Free Forsaking All Others by Allison Pittman Page B

into the bags hanging from my saddle, my eyes were drawn to the rifle holstered at Honey’s side.
    “I don’t expect you’ll have to use that.” Colonel Brandon read both my mind and my fear. “Most anything that could be dangerous is deep in hibernation right now.”
    “You telling me them Mormons hibernate?” The comment, coming from the back of the crowd, spurred on a chorus of resounding laughter that might have given way to a dozen more comic threats if not for the silencing glare of Colonel Brandon. Civilian attire or not, his authority commanded almost immediate silence. He said nothing, though. Nothing in my defense nor in that of the Saints. But he didn’t have to. I knew. Were the need to arise, he would protect me, defend me with his words or his gun. I could only pray for a peaceful passage.
    And in his great mercy, God granted it. The sky maintained a gauzy haze, enough to soften the glare of the sun but without the darkness that threatened storm. We were a party of four: myself, Colonel Brandon, and Private Lambert, who had been instructed to change into civilian attire. Apparently his overcoat was either borrowed or came from a time before his final uniform fitting, because the sleeves stopped just shy of his bony wrists, making him look even more the vulnerable youth. Riding ahead was a man they called Coyote Tom—a small, dark Paiute Indian whom Colonel Brandon described as the finest scout he’d ever met. A master at reading the land, Coyote Tom had vision that bored through hills and trees and snow. We followed the tracks left by his sturdy, spotted horse. Keeping a steady pace, barring deep drifts or new snow, our party was due to arrive in Salt Lake City late tomorrow night.
    “Would be more comfortable in a sleigh or wagon, I know,” Colonel Brandon spoke over his shoulder, “but harder on the horses. We’ve got a lot of miles to cover. We’ll be pushing our mounts to their limit just to make it in two days.”
    “I’m fine.” The scarf, wrapped twice around the lower half of my face, muffled my words, and we continued in purposeful, comfortable silence.
    It was one of those winter days when, after days of being cooped up inside, I would have shooed the girls outside to play. Cold, yes, but windless and still. Before long I’d unwrapped my scarf and taken off my hat. The temperature must have climbed up to something close to forty degrees, and we shed our overcoats. Every hour or so, we rested the horses, allowing them to nibble at what exposed grass they could find and lap from puddles of melted snow. For our rest, we walked in slow, stretching circles, chewing strips of salty dried venison. Colonel Brandon had his familiar flask, this time filled with brandy, and he insisted I take one or two sips, just to “keep the blood warm.” From what I could tell, Coyote Tom had nothing to eat or drink all day, and he remained respectfully distant when we stopped to do so.
    “It’s their way,” Colonel Brandon said when I mentioned we should share what we had. “He has his own. He’ll eat when he’s ready. Probably not until the end of the journey. These are proud people.”
    “And private.”
    “That’s right. You keep an Indian woman, don’t you?”
    “ Keep is an ugly word. Makes it sound like slavery. We had . . . There was some trouble a while back with the natives. Kimana’s family—her husband and child—were killed. She was wounded. Nathan and I cared for her, and then she just . . . stayed.”
    “That was good of your husband.”
    “He’s a good man, Colonel Brandon. In all of this, we must remember that.”

Chapter 7
    After two endless, exhausting days of riding, we arrived at the northernmost ward of Salt Lake City under a cloudy veil of muted moonlight.
    “You lead us from here,” Colonel Brandon said, his horse pawing impatiently in the muddy street.
    Coyote Tom declared he would go no further into town, and I couldn’t blame him. It was a strange