Morgan shrugged helplessly. “Idon’t know how.”
In spite of the ordeal she’d been through, Dayme couldn’t resist the sudden nervous urge to laugh. Morgan looked so helpless, so lost when it came to caring for babies. “Mix…mix a wad…of butter…and….” Her voice trailed into hysterical laughter. She laughed until her sides ached and she was weak. She was ashamed to be so amused at a sad time like this, but she couldn’t help herself. Every time her eyes met Morgan’s, she cracked up again. Finally, Morgan, too, doubled up with laughter at Dayme’s laugher.
Morgan finally found his voice. “This poor baby is hungry. The house is full of dead people and all we can do is sit here and laugh. Whew! How do I make a sugar teat?”
“Morgan, I haven’t laughed like that…really belly laughed since I can’t remember when. Why now? Surrounded by all this horror?”
“I don’t know, Hon,” Morgan replied softly. “I don’t know. Perhaps the Good Lord thought we needed a dose of medicine. He won’t heap more on us than we can bear. I’ll do my best with that sugar teat. This little fellow is making himself sick crying like that. Look at his little chin quiver.”
“Mix a wad of soft butter with some sugar in a clean soft rag and tie it. It’ll give Alexander something to suck on. Maybe it will suffice until we can do better.”
Dayme trembled while describing the bizarre experience. “We had just started to eat when old Wolf started barking. That’s when we saw them…a horde of Comanche warriors stealing the horses. Uncle John grabbed his rifle and fired. That’s when the Indians turned their attention to the house. It would’ve been better for Uncle John to let them have the horses. Maybe they’d just have taken them and left us alone. But no…hell no…the old coot fired and attracted their attention. Why the heck didn’t he let the Indians have the damned horses?” The girl was fuming mad, angry with her dead uncle.
“A man must protect his livelihood,” Morgan told her quietly. “Any man would’ve done the same thing. Don’t blame your poor uncle. It was his way of protecting his property and his family.”
“They swooped down on us like a swarm of bees, yelling and screaming like banshees. Auntie insisted that I take Alexander and go down in the cellar. She and Betsy loaded guns for the men. Oh Lord. They should’ve come down with me. Now they are dead.” Dayme shook her head. “I’m not meant to have kin to love me.” She buried her face in her hands and wept again. “God is punishing me for some awful sin. He sentenced me to loneliness.”
“Hush! Get hold of yourself!” Morgan demanded sharply. “God doesn’t punish. The old devil does. Get hold of yourself, dammit!” He shook Dayme by the shoulders. “The Comanches will be back to pick up their dead warriors. Count on it. If the sun hadn’t been going down, they’d have stolen what they wanted and burned the house, too. I must get you and the baby to safety in the village. But first, we must feed him. That sugar teat is bedraggled. Is there any milk?”
Dayme nodded dully. “In the milk cooler out back but he isn’t old enough to drink out of a glass.”
“I’m gonna feed him,” the determined man replied, “even if I have to wet a rag in the milk and squeeze it drop by drop, I will feed him. Look for an eye dropper while I’m gone.”
Morgan was still squeezing the milk into the sleepy baby’s mouth when Dayme suddenly groaned in pain. “My baby!” she cried. “It’s coming! It’s coming! My back has been hurting all day.”
The former army captain backed away to put the sleepy babe in the crib. “Maybe it’s false labor, Hon…because…because you’re so upset. I’ve braved many things in my life but never childbirth.” Another pain hit, followed shortly by another. “Please wait,” he begged. “Not now for heaven’s sake! I’m not the stork. I’ll get you to the village where some of the women….”
In spite of her pain, Dayme chuckled. He looked so helpless. “There isn’t time, Morgan. Don’t panic on me. I need your strength. Go heat some water. Cover the windows with quilts and light the lamp. We can’t leave until my baby is born, Indians or no.”
Her forehead was wet with perspiration, and her dark auburn hair spilled over the pillow in a tangled mass. Her emerald green eyes were red-rimmed and thick-lidded from weeping. Still, she managed a weak smile. “You don’t have a choice, dear heart. I’m having a baby,” she told him softly. “You’re the only doctor in the house.”
“What do you mean, doctor? I’m a bronco rider and a prospector, but I’ll do the best I can.”
Dayme’s agony intensified, and it didn’t take an expert to realize she was having an awfully hard time. Hours passed, and it seemed to Morgan the reluctant child would never decide to enter the world, and at the time, he didn’t blame it. It tore his heart to watch the woman he loved suffer. There was absolutely nothing he could do to relieve her pain, just reassure her, mop the sweat from her brow, hold her hand and pray. “One more push! Push! Cuss if you want to. I can see the baby’s head.”
“It’s a boy!” Morgan told her in an incredulous voice as he wrapped the red and wrinkled infant in a blanket and laid it beside the mother. “A beautiful little baby boy. Gosh, he sure is little.” He beamed like a new papa. “See? He looks just like me.”
Dayme smiled weakly, her strength spent. “You crazy thing…you dear, wonderful crazy thing. He has black hair and blue eyes. You never touched me, and you know it.”
Despite the danger lurking outside in the darkness, the couple found joy in the new life Dayme brought into the world. “I know,” Morgan murmured. ‘It’s…it’s like some kind of miracle. Can’t you see the resemblance? That little boy is the spittin’ image of his daddy…the spittin’ image of me.” His velvet brown eyes crinkled as he smiled and softened even more.
Dayme laid her cheek against Morgan’s roughened hand and gazed intently up at him. Suddenly, she wanted to kiss this dear man who delivered her child, this man who loved her and meant so much to her. She closed her eyes and lifted parted lips. Morgan kissed her tenderly, like one would kiss a child.
You’re such a good person, Dayme thought. I wish it were you instead of Benjamin. She wondered if Benjamin would come for her after graduation in May or if she would ever see him again.
“I do hope he has your dimples, Morgan. Will you be his godfather?”
The man grinned wistfully. “I’ll be anything you’ll let me be. Marry me, Dayme. Let me be the boy’s daddy. You know that I love you both. I’ll take him fishin’ and teach him to hunt and dig for silver….”
“Whoa, dear heart. Godfather will be sufficient for now. There is someone else, or hadn’t you guessed.” Her thoughts reverted to the tree house beside Big Black River where the child was conceived. “Your father will come for us, little one,” she murmured to the babe. “I just know he will. He’ll come for us in June.”
“Does he know?”
“I didn’t tell him. I want him to come because he loves me not because….”
Morgan hid disappointment again in his heart, like he did when her engagement to Lawrence Barnes was announced. He changed the subject to hide the hurt. “What you gonna name this fine boy?”
“I’m not sure,” Dayme murmured as memories of what she’d been through flooded her mind. She studied Morgan’s concerned face in the dim lamplight. Both were fully aware that the Comanches would return at first light. “Morgan,” she told him softly. “I have something, just in case…in case…. You need to know who his….”
“Hush! I don’t ever want to know. You see, my darling, it doesn’t make a whit of difference to me. I love you, same as I did back in Vicksburg when I baited your fishing hook. Nothing can change that.” The man shrugged. “I love you even more after sharing this experience. I hope I never hear this little boy call anybody Daddy but me.”
Night noises filled with birdcalls and coyote howls reminded Morgan of the time. Soon it would be daybreak. The moon was down, it was pitch dark and he knew they had to leave. He gathered quilts and blankets and covered the bloody corpses as
best he could so Dayme wouldn’t have to view the horror. Using Mrs. Wooford’s quilting frames, a blanket and rope, he improvised a travois to haul the new mother and the babies.
“Before we go, please get one of those wide white bands Auntie made for me. It’s in the bottom bureau drawer. Fasten it tight around my abdomen to prevent hemorrhage during the ride.”
Morgan’s hands trembled as he beheld her creamy white body while he pinned the band in place.
“What’s your middle name?”
“Daniel. Why?”
“Then, of course, his name will be Daniel. Daniel Lee after you and the general.”
A pleased smile spread across Morgan’s face. “Nicest compliment I’ll ever have, princess.” He bowed low. “I thank you and the general thanks you.” He gathered the woman and her child in his arms and carried them outside to the travois, then went back for Alexander.
“This little dogie is squirmin’ again,” He told her. “Hold him close. I’ll make another sugar teat before he rouses the whole Comanche nation.”
Reaching a free arm for the babe and hugging him close, Dayme told him not to bother. “I’m equipped for two. I’ll raise them together.”
Morgan gave Babe a free rein, trusting the mare to follow the lane as they slipped quietly through the thick darkness. The ride was slow and rough. Dawn peeked pink through the thick-leaved pecan trees in the bottomland by the time they reached the low water bridge at the edge of town. He beat on the door of the General Store with his fist, “Wake up, Amos!” he shouted.
Amos Perkins, the janitor-clerk who slept in the back room stumbled half-asleep to the door. “Quit beatin’ on the thing ’til I get it open,” he yelled back crossly. When he beheld the concern on Morgan’s face and saw Dayme and the two infants on the travois, he asked. “What happened, Morgan?”
“Comanches. There’s been a massacre at the Wooford ranch. Sound the danger horn and alert the people. They could attack the village. Tell the sheriff to post lookouts on the mountains and an ambush party in the pecan bottom.”
“I’ll send somebody to the fort,” Amos responded.
Morgan nodded. “I’ll join you soon as I unload my treasure.”
Chapter 20
That same morning in Fort McKavett, Col. Leeman Winters awakened with a chip on his shoulder. He was still boiling mad about the “Free State of Menard” signs he ordered destroyed yesterday. On their way to the government sawmill at Peg Leg Crossing, his soldiers tore down and burned all four. When the troops came back through town, new ones had been erected, and it was all to do over again.
The colonel barely returned Lt. Muldoon’s salute before he growled, “What do these people mean Free State? We won the Civil War! Menard County hasn’t even been organized. It’s still attached to Mason County. When and if it ever does become a separate county, the courthouse will be located here in Fort McKavett.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fort McKavett is destined to become the largest city on the Texas frontier.” Col. Winter’s angry voice sounded as if Lt. Muldoon was at fault. “I’m not building the most modern fortress ever constructed on the frontier for a tourist attraction! Those confounded signs are deliberate defiance to military rule and a thorn in my side. What gave the damned Rebel villagers the idea they are so all-fired free? The north was the victor.”
“It’s my understanding, sir,” the lieutenant explained. “It all started when settlers gained special permission from Texas legislators to try misdemeanor cases rather than travel the distance to the courthouse in Mason County. The Free State slogan stuck. I suppose it makes them feel important.”
“They won’t need to go to Mason. That jail we built in this compound is where I want the culprits who erect the signs. Muldoon, I want those signs removed for good. That’s an order.”
The lieutenant was skeptical though apologetic. He didn’t think the mission could ever be accomplished. “We’ve been tearing them down, sir. Especially on the road we travel so often. It doesn’t do any good. New ones pop right back up in a matter of hours. We can’t find out who’s doing it. Questioning a stubborn settler is a lost cause. They don’t give out information to the army.”
Col. Winters snorted and peeled the wrapper from a cigar. “Until they need us. A different story altogether. The bastards stick together like chewing gum on a boot heel.”
“For example, sir. Just the other day an Irish windmill mechanic I interrogated insisted Leprechauns were the culprits. I asked a traveling salesman about it. He tried to sell me a Bible. Looked pious and holy and suggested it was God’s will. A prospector insisted it must be the ghost of Lipan-Apache Chief Tresmanos who replaced the signs. A fur trapper suggested we set a bear trap. All cryptic ways of insulting my intelligence, of course.”
Winters pounded his fist on the desk. “Put more men on it. Double back and catch the son-of-a-bitches in the act! Shoot ’em on sight. I won’t stand for it!”
“We always double back, Sir”, the lieutenant replied. He shrugged hopelessly. “Some invisible somebody blows two toots on a danger horn as a warning. It is frustrating, sir. We don’t have enough men for a twenty-four hour watch. Perhaps when the main contingent arrives….”
“Malicious mischief!” The colonel strode pompously across the room. “Designed to make the army look like a bunch of fools. You’re right, Lieutenant. We need our men to protect the building of this fort and the sawmill at Peg Leg Crossing. Our orders are to stand ready to intervene on behalf of those ungrateful pioneers in the event of an Indian attack. Gen. McKenzie’s 4th Cavalry won’t arrive for perhaps another year when the fort’s completed.” He glared at Lt. Muldoon. “Those infernal signs are your responsibility. Resolve it before McKenzie arrives or it’ll be hell to pay. Keep on it, soldier, it chaps my butt every time I go through Menard.”
Col. Winters’ orders came directly from Gen. R.S. McKenzie, who had been named commander of the reactivated fort. The general was a West Point graduate who had distinguished himself on the battlefield in the Civil War. Under his direction, army engineers went to the frontier to construct Fort McKavett near the ruins of old Camp San Saba that was abandoned in 1852. Located near the headwaters of the San Saba River, its purpose was to afford protection for both settlers and wagon trains.
The fortress was being constructed of native limestone rocks that were cemented with adobe mud mortar. The government sawmill at Peg Leg Crossing utilized the natural oak hardwood in the area, as well. The sawmill required heavy guard because the site had been used for centuries by tribes of nomadic Indians. The riverbank on the north was high, and there was a steep rocky bluff on the south and east, a natural corral for wild horses. Buffalo herds were stampeded off the high bluff for slaughter. The wandering tribes set up tepee villages next to the solid rock wall on the west because it afforded both protection from enemies and the weather.
The Comanche Indians coveted this border territory, and they were never happy about losing their corral to the U. S. Army. Raids through Texas became so regular the people called them Comanche Moon when the skillful thieves stole cattle, horses, mules, women and children for slaves. Sometimes, Comanche raids reached as far south as the Yucatan Peninsula. Half-breed Comanche Chief, Quanah Parker, was sighted several times in the Peg Leg area from 1867 to 1874. To Col. Winters’ chagrin, Quannah Parker’s braves were so skillful that they once stole army mules from the compound in broad daylight.
There were several shallow crossings in the vicinity that were used by cattle drovers, as well. The army utilized the abundant oak and pecan wood for window frames and beams for the fort and for some of the houses. Finished sashes, shingles, flooring and shutters for the fort were hauled in from superior mills on the Guadalupe River in Kerr County. A modern city was under construction in the stockade. Both a military and a civilian jail were finished. A long barracks building just outside the compound housed enlisted men. The black soldiers were allowed to bring families, same as the white officers. White f
amilies lived in security within the walls of the compound in houses. Black wives and children lived in a tent village adjacent to the fort. The women did laundry in exchange for wood, water and housing. White women paid nothing.
The two-story home soon to house Gen. McKenzie’s family was near completion, as well as an imposing General Headquarters. Field Officer Headquarters and a number of officers’ homes and ten large barrack buildings for enlisted white men were on the drawing board. Soon, Fort McKavett could boast a fine hospital, spacious schoolhouse, a veterinarian dispensary, tailor shop and bakery. Under the new command, the former infantry post was being transformed into a modern cavalry outfit. The Sutler’s store already enjoyed a thriving business.
A village called Scab Town emerged across the river from the construction site. It attracted the usual dregs of society who followed after the army…prostitutes, thieves and other ne’r-do-wells. Some would knock a man in the head for a dollar. Scab Town was a rip-roaring, hell-raising, wide-open town with two flourishing saloons and a gambling casino that never wanted for fun-loving customers…cattle drovers, buffalo skinners, sod-busters, prospectors, wranglers, gun slingers and soldiers from the fort.
“It’s difficult enough to build a fort in this wilderness,” Col. Winters grumbled, “without constant harassment from the settlers. I’m sick and tired of my soldiers being robbed of hard-earned pay and the playful little pranks like the yellow paint on that shipment of uniforms. Of all their meanness and tomfoolery, the Free State signs stick in my craw the hardest.”
Master Sergeant Elmer Cavenaugh stepped inside the colonel’s office and saluted. “A lad just rode in, sir, with news about a massacre at the Wooford Ranch.”
“Where the hell is that?” Winters growled.
“North of the village some eight to ten miles.”
The boy was frightened and his countenance showed it as he was ushered into the colonel’s office. Col. Winters didn’t address the ill-at-ease youngster right away. His mind was still on the signs.
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