I climb over the low fence, and my skirt or petticoats catch on something, but I rip right through, and for a split second I think, My uncle is going to kill me, but then it doesn’t matter because Peony has closed the distance between us. I throw my arms around her neck, my fingers snagging in her bright blond mane. She whuffles into my hair, and then she’s head butting my ear and snorting and swishing her tail like she’s being attacked by flies.
She’s madder than a hornet and glad to see me all at once, and I don’t blame her one bit.
“I’m so sorry, girl,” I tell her. “It wasn’t my choice for them to take you away.”
“Hey, that’s Topper’s horse!” someone says as a hand grabs my elbow with the hardness and strength of a farrier’s tongs.
Peony is my horse, and she always will be, and somehow, we’re going to get away from this awful place together. But I know better than to say so aloud.
“She was my horse before she belonged to Topper,” I say to the man on watch. “Just wanted to check on her. Make sure Topper was treating her right.”
The man adjusts his holster. He carries a Colt, like everyone else, and it was half drawn before he realized I meant no harm. “Abel Topper treats that pretty palomino like she’s the Queen of England,” he says. “Comes by regular to give her treats and brush her down. Tried to get her housed in the stable with the rest of our finer stock, but Mr. Westfall wouldn’t have it.”
My shoulders slump a little with relief. I miss Peony something fierce, but maybe I don’t need to worry about her. I know why my uncle refused to stable her, though. The stable is too close to the cabin. It would be easy for me to sneak out and ride off into the night. In fact, now that I look around, I recognize Sorry and Apollo, too. My uncle must have moved them here for the same reason.
I stroke Peony’s neck and murmur at her until she calms. Then I run my hands down her legs, testing for soundness, pick up her hooves and scoop out the mud with a forefinger so I can check the frogs of her feet.
“Her front shoes are getting worn,” I point out.
The man with the Colt gives me a strange look. “Never seen a wee gal so taken with a horse,” he says. “You’re willing to get muddied up for her and everything.”
“Not a lot of wee gals in these parts for comparison,” I point out.
“That’s God’s truth,” he says with a despairing sigh.
“You’ll mention the worn shoes to Topper?” I say.
“I’ll mention it.”
“Say you noticed all by yourself,” I tell him. “Please. He won’t listen if knew it came from a wee gal.”
He chews on this a moment, but then he says, “All right.”
I linger over Peony as long as they’ll let me, but all too soon Wilhelm tugs on my arm. “Good-bye, sweet girl. I’ll try to visit again soon.”
This time I don’t have to climb over the fence. Wilhelm and the guard lift a post so I can step over easily, then we head back toward the camp.
My mind churns over everything I just learned. The Indians are kept in the worst squalor I’ve ever seen, and I have to confront my uncle about it. I have to. Otherwise they won’t live long enough for Muskrat to help them escape.
Making plans, escaping, all of it will be near impossible if Hiram keeps me tied up at night. Either I need to convince him to trust me again—and quickly—or I need to find a knife to smuggle into my bedroom.
Wouldn’t hurt to figure out what he did with my guns, too. Or maybe I can steal one. It seems everyone is carrying a Colt these days. I’m not well practiced with a Colt, but I’ve shot Jefferson’s a few times. It’s its own beast, but maybe it’s familiar enough that I could be dangerous at close range.
And once I do escape, Peony will be right here, down the slope from my uncle’s cabin and through the trees, waiting for me. She might even be freshly shod.
How well guarded is this corral? I glance back over my shoulder as Wilhelm and I walk away. I see the man who promised to tell Abel Topper about Peony’s shoes, along with three others, all evenly spread. Each one carries at least one gun. Two carry both a revolver and a rifle.
I have to assume the place will be equally well guarded at night.
Someone saw me leave the cabin when I snuck out to meet Jefferson. Which means that even when Wilhelm is not outside standing sentry, the cabin is watched. It’s probably watched by a lot of people. My uncle may be a no-good son of a hairy goat, but he’s not stupid.
So that’s why Mary and Muskrat are trying to come up with a distraction for the thanksgiving celebration. Something so huge that no one will be watching the cabin or the stockade or the corral.
You should see, Muskrat said.
I’ve seen just as much as a body can take today, but somehow, I have to do more. I need to find out where Jefferson and Tom sleep at night and learn exactly how they managed to sneak off. I need to start saving food for a journey; maybe Mary can help with this. And we need to figure out some sort of distraction.
A long, loud distraction. If the Indians I saw in the mine and in the stockade are any indication, none of them are fit for making a run for it. So we’ll need mounts. Lots of mounts. And maybe something to slow down pursuers.
I stumble in my tracks as the thought hits, but Wilhelm’s iron grip keeps me from falling.
Escaping won’t be enough.
My uncle will try again. He’ll either hunt us all down and round us up, or he’ll just find more people to work his mine. I swore to end him after Dilley burned Glory to the ground, but bluster won’t get the job done. We have to destroy him for real, and soon.
I’m back inside the cabin, having a bit of much-needed dinner. After vomiting up all my breakfast, I’m hungry as a bear. Fortunately Mary left some buttermilk biscuits on the table, along with a jar of apple butter, and I eat three biscuits in quick succession, thinking about anything except what I saw in the stockade.
When my belly is full, I want nothing more than to curl up on my bed, quilt over my head, but I know it for a foolishness at once. As if a quilt could keep the world out or make my mind stop churning.
So I wipe my mouth with a napkin and sit up straight on my stool and think harder than I’ve ever thought.
To destroy my uncle, I probably have to kill him.
The thought has crossed my mind before. About him, Frank Dilley, Abel Topper. But that was just impulse. This is cold calculation.