Chapter 4 - One Mile from Fort Laramie
“Boon.”
He kept staring toward the fort.
Martha shifted on the wagon seat, following his gaze.
At first she saw nothing unusual.
The walls of Fort Laramie sat in the distance, pale beneath the afternoon sun. Wagons moved near the approach road. Horses stood tied outside several civilian buildings beyond the main compound. Tiny figures crossed between them.
Then Boon stepped backward into the shadow of the wagon.
Not casually.
Deliberately.
Martha’s relief drained away.
“What is it?”
“Get down.”
Her temper returned immediately.
“I am seven months pregnant, recently threatened by early labor, and sitting three feet above the ground. If you want me down, you’ll need a better explanation.”
Boon looked up at her.
“Men at the gate.”
“There are always men at gates.”
“Those ones know me.”
Martha’s fingers tightened around the seat.
“Is that bad?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
He scanned the road behind them.
“Bad enough I don’t want you sitting where they can see you.”
That was enough.
Martha accepted his arm and climbed down carefully. Boon guided her behind the wagon, then crouched near the rear wheel where the freight canvas blocked them from the fort.
“Now,” Martha said, keeping her voice low, “you are going to tell me what this is about.”
Boon did not answer at once.
From the fort came the faint sound of a bugle.
Martha waited.
She had learned that silence bothered Boon less than almost anyone alive, but she had also learned another fact about him: if she stared long enough, eventually he decided conversation was less uncomfortable.
It worked again.
“The tall man near the gate,” he said. “Gray vest. White hat.”
Martha peered around the wagon wheel.
She could barely make him out.
“What about him?”
“Name’s Harlan Pike.”
“Friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Enemy?”
“Closer.”
Martha sat back against the wheel.
“Boon.”
He exhaled.
“Harlan works for a freight and land outfit run by Silas Vale.”
The name meant nothing to her.
Boon continued.
“Vale buys claims from people who can’t keep them. Sometimes he buys them before those people realize they can’t keep them.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means accidents happen. Supplies disappear. Animals get stolen. A family wakes up and discovers the creek they were counting on belongs to somebody else.”
Martha thought of the burned wagon.
Cold moved through her despite the heat.
“And Amos Bell?”
Boon’s eyes met hers.
“He refused to sell.”
Martha pressed a hand against her belly.
“Jeb bought our land from Bell.”
“I know.”
“You knew this was connected.”
“I suspected.”
“Since when?”
“Since you said Bell’s name.”
Martha’s voice sharpened. “And you didn’t think I deserved to know?”
“I thought getting you to a doctor alive mattered more than frightening you with something I couldn’t prove.”
“You don’t get to decide what I can bear.”
Boon flinched slightly.
Not because she had raised her voice.
Because the words had landed somewhere old.
“I know,” he said.
The quiet answer stole some of her anger.
She looked again toward the fort.
“What does Pike want with you?”
Boon rested one forearm across his knee.
“Three years ago I guided freight for Vale. Didn’t know what he was at first.”
“And when you found out?”
“I quit.”
“That hardly sounds like a hanging offense.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then?”
“I kept records.”
Martha blinked.
“You?”
He looked offended.
“I can write.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You thought it.”
“I thought you looked more like a man who argues with paper than writes on it.”
Despite the danger, something almost amused crossed his face.
“I wrote wagon numbers. dates. names. parcels Vale took after settlers were forced out. I planned to hand it to an Army captain I trusted.”
“What happened?”
“The captain transferred east before I got back. Vale found out about the notebook. A warehouse burned two nights later.”
Martha’s breath caught.
“They blamed you.”
“Pike swore he saw me near it.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
That answer came too quickly.
Martha stared.
Boon added, “Because I was trying to get my notebook from a locked office.”
“That sounds inconveniently criminal.”
“It was.”
“Did you burn the warehouse?”
“No.”
She believed him.
The speed with which she believed him frightened her.
“What happened to the notebook?”
“Gone.”
“And the charge?”
“Never properly filed. Vale preferred rumors. Easier to control. In some towns I’m a thief. In others I’m an arsonist. Depends what story Pike told first.”
Martha looked toward the fort again.
“You think Pike will arrest you?”
“I think Pike will do whatever Vale pays him to do.”
“Is he law?”
“No.”
“Then why are we hiding?”
“Because law doesn’t always matter when six men carry rifles and one woman needs a doctor.”
Martha hated that he was right.
She also hated the new question forming in her mind.
“Why is Pike here now?”
Boon’s expression darkened.
“That’s what worries me.”
The wind shifted, carrying dust along the road.
Boon rose carefully and walked to the opposite side of the wagon. He studied the approach to the fort, then the low river bottom to the south.
“There’s a civilian surgeon who works outside the main post sometimes,” he said. “Dr. Clara Monroe. She treats freighters, emigrants, anyone who can pay or promises to.”
“You know her?”
“Yes.”
“Another woman you never married?”
Boon stared at her.
Martha lifted one shoulder.
“Stress makes me unpleasant.”
“You were unpleasant before the stress.”
“That’s fair.”
He pointed toward a line of cottonwoods.
“We can circle south, cross near the shallow bend, and reach the sutler’s settlement from behind.”
“How far?”
“Two miles.”
Martha looked down at her belly.
The baby moved once.
“I can do two miles in a wagon.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
Boon glanced toward the gate again.
“But Pike just sent two riders out.”
Martha followed his eyes.
Two specks separated from the fort road.
They were moving west.
Toward them.
Boon climbed onto the wagon seat.
“Inside.”
Martha did not argue.
He turned the team south, off the road and into knee-high grass.
The wagon bounced violently over uneven ground. Martha braced herself among the freight crates while Boon drove hard enough to make the harness chains sing.
She heard hoofbeats behind them minutes later.
Closer than she wanted.
Boon did not reach for his gun.
That, somehow, made Martha more afraid.
“Are they coming?” she called.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Can we outrun them?”
“No.”
She pushed herself toward the front opening.
Boon’s shoulders were rigid beneath his coat.
“Then what are we doing?”
“Choosing where they catch us.”
Ahead, the land dipped toward the river. Cottonwoods thickened along the bank.
Boon drove straight for them.
The wagon plunged into shade.
Branches scraped the canvas.
He pulled the team into a dry wash hidden from the main road and stopped.
“Stay here.”
Martha caught his sleeve.
“You said you weren’t going anywhere during the storm.”
His eyes met hers.
“This isn’t the storm.”
“It feels close enough.”
For one second, his expression softened.
Then hoofbeats entered the cottonwoods.
Boon gently removed her hand from his sleeve.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “do not tell them about the deed.”
Martha’s pulse jumped.
“Why?”
Boon drew his revolver.
“Because I don’t think Pike came to the fort for me.”
The hoofbeats stopped just beyond the trees.
A man’s voice called out.
“Boon! We know you’re in there.”
Boon’s face went completely still.
Then the same voice added the words that turned Martha’s fear into something colder.
“And we know the widow’s with you.”
Martha felt the meaning of the words settle into her body before her mind accepted them. The widow. Not a stranger. Not a traveler. They knew who she was. That meant news of Jeb’s death had moved faster than she had, or someone had expected her long before the broken axle stopped her.
Boon leaned closer to the wagon without turning. “Do not answer anything they ask about Bell, Jeb, or the parcel.”
“They already know I’m here.”
“They don’t know what you carry.”
Martha thought of the deed in her trunk, of Amos Bell’s warning, and of all the miles during which she had believed paper was merely paper. Suddenly the folded document seemed as dangerous as a loaded pistol.
Outside the wash, one of the riders laughed. “No need to hide the lady, Mercer. Mr. Vale only wants to make her an offer.”
Martha’s fear sharpened into anger. Men had been making decisions for her since Jeb died—where she should stop, what she could survive, what a pregnant widow ought to do. She was tired of it.
She moved toward the wagon opening. Boon looked over his shoulder and saw the decision in her face.
“Martha.”
“I know,” she whispered. “Stay quiet.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I didn’t say I would.”
May you like
Then she straightened, placed one protective hand over her belly, and prepared to meet the first men who had known her name before she knew theirs.
Martha drew one slow breath and reminded herself that fear was information, not command. Boon had taught her that without ever saying it. She would listen, watch, and choose her own next move.
