lot of bad ones to find them."

Anger flared in the boy's eyes. "I am not your son!"

He held up a hand. "Sorry. Alan, sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"White men never mean what they say!" Alan growled as he leapt to his feet. "They open one hand and speak of friendship, while in the other they hold a loaded gun! With honeyed words they speak of 'love', saying they offer it freely, but then they put a price on it – a price..." He was breathing hard. "A price a man cannot pay."

"What did your family demand of you, Alan, for them to love you?"

Charles words weren't meant to inflame him, but they might as well have been a match struck to a keg of dynamite.

"You will not ask me such questions! I owe you nothing, white man! I do not owe you a name. I do not owe you answers. You owe me!"

Charles rose to his feet as well. "How do I owe you?"

"I stand here for Jack Lame Horse," the boy said as he drew himself up to his tallest, which was just under his own height. Alan's lean form was rigid, his fists clenched; his eyes shootin' fire. "Jack Lame Horse saved your life. You owe him your own."

He waited a moment and then he nodded. "Yes, I do."

Alan blinked. "You would not do this."

"What?" Charles challenged. "Die for you?" He pursed his lips. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but the boy was right – he owed his grandfather a life. "God willing, it won't come to that, Alan, but if it does, the answer is 'yes'."

"You lie, white man," the young man scoffed.

He remained silent for a moment and then asked his own question. "And what would you do if I did? How would you survive, how would you live without hate?" He shook his head. "You've lived with it so long it must be like breathin'."

Alan beat his breast. "Hate makes me strong!"

"Hate makes you wrong."

Something flitted through the boy's odd eyes, Charles might have called it 'remorse' if he hadn't known better. There was nothing of regret or repentance in the boy. Every fiber of his being was trained on one target – finding somethin' to take away his pain.

"You are a fool!" Alan spit at last as he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I will listen no more. I go to the water now as my grandfather taught me to seek the Creator's guidance. You will break the camp. I will get the horses when I return and we will leave."

Charles watched him go for a moment and then called softly after him, "Tell the Creator 'hello' for me."

Alan pivoted sharply. "What do you know of the Creator?"

He had a sense the boy had somethin' against the God of the Bible. Maybe datin' back to his childhood. In Alan's young mind, the god of the Sioux was not the God of white men.

"I thought maybe since I was helpin' you, well, you know, maybe He'd look favorably on me," he said with a shrug. "Might help you get to Mankato in one piece."

That was another thing he had sensed – that Alan was not bein' up front with him about everything. That maybe – just maybe – the boy had done somethin' somewhere along the line and someone was trackin' him. It would explain him lookin' over his shoulder all the time. Maybe he'd been less than discreet about his inquiries in the town. Perhaps someone had threatened him if he returned to Mankato.

"I do not need your help, white man," Alan growled and then disappeared over the edge of the ridge.

Charles stared after him for some time before he turned back and began to break camp as ordered.

Alan might not need his help, but he was afraid – before the end of their time together – they both might just need God's.

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A half an hour later Alan left the cleansing waters of the small stream that ran through the land they traveled. As he climbed the bank, the clear liquid trailed from his curly black hair onto his skin, carrying away any trace of sweat and dirt.

Would that it was so easy to cleanse his mind.

The white man, Ingalls, confused and angered him. He knew he was a snake in the grass, waiting to strike. His white grandmother had been kind as well in the beginning, but her soft smile masked a heart hard as stone. So long as he did what she wanted – as he was told – she had praised and flattered him. But when he grew old enough to question her and the words from the black leather book she held, she'd turned like a cub thought tamed to strike, drawing blood. He had seen such a thing once, at a circus his father had taken him too. They had watched as a lion turned on the man who whipped it, mauling him.

'Remember, my son,' his father had whispered close to his ear, "it is sometimes wise to bite the hand that feeds you.'

Son.

The word had brought such anger when the white man spoke it, and yet Alan longed so to hear it again. Where was his father? Dead, or only dead to him? Did his corpse rot in an unmarked grave or did he wander the earth still, choosing to remain away from him? Either way, the loss of his father's presence was a hole in his heart that, for a short time, his red grandfather had filled. Now, with the older man imprisoned and bound to die, it had opened again and the vortex raging within it threatened to pull him in and down.

Down so far, the only way he could climb out would be to do it inch by bloody inch.

Frustrated, exhausted, exasperated and unsure of what course to pursue, Alan threw his lanky form onto the grass and closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to be in any way dependent on a white man. Yet, the Creator had sent this challenge and so he must be up to it. He did not know yet just what the challenge was, but he suspected all would be as he believed and the white man would betray him somewhere along the way. When that happened, he would have to make a choice. The white man's word would carry much weight in the white man's court, but his lies would carry even more weight, condemning his grandfather and, perhaps, him as well.

Three lives hung on what kind of a man Charles Ingalls was.

Rising from the grass, Alan turned back toward the camp he had left behind. There were many hours of travel left. He did not have to come to a decision now.

He would leave it to the Creator and time.

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The boy appeared on the crest of the hill just as Charles decided to go looking for him. He wasn't entirely sure he could trust Alan. No, that wasn't true – he was entirely sure he couldn't. At least not yet. He had to earn the boy's trust, had to prove to Jack Lame Horse's grandson a truth his grandfather seemed to have known in spite of all the bad treatment he'd had – that no two men, white or red, were alike. You had to take them on merit at first and then wait until they proved themselves good or bad. Didn't matter the color of their eyes, their hair, or the color of their skin.

All that mattered was what was in their hearts.

The boy's curly black hair was dripping wet, which made it lay on his shoulders in a spiraling wave. Alan would grow to be a handsome man if he had the chance – if his hate didn't lead him to an early grave or the hangman's noose. Charles' hand went to his throat at the thought of it. He could see Jack Lame Horse sittin' there against the wall of the cabin near the hearth, his back straight as a ramrod; his head held high. He'd stand facin' the gallows just the same way. Not bowed. Never bent.

Charles' gaze returned to Lame Horse's grandson. The boy's features were much more refined than his grandfather. He probably took after his mother, though Charles was sure suggestin' that would earn him a knife blade in the side. It was clear the boy both loved and loathed his white mother who, most likely, was a weak women who had done her best to deal with a near impossible situation.

The world would not be kind to her for the choice she had made.

He wondered if Alan had ever thought about that – what might drive a white woman to marry an Indian and face what was sure to come. He doubted that he had. But then he was young – so young. Charles looked into his face as the boy drew near.

And so very old.

"Chilly mornin' to take a dip," he said conversationally.

"White men stink. Red men do not," Alan replied.

Charles nodded. "Well, there's some truth to that – dependin' on the white man and what he's doin'. Take muckin' out a stall. Leave's a man with a healthy scent."

"White men cage their animals. The Indian lets them run free." Alan paused. "At least that is the way it was before the white man sailed here to take the land away and portion it off, fencing it in and claiming it for their own Now there is no place left for them to roam."

He had to say it, even though he knew what was coming – or he thought he did.

"Alan, you have to face it, you are as much a white man as a red one."

It was as if he had struck him. The boy reared back, and then roared like a wounded animal as he came for him. Before Charles knew it, he was on the ground and Alan was on top of him. The boy gripped the collar of his shirt with one hand while the other held the knife he had painstakingly sharpened earlier that day against his throat.

"You will not say that ever again!" he demanded.

Charles swallowed against the hard steel. He remained calm.

He wasn't sure how, but he did.

"It's the truth," he said.

"There is nothing of the white man in me!" he spat. "My blood is red!"

"So is mine," Charles countered quietly. "Just use that knife and you'll see."

The knife blade remained perilously close to his jugular for several heartbeats before it was lifted. Alan snorted as he rose and stepped back. "You seek to trick me," he said.

Charles was sitting up, rubbing his throat. An idle thought flashed in his mind – Caroline, chastising him for growin' careless.

Scolding him for gettin' killed.

"No tricks," he said as he rose shakily to his feet. "Alan, you can go ahead hatin' every white man you meet if you want to, but if you do, then you have to realize that means you hate a part of yourself too. And if you hate yourself, there ain't nothin' gonna make things right – we'll get to Mankato and your grandfather will be freed and you'll go on hatin' and hurtin' until you find yourself at the end of that noose instead of him. Is that what you want?" He swallowed and rubbed his throat again. "Is that what your father would want?"

"You know nothing of my father."

"No, you know nothing of your father. Your father married a white woman. He loved a white woman. What would he think of your hate?"

The boy was glaring again. Sometimes it seemed that was the only expression he had.

"I will discuss this no more. It is time to move on."

Charles swallowed a snort. He'd have to try that with Caroline the next time they were arguin'.

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As they traveled on, riding side by side on the road, the spring weather began to shift from cool to cold, so much so that both he and Alan were forced to stop and take their heavy coats from their packs. Charles kept an eye to the sky as it darkened and the wind increased, thinking of the uncharacteristically late snowstorm that had brought Jack Lame Horse into his life. It had been just one year ago to the month that he and Caroline and the girls had been returning from a trip to Mankato when they'd run into Jim Anders. The curly-haired man didn't wish for Anders' acquaintance with frostbite, but he sure did wish he had a predictor as accurate as the lawman' frostbitten feet. It was said lightning didn't strike twice in the same place.

He was hoping the same went for snow.

Since they no longer had any fear that Jim Rhodes or the other men in Walnut Grove were trackin' them, they'd agreed to travel on the road during the day and stop when night fell. The sleep he'd gotten that morning had been erratic at best and he was tired. Of course, spendin' nearly twenty-four hours in the company of a young man who hated you didn't help that much either. It was like he was fighting a constant battle – one in which he didn't dare let down his guard. There had been a moment – brief, but it had been there – when he'd wondered if Alan was going to cut his throat. He didn't think the boy would do anything outright, but if something pushed him over the edge, well, he was sure Alan had it within him to kill him.

For the boy's part, since the incident with the knife, Alan had hardly spoken a word. He'd ridden with his face turned toward the east, letting the reins fall from his fingers to lay slack against his horse's chestnut hide and guiding his horse Indian style with his knees. Charles hoped his words had made the boy think. Though the world saw Alan as Indian, the truth was what he'd said – he was as much a white man as a red one. And though that was a truth Alan didn't want to hear, it was one he needed too. Maybe if the boy recognized he was tiltin' against the wind, there'd be a chance of gettin' him to listen.

Maybe, there'd be a way of freein' him from his hate.

At that moment, as if he had heard or seen something, Alan checked his horse. He held up a hand for silence and cocked his head, listening. Charles watched as an odd expression crossed his young face – the boy's brassy eyes shiftin' from one side to the other; his mouth drawin' into a thin line.

"What is –"

Charles didn't have a chance to finish the question. Alan put his heels to his mount's side and was flying toward the trees.

"Ingalls! Follow!' he shouted.

Even as he did what he was told and moved to follow, Charles heard a sharp crack! It was quickly followed by a booming sound that echoed across the ground. Just as he realized what it was, he felt something whizz past his head to strike a nearby tree.

Charles swayed in the saddle, stunned.

No, not stunned. Hit.

He was hit.

Lifting his hand, the curly-haired man found a trail of warm blood runnin' from his forehead to his cheek. At that moment another shot resounded. It didn't kill him. It wasn't even aimed at him. Instead it was aimed at the ground in front of his horse. As the animal reared, Charles pulled on the reins to control it. His fingers slipped due to the blood that covered them.

A second later the horse shied and threw him off. He hit the ground with a thud and knew nothing more.

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A few seconds later a pair of black Army-issued Jefferson boots appeared beside Charles' head. They were an old pair and their well-worn condition spoke of a career man, retired now, but still and forever on duty. Another pair of boots appeared beside them, their brown a counterpoint to the black.

They were followed by a voice.

"Who is it?" Army boots asked.

Brown boots knelt. He took Charles' silent form and flipped it over. "It's him. Ingalls."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

Brown boots rose to his feet. "I saw him at the cabin that day we found Anders. He had to be hiding Lame Horse, there's no way around it."

"Jack told you that?"

The other man nodded. "We got Jack to town and to the doctor for his feet. The Doc gave him some laudanum for the pain while he was working and it loosened his tongue. Told us the whole thing. How this man helped that Sioux savage to evade the law." Brown boots paused. "How he talked Jack into helping."

"Stupid," the soldier said. "And criminal. Anders should be in jail."

"Jack lost his badge, what more do you want?"

Army boot's pale blue eyes narrowed. He sniffed, causing his straw-yellow mustache to dance, before running a gloved hand over a chin stubbled with more of the golden stuff.

"Justice."

Brown boots indicated the form lying on the ground, wearing homespun cloth. "What do we do with him?"

"Leave him. It's the boy we want." The soldier nodded toward the trees where Jack Lame Horse's grandson had disappeared. "There's a noose waiting for him right beside his grandpa."

"He's a boy, Newell," his companion countered. "You can't hang a boy."

"He's a savage! There ain't one among them over five that's a boy." Captain Newell P. Wilts shook his head as he toed Charles Ingalls' unconscious form . "We're wastin' time arguing, Jefferson. That boy's slipperier than a snake and twice as mean. We need to get on it."

"What about Ingalls' horse?"

"Bring it. That way, if he's got a mind to follow, it'll be on foot." Newell snorted. "Though, from the look of him, I don't think he's gonna be doin' much travelin' today."

Now U.S. Marshall Jefferson Brush scowled. "You could have killed him."

The old soldier shrugged. "Would have saved the state the price of hanging him later."

"Do you mean to press charges?"

Newell spit tobacco juice. "Mebbe. After all, this is the second savage Ingalls's aided and abetted. Depends on whether or not he tries to track us." As he said it, the soldier headed for his horse.

"What do you mean?"

Newell Wilts put his foot in the stirrup and sprung with the agility of a man half his age into the saddle before he answered.

"Maybe if he does, there won't be no need."

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It was dark when Charles awoke. His head felt like a mule had kicked it and maybe, just maybe it had done it after the animal had rolled over on him.

Everything hurt.

Straightening up against the tree that backed him, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. It didn't help. Not only was it near pitch-black, but he wasn't where he thought he should be. There was no sign of the house or barn. Nor of his wagon or horse. The stars were blinking above, casting a pale light over the land. He could see the road nearby, stretching off until it disappeared. He'd been traveling it, hadn't he?

And not alone.

Charles blinked and then winced as memory flooded back. He'd been on the road with Alan. There had been a noise, an unexpected one, and Jack Lame Horse's grandson had taken off full-tilt into the trees, abandonin' him. There had been another shot – yes, it had been a shot – and his horse had thrown him.

On the road, not up against a tree.

Charles shifted again, stifling a moan as he did. He glanced around again, but there was nothing – no Alan, no horse, no stranger.

Nothing.

He must have crawled over to the tree while semi-conscious, that was all he could figure. Probably had the good sense God had given him to know he needed to get off the road. A graze on the head was bad enough since he was out in the wilds. Gettin' stomped on by a team of horses was another thing.

That's right. The bullet grazed him.

Charles thought about it. He couldn't feel any dried blood on his face or fresh blood tricklin' down. His hand shot up only to encounter a bandage.

Someone had to have been there!

"Hello!" he called. "Hello! Is anyone there?"

His only answer came in the form of startled bird calls and the distant sound of a cat on the hunt.

"Hello?"

When he shifted to stand, his hand encountered a water skin and something beside it wrapped in cloth. Stopping, he fumbled with it and found a stone-ground bread along with several small cakes of what the Indians called pemmican – dried meat mixed with berries.

He wondered if they were still out there, whoever it was who had helped him. Obviously, they had no intention of making themselves known.

"Thank you!" he called out to the night as if it might answer.

It didn't.

Charles stared at the food in his hand and then at the water skin. Whoever had left them obviously had his good health in mind. He didn't think he needed to fear them. After breaking one of the cakes in several pieces, he settled back against the tree and then popped one in his mouth and began to chew. It wasn't worth the effort or particularly wise to shout again, so he didn't. He'd need to conserve his strength. His horse was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Alan.

He was on his own.

And there was someone out there who wanted to kill him.