Page 60 of Wagon Train Redemption
They held each other, offering sympathy.
Bertie calling to Alice reminded Carson of why they were stopped, and he released her, his arms cold, his heart protesting. “They’ll be waiting for us.”
She nodded but didn’t look up at him.
Was she embarrassed? Shy? Both? “Angie, thank you for your understanding.”
Her head tipped sideways, her lashes winging up. Why such surprise? Because he’d acknowledged her offer of sympathy? That didn’t make sense. A smile pulled at his lips as he guessed it might be because he’d called her Angie again. Seems she liked the nickname. He’d be sure to use it again because he liked it too.
Ma’s smile welcomed them as they joined the others gathered for the meal. “Everyone is here now.” She looked to Gabe who offered a prayer of thanks before they ate the cold meal.
Carson sat on the ground beside Angela, searching for a reason to use her nickname again. Angie. He might never call her Angela again. He considered her name. He’d never thought of it before, but wasn’t it a form of angel? Good name for her. Good name for a partner.
His plate was empty although he couldn’t remember eating the food. Feeling guilty for sleeping through his turn at guard duty and knowing he’d neglected his role as Mountie, he pushed to his feet. “I’ll do a little scouting.”
Angie looked up at him. Was it disappointment in her face? Did she want him to stay with her? He jammed his hat on and strode to his horse. Joe followed.
“No need, you know.”
“You’re scout for the wagon train, but I’m a Mountie. It’s my duty to patrol the area.” That was only partially true. Part of his task was to accompany the wagons. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be checking for problems further afield. He rode to the top of the nearest hill, stopped to scan his surroundings, then rode to the north. The blackened ground concerned him. Back at Willowdale, the people seemed to think no one had been affected by the fire, but how could he be certain if he didn’t check for himself?
He followed the burned-out area until he reached the river. He dismounted to quench his thirst. Allowed King to drink before he moved on. He rode north, at times followingthe river, at other times riding over the ashy ground. Never quite shaking the worry that he might miss something. The sun dipped to the west when he stopped, having seen nothing but scorched trees and burnt grass. It was too late to return to the wagon train, so he headed back to the river to make camp. He’d find a spot that had escaped the fire.
A growl greeted him as he ducked through the trees, and he unholstered his gun. King stopped without Carson signaling him. Evening shadows obscured the area.
The growl came again. Carson urged his horse toward the sound. At first, he made out nothing in the shadows, and then one shadow moved and growled. A dog. A big dog.
“Easy, boy. I’m not here to hurt you. What’s that you’re protecting?” Was it a person?
He dismounted with careful slowness. The dog leaped forward barking madly but did not attack.
“I’m your friend.” He waited as the dog snapped and snarled. His gun at the ready, he took one slow step forward, murmuring to the dog as he did. Although the animal sounded vicious, he did not attack. Step by step, Carson closed the distance until he made out the form of a man. Ignoring the dog, he hurried forward and dropped to his knees.
“Sir!” But the man was dead.
Carson rolled him over and peered into the face. Ignoring the smell of illness and death, he leaned closer. He’d seen that face. Where? The man wore a gun belt that held a fancy pistol. The holster was tied to his leg. Now he remembered. This man’s likeness was on a Wanted poster.
Carson examined the body for cause of death. Found no injuries though there were plenty of old scars. He removed identifying items and belongings, including a copy of the Wanted poster folded into the man’s pocket with a bullet hole through the hundred dollars offered for turning him in. Carson would put his death down to naturalcauses.
All the while, the dog stood at guard, hackles raised, a deep growl coming from his throat. Carson ignored the exposed fangs after deciding the dog didn’t mean to attack.
With only his small camp shovel to use, he dug a shallow grave.
The dog roared and lunged when Carson rolled the body into the hole. “Sorry, dog, he’s gone. No point in you fussing about it.”
He filled in the dirt and covered the grave with rocks. By the time he finished, it was dark. He squatted nearby.
The dog sat on the other side and whined. Strange how a man wanted for murder could earn a dog’s loyalty.
“Did your owner have a horse?” Not that he expected an answer. He searched the trees and found no animal. His horse must have run off or been stolen. Carson returned to King and unsaddled him.
“I’m hungry.” He pulled dry biscuits and pemmican from his meager supplies. “I expect you are too.” He tossed a share to the dog who leapt forward with a growl that ended in a whine as he smelled food.
Carson got comfortable with his back to a sturdy tree. Did he dare fall asleep with an angry dog nearby? The cold air descended, and he pulled a blanket over him. This must be why he’d felt the need to search the area more thoroughly though he had no way of knowing there was a dead man nearby. He was following his training. Don’t assume unless you’ve checked. It’s a big country with many places to hide or get lost.
What would Angie be doing? She’d probably be asleep by now. Would she have missed him? Funny how he missed her, how he looked forward to returning to her side.
It would be nice to have someone to go home to.
