Free Holt's Gamble by Barbara Ankrum Page A

in 'forty-seven."
    "Churubusco? You mean the war with Mexico?" She didn't try to hide the surprise in her voice.
    "Yes'm. I reckon as how Clay's saved Jim's skin once or twice over the years. It was Jim asked Clay an' me to hook up with this train full o' greenhorns. Don't reckon as how Clay would'a done it for nobody else."
    "Is Mr. Holt working for Kelly then?"
    Jacob appeared thoughtful for a moment. "No, but with all the Indian troubles brewin' in the Plains tribes, I guess Jim figured it made sense to travel with somebody who knows his way around a hostile campfire."
    "And Holt does?"
    Jacob swung the grease bucket back up on its hook beneath the wagon. "I 'spect he does at that, ma'am."
    It seemed the more she found out about Clay Holt, the more the mystery around him deepened. She was beginning to see that he was a complex man—much more than simply the gambler she had thought him to be at first.
    Kierin had lived long enough on the edge of the frontier to guess what Jacob had left unsaid about Jim Kelly's actions this morning. In the wilderness, lives often depended on the unquestioning trust of one's friends. Kelly hadn't doubted Holt's innocence when the posse came for him and that spoke of the respect he had for the man and Kelly's unflagging belief in Holt's integrity.
    She thought back to Holt's reaction when she had told him that Kelly had sent the posse away. She remembered he hadn't been surprised by it at all. It was no less than he expected from Kelly. She guessed if the situation were reversed, he would have done the same.
    * * *
    The shimmering mist which had earlier blanketed the Missouri River lifted, giving way to the spectacle of a perfect spring morning as the train lumbered out of Independence. More than fifty wagons of emigrants made up this westward-bound caravan. A fair share of wagons were aimed at the thinning California gold fields, she guessed, but from the Oregon or bust banners that draped many of the vehicles, most seemed headed there. The Willamette Valley, nestled in the heart of the Oregon territory, held some of the most fertile farmland known to man. It was a place rich not only in soil, but in timber and game too, she had heard. The promise it held drew Easterners like steel to a magnet. They were headed there, Jacob told her, to a place called Willamette Falls, which had recently been given the grander name of Oregon City.
    "Pull up those oxen!" shouted a voice from ahead of them, interrupting her thoughts. "Keep 'em tight back there!"
    Kierin saw Jim Kelly galloping up and down the lines of the strung-out train, shouting orders at the inexperienced wagoners. He cracked a bullwhip near the ear of a particularly stubborn ox whose lagging pace was holding up the whole line of wagons. From her perch on the bench seat beside Jacob, Kierin couldn't help admiring the way Kelly handled himself on the piebald gelding. He looked as if he'd been born to ride a horse and the two moved fluidly together across the trampled meadow that ran alongside the Missouri. After tightening the ranks of the train, Kelly rode up alongside their wagon and nodded a greeting to her.
    Silvery-blond hair peeked out from under the brim of his worn leather hat. The battered brim shaded the crinkling crow's feet around his blue-gray eyes. She guessed his age to be around thirty-two or three, though his deeply tanned skin aged his boyish features slightly.
    "Jacob?" Jim Kelly turned a serious look on the black man. "I suppose you know what that posse was all about this morning?"
    "Obliged to you for sendin' them on their way, Jim," Jacob answered. "Clay had a mite o' trouble back there. Got hisself cut up pretty bad." Jacob hitched a thumb toward the interior of the wagon.
    Kelly's glance shot to the canvas opening. "You mean, he's in the wagon? I hadn't seen him and I thought... well, damn. How is he?"
    "Middlin'. Jim, this here is Kierin—" He stopped there, hesitating between truth and the lie they'd concocted.