Although Enders held rank over Deaver, the two were both enlisted men, and over the three years they had been stationed here, they had developed a friendship based on mutual hatred of what they were doing, and a mutual necessity to stay put because they had nowhere else to turn. They had come to confide in each other, and often drank together and shared jokes about their pasts.
Enders, lanky, close to six feet tall, was an average-looking man who Deaver figured was close to handsome when he was shaved and spruced up; but since they were down to a skeleton crew at the fort, the men had become careless in their appearance. There didn’t seem to be anyone who much cared, and Captain Howell was not very good at enforcing rules. There were sixty men left at the fort, just enough to form a platoon or four squads, whichever might be necessary, and still leave a few at the fort.
Today two squads were out scouring the outlying territory, checking on rumors that Wild Horse was again raiding settlers. Captain Howell’s biggest dream was to capture the hated renegade and earn a promotion for it. But tracking and capturing Wild Horse was not easily accomplished, especially since their best Comanche scout had recently died after being shot by a private who had got into a scuffle with the man. Howell still had the private doing extra duty for the killing, even though it had been in self-defense.
“You think Wild Horse did this?” Deaver asked Enders.
Anthony Enders spit tobacco juice at the burning debris. “Wouldn’t doubt it.”
They circled the ruined cabins and barns, and one of the men along threw up at the sight. Four families had settled here, all related, with the last name Williams. Women’s stripped and tortured bodies lay strewn about, children lay dead, and men were nailed or tied to fencing or buildings, obviously tortured.
“Wonder if they took any captives,” Deaver spoke up then.
“Hard to tell,” Enders answered. “I’m not sure how many were here in the first place. Order a burial detail. Have the men take turns digging while the others keep watch. These fires are pretty fresh. Hasn’t been long since the Comanche were here.”
Deaver nodded, giving a rather weak salute. He and Enders had become such good friends that it seemed silly to salute each other, but they had to show some resemblance of army protocol in order to keep the other men in line.
Corporal Deaver turned to give the orders, and Sergeant Enders pulled a flask of whiskey from his haversack, taking a long drink from it. He rode back to the ridge to have a look around but saw no sign of Indians. He thought how desolate this part of Texas was, and he missed the coast. But he was still afraid of going back there for fear of being discovered.
Besides, with so few men left at Fort Stockton, and only two commissioned officers, he kind of liked the little bit of power he enjoyed for now. He reasoned that having a woman around would make things all the more pleasant. Since the Indians had started causing trouble again, the whores seldom set up camp near the fort any more. Rough and wild as they were, not even those women wanted to risk suffering what the Comanche could do to a woman. There were a couple other wives at the fort, neither of them much to look at, and there was Alice Hart, whose husband, a sergeant major, had been killed by the Comanche two years ago. Alice was perhaps forty-five, a short, stout, bossy woman over whom none of the men had romantic feelings, other than the fact that she was a woman and had all the parts to please a man as long as it was dark at the time. But Alice had a personality and a warning look that kept them away. She stayed on at the fort, cooking and washing clothes for the men, only because her husband was buried nearby and she wouldn’t leave him.
Enders grinned, spitting more tobacco juice. Soon his own loneliness and need of a woman would change. In another couple of weeks Jennifer Andrews would arrive, and from her picture, he imagined she would be the best looking thing that had hit Fort Stockton in a long time. She was young and surely still a virgin, and he relished the thought of marrying her quickly and having himself a dandy time bedding her.
Staff Sergeant Anthony Enders would have the best-looking woman for miles around, and she would belong strictly to him. He had literally paid for her, in his estimation. Three hundred dollars was a lot of money—especially to a man making twenty dollars a month. He had risked jail for that money—part of it left over from what he had taken from the gambler back in Houston. The rest had been “earned” through card games with other soldiers; and one hundred twenty-five of it was money he had found inside a burned-out settler’s house after an Indian raid. He had never told anyone about his find, not even Jim Deaver. The people were dead, so who would know or care? There had been one hundred fifty dollars altogether. He still had the other twenty-five dollars, which he would keep to impress Jennifer.
Jennifer. He liked the name, liked the face, hoped she had a body to match what he had seen in the small picture she had sent. He hoped she would arrive safely. It would be a shame and a waste for the Comanche to get hold of her first, enjoying that virgin body before he could.
He wondered what she thought of him. She probably imagined a brave man devoted to helping settle the Indian problem, no matter how dangerous. He intended to feed that image once she arrived. He would clean up and put on a good appearance. She would never know he was really Art Clements, a drifter and a gambler, whose father had been a worthless alcoholic and whose mother was a whore.
He slugged down more whiskey. Art Clements had never had anything, including respect. Now, as Anthony Enders, having earned the stripes of a staff sergeant, having some money in his pocket, and with a beautiful new wife on his arm, people would look up to him. He would be important and respected. Once Jennifer arrived and they were married, he could collect the bonus the Texas government owed him for volunteering, and he could leave this hellhole, maybe take his new wife to California and start a whole new life.
Maybe Miss Jennifer Andrews would bring along some of her own money, which he could use to gamble with once he left this place. He missed the big games, hated gambling for pocket money at the fort. He reasoned he could put his new wife to work so that he wouldn’t have to look for anything really steady. This could all work out to be the best decision he had ever made. Once she was his wife, she had to do whatever he bid her to do. A wife could be a burden, but only if a man let her be. Handled right, she could make a man’s life mighty pleasant.
A horse rode up behind him, and he turned to see Deaver coming. “It’s a damn mess down there,” he spoke up. “I need a swallow of that whiskey, friend. My stomach needs settling. Private Payne puked again.”
Enders chuckled, handing the bottle to Deaver. “That’s one of the nice things about being the one in charge. I can assign the really ugly duty to somebody else.” He sighed deeply. “I was just sitting here thinking about Jennifer Andrews. I sure hope she gets through all right. I wish Captain Howell would let me take some men out to meet her stage, but the bastard insists he can’t spare anybody.”
“That’s too bad.” Deaver handed back the whiskey. “From her picture, she sure looks like a winner, Tony, you lucky bastard. Any time you decide to share her, you let me know.”
Enders laughed. “Not this one. Sharing a whore and splitting the cost is one thing. But this one is going to belong to me alone. I just hope she’s not so shy and proper that she makes me wait too long before marrying me. The woman ought to feel obligated to marry me right off, considering all that money I sent. I saved for years. It was every last cent I had.”
Deaver laughed. “Saved for years? Tell that to the gambler you shot.”
Enders joined in the laughter. “If she buys my story, she’ll take pity on me and feel the only proper thing to do is make this poor, lonely, devoted man happy.”
Deaver shook his head. “You were born without morals, Enders.”
Enders chuckled. “Same as you, Deaver.” He raised the whiskey flask and took one more drink, then handed it out, signaling for Deaver to do the same. “By the way, look around the burned building good, and when no one else is looking
, check the pockets of the dead men. I found quite a bit of money a while back after one of these raids. That’s how I had enough to send for a wife.”
Deaver’s eyebrows arched, and he handed back the bottle. “And you never told me?”
“Finders keepers. That’s what I’m telling you now. You find anything, you can keep it.”
Deaver dug into his pocket and pulled out a tiny gold locket and a watch and chain. “Glad to hear that, since I already looted a dead man and woman.”
Enders gave him a sly smile. “And I thought I could trust you.”
“Same as I can trust you, friend.”
They both laughed again, and Enders put the whiskey back into his haversack.
“You going to try to pick up Wild Horse’s tracks?” Deaver asked him.
Enders sobered, staring out at the horizon. “Not this time. I want to be close by and healthy when my new wife arrives. I’ll tell Captain Howell last night’s rain made it impossible to follow any tracks.”
“You’d probably get a hell of a bonus if you brought in Wild Horse. Howell wants him bad—wants to be able to report to the president that he captured the bastard. It will go good for his record.”
“Well, bonus or no bonus, I’m not going after him right now. If Howell’s so almighty anxious for recognition and promotion, let him go after the man himself. He knows how dangerous it is. I’m sure as hell not going after him with only a squad. We’ll finish burying these people and head back to the fort.”
Deaver nodded. “I never had any real devotion to this damn army, and I hate it out here; but still, even I would like to see that bastard caught. These folks don’t mean much to me one way or the other, but when a man sees what’s down there, it makes him mighty mad. I can kill a man easy as the next over a bottle of whiskey or a wad of money; but to stretch it out like that, that’s beyond even my understanding. Same with the women. Hell, any woman can be took whether she wants it or not. That’s not so bad. I just don’t know why they have to go and cut them up like that and take their hair.”
Enders spit more tobacco juice, wondering if Jennifer Andrews would go down easy, or hard. “Soft talk, a couple of presents, and just the right touch will generally do,” he answered.
Deaver grinned. “We’ll see if that works for Miss Andrews.”
A gleam came into Enders’s eyes. “She’ll be my wife. She won’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter.”
Deaver felt an ache, envying his friend. “Well, if this works out, I’m going to find out a way to get hold of some money and send for my own wife. Sometimes I feel just about crazy with the need of a woman.” He turned his horse. “I’ll see if they’re about finished below.”
The man rode off, and Enders continued to watch the horizon, his breathing quickening every time he thought about Jennifer coming soon. Soft talk, a couple of presents, and just the right touch, just like he said. That was all it took to get a woman in the mood. Maybe he’d buy the stolen locket from Deaver and give it to her as a gift when she arrived. She didn’t have to know it came off a dead woman.
Jennifer stared at the lovely harbor of Galveston as the steamboat approached. She was surprised at the size of the town, thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything resembling St. Louis in Texas, which she had pictured being totally desolate. But here it was lovely, with a sparkling harbor and lush green foliage along the coast; a good-sized city with a harbor filled with both passenger and supply boats.
As the boat came closer, she noticed several cargo ships being loaded with cotton bales by black slaves.
“They call her the Queen City,” someone beside her spoke up.
Jennifer turned to see the scout who had been in the dining room two nights earlier. He smiled. “Had a feelin’ you’ve never been to Texas before, ma’am. Just thought you might want to know a few things.”
She felt her cheeks reddening slightly. She was full of questions, but it didn’t seem proper to talk to a stranger, and she was afraid of being found out. “Thank you,” she answered. “But I don’t have any questions…except how long it will take to get to Fort Stockton.”
“Fort Stockton! You goin’ all the way there? That’s Comanche country, ma’am.” He pushed back his hat. “You better have an awful good reason for goin’ there. Once you head out of San Antonio, you leave civilization and these pretty little towns behind. Why, the desert alone will be enough of a shock for you, let alone the Indian—”
He thought he caught a tear in her eye as she turned her crimson face away. Sandy Carter realized how confused and frightened this young girl must be—and also realized it was none of his business why she was going to Fort Stockton. “Uh, it will take a couple weeks to get to the fort,” he finished. “You, uh, need any help, ma’am? My name’s Sandy Carter. I’ve been all over Texas.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” I miss Aunt Esther and St. Louis, she wanted to cry. I’ve come here to marry a man I’ve never even met, and I’m scared.
“Well, if you’re goin’ to Fort Stockton, I reckon we’ll see more of each other. We’ll probably be on the same coach to San Antonio. I’m headin’ up to Austin from there.”
Jennifer didn’t answer, and the man left her side. Her mind whirled with his warnings as the boat docked at the harbor. She picked up her bags and disembarked the boat, going to a booth to find out about the coach she was to take to Houston and then on to San Antonio. She walked to where she had been directed to find a handsome Concord coach waiting. Someone was already inside.
“Got her all washed up, huh, Nick?”
Jennifer recognized the voice. Sandy Carter was speaking to the stage driver.
“Sure did,” the driver answered. “She’ll probably be so covered with dust you won’t know what color she is by the time we get to San Antonio, but the stage company wants them washed down whenever possible. The inside’s clean, too.”
“For a couple of hours, you mean,” Sandy answered. Both men laughed.
Jennifer wondered what kind of long, dusty ride she was in for. The driver nodded to her and took her bags, throwing them up to a man on top of the coach. “There you go, ma’am.” The driver, who looked even rougher than Sandy Carter, helped her board the coach. He turned to Sandy. “Perty woman.”
“Goin’ all the way to Fort Stockton,” Sandy answered. Nick’s eyes widened, and Sandy chuckled. “I managed to get that much out of her, but she’s not real eager to talk. That’s all I know.”
The driver scowled. “Just what I need—a perty woman along through Indian country. Last thing I want is to be responsible for somethin’ happenin’ to somebody so young and sweet like that.”
The man grumbled more as he turned and climbed into the driver’s box. Inside Jennifer sat down next to a window, two other women and two men inside. She recognized one of the men as the nicely-dressed businessman from New Orleans who had been talking to Sandy in the dining room of the riverboat. He smiled and nodded to her.
Next to him sat a woman who made Jennifer’s face redden. Her face was heavily painted, her eyelashes thick and dark, her dress cut so low Jennifer feared something would fall out. Her hat was huge and feathered, nearly touching the top of the coach. She also smiled. It was obvious to Jennifer what the woman was. Her aunt had once told her about women who sold themselves to men. Now, as Jennifer thought back on it, she remembered the sadness with which Aunt Esther had told her about such women, and Jennifer wondered if Uncle John had been to see women like that. The good citizens of St. Louis didn’t want them around, and Jennifer had never seen one, since they kept a low profile. But she realized that in these frontier towns they were probably bolder, perhaps welcomed, expecially farther west, where women were a scarcity.
She shivered at the thought of sleeping with strangers for money, and she wondered why such things were so important to men. Sandy Carter climbed into the coach, his eyes showing obvious pleasure when they fell on the painted lady and her ample bosom. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said with a
wide grin.
“Hello yourself, mister,” she answered with equal pleasure. Sandy looked at the businessman, who grinned with equal enthusiasm. “Hello again, Mr. Strong. Looks like we’ll have more time to talk, since you’re goin’ to San Antonio to meet one of the Morrow boys.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” The businessman, who Jennifer now knew was a Mr. Strong, glanced at her and smiled warmly as Sandy settled in beside the painted woman. “You were on our steamboat,” Strong commented. “You going to San Antonio, too, little lady?”
“Yes,” she answered, glancing at Sandy.
Sandy realized she didn’t care to say anything further, and he decided not to announce he already knew she was going all the way to Fort Stockton.
“Well, my name is Bill Strong. I’m a merchant from New Orleans.” Strong turned to the well-endowed woman beside him. “And your name?”
She gave him a coy smile. “Betsy. Just Betsy. I’m only going as far as Houston. That’s where I live…and do business.” She turned to Sandy. “Your turn, honey.”
Sandy laughed lightly. “Sandy Carter—goin’ to San Antonio and then up to Austin. I’m from everywhere.” He leaned forward slightly. “By the way, Mr. Strong, once we get to San Antonio, I can help you find the Morrow boy. I know them all. ’Course if it’s Wade Morrow, you won’t have any trouble spottin’ that half-breed.” He turned to Jennifer. “You gonna tell us your name, ma’am?”
Jennifer swallowed, not wanting to appear rude. “Eyre. Charlotte Eyre,” she replied. She did not offer an explanation of where she was headed. She looked at the woman who sat beside her.
“I’m Louanne James, and this is my husband, Robert,” she spoke up with a strong southern accent, putting her hand on the arm of the young man beside her. “We live in Houston. We’ve just come from visiting relatives in Alabama.”
The three across from them nodded, and outside a whip cracked and the driver shouted “Git up there!” The coach lurched and began rolling west. Within minutes it began rocking and swaying rhythmically, the leather thorough-braces doing a fine job of absorbing the shocks of the bumpy road. Jennifer’s stomach soon grew queasy from the suspended motion, and again the loneliness and silent terror swept through her, but she refused to show it. She watched out the window at the buildings of Galveston, which soon disappeared.
Comanche Sunset Page 6