Sweet Mountain Magic

Chapter One

Sage MacKenzie urged his buckskin-colored gelding down a rocky escarpment as a nearby cascading waterfall drowned out all sound.

This was the land he loved. He’d never loved anything more, not even a woman. And at thirty, it was doubtful any woman would come along to change that, although at times lately he’d thought about what it might be like to settle. But it was only a thought, and one that he mostly ignored. He had been on his own since the age of twelve, when his parents had died in a fire back in Missouri. He had soon thereafter fled that state, after relatives had declared him incorrigible and threatened to put him into an orphanage.

None had seemed to understand the grief and terror that had made the little boy withdrawn and often difficult to handle. But he had made up his mind that he would never spend time in an orphanage. He had heard all kinds of horror stories of what happened in those places. So he had tied his few belongings into a blanket and set off for lands unknown.

Since that day Sage MacKenzie had known nothing but total freedom. He latched onto an old trapper at the tender age of thirteen, and for the next several years he traveled the width and breadth of the great American West, braving hostile Indians and hostile elements, learning the art of survival against all odds. And mostly he lived in and around the Rocky Mountains.

Sage knew these mountains, knew them like the back of his hand. And he loved them, as well as the land around them, from the wide, endless prairies to the east, over the Great Divide, and beyond. Where else could a man find total freedom, total peace, total beauty?

Of course there had been times when the Indians disturbed that peace, and numerous life-threatening battles had taken place with those wild red men who had been here first. But the dangers that lurked in this land only made it more enticing to a man like Sage. He loved the adventure, the challenge. Not all mountain men made it to the age of thirty, and certainly not without their full measure of scars and perhaps an ugly scalp wound where some painted aborigine had removed a tuft of hair for his medicine bag. Sage did have his share of scars, but so far he still had all his hair, and plenty of that; not just on his head but also on his face and chest. He wondered sometimes if living in these mountains so long was turning him into an animal, putting hair on him to make him blend in with the bear and other furry creatures.

He reached the bottom of the steep bank, rocks tumbling behind him. Moving out into a meadow, he stopped to watch the mountains behind him as the morning sun climbed higher and brought out myriad colors—purples, blues, grays, greens, browns, oranges. Perhaps that was what he liked about this land, all the color. He loved watching the sun rise. It was like music to him. He didn’t need to hear real music. It was right here, all around him, in the awakening colors, the movement of the wind and the waterfall nearby, the grace of the animals, the floating clouds and the grand mountain peaks.

It was late summer, 1846. The only way he knew the year was by asking at the closest fort every winter. This was an especially memorable year. Somewhere south of here there was a war going on with Mexico. It was an unnecessary war, as far as he was concerned. Mexico had refused to sell vast territories to the United States, so now the Americans would just take them by force. He wondered if that meant adding California to American claims. He liked California, but part of its beauty and peace was due to the influence of the kind, gracious Spaniards who had settled that land of sunshine. What would happen if and when it was opened up to American settlement?

He supposed it was silly to be concerned about those things. He had no control over fate. That point had become even more evident in recent years, as his very livelihood had been stolen from him by fate. For years he’d made his living trapping beaver, selling the pelts at Fort Bridger, or at whatever other point in the Rockies the rendezvous was held with traders and suppliers. Pelts were sold for two dollars to four dollars a pound, and the buyers would take them to St. Louis and sell them for twice that amount. But Sage had never cared about getting rich. He just wanted enough to be able to buy the supplies he needed to turn right around and go back out for several more months of trapping.

For years beaver had been in demand in the East, for use as trim for collars, sleeves, hems, gloves, and boots, as well as a material for hats. Suddenly that popularity had begun to fade, and each year at the rendezvous the paying price for pelts had decreased until it was no longer practical for a man to risk his life for months at a time collecting the fur. He shook his head at the fickle nature of Eastern styles, unable to understand why anyone cared about such things. It seemed to him people were concerned about the wrong things in life.

Now those concerns were affecting him. Ever since losing the fur trade, he’d wandered like a lost man, taking work where he could find it. Trapping beaver was all he’d ever known since he was thirteen years old. Now he wandered from job to job, mostly leading trains of supply wagons or trains of settlers heading for Oregon or California.

He stopped and dismounted, giving his horse a rest. He’d been riding for two hours already, even though the sun was just beginning to light everything. He was in the Wind River range of the Rockies, heading southwest toward Fort Bridger. He’d led a supply train from Independence to Fort Laramie and had just kept coming west with no particular purpose in mind, hoping to meet up with old friends at Fort Bridger, or perhaps find a stranded wagon train there that needed a leader.

He untied his buckskin shirt at the neck. These mountains were usually cool, even in summer, but today seemed hotter than usual. He always wore buckskins, felt uncomfortable in anything else. In that respect, the Indians knew what they were doing, he believed. In a land like this, a man had to be practical and comfortable, and buckskins were both those things. He even wore moccasins. He’d made friends with enough Indians to always be able to find some willing Indian woman to sew him some new skins each year, as long as he brought her the fresh hides. Most of his friends were among the Shoshoni, who were learning early it was better for their preservation to accept the white man and keep the peace than to fight white encroachment.

Sage moved to take a canteen from his gear, then hesitated as his nose caught the smell of smoke. His dark eyes scanned the new range of mountains ahead of him. He was not out of the Wind River range yet, and there were more peaks and passes to be mastered before reaching the wide pass that led to the huge green valley in which Fort Bridger was situated.

He patted his horse’s neck as he studied what looked like smoke coming from a place deep within the vast peaks ahead. He stood nearly as tall as the big gelding’s head. Sage MacKenzie was a big man, broad shouldered and narrow of hip, strong and sure. He’d fought off many an Indian, often several at once. He’d survived dysentery, disease, an infected bullet wound, snakebite, and a bad fall off a crumbling ledge. The Indian women thought him handsome, in spite of his thick beard. The white whores thought the same, though most tried to tease him into shaving, sure he would be much more handsome without the beard; but he always refused. After all, a beard helped keep a man warm in cold mountain winters.

He turned back to the canteen and pulled it down, opening it and taking a drink. Then he moved to his horse’s head and poured some water into the palm of his hand, allowing the animal to slurp it up. Twice he repeated this process before closing the canteen and putting it away. He stared at the smoke again, his curiosity aroused.

He mounted up, thinking again about women and how long it had been since he’d been with one. His thoughts drifted to the Indian women he’d slept with, one or two of whom he’d kept with him a while before longing to be alone again. It always came back to that, the great aloneness, the need to be free, something that was becoming more and more difficult as people from the East seemed to be flooding into the West in alarming proportions.

He urged his horse into a slow, steady gait, heading toward the mysterious smoke he had spotted. It was too much smoke for just a camp fire. He had no idea that in that moment fate was again taking control of his life, leading him toward something—someone—who would forever change his thoughts of freedom.

The wind groaned as it wound its way through crevasses and moved over peaks down along rocky slopes dotted with scraggly pines and thousands of boulders, some hanging precariously, as though one touch would send them rolling to the valleys below. This was a lonely land, but Sage was accustomed to going for weeks without seeing another human being and was not afraid of losing his horse or having some kind of accident that would leave him helpless. If he was going to die, he could think of no better way than to die alone in these mountains that he loved.

The smoke was still rising, now perhaps a mile away. The place it was coming from was naked of forest, so it was unlikely it was any kind of forest fire. Besides, there had been no lightning or storm recently. And there most certainly were no settlements in these parts.

He yanked on the reins of his horse and skittered the animal backward, then behind a large rock, when several yipping warriors appeared, riding hard out of a pass ahead. Sage quickly pulled his Colt repeater from its boot and waited, glad he’d come across this new kind of rifle at Fort Laramie. Not every man had such a rifle, a gun that could shoot several times without reloading. It certainly gave a man an edge in situations like this. But he knew his best bet would be to lie low and hope the Indians didn’t spot him at all. No sense starting something he could probably avoid.

He realized now that the smoke he’d seen had to be from some wagon or perhaps a wagon train that the Indians had attacked. But he could not imagine why anyone would be in these parts with a wagon. This was far from any normally used trail.

The thundering horses and their yipping riders came closer then. Sage moved his horse back even more, petting its neck and talking softly to the animal, urging him to be still. He crouched low as painted and feathered men rode past. Sage recognized the dress and symbols as those of the Crow, and he also recognized the words a couple of them were shouting.

Crazy woman! Crazy woman, they yipped.

Sage frowned, straightening more as they rode by, their backs to him then. He realized with surprise that they seemed to be running more from fear than victory.

Crazy woman, he muttered. What the hell is over there?

He laid his gun across his lap and moved out from behind the rock. The Indians had already disappeared, and there seemed to be no stragglers. Dust still drifted slowly and quietly into the air, then was picked up by another surge of mountain winds, which cleared the air quickly.

Sage headed his horse toward the still-rising smoke. His keen eyes took in the surrounding mountains as he rode, catching shadows and checking rocks and trees, ever alert for dangers from animals or Indians. But all was quiet now, almost too quiet. The Indian words crazy woman kept echoing in his mind, and he could not get over the fact that it seemed they had been running away from something.

He urged his mount over rocky slopes covered with lichen. Wildflowers of many colors sprouted from cracks between rocks, and small, stunted pines seemingly grew out of sheer rock in some places. It always struck him as incredible that the driest, rockiest places could still yield life in this land.

Any man who came here fresh from the lush green of the East thought this land dead and dry, useless, but it was far from that. This land teemed with life. It was simply a different kind of life, just as the social life out here was completely different. A man just had to understand it, to live here for a few years. Once he did, there was no going back. This land got into a man’s bones and held him tight. Sage had tried to go back once—but only once. Longing for the West had literally made his bones ache. People told him it was just the humidity and lower elevation of the East. But he knew it was more than that. It was an ache from the heart that spread through all his limbs—an ache to return to the mountains.

An eagle cried as it circled above him, and again he could hear water. He was very close to the smoke now. He moved around an outward thrust of high, pointed rock, and it was then that a smoldering wagon came into view. Sage halted his mount, stopping just to watch for a moment to be sure there wasn’t some danger lurking ahead. But all was quiet, and the smoke meandered upward from the wagon’s skeleton.

He moved in cautiously, rifle still in his lap. The wagon sat just across a stream, and Sage still could not imagine what it was doing there. He could tell from the remains that it had been a very large wagon, perhaps belonging to some kind of merchant or trader. Was the man trying to trade with the Crow? He was crazy if he was. What would bring him into Crow country? What did he have that was valuable enough to take the risk?

It was then he got his answer. He reined his horse to a halt and stared at what looked like a woman, a very young woman, sitting against a rock. She stared straight ahead and sat so motionless Sage thought perhaps she was dead. He charged forward then, splashing across the stream, and quickly dismounting, walked up to the lone figure, more puzzled than ever. What in God’s name was a woman doing in these parts, and such a pretty one at that?

Ma’am? He waved his hand in front of her eyes but got no response. He carefully reached out, feeling her throat for a pulse. She remained motionless, but he could feel the blood rushing through her neck with every beat of her heart. She was most definitely alive.

Ma’am? You hurt?

Still she remained silent. He gently pulled her limp body away from the rock, feeling awkward as he rolled her over to look for wounds. He found none.

Ma’am? Are you hurt? It’s all right. I’m here to help you.

He held her in the crook of his arm then, pushing back some of her hair and gazing into beautiful violet eyes that seemed to look at nothing in particular. He frowned, petting her hair for a moment. It was beautiful hair, thick and dark and long. She was perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and very beautiful, her skin fair, her cheekbones high, her lips full but closed in silence. There were faint bruises on her face and more on her forearm that looked like fingers. Strong hands had held her, and it made him angry to see the marks they had left. She looked so sweet and innocent. He carefully ran a hand over her body, wondering when she might come to and scream at him or hit him for touching her this way. But he had no choice if he was to find out if she was wounded.

She wore an Indian tunic, beaded in a design he had never seen before. Whatever Indians she had had the misfortune of being with, it was no tribe in these parts, at least not from the look of the pattern on her dress. There were few Indian designs he did not know, but he did not recognize this one. With expert hands he took inventory of a slender, perfectly rounded body that would give any man wild thoughts; but he found no broken bones, nothing to explain why she lay so limp and lifeless. He pushed up the tunic. She wore nothing under it, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat, for she was indeed something to behold. He had not been with a woman in months, but he shook away the sinful thoughts his baser needs brought to mind. Her condition discouraged such thoughts, for there were several bruises about her hipbones, abdomen, and thighs, some looking like they had been left by a man’s forceful, prying hands, perhaps more than one man. This was a pretty young girl who undoubtedly had been through some kind of traumatic ordeal. He had no doubt now what that ordeal had been. He gently probed her abdomen, unsure what he thought he would find.

His touch brought no sound from her lips, and after examining her, he pulled the tunic back down and rolled her against his chest, pushing back her hair and examining the back of her neck for a small arrow wound of some kind or a knife wound. But there was nothing, and no blood on her anywhere.

Sage sighed deeply, feeling helpless. He laid her down gently in the grass and went to his horse, retrieving a blanket and placing it over her. He walked over to the wagon, and it was only then he saw the body of a man lying under a wagon axle as though he had been pinned there, perhaps before being attacked by the Indians. The man had apparently been trying to fix the wagon and had gotten caught under it. The wagon was very big and heavy. He would have been crushed quickly in such an accident. It looked as though the wagon was some kind of freight wagon, but everything on it had been burned.

Sage walked around it, wondering if there was anything he could salvage that would help him understand who these people were. Out of the rubble he was able to pull only one trunk that was charred but contained a few pieces of women’s clothing. Whether they were simply some of the wares or they belonged to the young girl lying in the grass, he couldn’t be sure. He rummaged through the trunk but found only a couple of nightgowns, three dresses, and a few stockings and bloomers. That was it.

He picked up a stick and began poking through the rest of the rubble but was unable to find anything that might give him a clue to the woman’s identity. He walked back to the man’s body, wondering if the man had come here to sell the woman to the Crow. That was quite possible. It would explain his presence. But then he must have been killed before he could make the deal. The Crow must have come along and found the man dead. They had probably stolen a good many items off the wagon before burning it.

But what about the woman?

Crazy woman, Sage muttered again. Yes. With her staring eyes and motionless body, the Indians would think her crazy, perhaps an evil spirit or one returned from the dead. That would explain why she had not been stolen away. The Indians would want nothing to do with a white woman full of evil spirits. It was not likely the bruises on her body had been put there by the Crow. Sage had no doubt the immediate culprit was the man with whom she had been traveling, but there had probably been others—perhaps from the Indian tribe that had given her the beaded dress with the design he did not recognize.

Sage rubbed his whiskered chin. Had the man under the wagon been a cruel husband? Had they simply gotten lost? Had the man been some underhanded merchant who had come here to sell the poor young girl? And how had he gotten her in the first place? She was young and exquisitely beautiful. She had the appearance of a well-bred young lady, in spite of the common tunic she wore.

He looked around, wondering if there were more bodies. But he saw nothing. He looked back at the young woman, lying quietly under his blanket. She still had not stirred. He had no choice but to take her to Fort Bridger with him. He couldn’t leave such a helpless creature here alone. She would most certainly die quickly, even if she were to awaken and be able to walk.

He supposed he should bury the man’s body, but was sure the smoldering flesh would fall apart in his hands if he tried to move it. The wagon was still too hot for him to even think about lifting it from the man, and the man’s clothes were burned right onto his body so that it would be impossible to rummage through his pockets to find any identification.

It was the woman who needed help. After all, she was still alive. Besides that, the Indians might return, bringing friends to see this crazy woman. He did not care to be found here with her. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

Sage walked over to her again, rechecking for signs of life. There was still a strong pulse. If only her eyes would move or tear. If only she would give some indication that she understood she was being helped, that she realized she didn’t have to be afraid. Yes, that was the look he read in those provocative violet eyes. Fear. No, not just fear. Terror. And such beautiful eyes they were, surrounded by long, dark lashes and perfectly formed eyebrows.

Again his manly instincts teased him, sending waves of desire and need painfully through him. She lay there for the taking, for any man with no conscience. But that was something he had not lost in these mountains. He still had a conscience and a sense of right and wrong, and availing himself of this helpless creature would have been wrong.

Sage, you’re a damned fool, he told himself. What a waste. She probably wouldn’t even know the difference.

He sighed deeply as he went to the trunk of clothes and took out most of them, then walked over and stuffed them into an empty parfleche. He always carried one or two empty bags, never knowing what he would come across in his travels. He was low on supplies, however, and was planning to pack up at Fort Bridger, maybe even fix up a travois. Where he’d go after that, he didn’t know, especially if there were no scouting jobs at the fort. He supposed he’d just wander until he found something he liked. Maybe he’d even spend the winter in the mountains alone. But whatever he did, he had to do something with this young girl first.

He closed the flap on the parfleche, then walked over to the lithe young woman lying on the ground.

Ma’am? I’m taking you for help. He shook her slightly. Ma’am? Can you hear me? Everything will be all right. You don’t have to be afraid.

He wrapped her in the blanket and picked her up in his arms, carrying her over to his horse and flopping her over it, belly down. He eased up onto the animal himself, then maneuvered her body into a sitting position in front of him, holding her tightly in one strong arm while he picked up the reins.

This won’t work for long, he grumbled to himself. He couldn’t hold on to her forever. "Soon as we get to safer places, I’ll make up a travois so’s you can lie on it while I ride," he told her, hoping she could hear and understand.

He started off then, and her head flopped down as though she were asleep. She felt good against him and Sage could think of nothing nicer than her waking up and turning out to be a loose and willing woman.

His horse splashed through the stream and he headed south, leaving behind the still-smoldering wagon and its mysterious owner. Already crows and buzzards were beginning to gather. But that was the way it was in this land, and Sage didn’t doubt he’d end up the same way someday, dying out here with no one to bury him.

The girl’s thick, dark hair drifted against his face then, reminding him that he was most certainly alive, and so was she.

Chapter Two

Man and horse stopped for the night. Sage was still five or six days from Fort Bridger. He hoped he could get the girl talking by then, and he wondered how he was going to explain all this at the fort and what anyone would want to do with an apparently mentally disturbed young woman.

He had stopped mid-afternoon to cut down several young saplings, fashioning them into poles for a travois and tying skins between them to form a sling-type bed for the still-nameless woman. By the time he stopped in a soft meadow that evening to take her from the travois, the skins were wet.

Well, apparently some things are still working right, he muttered. I expect I’ll have to fix you up with some towels or cattail down like the Indians use on their babies if you’re going to be doing this to me.

He carried her to a blanket and threw off one of the skins from the travois.

I hope you know this is a waste of good skins, woman, he muttered. He walked back to her, pulling off her tunic and throwing it aside also.

The sun had not quite set, and in the soft light of dusk she seemed even more beautiful. He allowed his eyes to take inventory of her lovely form. Other than the bruises, there was not a flaw on her anywhere, and the rough and rugged Sage MacKenzie had never beheld a more perfect woman.

I’ve seen some mighty pretty young Indian women, he told her, kneeling beside her, but they don’t have skin white as a lily. He was almost angry with himself for being so honorable. Her hips were perfectly rounded, her waist slender, her stomach flat and provocative. Her breasts were full and firm, even though she was lying on her back, and their nipples were as pink as flowers. He wanted to pick those flowers, to taste their nectar. He thought of simply running his hand over her, just to touch such beauty. But he was afraid if he did he would not be able to stop with the touching. What if she was some man’s wife, or perhaps someone’s innocent daughter? Until he knew more, he had no right, but he suddenly wished to hell he were a lot closer to Fort Bridger.

He leaned closer again.

Ma’am? Don’t you hear me at all? Can’t you tell me your name?

Still nothing. Her staring eyes were beginning to unnerve him. He reached over and closed her eyelids, and to his relief, they stayed closed. He sat back, taking one more moment just to drink in her naked beauty before clothing her in one of the dresses he’d found on the wagon.

I think I’ll call you Venado, he said softly to her. That’s Spanish for little deer. You’re like a lovely young fawn, lost and frightened. I have to call you something. Makes me feel better.

He rose then, going to the parfleche and pulling out a blue gingham dress and a pair of bloomers. Then he shook his head and put the bloomers back, taking out instead a towel and some rawhide ties. He walked back to her.

I’ll wrap this towel around you and if you have another accident, I can wash it out each time we stop. He took out his knife and poked holes in the top of the towel through which he could put the rawhide strips. Then he placed the towel under her, bringing it up between her legs. He pulled the rawhide strings through the holes and tied them so that the towel would stay around her. Then he sat her up and pulled the dress over her head, finding it very awkward trying to get her arms in the sleeves. When he finally managed to do that, he laid her back down and pulled the dress the rest of the way down.

Hmm. A little big. Must not have been your clothes. He shook his head. Where in hell are you from? If I find out later you were a whore or something, I’m gonna kick myself from here to kingdom come for being so damned honorable. You know that, don’t you? You’d by-God better turn out to be something pretty damn special.

He left her there and built a small fire, on which he warmed a rabbit left over from some he’d cooked the day before. He walked over and waved a piece of it under the woman’s nose but got no response.

Well, one thing I know is you can go a long time without food, but not without water, he told her. He walked over and picked up his canteen, taking it over to her and cradling her head in his arm again, putting the lip of the canteen to her own lips. He tipped it. Some of the water just ran out of the side of her mouth, but then he noticed her swallowing.

Well, I’ll be damned, he said with a grin. She swallowed! He gave her a little more. Ma’am? Ma’am, you comin’ around?

She said nothing. He set the canteen aside and bent closer. Ma’am? Nothing seemed to have changed, except that she had swallowed the water. What made you this way, you pretty little thing, he said softly.

He was close. So close. He wondered if he kissed her—

Forget it, Sage MacKenzie, he grumbled then. He laid her back down and capped his canteen before returning to the fire to finish his own meal. A short while later he unsaddled his horse and tethered the animal, then opened his own bedroll, looking up at the stars beginning to appear. It was going to be a clear night, which in these mountains meant a chilly one. He moved his bedroll next to the young woman, pulling her close then and covering them both with all the blankets he had.

If you were conscious, you’d probably never let me do this, but I’ve got to keep you warm, lady, much as it’s gonna bring me great pain to sleep next to the likes of you all night.

He curled his knees up into the back of her own, and her hair gave him something soft to rest his cheek against. He held her close, afraid she would get cold. He couldn’t resist then, but she made no move or response when one of his big, calloused hands moved up to cup a breast. Fire swept through him and he quickly moved his hand away.

Lord help me through this night, he whispered. It’s awful hard to live with the animals this long and not act like one.

His prayer was answered when the long, trying day soon brought on a hard sleep. Only once did the woman stir as an odd groan exited her throat and a terrific shudder engulfed her whole being. Her breathing quickened, and Sage sat up slightly.

Ma’am?

She only groaned in rapid gasps, as though terrified of something. Her eyes remained closed, and she trembled violently. Sage lay back down and held her tightly.

It’s all right, honey. It’s gonna be all right. Just hang on to ol’ Sage.

After several minutes she seemed to calm again, then was as quiet and motionless as ever. Sage lay awake for a long time, just holding her, wondering what terrible thing had gone through her mind.

You sleep, little Venado, he told her then. Just sleep. No sense remembering until you can stand it. Right now maybe it’s best you don’t remember anything at all.

There’s not much for breakfast, Venado, Sage told the woman as he scrambled together beans, potatoes, onions, and dried meat. Mountain men eat strange things, depending on how plentiful or scarce the game is and how long it’s been since he stocked up on other supplies. And sometimes even if game is plentiful, he can’t shoot it for fear of letting the Indians know where he is.

He looked over at her, hoping that if he began talking to her conversationally, something he said would eventually pull forth a response. The woman had slept snuggled next to him the rest of the night without any more bad dreams, and in the morning she had quietly risen and walked behind some bushes. After she came out again, Sage went to investigate, seeing the towel he had put on her. He scratched his head and looked over at her as she sat back down on the blanket, staring straight ahead again. Apparently she suddenly knew enough to go relieve herself.

He hurried over to her, waving his hand in her face again. Ma’am? You waking up some?

There seemed to be no change other than the fact that she had known enough to take care of her bodily needs by herself.

I sure wish you’d talk to me, he told her now as the food cooked and coffee steamed. I swear, being with somebody who won’t talk is lonelier than being with nobody at all.

He poured himself some coffee, then put some in another tin cup and took it over to her. You want some? He waved it under her nose, and to his surprise her eyes moved, seeming to focus on his own. She frowned, studying him, then looked at the outstretched coffee cup. She reached out and took it.

Be careful now. It’s hot.

She said nothing. She simply took the cup and sipped some of the stiff brew.

I don’t much know how to act around you, ma’am, he told her, moving closer to the fire and picking up his own cup. I mean, I don’t know if you’re rich or poor, sixteen or twenty, a captive or a willing traveler out here. I don’t know if you’re married or single, a real lady or maybe somebody from some whorehouse near some fort or town. He looked her over. My guess is you’re a lady, and I’ll say you’re a damn pretty one to boot. You’ve got me all confused, and I’ll be glad as hell to get you to Fort Bridger. Maybe somebody there will know you.

She only sipped the coffee and Sage sighed. The biggest problem is how I’m gonna keep getting through the nights.

He dished some of his nameless concoction onto a tin plate and took it over to her, handing it to her with a fork. Here you go. You try to eat some of this. You need to get some meat on your bones. Whoever had you, they didn’t feed you very well. Didn’t treat you very good all the way around, I reckon. But you don’t have to worry about that with me. Oh, I’m not saying I wouldn’t take advantage of a woman in some ways; but I’d never hurt one. Women are kind of like little animals, you know? I mean, they need taking care of, watching over, protection from bigger animals that might come and hurt them. He studied the beautiful young face. I just wonder what kind of animals it was that abused you. If they were here right now, they’d get a taste of Sage MacKenzie’s justice. I’ve learned from the Indians how to make a man die slowly, and that’s what I’d do to him—or them. ’Course if it was just that man under the wagon, he’s already got his due.

A bird flitted down to a rock nearby and sat there a moment singing. The woman’s eyes moved to the bird, and she looked at it rather longingly. Then to Sage’s surprise, a tear slipped down her face. He got up and walked over to her.

Ma’am? What is it?

Again came the strange groan and the deep breathing that seemed to be building into pants of terror. She suddenly leapt up, food flying, then turned and ran off.

Wait! Sage ran after her, catching her just before she would have run right off a high ledge and fallen several hundred feet to the rocks below. Hang on there, lady. It’s all right.

She tugged at him, then turned and flailed at him wildly, her eyes wide, her breathing in short gasps again. But still she made no sound, even though her mouth kept opening. Sage grasped her wrists tightly, forcing her hands behind her back and pressing her against him.

Stop it now. I don’t want you jumping off any ledges and getting hurt. He yanked her close. I aim to find out who you are, little Venado. You’ve got me curious now, and I’m beginning to feel protective of you.

She suddenly seemed to wilt, and great sobs erupted from her soul as she crumpled against him, weeping bitterly against his chest.

Why don’t you speak to me, Venado? Why don’t you just tell me what happened? It’s all right.

He felt her relax, and her sobbing slowly subsided. She pulled away, looking up at him, then reached up and touched his beard, unspoken questions in her eyes. She seemed to look at him as though she knew him, and he wondered if she was thinking of someone else. He took her hand.

You can tell me, ma’am.

She simply turned away then, walking back to the camp fire. Sage rubbed at his neck. He would have to watch her very closely. Apparently when the awful memory, whatever it was, returned, she went into these fits of terror. She could hurt herself.

Why me? he muttered.

The rest of the day the mysterious young woman rode in front of Sage on his horse, saying nothing. But at least she seemed more aware of things. She looked around at times, seeming to be trying to figure out where she was. It dawned on Sage that she might not even know who she was. Perhaps she had some strange form of amnesia, and along with it, perhaps some bad experience had left her speechless. Out in this wild land such things were not unheard of. Nothing surprised Sage MacKenzie anymore. He’d seen mountain men go crazy from the loneliness, seen one go mad from Indian torture.

He continued talking to her, telling her how he’d lost his parents in a fire when he had been just a boy and how he’d fled to this land to keep from being put in an orphanage.

I wouldn’t know any of my relatives anymore, but it doesn’t much matter. None of them was willing to take me, so I don’t have much use for them. How about you? You got relatives? He waited, not really expecting an answer. I bet you do, but I expect we’ll play hell finding out who and where, unless you decide to open up that mouth.

He stopped and dismounted. Got to give my horse a rest. You can stay up there, he told her, leading the animal by the reins.

Big country, isn’t it? he remarked, moving into a wide valley. There might be reasons you don’t like it. But I love it. I grew up out here, with mostly other trappers for friends. I don’t know how to do much else, except maybe scout for wagon trains. But I’m not crazy about that because it means being around a lot of people. People are okay, but I’m used to being alone. I guess I’ll just have to accept the change. Already more and more are coming out here, and the kind of life I used to lead is fading out. I guess I’m being forced into a new kind of life, but I don’t much know what to do with it. I’m a wandering man. I’m not sure if it’s by nature or just because that’s how I was forced to grow up. I can remember my mother and father, sitting together by a hearth after a nice supper. I can remember a home life. But I never knew one after they died.

He sighed deeply, becoming lost in his own thoughts. It hurt sometimes to remember, even after all these years.

A shout stirred him from his deep thoughts, and immediately he stopped walking, took a couple of steps back, and swung onto the back of his mount, ready to ride if necessary. He pulled his repeater from its boot, then looked around, seeing no one at first. Then two men appeared to his rear on the left. He turned his horse, wishing the woman were not with him. Something as pretty as this one was could change a friend to an enemy in these parts.

His horse was tired, and from the distance he could see that the approaching men were white. He decided not to try to ride off. Better to face them and know where they were and what they were about than to wonder, or risk a bullet in the back. He slowly sauntered his horse in their direction, checking first to be sure a blanket was wrapped securely around Venado’s legs so they weren’t exposed. He supposed he could have made her lie on the travois again. It might have been easier on his horse. But he believed that if she rode in front of him as he talked, perhaps she’d come around a little.

Before the men arrived, Sage quickly dismounted again, grasping the woman around the hips and yanking her backward in the saddle, then remounting in front of her so he’d have a clearer view of the approaching men.

What you hidin’ there, Sage, a man called out.

Sage recognized Moose Kennedy and Jed Baker, two men he’d never ridden with but knew as acquaintances in the world of trapping. He’d come across them many times in the old days of the rendezvous and was aware that they were scouts now just like himself. He’d always liked Jed all right, but Moose was not a man to be trusted, with skins or with women. He’d bargained for many an Indian woman at the rendezvous, and to Sage’s recollection the man had not been kind to them.

Moose! Jed! What brings you two way up here?

Decided not to do much of anything but hunt this year, Sage, Jed replied. Times like this won’t last much longer.

That’s a fact.

Moose eyed the woman behind Sage, licking his lips as he did so. What the hell you got there, Sage? You buy a woman?

Found her, by a burned-out wagon. Don’t know anything about her—no name, nothing. Everything was burned, and she was wearing an Indian tunic. I found one trunk with a few women’s clothes.

Why’s she starin’ like that? Jed put in.

That’s my problem. She won’t talk—won’t do anything but eat a little and relieve herself.

Moose grinned. You watch? He rode his horse closer to get a good look at her.

Hell no, I don’t watch. And you be careful, Moose. I’m taking her to Fort Bridger. I don’t know anything about her. She could be a decent woman who was taken by Indians or something. There was a dead man at the burned-out wagon—looked like a supply wagon. He might have bought her and intended to sell her to the Crow. Who knows? I have to try to find out who she is and where she belongs.

Why bother? Moose answered. Jesus, man, look at her. She’s young, and goddamned pretty. He squinted. Is that all she does—just sit and stare?

Mostly.

You mean, you could have your way with her, and she’d just lie there?

Sage’s hand tightened on his repeater. Don’t think about it, Moose. You and me go back a ways, but not far enough that I’d let you touch this girl before I know what’s going on.

He reined back his horse slightly, raising the rifle.

Moose rubbed at his lips. How about selling her then? I’ll buy her, fair and square, and she’d be out of your hands. Who the hell will ever know?

I will. She’s not for sale.

Moose looked over at Jed. What do you think, Jed? Looks mighty good to a mountain man who hasn’t had somethin’ warm in his bed for a piece.

I said to forget it, Moose. Sage shifted his horse more, aiming the rifle. We’ve known each other a lot of years, and part of the code among us is to mind our own business. I never knew you to rob a man of his furs. You thinking of robbing one of his woman?

That how you think of her, Sage? Your woman? Moose chuckled. You’ve probably already been under them skirts yourself. Is that it?

None of your business if I have or I haven’t. I found her and I’m taking her to Fort Bridger. I don’t know who she is, but I’ll defend her to the death if I have to.

Come on, Moose, let’s get goin’. We’ve a piece to go to get to the place where I told you I found all them elk, Jed inserted. Let the man ride on.

Moose’s hand rested on his pistol, and Sage didn’t miss where it was. Just think of the time we could have, Jed, takin’ that woman along on the hunt. Our bellies would be full of meat, and we’d sleep next to a woman’s warm body at night. What more could a man ask for?

Sage cocked his rifle. He could ask to live. I’d say that’s worth a whole lot more.

Sage’s eyes held Moose’s in a hard stare. Moose knew the man meant business. He’d seen Sage MacKenzie