by Anita Mills
“Thompson!” the surgeon barked.
The man stepped forward with a pad soaked in the chloroform. As he slapped it over Nate Hill’s nose and mouth, he advised Hap Walker, “Better step back, Cap’n—you too, ma’am. Stuff’s powerful strong.”
Hill twisted his head, trying to escape the fumes, then choked. His body fell limp. Amanda moved away, hesitated, then walked purposefully toward the water bucket. No one even noticed when she carried it outside.
Her petticoats stuck to her damp legs, and sweat ran down her neck, trickling between her breasts. It was too hot for anything—too hot for what they were going to do to that poor man inside. Pushing back wet tendrils of hair from her forehead, she stumbled toward the springs, where she splashed her face and arms with the cold water. She dipped the bucket, half filling it, and hurried back toward the infirmary.
The bandage over Nate Hill’s gangrenous leg was gone, and the wound that had not healed gaped. As the post surgeon pressed the skin above it, it oozed. She forced herself to walk to the trooper’s head. Taking a cloth from the instrument table, she dipped it into the cold water and began wiping his dark, ashy face.
“Miss Ross, get the hell out of here!” Abbott barked.
“I’m all right,” she insisted.
“Devil take you, then,” he muttered. “If you faint, I’m going to leave you where you fall.” With that he went to work. “Got to close off the artery above—just about here—yeah, ought to be it,” he said, talking to himself.
He sliced into the swollen limb, and the foul odor gagged Amanda. She kept her eyes on Nate Hill’s face as she washed his forehead. Turning away, she wrung the cloth out again, then made a compress. When she dared to look up, her eyes met Hap Walker’s, and his were red.
“Got to go up further—can’t save any of it. It’s going to have to be the hip joint. Damn.”
The air in the room was hot and heavy as the stench of dead flesh mingled with the smells of chloroform and male sweat. As the surgical saw bit into the bone, Nate Hill’s body jerked. “More chloroform, but not much,” Abbott ordered, adding, “and will someone take over the fan? I can’t see for the sweat in my eyes.”
A slender Negro, a youth scarce out of his teens, picked up the piece of cardboard, and looking away, he began waving it vigorously.
“That’s better. Well, there won’t be any wooden leg for him, that’s for sure.” A stream of blood spurted into the air, spattering him. “Got to close that off—” Wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, Abbott turned around to take something from the enameled tray. “Yeah,” he said, returning to his work, “I think that’ll hold for a few minutes.”
He kept up a steady stream of conversation with himself, while Amanda continued reapplying the cold compresses to Nate Hill’s head. Suddenly, the surgeon’s shoulders jerked.
“Jesus—he’s going. Back off with that chloroform!” he barked. “He’s got too much of it, and we’re sending him into shock! Give me that fan, soldier!” Jerking it from the man’s hands, he waved it in Nate Hill’s face. Then he dropped it and began beating the trooper’s breastbone. “Come on, Hill!” he shouted, “get that ticker going!”
“It ain’t no use, Doc,” Thompson said after several minutes.
For a moment Amanda didn’t want to believe it. Abbott leaned over and delivered one last blow as though he could somehow wake the dead. Nate Hill’s arm jerked by reflex. The surgeon looked up at Hap Walker. “If we’d had a little ether, he might have stood a chance. No, I’d be lying if I said I believed that. He was too far gone to take the shock of the saw,” he said finally. Turning away, he began washing his hands in Amanda’s bucket of water.
“No!” As the cry escaped her, she caught his arm. “You cannot let a man die just like this! You’ve got to do something!” When he shook her off, she mistook the reason. Returning her attention to Nate Hill, she began pounding on his breast, trying to rouse him. It seemed as though he sighed. She looked up and saw Hap Walker shaking his head.
“But he just took a breath—you heard him take a breath!”
“Miss Ross—” Abbott’s voice was pained. “You expelled the last air from his lungs.” Nonetheless, he lifted the closed eyelids and studied them. There was no question now—the blank stare told it all. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.
“Sorry?” she shrieked. “Sorry? He’s dead!”
His shoulders slumped, then he straightened up. Looking her in the eye, he told her, “No physician wants to lose a patient. Miss Ross. Yesterday he might have made it—or he might not have. I’m not God, so I can’t answer that.”
Hap Walker’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Come on, Miss Ross. You did what you could.”
She wanted to cry, but she managed to nod.
He led her outside, where she leaned against the adobe brick wall. For a time she couldn’t speak, then finally she choked out, “Will they bury his leg with him, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I guess they will. Does it matter?”
“Yes. Otherwise, he won’t be whole in Heaven.”
He eyed her curiously, then he understood. “Guess you must be a Catholic, ma’am—stands to reason, anyway, what with your ma being an Ybarra.”
“Yes.”
“Nate won’t mind,” he said gently. “Unless I miss my guess, he was a Baptist. Come on—I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
“I made a fool of myself in there.”
“No, you didn’t. You’ve got a real kindness to you.” He paused to squint up at the blazing sun. “My ma was like you, you know. She knew how to comfort a body when he was hurt. It’s a real gift—there’s only few that’s got it, and the rest don’t even have a notion. Now, how about that coffee?”
“No, but I thank you.” She forced a twisted smile and held out her hand. “Most people wouldn’t agree with you, you know. I’m accounted rather headstrong.”
“Then any as would say that just don’t know you.”
“Why, theah you are, Miss Ross!” Louise Baxter, parasol in hand, headed toward them. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll be as brown as a walnut, deah.” She stopped. “Now don’t you just look like you ate a lemon—doesn’t she, Captain Walker?”
“I watched a man die, Louise.”
The woman stopped, staring blankly. “But …who?”
“Trooper Hill.”
Obvious relief washed over Louise Baxter. “Oh, thank goodness—for a moment ah was afraid it might be someone.” Seeing that Amanda’s head snapped up, she compounded the mistake. “Well, ah meant it was one of the nigras—that is, well, it isn’t as though he was an officer.”
“He was a man, Mrs. Baxter,” Amanda responded evenly.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Now if you will excuse me …” Turning to Hap Walker, Amanda held out her hand. “You have been most kind, sir.”
“Well,” Louise observed huffily as her houseguest walked away, “now that is downright uncivil, ah must say.”
But Hap was watching Amanda. “No,” he said softly, “that is one hell of a woman.” Tipping his hat to excuse himself, he headed toward the small drinking establishment just outside the post ground. Clay was waiting for him.
“You ever going to get a haircut, boy?” he asked.
“Billy told me you’d come in,” Clay responded, ignoring the question.
Hap sucked in his breath, then let it out. “Nate didn’t make it.”
“I knew he wouldn’t. I saw him last night.”
“Yeah.” Shading his eyes, Hap looked to where Amanda stood on the Baxters’ porch. “A real fine-looking woman,” he murmured. When Clay said nothing, Hap pressed him. “Ever meet her?”
“On the stage.”
“Well? What do you think of her?”
“I try not to pine for things I can’t have,” Clay lied.
“Damned if I know what ails you, son,” Hap complained. “Sometimes I wonder if you g
ot blood in those veins. I was going to ask if you thought I’d have a chance at courting her, but I guess you ain’t talking enough to tell me.”
“Hap—”
“So, what do you think?”
Clay shrugged. “You asked for it. I think she’s too young and too rich for an old forty-dollar-a-month ranger.”
“Old?” Hap fairly howled. “I’m not out of my thirties yet. How old do you think she is?”
“Maybe twenty—maybe twenty-one.”
“Well, there ain’t anything that says a man can’t look, is there? Just because he can’t afford a diamond don’t mean he can’t appreciate it. And I’ll tell you one thing, boy—she may be rich, but she’s got something worth a helluva lot more than money. She wasn’t too fine to go over there and help with Nate. No, she’s got a caring nature.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it. She cares about everything but Indians.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Hell, nobody but you likes ’em, anyway.” The older man peered more closely at Clay. “Say—you ain’t trying to throw me off the trail, are you? You ain’t taking a shine to her yourself?”
Clay studied her for a long moment, then looked away. “You ever know me to make a fool of myself for a woman, Hap?”
“Hell, I haven’t even seen you look twice at one.” Hap draped one arm around Clay’s shoulder and pushed open the door with another. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to stand out here all day. I think I’m going to get me a good belt of whiskey, and then I’m going to jump into that spring water with my clothes on. Come on—the first drink’s on me.”
“I was getting worried about you when I got here and Baxter said you hadn’t come in.”
“Romero Rios and I went to El Paso to quiet things down over there.”
“El Paso’s a hell of a long way from here.”
“Yeah. But they’re still fighting over the goddamned salt. Wouldn’t surprise me if it didn’t turn into an outright war one of these days.” As Hap dropped his spare frame into a chair, he sobered visibly. “While we were there, Rios got wind of something—looks like Comancheros are getting up a big shipment of guns for Quanah Parker.”
Clay nodded. “I’ve already run into some of them.”
“Not like this. If the load’s half as much as Rios was told, we’re in for hell in Texas—real hell. I sent Buck Evans to tell Mackenzie they’re coming in from New Mexico. Way I hear it, it’ll be real soon. And,” he added significantly, “if the Mexicans can be believed, it’s going to be old Sanchez-Torres himself trading the guns.”
“That’d mean a whole wagon train.”
“Yep.”
“You drinking today, Cap’n?” the barkeep interrupted them. “Whiskey—straight.”
“Nothing for me,” Clay decided.
As the man left, Hap leaned back in his chair and regarded his protege soberly. “Damned if I understand you—you don’t get drunk, and you don’t chase women. Hell, you don’t even really smile. A man’s got to loosen up sometime or he’ll bust.”
“I’m loose enough.” Clay looked down at the table for a moment. “You can tell Rios I got even with Juan Garcia for him. I reckon he’d like to hear that.”
“Yeah. You bring Garcia here?”
“No. I had him on the stage, but Little Pedro and Javier tried to spring him, and I guess you could say he got in the way. I’ve got some of his personal effects, but I couldn’t bring in the body—it was too hot, and I was going after his friends.”
“Any witnesses this time?”
“Miss Ross and Sandoval.”
Hap appeared relieved. “I’ll put in for the reward.”
“Inquire about Little Pedro and Javier while you’re at it. Hernan Mendoza, too.!’
“Jesus—all of them?”
“Yeah. I wrote it up for you, but you’ll probably want to make it sound better. There was another one, a fellow by the name of Velez, but I couldn’t find him.”
“Where in the hell are they all coming from? The whole Chihuahua Desert must be crawling with damned Comancheros.”
“It is.”
Hap leaned forward and lowered his voice. “See anything I ought to know about?”
“Two Comanches. It may be that I missed the rest—or it may be that they aren’t out there this year. But it could make sense of what you found out about the gun-running. Maybe they’re with Quanah and they’re all coming down in the fall.”
“God, I hope not. I guess you heard that the state of Texas in its infinite wisdom bowed to Washington and released the Kiowa chiefs,” Hap said sarcastically. “Kinda makes you want to puke, doesn’t it? Those damned Quakers in the Indian Agency are hell-bent on coddling the murdering sons of bitches. They’re so goddamned stupid they really think all it takes is handing out coffee and beef to civilize Kiowas and Comanches! And what they’re doing is keeping ’em fat enough in winter, so’s they can raid come summer!”
Clay let him vent his frustration, then interrupted him abruptly. “It’s too late for the army to stop Sanchez-Torres, Hap. There are too many places for a Comanchero to slip past the regulars.”
“Well, I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to cover every trail coming up from Old Mexico, across from New Mexico, and down from the Indian Territory. You tell me how, and I’ll listen.”
“I can make the circuit between here and Fort Davis, then on up and cut back toward the Staked Plains. If I see anything, we’ll at least know where they’re going. I can probably find Quanah’s camp.”
“Would you turn him over to the army?”
“No, but if I know where he is, we can cut his supply route.”
“Be like looking for the needle in the haystack,” Hap muttered glumly. “Quanah’s got a hundred places to hole up.”
“I know my way around the Llano, Hap. I’ve been in every canyon up there. I know where they can hide.”
“But you’ve been away from ’em for a long time, Clay. What’s to say it won’t be your hair on Quanah’s scalp pole? He’s not apt to take it kindly when he discovers what you’re up to.”
“I’m Nermernuh, Hap—no matter what happens, I’m Nermernuh. If I rode into Quanah’s camp tomorrow, I’d be welcomed.”
“Even he was to know you were coming to betray him?”
“I’m not betraying him. You don’t see me scouting for the cavalry, do you?” Clay countered. “But if those guns get through—if they make it possible for him to raid—he’s done. It’ll take a while, but Mackenzie will scour those canyons until there isn’t a Comanche left alive. I don’t want to see that.” He looked across the table, meeting Walker’s eyes. “Come on, Hap—what have we got to lose?”
The older ranger was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “Just you,” he answered finally. “When do you want to leave?”
‘Tomorrow night. I’d rather travel at night—unless you want me to go earlier.”
“You never get rid of those Indian ways, do you?”
“How’s that?” Clay asked.
“You’re still following that Comanche Moon.”
“There’s something to be said for traveling when it’s cooler. It takes less water.”
“When do you ride in winter?” Hap countered.
Clay’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “At night whenever I can.”
“I rest my case. You still think you’re a damned Comanche. You’ve got to get over that, Clay, or you’ll never have anything. A man’s supposed to find a good woman and put down roots before he dies.”
“Like you, Hap?”
“Who says I’m what you want to be?” The image of Amanda Ross flashed through Walker’s mind. “And if I found the right woman, I’d settle down, you damn well better believe it. I could see myself with a piece of land, maybe doing a little farming. I wouldn’t mind having a couple of kids. At least then I’d be leaving something behind that says I’ve been here. You ought to think about t
hat before you get your fool head blown off.”
“Maybe I will someday. Yeah,” Clay murmured, “I’d sure like to get a look at the woman who’d have me.” He pushed back from the table and rose from his chair. “Maybe I’ll advertise back East for a bride.”
“Yeah—you could write it up real nice, and—” Hap looked up and caught the twitch of a suppressed smile. “Oh, get on with you! Here I am all serious, and you—”
“And I’m smiling, Hap.” Clay laid a quarter on the table.
“What’s that for?”
“I’m buying.”
“Damned if I won’t have another whiskey, then.”
The sun was blinding as Clay emerged. He stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness, then he stepped off the boardwalk and headed toward the post store. Before he left, he was putting some ammunition on the state of Texas’s account. Where he was going, he expected to need a lot of it.
He started across the open yard and saw Amanda Ross. She was again sitting on the Baxters’ porch, fanning herself. His first impulse was to keep going, then he changed his mind. She smiled when she saw him coming.
“Well, I see you met Hap,” he said. “He was pretty taken with you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I was sorry to hear Nate died.”
“Yes.”
“I tried to talk to him yesterday.”
“So did I. It was just too late by the time Dr. Abbott decided to do it.”
He squinted up at the sun, then took a deep breath. “Yeah, I know. It’s funny how it happens sometimes—death, I mean.”
“Yes—yes, it is,” she agreed. She laid aside her fan and sighed. “Well, since it doesn’t look like there’s going to be any break in the heat, I’ve decided to leave in the morning for home.”
“You’d better take plenty of water with you.”
“We are. And you—where will you go now?”
“Back out. So I guess it’s adios, amiga.”
She stood up and held out her hand. “If you get near Ybarra-Ross, I hope you’ll stop in.” Her fingers seemed small within his. “Maybe I will,” he said, dropping his hand.