* * *
Callie pushed the saddle off her stomach and battled her way to her feet. She glared at Lieutenant Delacroix’s back. She didn’t like him. He was too prideful for his own good. Typical white man. Although he was pretty to look at, he was stupid.
He probably didn’t know anything about surviving on this side of the Mississippi. Maybe she should reconsider her decision to join the scouts. Naw! Not a chance. She figured she’d probably have to spend all her time keeping his white ass out of trouble. What did he know about tracking? Nothing. What did he know about living off the land. Nothing. What did he know about the Comanche? Nothing. Callie knew everything.
She hefted the saddle to one shoulder and staggered down the feed aisle to the tack room. She flung it over a storage rack. She’d love to punch that man in the mouth. He made her feel crazy inside, like she couldn’t think anymore.
Joining the scouts was supposed to be simple. She’d earn her land and muster out of the Army. She didn’t need to be thinking wicked thoughts about a man ... any man.
“You be careful with Mr. Luc’s saddle, boy,” a man said.
“Who you callin’ a boy?” Callie spotted an old colored man sitting on a three-legged stool mending a harness. He wore a stained leather apron over baggy denim pants. Tightly curled, iron gray hair crowned his head. Brown eyes were deep-set in a coffee-colored face.
The old man shifted the harness. “Mr. Luc had that saddle made special in London.”
Callie studied him. “Maybe he ought to go back to London. Texas is no place for a tenderfoot.”
The old man grinned, revealing red gums and a couple of teeth in the bottom jaw. “You a feisty one, little man.”
Callie bit her lip. “Don’t you call me a ‘little man.’” The old man burst into a hearty laughter. “You and me are gonna get along just fine. But you watch your mouth around the officers. Most of them white boys don’t think nothing about strippin’ down a Black man and whippin’ us like we was back on the plantation.”
Her mouth fell open. “Including Lieutenant Delacroix?” She waited for the answer hoping that the handsome Lieutenant Delacroix wouldn’t be so cruel, that he was different.
The old man shook his head. “The Lieutenant’s a good man. He volunteered to lead the Black soldiers. Not like most of the officers who think we don’t know nothin’ about soldierin’. All we’re good for is pickin’ cotton and shinin’ shoes.”
“You mean the Buffalo Soldiers?”
“Yes sir, little man. That Lieutenant Delacroix and his black boys followed that Apache, Screamin’ Coyote, all the way into Sonora and drug him back.” He bent over the harness for a moment. Then he smiled. “An’ fore that he fought the war betwixt the States.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t get killed.”
The old man laughed. “You an evil one, little man. What’s your name?”
“Cal.”
“Well, Cal, you big enough for that name.”
Callie stuck her hands in her pockets and poked out her chest. She liked him. “I can take care of myself, old man.”
“You call me Silas. I take care of the horses and the saddle mendin’ round here. Nobody knows more about horses than me.”
In spite of her herself, Callie sat down on a stool, drawn to the old man. He was like her father. That is, what she remembered of her father. He’d always been spinning yarns, telling tales, and sharing his life stories with her. “How come you know so much about horses, Silas?”
“Back in Virginia, I was a slave. Took care of the Master’s horses. Master Charles had himself the best stable in the state. When the war come, I stole me seventeen horses and made my way up north and joined the Union Army. Been with Mr. Luc ever since.”
The war in the east had been like another yarn spun around the camp fire. News had been scanty, and Callie doubted much was true. What the men in the village didn’t know, they made up. “Did you do any fighting?”
He buffed the metal rivets that held the harness together. “I did some, but I don’t want to do no more killin’. It’s hard on the soul.”
“Then why are you here?”
Silas smiled. “I owe Mr. Luc my life. Now I take care of him.”
Callie stood and turned back toward the stable. “Looks like I’m doing the same thing. I have to rub down his horse.”
“There’s worse jobs,” Silas said with a knowing glint in his dark eyes.
Callie walked back to Luc’s horse. She grabbed a ratty blanket and started rubbing the animal down, then she groomed the animal until the gelding’s hide shone like silk. For some reason, she wanted Luc to be proud of her, and if that meant showing him she could take good care of his horse, then she would.
* * *
Luc opened the door to his office. A wave of heat hit him like a slap as he entered. The office was small and cramped with four desks. One of which was occupied by Reggie who sat with his dust-caked boots propped up on an open drawer, reading a report. He glanced up over the edge of the report. “How did patrol go?”
Luc tossed his hat on his desk. “Badly. Not a sign of the Comanches, but I may have located the stolen horses.” He pulled out his chair and sat down stifling a yawn. He rubbed his face and eased his legs out. He desperately wanted a decent night’s sleep. He’d spent the Civil War aching for the exact same thing, and here he was wanting it again. And he’d thought life in Texas would be boring.
Reggie’s feet hit the floor. “Where?” “We’ll find out tomorrow.” If a snot-nosed boy who didn’t even shave proved to be wrong, Luc would look like a fool. But then again, Cal was desperate to join the scouts, Luc didn’t think he’d lie about something so important. In fact, he didn’t think Cal would lie about anything. There was a directness in the boy’s eyes. Not the type of sliding-off gaze that indicated a lack of truth.
Luc had a momentary flash of finding the bodies of the soldiers who had been herding the horses to the fort. The soldiers badly needed the replacement horses. Once Luc spoke to Major Adams about what Cal had related to him, the Major would send them out again to track the Comanches down and get those horses back.
Luc examined the mail that had been neatly stacked on his desk. Most of the envelopes contained bills for grain and for supplies for the troops. But one letter leaped out at him. The postmark said Paris, and his name was written in the loopy feminine script that belonged to his sister. Esme! He reached for it, anticipating the latest gossip. The letter was open. He glared at Reggie.
“I am your adjutant,” Reggie pointed out. “You did give me permission to open your mail.”
“I believe I did mention to abstain from opening those marked ‘personal’.
And this one is definitely marked personal.” He was thankful Esme was willing to help him keep his secret. He didn’t want Reggie--or anyone else¬-to learn about his deception. He’d be cashiered out of the army, or worse. He didn’t know what the worse could be, but he knew he would suffer the effects of the humiliation for the rest of his life.
“Just trying to help,” Reggie replied with an impish grin. “Are you going to introduce me to your sister? She’s coming, you know.” A salacious gleam brightened Reggie’s blue eyes as he picked up a small portrait Esme had painted of herself that decorated the corner of Luc’s desk.
“No.” Luc snatched the painting from his aide’s hands. He studied his twin’s face. She wore a stylish, evening gown of virginal white--an ironic choice. Her shining blue-black hair, swept up in the newest Parisian style, exposed ruby and diamond earrings hanging from her delicate shell-shaped ears. Her green eyes, glowed with mischief. She was outrageous and Luc loved her. Her antics had kept him amused since their childhood.
Reggie tapped his fingers on the desk. “Why not?”
Luc raised an eyebrow. What would Reggie think if he wooed Esme, married her, and discovered she was a woman of color? Reggie’s well-bred ancestors, a line he could trace all the way back to the Mayflower and probably England, woul
d disown him.
Luc almost laughed out loud at the thought. Though he doubted he had anything to worry about. Reggie wasn’t Esme’s type, he was too tame, too average. Esme liked men with culture and class, yet with a hint of mischief that complimented her own.
But then again, Luc hadn’t seen Esme in five years. She could have
changed.
Reggie frowned. “I assume by your silence that you feel I’m not good enough for your sister.” A touch of hostility tinged his voice. Reggie didn’t take rejection lightly.
Luc chuckled. “Correct on the first try.”
Reggie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’m most respectable. Any woman would be delighted to have me.”
“Any woman, but Esme.” Luc removed the letter from the envelope.
“If she gave me a chance, I could change her mind.”
Luc studied him over the edge of the letter. “You may try all you want. But I warn you, my sister has a trail of broken hearts behind her a mile long.”
Luc scanned the letter quickly. Her lover had died, and Luc felt a moment’s sorry even though he had never met the man. Esme had loved him very much. With him dead and Luc gone, she no longer had a reason to remain in Paris. The idea of visiting him had occurred to her. She’d decided to visit him and eventually make her way to San Francisco. She had heard the city was an interesting place and she felt it was the place to start anew.
Luc had a hard time picturing his sophisticated, Paris-educated sister, whose favorite pastime was strolling the Champs d’Elysses, in the wild and untamed West. Where would he put her? The three rooms assigned him on officers’ row were abysmally small and filled with insects. Weeds grew through the wooden slats of his floor and water leaked through the roof during the summer storms. Fort Duncan was a long, long way from cosmopolitan Paris.
Esmeconsidered anything less than the finestEuropean accommodations, with the best linen sheets, nothing more than a hovel. The picture of his sister on a bumpy, dusty stagecoach, with the great unwashed hordes, amused him. Haute French society would pay millions of francs to see Esme Delacroix out of her element and uncomfortable. As a matter of fact, he would enjoy seeing that way also.
He read her letter again. From the time-table she’d given him, she should be arriving in New Orleans soon, where she intended to visit their father.
A stab of guilt pierced him. Luc hadn’t spoken to his father in twelve years. His father had been furious when Luc ad joined the Northern army instead of the south’s colored brigades. But Luc’s politics and his father’s politics didn’t exactly match, and the old man, whose support Luc had depended on through his years in Paris, had been withdrawn.
Luc regretted his father’s anger, the rift between them, but if Luc were honest with himself he was as much at fault as his father. Like his father, Luc’s pride had been hurt. He understood his father’s position, but his father had refused to understand Luc’s. The only time Luc had written to attempt an explanation, the letter had been returned unopened.
He wondered what Esme thought she could to help make peace between them. Though she had kept in touch with her father, their correspondence had been sporadic. In the last two years, Esme had written several times, but their father had not answered. Luc hoped that her trip to New Orleans was fruitful.
Esme, as outrageous as she was, wasn’t impulsive. She planned her scandals and stunts with precision. What did she have in store for him? He grimaced at the prospect of her arrival. Esme was always up to something, and he wondered what she was up to this time.
Chapter Three
Callie sat, tall and proud, in the saddle of her brand new horse. She loved her new mount, but hated giving up her mule, Ocala. Since childhood, the feisty mule had served her well. But Ocala wasn’t fast enough for the grain-fed army horses. So she had turned Ocala loose in a corral. Mules were smarter than horses and Callie had been sorry to give the old mule up.
She would have been issued a uniform, but none had been small enough to fit, so she continued to wear her baggy pants and loose plaid shirt. Good thing, too. How would she change in front of all the men who comprised the patrol? None had been from her village. Her friends would have shielded her but they had been sent to other forts. These men would be less understanding if they discovered she was a woman.
She’d been given a private room in the barracks. Lt. Delacroix had secured it for her, telling her that her age had allowed him to manage the special privilege. Callie had been grateful. She wouldn’t have to wash and dress in front of the whole barracks. Though the soldiers had a pleasant, almost kindly, attitude to her, treating her like a little brother. She knew if they found out what she was, she would be treated harshly.
She shot a glance back at Lieutenant Delacroix. Her commanding officer radiated authority. He rode at the head of the patrol, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon. Sometimes he watched her.
Delacroix interested her in a way she’d never before experienced. With his black hair and piercing green eyes, he was unlike any other man she’d ever seen. His sculpted cheekbones and full mouth fascinated her. Just being near him made her go hot and giddy on the inside. She’d never felt so odd with any of the men in her village. They were like brothers to her. But something about the Lieutenant was very un-brother-like.
She shifted in the saddle. The horse glided in an easy way that Ocala had never had. Filled with confidence and hope, Callie envisioned her future stretching out brightly in front of her. She’d prove to the Lieutenant she could to do the job. And in the end, the Army would be grateful for what she’d done and they’d pay her with land.
The long, hard ride to Mexico took them across the Rio Grande, away from the fertile areas alongside the river, and into a desert, scorched by the hot sun, inhabited only by bugs and rattlesnakes.
Callie ranged far ahead of the patrol. She stopped, dismounted and crouched on the ground. Clutching the reins of her horse, she studied the tracks in the sand. Even though the horses had been herded this way over a week ago and the sand had almost returned to its natural, rippled state, the sign was still there. Faint and almost gone, but she knew how to read the desert. She smiled, surprised at the cunning of the Comanche raiding party.
The evidence of the large herd of horses passing through was clear to someone who knew what to search for. A broken twig, horse hair, a bush knocked aside with rocks turned over--all showed that a large herd of animals had passed. On the edges, were deeper tracks of horses with riders. She believed the band of Indians was small, from what she could see maybe four or five warriors, but the Comanche were masters at concealing their numbers.
She heard a horse cantering toward her. She didn’t look up, knowing it was Lieutenant Delacroix. She always sensed when he was near. The skin on her body heated and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Callie tried to shake off the feeling. She remounted and turned her horse to face him, glad the white man, Reggie Cooper, hadn’t come to check on her.
Lieutenant Cooper treated the soldiers worse then dirt. Silas had warned her to stay out of his way. If he treated his men so badly, how would he treat a woman?
“Sir.” She settled her wide-brimmed hat low on her head to shade her eyes. The glare off the sand burned her skin. In the distance, a storm formed, but Callie doubted it would come this way. She hoped not. It would erase what was left of the horse sign, and then she’d be out of the Army because she couldn’t do her job.
Lieutenant Delacroix leaned forward on his saddle. “Well, Payne?”
“Five, maybe six, riders heading south on unshod horses pushing the herd hard” She peered at the ground. “They came through here about a week ago. The sand is already settling back.”
Every time he looked at her with his piercing green eyes, she thought he would see right through her disguise and realize who and what she was. That thought sat in the back of her mind, never to be forgotten, making her remember she had to be careful. He was a man who saw beyond the obvious. Once slip on h
er part and he would guess her secret.
“Any idea where they’re heading?” Lieutenant Delacrois asked.
“Tres Cruces.” She pointed at a ragged ridge of mountains, so distant she could barely make out the peaks.
Delacroix shaded his eyes as he stared in the direction she pointed. “Why would they go there?”
Callie knew. Tres Cruces was the hangout for every outlaw in Mexico. “Tres Cruces is a very bad place. Juan Valenzuela is there. He’s a bandit. Comanche trade with him. He pays them in rifles and ammunition.” Her horse fell into step next to his. “Valenzuela is not a good man. Everyone avoids the area. Only outlaws go to Tres Cruces.”
They rode silently for a few minutes and then Callie stopped and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Lieutenant Delacroix asked.
She studied the trail. “A smaller herd with two riders split off and headed back north toward the river.”
“Splitting the herd to throw us off the trail?”
She shook her head. “Maybe, but I think they probably intend to keep some of the horses for themselves. Which trail do you want me to follow?”
“The main herd.”
She paused and looked into his green eyes, pushing down an attack of nerves. He made her so jittery she couldn’t concentrate on what she was going to say. “The Comanches are long gone. This trail’s a week old. They didn’t head straight for Juan Valenzuela’s hideout, but zig-zagged to make tracking more difficult. If we follow on their heels, we’ll stay a week behind. I can show you another way and head straight for the hideout. We’ll probably miss the Comanche, but we might get there before Valenzuela has moved the horses to one of his other bases.”
He glanced at her. “How do you know?”
She took a deep breath, worried about the consequences of giving him advice. “The zig-zag pattern is an old Seminole trick.”
After The Lies Page 4