NINE
"Ingalls. Ingalls, wake up!"
It wasn't easy.
Charles moaned and attempted to curl back into a ball, but the hand on his shoulder that was shaking him was insistent.
"Ingalls! Wilts is gone. So is the boy!"
That penetrated.
With a groan Charles rolled over onto his side and then sat up. It took a moment to gain enough balance to look up at Jefferson Brush who was standing over him, looking at him with concern.
"Are you all right?" Brush asked. "That would looks nasty."
The curly-haired man reached up to feel the cut on his forehead. It was hot to the touch and obviously infected. He closed his eyes, swallowed past the pain handling it had caused, and then opened them and shrugged his answer.
Brush shook his head. "I tried to tell the lawman I work under that Captain Wilts was unstable, but he wouldn't listen. Newell's a decorated veteran and you just don't turn down someone like that when he offers to help." The marshal paused. "I think he meant to kill you." When Charles looked up at him, he added quietly, "I know he'll kill that boy."
That got him to his feet. Brush caught his arm and helped him up, and then steadied him as he found his balance.
"Can you travel?" Jefferson asked.
He'd knelt carefully and caught his hat up from the grass. As he planted it on his head, Charles nodded. "I've had worse."
The marshal was looking him up and down. He had a frown on his face. Charles felt like he did when he'd dressed for church and Caroline stood with her hands on her hips lookin' at him, obviously not approvin' of what she saw.
"What?"
"I was just thinking that if a man like you is fighting so hard to keep Jack Lame Horse from swinging, then there must be something to it. It's true then? What Anders said? Lame Horse really did risk his life and freedom to save your family?"
"More than that," Charles said, "he risked his life and freedom to save Anders, when he knew Anders wanted him dead."
Marshal Brush drew in a long breath and expelled it slowly. "And you think the boy's the same type?"
Charles snorted. The grin that twisted his lips was one of a father. "You got any boys around that age?"
Jefferson nodded. Then he smiled too. "Point taken."
"Alan's got the potential to be somethin' special," Charles said at last. "I don't know when I met anyone so determined. Like my wife says, if someone can just aim it in the right direction he'll be a mighty fine leader for his people one day."
"If he survives," Brush said as he turned and looked in the direction Newell Wilts had taken with his captive. A second later, the marshal turned back to look at him, and then he walked past him toward the horses. Wilts was on foot. They would have to be too. The woods were too thick for riding with any kind of speed or consistency. Charles eyes followed the other man as he made a few adjustments to his gear and then came back with a rifle in each hand.
As he handed one to him, the man said, "As an official U.S. marshal, I'm dropping any and all charges that I might have pressed against you, Ingalls. And I hereby deputize you to aid and assist in the search for Newell Wilts who has committed a crime by taking a prisoner of the state away with the intent to harm him."
Charles took the rifle. He smiled when he realized it was his own. As the marshal handed him the leather bag that held his powder, cartridges, and such, he nodded his thanks.
Brush was staring at him again. "I'll stand up for you in court as a witness," he said quietly. "I'll tell the judge how honest and trustworthy you are and that he can believe whatever you tell him about Jack Lame Horse and his grandson."
He was touched. "Thank you." A smile tweaked the ends of his lips. "I'll just do my best to try to live up to that."
Jefferson Brush's hand landed on his shoulder. "We're going after a madman, Charles. You just try your best to live."
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Caroline Ingalls sat in the church pew with her fingers knitted together in her lap. She was dressed in her Sunday best with her cap fixed firmly on her head. She'd taken the girls to the Edwards. Grace had said she would look after them. Isaiah had accompanied her into town and sat at her side. The meeting had been changed from night to noon to accommodate a shift in the reverend's schedule. All of the shops had been forced to close to attend, and so everyone who was in attendance knew the matter was serious. There had been a brief service first. Before it began there were announcements and they sang a few hymns. Finally the Reverend Alden spoke. His short sermon focused on Proverbs 19:9: A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall perish. She'd sat there through it, looking forward, wishing for the feel of her husband's hand on her own; for the strength Charles' mere presence gave her.
She felt very alone.
Isaiah had grumbled about halfway through the sermonette, saying something about that 'old bat' in the pew directly across from theirs. She should have scolded him, but it just wasn't in her. Harriet had broken into the announcements with her own opinion, she'd sung the hymns with gusto, and now, as the Reverend finished by quoting the ninth commandment, 'thou shalt not bear false witness against your neighbor', the rich woman was beaming and nodding her head as if she knew those words were meant for everyone in the room but her.
Caroline drew in a sharp breath and let it out through her nostrils.
She'd promised Laura she wouldn't pop the old bat in the nose and she meant it!
Suddenly, Caroline laughed. She could just see her girls' faces if she came home with a black eye.
"Somethin's funny, you need to let me know," Isaiah whispered. "I was just wishin' I'd brought a jug with me."
She laughed again.
Harriet was glaring at her.
The reverend cleared his throat. "Now, as to the reason I called this meeting."
Caroline's smile vanished. She drew in another breath and held it. A moment later Isaiah's hand landed on her lower arm. She glanced at him as he withdrew it, her eyes thanking him for his support.
"Of late the powers of darkness have been at work in our fair town," the revered said to a general mumble of exclamations of dismay and surprise. "According the God, rumor-mongering is one of the greatest sins, so great it was included among the ten commandments." The older man was careful not to look at anyone in particular – for now. "It has come to my attention that an upstanding member of our church and community has been slandered greatly. This meeting is intended to put an end to that."
Caroline glanced at Harriet. Nel's wife looked shocked and was busy expressing that shock to her co-conspirator's Lenora and Bessie.
All three women were pointedly ignoring her.
Suddenly, the Reverend Alden looked straight at her. "Mrs. Ingalls, would you join me on the dais?"
Caroline felt the color drain from her face.
As she rose, the reverend continued. "I had intended to waltz around this matter, speaking in cloaked terms of who and what is involved; hoping the good conscience of the architects of this heinous slander would chastise them into confessing. It would be easier on both me and the community – as well as those who have been harmed." He permitted his lips to curl with a slight smile. "The Good Lord made it quite clear to me in my devotions earlier today that this was my intent and not His."
She was at his side now. The room was hushed, with barely even a titter of conversation. Harriet sat bolt upright in her seat. She was glowering at her. So was Bessie, though Lenora had the good sense to look down.
"You will not find in our community a better example of what God intended the family to be than the Ingalls. They are hard-working, honest people, who deserve to be admired and esteemed, not disapproved of or condemned. The plain word for 'false witness' is lies." The older man looked directly at Harriet Oleson's portion of the church. "It has come to my attention that this is precisely what is happening and it can be laid at the feet of three of our congregation, and may I say I am ashamed of you all." He paused a moment and then went on. "Our Good Lord tells us in Matthew 18:17 that if the one who bears false witness 'shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church.' These are our Lord's words," he said, letting the weight of them fall, "not mine."
Caroline had been looking at the parishioner's before her. In the end her eyes fastened on Isaiah and remained there, drawing encouragement from what she saw.
"I will not dignify this slander by naming it," the older man continued. "You have all heard it and sadly, many of you have been a party to it. I believe Matthew's call for the injured party to go to one, and then to more has already been fulfilled. This is the moment for the ones who started this to come forward and make peace with the one they have harmed, else," this pause was dramatic, "I shall be forced to move on to Matthew's last instruction, 'But if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an heathen man and a publican.' His eyes had not left Harriet. "Or woman."
There was a general murmur this time. Since Caroline was facing them, she could see poor Nels squirming in the seat beside his busybody wife. She knew this was important – so important – but she knew as well what it would do to the families of those involved. The crowd was fickle, as Holy Week proved. All too easily the shame and guilt people felt could be turned on others in less than Christian ways. She hadn't wanted it to come to this.
Really, she hadn't.
Sensing her unease, the Reverend Alden looked at her and smiled. Then he turned back to the congregation.
"I've said my piece. I am dismissing all of you. Mrs. Ingalls will remain behind. I intend to share a light lunch with her. I will give those who have transgressed God's word until two o'clock to come forward and confess their sin and offer an apology to the one they have born false witness against. And since Charles is not here, the apology will be made to Mrs. Ingalls – in person." Again, his eyes remained riveted to the side of the church Harriet and the other women occupied.
"Two o'clock and no later. This has gone on long enough. If the perpetrators do not come forward, they will be named at the service this Sunday."
The members of the congregation rose, mostly in silence, and filed out of the church. Some would return to their workplaces, she knew, and others to their homes. Her gaze, of course, followed Harriet Oleson who was deep in a discussion with Bessie and Lenora. The latter turned and looked at her just as she reached the door.
When the church was empty, Caroline let out a breath. She thought it was probably the same one she had drawn when the reverend started.
"Do you think you can eat something, Caroline?" the clergyman asked her. "You must keep up your strength."
"For the battle ahead?" she asked with a weak smile.
He glanced in the direction the women had gone. "Oh, I imagine those three will come here in a little while like pups with their tales tucked between their legs. It won't be easy for them, but..." He sighed and shook his head. "Sadly, the opinion of the town matters too much to them for them not too. Would that Jesus' opinion of them mattered more."
Amen to that.
"Now, if you feel you can eat, I have some sandwiches, a little fruit, and tea prepared."
She beamed, relaxing for the first time since arriving at the church. "Thank you. That would be lovely."
As they began to walk toward the back room, the Reverend Alden paused and turned to her. "Charles will be proud of you, you know, for having the courage to stand up for what is right."
She nodded. Her husband had done it before and would do it again – and most likely in response to some further vitriol that Harriet chose to spread around. She doubted today would really change the woman. It would happen again. There was something deep inside Harriet, some kind of insecurity that made her strike out at those who had less in wealth than her, but more in love.
The blonde woman shrugged. Her smile was chagrined. "I don't know about courage. I couldn't very well say 'no' when you called me up front, now, could I?"
"A wife of noble character who can find?" he replied, quoting Proverbs 31. "She is worth far more than rubies. Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life."
Caroline blushed. Tears entered her eyes. "You're too kind."
"And you are too modest." He laughed at her startled expression. "Are you arguing with God?"
The blush deepened and she smiled. "I'd have less chance of winning with Him than I do with Charles."
The reverend placed a hand on her arm and directed her toward the table in the back room. "Shall we?"
A nice lunch. Pleasant company and then...
Back to the fiery furnace.
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Pain exploded as Alan opened his eyes. A strange sound had awakened him. It was rhythmic – there was a crunch, usually followed by a grunt, and then the noise of stone and dirt striking the ground. Blinking away the dried blood that sealed his eyelashes together, the native shifted slightly and looked for its origin. A tall white man with yellow hair, wearing a dark blue uniform, stood not too far away. He balanced one arm on the handle of the shovel he was wielding, while the other lifted a canteen to his lips. Before him lay a pile of dirt and next to it, an open hole. It was a grave.
His grave.
He had taken a beating at this white man's hands the night before. The final blow had been a hard one. The soldier's knuckles had split his skin in several places – by his lip, on the cheek beneath his right eye, on his temple. It had also left him senseless. When he had first awakened he had been aware that someone was carrying him. He'd struggled briefly, but pain and exhaustion had cast him quickly back into the darkness. Alan's jaw tightened as he thought of the multiple betrayals he had suffered since his journey with Charles Ingalls had begun. He had been right. All white men were the same. There was no law for the red man. It had been the intent all along for him to be captured and killed, and to make it look as though he had tried to escape. With three white men testifying to that fact, and one of them a solder, no one would question his death. His body would be dug up by scavengers and his bones distributed to the wind and no one would ever be the wiser.
Alan closed his eyes and rested his battered face on the ground. They had won.
A slight moan escaped him. There was no fight left in him. He had no more strength. His only regret was that he would never see his grandfather again, nor would he save him from hanging. As tears entered his eyes, Alan remembered words Jack Lame Horse had spoken to him long ago as they sat together by a stream fishing. He had not wanted to hear them at the time. He spoke of the Creator and said that they and their lives were only clay to be worked in the Great Father's hand; that their days were His and had not been given to them to work their own will. The Creator of all said as well to bless those who cursed you, and to ask Him for the ones who mistreated you. In this way, the Great Father said, you heaped up burning coals on their heads.
The Creator of all.
Alan grimaced as the digging began again. He knew he had only minutes left to live. His grandfather had told him that same day how he, Jack Lame Horse, had found forgiveness for the white man. It was not because they deserved it, but because he didnot deserve it any more than they. His red grandfather told him of how he had ridden with Little Crow and killed many of the settlers. When he remarked that he wished he could have been there as well, to count coup and kill as many white men, women, and children as he could, the older man had shaken his head. It was honorable in war to kill the men who also found honor in killing you, but to kill their women and children, this was murder. Alan shivered as he remembered what followed. 'I did this," Jack Lame Horse said. 'I deserve to die, but I desire to live. It is no different with the white men who are our enemies.'
The soldier had put the shovel down and taken up his gun.
He was about to meet his Creator.
Did he have the strength, Alan wondered, even as a white man sought to kill him, to admit he had been wrong?
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Charles and Jefferson Brush crouched in a tall stand of cattails. From their position, they could see both Newell Wilts and Alan, who was laying in a heap on the ground. They debated in hushed voices what they should do. Brush was a former army man himself and was all for a frontal assault. He did, however, hesitate to kill another army man, no matter what that man might have done or was contemplating doing. The army did not look lightly upon the execution of one of their own. On the other hand, they had no idea if Wilts would listen to reason. As the one of them who seemed the less threatening, Charles had offered to show himself and talk to the man. After he got done telling him what an idiot he thought he was, the marshal had softened his tone and suggested they step out together. He thought that was foolish, since they would put them both right in Wilts sites.
Which had brought them to the standstill they were at now and was why they were crouchin' in the cattails.
Finally, Brush gave in. "All right. I'll let you go in first, but you be sure to leave a clean line of sight between me and Wilts. I don't want to shoot you by mistake."
Charles' brows elevated. "I will, since I don't want you to do that either."
Brush indicated the scene before them. "You better do it now."
He looked up. Newell Wilts was headed for Alan. Charles looked at the weapon in the soldier's hand. If Wilts meant to kill the boy it was loaded and primed.
He'd make an awful easy target.
The curly-haired man closed his eyes for a moment and whispered a quick prayer that he be returned to his family. Then he handed his weapon to Brush and rose to his feet.
"Wilts! Newell Wilts!" he called as he stepped out of the screen of the foliage. "We need to –"
The soldier had reacted as expected. The loaded rifle was now pointed at him.
Charles swallowed over his fear. A blast to the belly was not the way he wanted to go.
He raised his hands and finished his sentence. "We need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about, Ingalls!" the soldier snarled as he raised his rifle and sighted along it. "You leave or you die."
The curly-haired man heard the sound of a rifle being levered behind him as well as the noise of Marshal Brush moving forward in the leaves. It was going to be a scene of mass death in short order if something or someone didn't intervene.
Charles resisted glancing at the man behind him. Brush had not showed himself, so there was still a chance to avert disaster.
"You let the boy go, Wilts, and you just ride away and no one will have to know."
"Know what?" the soldier countered sharply. "That I caught a heathen trying to slit my throat and killed him? I feel sorry for you, Ingalls. You think someone will care."
"I care," he went on. "Others do too and more than you think. The war's over, Wilts. What you're thinkin' of doin' ain't justice, it's murder."
The soldier's hand did not waver. "I can just as easily tell them that a white man betrayed his own by aiding him and I had to kill him too."
"You going to kill me as well, Wilts?" Jefferson Brush asked as he rose and stepped out of the grasses. He too had his rifle primed and ready.
Wilts looked from the one of them to the other. "Either way, one of you is gonna die." His lips curled in a cruel sneer. "I'm thinkin' its gonna be Mister Ingalls here because he irritates me the most."
"I'll report it as murder. You'll be court-martialed and hang."
The yellow-haired soldier scoffed. "What makes you think I care?"
It was then Charles realized the man before them was truly mad. Somewhere in the time since he had taken Alan, Newell Wilts had gone over the edge.
He would kill them all if he could.
For several heartbeats they remained as they were – Wilts holding a rifle on him, Brush doing the same to Wilts. As he waited, his heart pounding, Charles' gaze went to Alan.
The boy was moving.
His eyes snapped up, but not in time. Wilts realized what the wounded boy was doing – trying to crawl toward him to somehow put him off balance. The soldier kicked at Alan. As the toe of his boot struck the boy's head, he took aim and fired. With a startled cry, Jefferson Brush went down, his own gun firing wide as he fell. As the madman loaded again, Charles dove for Brush's rifle. He was fast.
But not fast enough.
He felt the tip of the soldier's rifle press into his hair. "I figured he'd fall for that," Newell Wilts scoffed. Let his guard down." The man's voice grew even and cold. His finger moved toward the trigger. "Now for you, Indian lover."
Charles started at the sound of the shot. He swore his heart stopped. But then he realized, no, it was still beating – and beating very fast. Light-headed, he fell back into the grass just as Newell Wilts' body collapsed to the ground.
There was a bullet hole in the soldier's chest just above his heart.
Dazed, Charles was at first only half-aware of the long-legged figure wearing moccasin boots that passed by him. The man had shoulder-length black hair and was dressed as many Indians were these days in a pair of black pants and a white shirt with a heavy coat over the top. He had no feathers or other adornment and wore a hat much like his. The man went to Alan and knelt by him. He tenderly touched the boy's head and then laid an open palm on his chest. Seemingly satisfied that the boy was alive, he rose and crossed back to where Charles sat, stunned, in the wet grass and offered him a hand. The curly-haired man glanced at Wilts who lay silent on the grass, and then at Jefferson Brush. The lawman had a hand on his right shoulder. Blood was seeping through his fingers, but a nod indicated he would be all right. Marshal Brush's eyes were wide with wonder as well.
Who was this man who had saved them?
As he found his feet, Charles said a simple, "Thank you."
The stranger met his gaze. He was an Indian and looked by the color of his skin to be wholly that. He had a strong face with a solid firm mouth and intelligent light brown eyes. Something sparked in them. Charles was surprised to find what it was.
"It is I who must thank you," the man said. Then he turned to Brush who had gotten to his feet and limped to stand beside them. "I owe you as well, Marshal Brush, for seeking to do justice and not to murder as this man would have done." A slight smile touched his eyes. "Though I have little faith in the white man's justice."
"Who are you?" Brush asked bluntly.
Charles had been staring at the man. There was something impossibly familiar about him; about the way he held his body, about his face and most of all, about those eyes that were so like Alan's.
"You're Jack Lame Horse's son, aren't you?" he asked abruptly. "Alan's father."
"I am the father of Alowan," he replied.
"Alowan?"
He nodded. "It is my son's true name, not the one given to him by my wife's white father."
"You're the one who helped me, aren't you?" Charles asked. "Who tended my wound and left me supplies?"
"How long have you been trailing us?" the marshal asked. "I never saw any signs."
The native smiled. "And you would not. My father trained me well."
It was really none of his business, but Charles asked anyhow. "What brought you here? Alan...Alowan said you left long ago. In fact," he winced, "he told me you were dead."
A sadness entered the man's eyes. "I became...lost. I did not know what world I belonged in." He straightened up and met Charles' assessing gaze. "In the end I decided I belonged in neither. I went away. One night when I had had too much of the white man's fire water, I woke to find myself next to the body of a man. I do not know if I killed him. The white men believed I did and so I ran to Canada."
"What brought you back?" Brush asked.
Alowan's father turned toward him. "Word of my father's trial and," he looked at Alan, "my son."
Charles knew Jefferson Brush was considering what his duty as a U.S marshal was. He had opened his mouth to speak but, as he did, Alowan began to wake up.
The boy's father met their gazes, his still calm and even, and then went to kneel beside his son. The boy moaned as he opened his eyes and focused on the figure next to him.
"Grand...father?" he asked.
The older man placed a hand on his chest. "No, it is not your grandfather. It is I, Sota, your father."
Alan's voice was a hollow whisper. "Father?"
Sota turned to look at them. "I will take my son to my lodge now."
Jefferson Brush bristled. "You see here, I have to take him in. From what you said, I should probably take you in too."
"So they can both hang?" Charles demanded. "What is their crime? Being hunted, chased, and treated like animals? Or is it bein' driven off their land and left desperate with little or no means to survive?"
"Ingalls! They're both wanted for murder. I can't – "
"Jefferson, you know what the witnesses said. Alan didn't kill anyone and I doubt," he paused, "I doubt Sota did either. They are both a part of Jack Lame Horse. He could have killed me, killed my family and Anders, and no one would have been the wiser. He didn't. Instead he sacrificed himself to save us." Charles looked at the native man. Sota had gathered his son into his arms and risen to his feet. "I have a feeling this man would have done no different."
Brush was wavering. He drew a breath and then swallowed hard. "I suppose we could lie and say they escaped."
The curly-headed man smiled. He caught the lawman by his good shoulder and spun him around. After a count to ten Charles turned back. Sota and Alowan were gone.
"It's no lie," he said, "they're gone. Now how about we tend to that shoulder of yours."