The riders came slowly.
That frightened Martha more than if they had charged.
Men who expected violence often hurried toward it.
Men who believed they had already won took their time.
Boon stood in front of the wagon.
His hand rested near his revolver.
“Do not draw unless they do,” Martha whispered.
He glanced back.
“That was the plan.”
“You looked like you needed reminding.”
“Stay down.”
“I dislike that phrase.”
“You’ll dislike bullets more.”
The rider in the black coat stopped thirty yards away.
He was perhaps forty-five, clean-shaven, narrow-faced, with silver beginning at his temples. Nothing about him resembled a trail outlaw.
That made Martha distrust him immediately.
The man smiled.
“Boon Mercer.”
Martha remembered the horse.
Mercer.
So that had not been the animal’s original name after all.
Boon did not respond.
The stranger continued.
“Three years is a long time.”
“Not long enough, Tully.”
The smile widened.
So Boon’s name was Mercer.
And the man was Tully.
Martha filed away both facts.
The armed riders spread slightly apart.
Tully looked toward the wagon.
“I see you brought company.”
“Woman needs a doctor.”
“Fort has one.”
“Then move.”
Tully laughed.
“You think you’re driving through those gates?”
Boon remained still.
“I am.”
“You have courage.”
“No.”
Boon tilted his head.
“I have cargo.”
Tully’s smile disappeared.
There.
Martha saw it.
A reaction.
Small but unmistakable.
Tully cared about something inside the wagon.
“What cargo?” Tully asked.
“Army freight.”
“I wasn’t asking about grain.”
Boon’s eyes narrowed.
Tully knew.
Whatever Boon carried, the man knew it existed.
Boon stepped forward.
“You want to settle old business, do it later. She goes through first.”
Tully looked at Martha.
His eyes rested on her pregnancy too long.
“I’m sure the widow can wait.”
Boon’s voice changed.
“She can’t.”
The rider with the rifle shifted.
Boon’s hand dropped lower.
Martha suddenly pushed aside the canvas.
“My name is Martha Reed.”
Three men looked toward her.
She climbed carefully down.
Boon swore under his breath.
“Martha.”
She ignored him.
“I am seven months pregnant. I began having contractions two nights ago. I have been widowed less than two weeks. If any of you gentlemen intend to prevent me from reaching a United States Army doctor, I would like your names before you do it.”
Tully blinked.
Martha continued.
“I am told soldiers appreciate written complaints.”
The younger rider almost smiled.
Tully did not.
Boon looked at Martha as if uncertain whether to admire or strangle her.
“You should be lying down.”
“I have done enough lying down.”
Hoofbeats sounded behind the three riders.
A military patrol appeared along the fort road.
Four cavalrymen led by a gray-haired sergeant.
Tully’s expression changed instantly.
The smile returned.
“Sergeant Dwyer.”
The gray-haired soldier slowed.
“Tully.”
Then he saw Boon.
Every line in his face went still.
“Well,” Dwyer murmured.
Boon’s hand moved away from his revolver.
“Afternoon, Sergeant.”
“You’re either the bravest fool I know or the stupidest.”
“Probably both.”
Sergeant Dwyer looked at Martha.
Then her belly.
“Ma’am?”
“Martha Reed. I need the fort physician.”
“You hurt?”
“Not at this second.”
Boon added, “Contractions two nights ago.”
Dwyer’s eyes sharpened.
“Private, ride ahead. Get Doctor Whitcomb.”
One soldier turned immediately.
Relief weakened Martha’s knees.
Boon reached for her.
She allowed it.
Dwyer dismounted.
“You can take the wagon in.”
Tully spoke quickly.
“Sergeant, Mercer is wanted.”
“I remember.”
“He should be arrested.”
“I remember that too.”
Dwyer looked toward Boon.
“You carrying a weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Hand it over.”
Martha stiffened.
Boon calmly unbuckled his gun belt and passed it to Dwyer.
“No argument?” Tully asked.
Boon stared at him.
“I came back, didn’t I?”
That silenced everyone.
Dwyer motioned toward the wagon.
“I’ll drive.”
Boon shook his head.
“Horses know me.”
“Then drive.”
Tully protested.
Dwyer turned.
“Mr. Tully, unless you’ve joined the Army since breakfast, you can stop giving orders on an Army road.”
One cavalryman coughed to hide a laugh.
Tully’s face darkened.
Martha returned to the wagon.
Boon climbed to the bench.
Dwyer rode alongside him.
Tully and his men followed at a distance.
“What are you wanted for?” Martha asked quietly.
Boon kept his eyes ahead.
“Later.”
“That usually means something terrible.”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you kill someone?”
Boon’s hands tightened around the reins.
“Yes.”
Martha stopped breathing.
He continued before she could speak.
“A man named Amos Bell.”
“Why?”
“Because he was trying to kill me.”
“Did anyone believe you?”
“Not enough people.”
Martha stared at his profile.
“Is Tully involved?”
Boon’s eyes flicked toward her.
“You notice too much.”
“I spent two years married to a man who lied badly about buying tobacco.”
“Useful training.”
“Boon.”
“Yes.”
“Tully is involved?”
“Yes.”
The fort gates grew larger.
Boon lowered his voice.
“Three years ago, Wade Tully and I hauled Army freight together. Medicine, grain, ammunition, payroll lockboxes. Somebody started shaving supplies from shipments.”
“Tully?”
“Yes.”
“Could you prove it?”
“Not then.”
“And Amos Bell?”
“Warehouse guard. He discovered the same thing.”
Martha understood before he finished.
“He was killed.”
“Tully shot him.”
“But you were blamed.”
Boon nodded.
“I walked in after hearing the shot. Bell was alive. Tully handed me a story and a revolver before I understood what he was doing. Then Bell grabbed me.”
Boon’s mouth hardened.
“We struggled. Gun fired.”
“Your gun?”
“The one Tully gave me.”
Martha felt sick.
“When soldiers arrived?”
“Tully was already shouting that I’d murdered Bell.”
“How did you escape?”
“Dwyer believed enough of my story to leave a door poorly guarded.”
Martha looked toward the sergeant riding beside them.
“He helped you?”
“I never asked.”
“And now you came back voluntarily?”
Boon nodded toward the freight behind them.
“For something worth returning.”
Martha remembered Tully’s interest.
“What?”
Boon hesitated.
“A ledger.”
“Proof?”
“Maybe enough.”
“Where is it?”
“I’m not telling you.”
She stared.
“That seems rude considering I’m now riding into a fort beside a wanted murderer.”
“Accused murderer.”
“Comforting distinction.”
For the first time since the riders appeared, Boon almost smiled.
They crossed the gates.
People turned.
Soldiers.
Teamsters.
Women carrying baskets.
Children.
Everyone seemed to recognize Boon.
Whispers followed the wagon.
“That’s Mercer.”
“Thought he was dead.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Tully found him?”
Martha felt anger rising.
Boon had saved her life.
Now people looked at him as though he were already hanging from a rope.
Doctor Whitcomb met them near the infirmary.
He was short, brisk, and approximately sixty years old.
“You Martha Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Pregnant?”
Martha looked at her stomach.
“So I’m told.”
Whitcomb gave her an approving glance.
“Sense of humor intact. Good sign.”
He pointed toward two soldiers.
“Get her inside.”
Martha looked toward Boon.
Two other soldiers approached him.
Dwyer returned Boon’s revolver to his own belt rather than handing it over.
“You’ll come with me.”
Martha grabbed Boon’s sleeve.
“You promised me Fort Laramie.”
“You’re here.”
“You never said you might be arrested.”
“Would you have gotten in my wagon?”
“No.”
“That answers why I didn’t tell you.”
She wanted to be angry.
Instead, fear hit her.
“What happens to you?”
Boon looked toward Dwyer.
“Depends who gets heard.”
Tully entered the fort behind them.
His smile was back.
Martha hated it.
Doctor Whitcomb touched her elbow.
“Mrs. Reed.”
“Give me a moment.”
She stepped closer to Boon.
“Where is the ledger?”
His eyes narrowed.
“I said—”
“If they lock you up, somebody needs to know.”
“No.”
“Boon.”
“Martha.”
They stared at each other.
Finally he leaned down.
“False bottom beneath the coffee crate.”
Martha nodded.
“What do I do with it?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because if I don’t come out by morning, you give it to Sergeant Dwyer.”
“What if Tully gets to it first?”
Boon glanced toward the approaching man.
“That’s why I’m telling you.”
Doctor Whitcomb became impatient.
“Now, Mrs. Reed.”
Martha released Boon’s sleeve.
He walked away between two soldiers.
Tully passed Martha.
He tipped his hat.
“Terrible company you’ve chosen.”
Martha looked him directly in the eye.
“He stopped when he found a dying woman.”
Tully paused.
“So?”
She smiled coldly.
“I’m still deciding what that tells me about the rest of you.”
His expression tightened.
Then he continued walking.
Inside the infirmary, Doctor Whitcomb examined Martha and listened carefully to her account of the contractions.
“You were dehydrated,” he said.
“Will the baby come early?”
“Possibly. Possibly not.”
“Is the baby healthy?”
“As far as I can tell.”
Martha closed her eyes.
Relief escaped as a sob.
Whitcomb softened.
“You need rest. Food. Water. No more bouncing in freight wagons for several days.”
“Several?”
“At least.”
“I don’t have anywhere to stay.”
“You do now.”
That evening, Martha lay in a narrow bed beneath a clean sheet.
She should have slept.
Instead, she stared toward the darkening window.
Somewhere inside the fort, Boon was being questioned.
Somewhere nearby, Tully was waiting.
And beneath a coffee crate in the freight wagon sat the only thing that might separate an innocent man from a gallows rope.
Martha waited until footsteps in the hallway faded.
Then she pushed aside the sheet.
Doctor Whitcomb had ordered rest.
But Martha had already learned something about survival.
Sometimes doing what was safe and doing what was right were not the same thing.
She put on her boots.
And went looking for the ledger.
---