“I’m just fine, Lieutenant.” She hesitated.
“Thank you.” She whirled around in her black skirt, then crawled into the wagon. Jamie clenched his hands tight at his sides and returned to the group. The funeral was just about over. Jon and Monahen and a few of the others were stamping down the last of the dirt and erecting wooden crosses over the graves.
The crosses wouldn’t stay long. The wind would take them, the dust would wear them away, and in time animals then men would tramp upon them. The West was like that. A man lived and died, and little but bones could be left behind.
Bones and dreams.
“I ordered the men to set up camp, Lieutenant, just like you said,” Monahan told him.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Is that all, Lieutenant?”
“No. Split them even, Monahan. Half can sleep while the second half stay on guard. Just in cas~.”
“In case the Injuns come back,” Monahah said. “In case of anything.
This is the cavalry, Sergeant!”
“Yes, sir!”
Monahan saluted sharply. He shouted orders, his voice loud in the night.
The men at the graves hurried after Monahan as he started toward the fires where the others were already setting up camp. As Jamie watched, he saw his men melt into the rocks and crevices around them. They were a crack troop.
They had campaigned through the most rugged Indian territory in the West and they had all learned 27 their lessons well. They could walk as silently as any brave, shoot with the same deadly accuracy and engage in lethal knife play with ease.
It hadn’t been easy for Jamie, not at first. Some of the men had resented the Rebel who had won his promotions so easily. Some hadn’t thought a Reb ought to be given a gun, and many had had their doubts about Jamie in Indian country. He had been forced to prove his way at every step, in battle or in negotiations. They’d met up with a tribe of warring Apache once near the border, and he had shown them something of his mettle with his Colts as the battle had begun. Later he found out there had been some whispering about all the Slater brothers, and how deadly he and Cole and Malachi had been during the war. Overnight, it seemed, his reputation had become legendary.
He smiled in the darkness. It had been worth it. He had gained a loyal following, and good men. Nothing would come slipping through his lines tonight. He could rest with If he could rest at all.
Despite himself he felt his eyes drawn toward the wagon that stood just outside the circle of small cavalry-issue Aframe tents.
“What a burden,” Jon said quietly from behind. Jamie swung around, arching a brow. Jori wasn’t the usual subordinate, nor did Jamie expect him to be.
“Why don’t you quit making the comments and start telling me something about this von Heusen fellow.”
“You really interested?” Jon asked.
“Try me. Come on. We’ll get some coffee and take a walk up by the ridge.”
Monahan gave them coffee from a tin pot at the fire, then the two men wandered up the ridge. Jamie found a seat on a flat rock and rested his boots on another. Jon stood, watching the expanse of the prairie. By the soft light of the moon, it was a beautiful place, the mountains rising like shadows in the distance, the sage rolling in ghostly fashion and the camp fires and stars just lighting up the darkness around them.
“She’s telling the truth,” Jon said.
“How can you know?” Jamie demanded.
Jon shrugged, scuffed his boots against the earth and turned to hunker down near Jamie.
“I know because I’ve heard of this man before. He wanted land further north during the war. He was a cattle baron up there then, and he was ordered by the government to provide members of the Oglala Sioux on reservation land with meat. He gave them maggot-fiddled beef that he wouldn’t have fed to his own sows. The Indians formed a delegation to speak with the man. He called it an Indian uprising and soon every rancher in the area was at war with the Sioux. Hundreds, red and white, died. Uselessly, senselessly. And von Heusen was never punished.”
Jamie was quiet for a moment. He stared toward the remnants of the wagon train.
“So he’s got property now in Wiltshire. And he wants more. And he likes to rile up the Indians. I still can’t do anything, Jon. Even if I believed Miss. Stuart, there wouldn’t be anything I could do.”
“Because you can’t prove anything.”
“Exactly. And no sane white man is going to believe it.”
“That’s too bad,” Jori said after a moment.
“That’s really too bad. I don’t think Miss. Stuart can survive very long.”
“Come on, Jon, stop it! No matter how powerful this von Heusen is, he can’t just out-and-out murder the woman!
The whole town would be up in arms. He can’t own the whole damned town!”
Jon shrugged.
“He owns the sheriff. And we both know that he doesn’t have to out-and-out murder the girl. There are ways.”
“Damn!” Jamie stood up, dusting the dirt off the rump of his breeches with his hat.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I told you. We’re riding back to the fort” — “And then?”
“Let’s get there, eh?”
Jon stood.
“I just wanted you to know, Jamie, that if you decide to take some of that time the government owes you, I’ll go with you.”
“I’m not taking any time.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say, Slater.” Jamie paused, grinning.
“Thanks, Red Feather. I appreciate it. But believe me, I’m sure I’m not the escort Miss. Stuart has in mind.”
Jon pulled his hat low over his eyes, grinning.
“Well, Jamie, me lad, we don’t always know just exactly what it is that we need, now, do we? Good night.” Without waiting for a reply he walked down the ridge.
Jamie stayed on the ridge a while longer, looking at the camp fires.
He’d stay up with the first group on watch; Monahan would stay up with the second.
But even when he saw the guard change and the sergeant take his place silently upon a high ridge, he discovered he couldn’t sleep. The cot didn’t bother him—he had slept on much less comfortable beds—nor did the night sounds, or even the nightmare memories of the day.
She bothered him. Knowing that she slept not far away. Or lay awake as he did. Perhaps, in private, the tears streamed down her face.
Or perhaps she was silent still, done with the past, determined to think of the future. She believed what she was saying to him. She believed that the wagon train had been attacked by white men dressed up like Indians. She wouldn’t let it rest.
He groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. It wasn’t exactly as if she was asking for his help. She’d made it clear she didn’t even want to hear his voice. He owed her nothing, he owed the situation nothing.
Yes, he did.
He owed the people who had died here today, and he owed the Comanche, who were going to be blamed for this.
And he owed all the people who would die in the bloody wars to follow if something wasn’t proven one way or the other.
Still, he didn’t sleep. He lay awake and he wondered about the woman with the sun-honey hair who lay not a hundred yards away in the canvas-covered wagon.
Sometime during the night Tess slept, but long before dawn she was wide awake again, reliving every moment of what had happened. Her grief and rage were so deep that she wanted to scream aloud, but screaming again would do no good, and she had already cried until she felt that her tears were a river that had run as dry as the plain with its sagebrush and dust.
She cast her feet to the floor and stared across the darkened wagon to the bunk where her Uncle Joseph should have been sleeping, where he would sleep no more. Joe would lie out here in the plain for eternity, and his body would become bone, and in the decades to come, no one would really know that a brave and courageous man had died here fighting, even if he’d barely
had a chance to raise a weapon. Joe had never given in, not once. He couldn’t be intimidated. He had printed the truth in the Wiltshire Sun, and he had held fast to everything that was his.
And he had died for it.
Tess pulled on her shoes and laced them high up her ankles, then silently slipped from the wagon. The cavalry camp fires were burning very low. Dawn couldn’t be far away. Soldiers were sleeping in the A-frame tents, she knew, and more soldiers were awake, on guard, one with the rocks and cliffs that rose around the edge of the plain.
They were on guard—against Indians!
She clenched her jaw hard, glad of the anger, for it helped to temper the grief. What kind of a fool did they think she was? Not they—him! That Yank lieutenant with the deep, soft drawl.
The one she’d like to see staked out for the ants. Walking silently through the night, she came upon the graves at last. She closed her eyes and she meant to pray, but it wasn’t prayers that came to her lips. Goodbye, Joe, I loved you! I loved you so very much! I won’t be able to come back here, I’m sure, but you’re the one who taught me how special the soul was, and how little it had to do with the body.
Uncle Joe, you were really beautiful. For all that grizzled face of yours and your broken nose, you were the most beautiful person I ever knew. I won’t let you have died for nothing, I swear it. I won’t lose. I’ll keep the paper going, and I’ll hold onto the land. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I will, I swear it, I promise. I promise, with all my heart. Her thoughts trailed off and she turned around, uncannily aware that she wasn’t alone.
She wasn’t.
The tall lieutenant with the wicked force to his arms was standing not far behind her, silent in the night. In the haze of the coming morning, he seemed to be a towering, implacable form. He wasn’t a heavy man, but she had discovered in her wild fight with him that his shoulders were broad, that his arms and chest were well and tautly muscled, that he was as lean and sleek and powerful as a puma, agile and quick. His eyes were a most interesting shade of gray, remote, enigmatic, and yet she felt their acuteness each time they fell upon her. She realized, in the late shadows of night, that he was an arresting man. Handsome. but not because of perfect features or any gentleness about him. His face was ruggedly hewn, but with clean, strong lines. His jaw was firm and square, his cheekbones were high, his eyes done, but he hadn’t promised her a lick of help in righting things. He didn’t care.
The only people who cared were the citizens of Wiltshire, and there weren’t really all that many left. Even the sheriff was one of von Hcusen’s men, put into office during one of the shadiest elections imaginable.
It was light, Tess realized. The daylight had come as they had stood there, staring at one another. Against the pink of the sky, Lieutenant Slater suddenly seemed a towering menace. A pulse beat at the base of his throat as he watched her. His jaw seemed cast into a slight twist, then locked as if it held back his temper. There was a good ten feet between them, and still she felt his heat, body heat. Her heart was beating too quickly, and something warm churned deep within her abdomen while little touches of mercury seemed to dance along her back. She needed to break away from him.
She despised his attitude; she couldn’t help but spise him for the blue uniform that reminded her so completely of the war.
He wore it well, his dark, plumed hat pulled low over his eyes, his shoulders broad in the navy blue cavalry shirt, his legs long, his hips trim. She had to walk past him. She swallowed hard and forced herself to smile.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant, I’m sure that you’re anxious to ride as quickly as possible.” She started to walk. The closer she came to him the harder her heart beat. She was almost past him.
Then his arm snaked out and he caught her elbow. Her heart slammed against her chest as she looked into his smok~-gray eyes, s’zzzling into hers beneath the sun. His eyes were still shadowed by the brim of his hat.
“I am sorry, Miss. Stuart. I’m very sorry.”
She wanted to speak. Her throat was dry. She felt his fingers upon her as if they burned. She was acutely aware of the warmth and strength of his body.
She stared at his hand upon her and pulled from his grasp. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she managed to say, then she forgot her dignity and fled.
In an hour they were ready to start out. Lieutenant Slater ordered the downed and useless wagons burned. He almost ordered her new printing press burned, but Tess forgot all about a low-toned and well-modulated voice and dignified behavior and came bursting from her wagon to demand that the press be carried into something that was still capable of rolling.
“What in hell is it?” the lieutenant demanded impatiently.
“A press! A printing press! I need it for the Wiltshire Sun!”
“Your uncle’s newspaper? But he’s—dead, Miss. Stuart.”
“The Wiltshire Sun is not dead, Lieutenant, nor do I intend to let it die.
I will not take a step without that printing press.”
A spark of silver touched his eyes as they narrowed upon her.
“Don’t threaten me, Miss. Stuart.”
“I’m not threatening! I’m telling you what will and will not happen.”
He took a step toward her and spoke very quietly.
“Miss. Stuart, you will move when I say so, ma’am, because I’ll set you upon your pretty little—er—rump within the wagon, and one of my men will drive.”
“You wouldn’t dare! I’ll tell your superiors” — “You tell them anything you want. Want to test me?”
She gritted her teeth and stared into his eyes.
“I need that press, Lieutenant.”
He stood still, hard, cold, immobile. “Lieutenant, please! I need that printing press! It would only take your men a few minutes. Please!”
For a moment he continued to stare at her. Then he turned around, calling to Sergeant Monahan. The men were ordered to move the press into one of the wagons that could still roll.” Private Harper!” Slater called.
“Hitch your horse to the rear and drive the extra wagon.”
“Yes, sir!”
Tess exhaled slowly. Lieutenant Slater east her a hard glare, then turned around. He strode away, calling for his men to see to the last of the fires, then mount up. When he had gone, Tess realized that the handsome Indian with the striking eyes was silently watching her. He saluted with a smile, as if she had managed very well. Then he, too, turned away.
Tess was certain it was a long day for the cavalry. The men were accustomed. to moving quickly—now they were burdened down by the wagons. The landscape was beautiful— and monotonous. The land was a constant pale, dusty brown, the little bit of color against it the dull green of sage and cactus.
She was determined not to complain, but the dust soon covered her, and after endless hours of driving the six mules that pulled her wagon, she was exhausted. Her arms hurt in places where she hadn’t realized she had muscles. She could have said something, she was certain. The majority of the young cavalry men were kind and solicitous, riding by her whenever they could, asking her if she needed anything. But each time a man drove by, she saw Lieutenant Slater in the distance beyond him, and so she smiled sweetly and said that she was doing very well.
He had to stop. He had to stop sometime.
He finally called a halt when the sun began to fall into the horizon and the whole world went pink again. He stayed away from her, but she knew he was watching her. Was he judging her?
Trying to decide if she was crazy or if she was having female whimsies? She had to keep a tight lid on her temper. No matter what he did or said, she had to keep quiet. When she reached his fort she would speak calmly and rationally with the commander, and she would make him understand.
“Miss. Stuart!” Sergeant Monahah rode over to her, then dismounted from his horse.
“Let me help me you down, miss. I’ll see to your mules and the wagon.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I can really” — S
he broke off, nearly falling as he helped her from the wagon. He held her steady as her feet touched the ground, and she smiled for him.
“Thank you again. I guess I do need some help.”
“At your service.”
She felt she was being watched. She looked over Monahan’s shoulder and there was Slater, still mounted on his huge horse, overseeing his men as they broke their formation to make camp. He tipped his hat to her, and she felt something run hot and liquid inside her. He was watching her in Monahan’s arms, and very likely acknowledging a feminine ability to draw others to handle her own responsibilities.
Her temper started to soar.
Monahah stepped back, and his wide baby blue eyes were full of gentleness and kindness and maybe just a bit of adoration.
He was a wonderful man, just like a great big shaggy bear. The devil to Lieutenant Slater. If his men wanted to behave like gentlemen, she had no intention of stopping them.
“Miss. Stuart, Lieutenant Slater rode this far because we know this place. If you go just past that ridge yonder, there’s the prettiest little brook. It’s mostly surrounded by dry rock, but the water runs pure and clean. There’s an area up there far from where we’ll water the horses. You can take a walk up there and find all the privacy you might desire.” “Thank you again, Sergeant,” Tess said.
“I would dearly love a bath.
I’ll take you up on your suggestion.” She hurried to the back of the wagon and found clean clothing, a bar of soap and a towel. When she emerged again, Sergeant Monahah was unharnessing the mules. He pointed toward the ridge.
She could see that some of the soldiers were headed in the other direction.
She smiled again and hurried toward the ridge. She was puffing slightly when she walked over it, but then she gasped with delight.
The brook was surrounded by boulders and high rocks, but there were little tufts of grass growing between the rocks, and a few wildflowers had managed to eke out an existence there. The evening was pink and gold and very beautiful, and she could hear the sound of the water as it ran. It looked so cool and delicious after the dry dust of the day.
Apache Summer Page 3