within a mile of the last shack he had eluded those who pursued him, to vanish without a trace.
By the time he attached himself to a large and well-armed party of men journeying east to get in on the dying throes of the Civil War, Alexander was faultless in the role he had assumed, that of disgruntled and luckless prospector. Even so, he slept each night cuddling his precious tool box to him, and grew used to the discomfort of the gold coins sewn into his clothing. Nor did he ever look as if overburdened.
Once the high Rockies were traversed he was fascinated to see Red Indians in their natural state, magnificently haughty men riding their ponies bareback, clad in buckskin that was sometimes intricately beaded, their lances flaunting feathers, bows and arrows at the ready. But they were too wise to attack this big, warlike party of the hated white men, just sat their ponies to look at the intruders for a while, then disappeared. Buffalo in hundreds roamed the grasslands together with deer and other, smaller creatures; one little burrowing fellow would sit up on his haunches like a gnome, which enchanted Alexander.
As European settlement grew more widespread, they passed through tiny villages of a few tired wooden buildings grouped on either side of a muddy track; here the Red Indians were clad in the white man’s garb, shambling along in a drunken haze. Strong drink, reflected Alexander, has been the ruin of the world; even Alexander the Great had died of a ruptured stomach after a gargantuan drinking binge. And wherever the white man goes, he brings cheap strong drink in his train.
They were following one of the wagon trails, though, thanks to the war, they encountered few settlers going west in the long convoys that gave them some protection against Indian raids. It crossed Kansas to Kansas City, a biggish town at the junction of two great rivers. Here Alexander said goodbye to his companions and followed the Missouri River to St. Louis and the Mississippi. These must be the greatest rivers in the world, he thought, awed, and marveled again at the bounty Nature had given America. Rich soil, any amount of water, a good growing season even if the winters were far colder than those in Scotland. Which made little sense, as Scotland was much farther north.
He deliberately avoided the war zones, having no wish to become embroiled in a struggle he felt he had no part in, nor any entitlement to. Then, crossing northern Indiana, he stopped at a lone house coming on dusk with his usual request: a meal and a bed in the barn in return for whatever hard labor might be needed around the place. With so many of the menfolk away, this worked very well; women trusted him, and he never betrayed their trust.
The woman who answered his knock held a shotgun, and he quite saw why: she was young and beautiful, and there were no sounds of children anywhere. Alone?
“Put the gun down, I’ll not harm you,” he said in that Scots burr so strange and attractive to American ears. “Give me food and shelter in the barn for the night, and I’ll chop wood for you, milk the cow, take all those weeds out of your vegetable patch—whatever you need, madam.”
“What I need,” she said grimly, propping the gun against the wall, “is my man back, but that’s not going to happen.”
Her name was Honoria Brown, and her husband of a few weeks had been killed in a battle called Shiloh; she had been alone ever since, scraping a living off what soil she could till herself and resisting the pleas of her family to return to them.
“I like my independence,” she said to Alexander over a good dinner of chicken, fried potatoes, green beans from her garden and the best gravy he had tasted since leaving Kinross. Her eyes were the color of an aquamarine, thickly fringed with lashes so fair they looked made of glass, and they held humor, hardness, indomitability. A new expression entered them, of speculation; she put down her fork and stared at him
By the time he attached himself to a large and well-armed party of men journeying east to get in on the dying throes of the Civil War, Alexander was faultless in the role he had assumed, that of disgruntled and luckless prospector. Even so, he slept each night cuddling his precious tool box to him, and grew used to the discomfort of the gold coins sewn into his clothing. Nor did he ever look as if overburdened.
Once the high Rockies were traversed he was fascinated to see Red Indians in their natural state, magnificently haughty men riding their ponies bareback, clad in buckskin that was sometimes intricately beaded, their lances flaunting feathers, bows and arrows at the ready. But they were too wise to attack this big, warlike party of the hated white men, just sat their ponies to look at the intruders for a while, then disappeared. Buffalo in hundreds roamed the grasslands together with deer and other, smaller creatures; one little burrowing fellow would sit up on his haunches like a gnome, which enchanted Alexander.
As European settlement grew more widespread, they passed through tiny villages of a few tired wooden buildings grouped on either side of a muddy track; here the Red Indians were clad in the white man’s garb, shambling along in a drunken haze. Strong drink, reflected Alexander, has been the ruin of the world; even Alexander the Great had died of a ruptured stomach after a gargantuan drinking binge. And wherever the white man goes, he brings cheap strong drink in his train.
They were following one of the wagon trails, though, thanks to the war, they encountered few settlers going west in the long convoys that gave them some protection against Indian raids. It crossed Kansas to Kansas City, a biggish town at the junction of two great rivers. Here Alexander said goodbye to his companions and followed the Missouri River to St. Louis and the Mississippi. These must be the greatest rivers in the world, he thought, awed, and marveled again at the bounty Nature had given America. Rich soil, any amount of water, a good growing season even if the winters were far colder than those in Scotland. Which made little sense, as Scotland was much farther north.
He deliberately avoided the war zones, having no wish to become embroiled in a struggle he felt he had no part in, nor any entitlement to. Then, crossing northern Indiana, he stopped at a lone house coming on dusk with his usual request: a meal and a bed in the barn in return for whatever hard labor might be needed around the place. With so many of the menfolk away, this worked very well; women trusted him, and he never betrayed their trust.
The woman who answered his knock held a shotgun, and he quite saw why: she was young and beautiful, and there were no sounds of children anywhere. Alone?
“Put the gun down, I’ll not harm you,” he said in that Scots burr so strange and attractive to American ears. “Give me food and shelter in the barn for the night, and I’ll chop wood for you, milk the cow, take all those weeds out of your vegetable patch—whatever you need, madam.”
“What I need,” she said grimly, propping the gun against the wall, “is my man back, but that’s not going to happen.”
Her name was Honoria Brown, and her husband of a few weeks had been killed in a battle called Shiloh; she had been alone ever since, scraping a living off what soil she could till herself and resisting the pleas of her family to return to them.
“I like my independence,” she said to Alexander over a good dinner of chicken, fried potatoes, green beans from her garden and the best gravy he had tasted since leaving Kinross. Her eyes were the color of an aquamarine, thickly fringed with lashes so fair they looked made of glass, and they held humor, hardness, indomitability. A new expression entered them, of speculation; she put down her fork and stared at him
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