by Anita Mills
"Write it down, and Thompson can take the orders over for you. I'm sure there's somebody there that can dose em."
"Probably," Sprenger conceded.
"Good. Then you won't mind hearing what Mrs. Bryce has to say," the colonel declared. "All right, tell Thompson here what's needed, and he'll go after he sends her in."
"No need to write it down. Tell Parker and Nash to mix up pills the same as always—one-eighth grain copper sulfate and one-eighth grain opium. That'll do for a start, anyway. Tell 'em if that doesn't work, I'll be on over in a little while."
"Yes, sir."
While they waited, the colonel drummed on his desk with his fingers, "Cora getting along all right with her?"
"Of course. And she's doing a damned good job of keeping the gossips at bay."
"I didn't know that was a problem."
"As a rule, women aren't very kind to women. Most of em want to smile to her face, ply her with questions, then go away shocked, so they can spread nasty stories that have the ring of truth. But Cora won't give 'em the chance."
"I don't remember it being like that with the Purvis woman," Davidson murmured.
"That's because they couldn't stand to look at her. Mrs. Bryce, on the other hand, is rather pretty—thin but pretty. But you can see that for yourself."
Annie watched the door open and the aide come out. Passing her, he went to his desk, where he wrote something down quickly. Straightening up, he looked her way. "If you'll just step inside, Colonel Davidson is available now, ma'am," he told her. "You can leave your cloak out here."
Wiping damp palms on the skirt of her gown, Annie rose. "Thank you, sir. I'd begun to think I was wasting my time."
"He's a busy man," Thompson reminded her, moving to hold the door. Leaning familiarly toward her, he lowered his voice. "If I was you, I'd be real friendly, if you know what I mean."
She drew back stiffly. "No, sir, I'm afraid I don't."
His hand touched her arm lightly, then slid to her elbow before he dropped it. "It's going to take a lot of honey to sweeten the old wheezer up."
"Really?" She regarded him coldly for a moment, then smiled faintly. "Unfortunately, I tend to prefer vinegar, I'm afraid. It works wonderfully to cleanse corruption—of any sort. Honey, on the other hand, seems to feed it."
As she swished past him, he stared blankly. He closed the door after her, trying to figure out what she meant. All he knew for sure was that he'd been set down. "Awful highfalutin for a Comanche's whore, ain't you?" he muttered under his breath. "Well, I'll just bet when you get down to Texas, those cowboys'll take care of you real good."
Both men stood as she entered the office. The colonel came around his desk to greet her with a perfunctory handshake. Before he could say anything, she quickly introduced herself.
"I'm Mrs. Bryce—Mrs. Anne Bryce."
"Mrs. Bryce," he acknowledged. "What a pleasant surprise indeed. You are acquainted with Major Sprenger, I believe?"
"Yes, of course." Still ill at ease from the aide's remark, she forced a smile. "I look across the dinner table at him every evening. Major," she murmured, inclining her head slightly.
"Hello, my dear." To Sprenger she looked even more pale than usual. He smiled back warmly, trying to encourage her. Half turning to the other officer, he asked, "Does she look like skin and bones to you, Colonel?"
Usually stiff-necked and aloof, Davidson found himself staring at her. She was somewhat tall, but the dress was far too large for her, betraying the fact that she was at least twenty, perhaps twenty-five pounds underweight, and the hand she'd offered him was small, almost skeletal. Still, she was possessed of hair the color of ripe wheat, eyes as blue as cornflowers, and features that would have done a sculptor proud. But it was her manner that struck him the most: She met his gaze coolly, without wavering. After everything that had happened to her, she wasn't like the others he'd seen. She wasn't hanging her head in shame, and she wasn't cowed.
"No," he said finally. "You were quite right." Gesturing to a seat beside the surgeon, he said, "Would you care to sit down, ma'am?"
"Thank you."
As she sank into the chair, both men returned to theirs. Davidson found his gaze straying to her face again, trying to decide what it was about her that drew him most. It was the eyes, he decided. Within those blue depths was a sadness, a wariness he'd missed but moments before. He almost wished he could help her.
"So," he said, leaning back, "what can I do for you, Mrs. Bryce?"
She'd not expected him to dispense with the usual civilities so quickly. Taken aback somewhat, she felt awkward, uncertain how best to proceed. Then she thought of her daughter.
"I don't blame you for wondering why I've insisted on this interview," she began carefully, looking down at her clasped hands. "Although this is somewhat difficult for me, sir, I expect I should explain what happened before I ask for your help." She lifted her eyes to meet his. "You know, of course, I have been a Comanche captive for some time—"
"My dear, there is no need, no need to relive the horror—none at all," Davidson assured her, trying to cut off something he didn't want to hear. "I've been on the frontier long enough to have a pretty fair notion."
"I don't intend to relive anything I don't have to, believe me."
"Good. Good." He nodded, wondering where she meant to lead him.
"I'm not here to speak of me, sir—I'll never speak of that," she said quietly. "I was in no worse situation than any female captive. Perhaps I was even better off, for I learned to survive." She looked down again as her fingers worked the handkerchief, betraying the agitation she was determined not to show. "My husband was thirty when it happened—the same age I am now. A thunderstorm was blowing across the San Saba River near our house, and I was outside tending to the laundry with our two children. Susannah was four then, and Jody had been born just after the Christmas before. He would have celebrated his birthday on December twenty-eighth that year."
Will Sprenger laid a hand on her arm. "Don't put yourself through this, my dear," he said gently. "We know it was a Comanche raid."
She caught her lower lip between her teeth to master the rising emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. She shook her head. "No, I'm not telling this for me," she said, low. "I'm telling it for Ethan. For Susannah. For Jody." She forced herself to look across the desk again. "If I'd been in the house—if I could have gotten to the gun sooner— they might have survived. But Ethan was in the field—I don't guess it matters now what he was doing, does it?"
She was too controlled, her voice too even, her muscles under his hand too taut. Afraid her composure would shatter and she'd start weeping, Will reached into his pocket and drew out his handkerchief. When he tried to give it to her, she shook her head.
"I'm all right," she insisted. Lifting her hand, she held up the wadded cotton. "As you can see, I have brought my own." Going on, she recounted what happened without embellishing any of it. "Anyway, it had started to storm, so I was hurrying to take down my clean sheets when my little girl saw the Comanches coming. I ran to the house for my husband's gun—well, that doesn't make any difference now, either. The children and I were captured, anyway."
"A tragedy, Mrs. Bryce—a tragedy," Davidson murmured.
"They never stopped for anything. We rode night and day because they were afraid they were being tracked," she continued. "We didn't have anything to eat except a little buffalo jerky. They wouldn't even let me clean Jody when he soiled himself. And I lost my milk." She closed her eyes, and her already low voice dropped to a whisper. "They killed my son, Colonel Davidson, and he was an innocent baby. All he knew was that he was wet and hungry."
"Believe me, Mrs. Bryce, you have my deepest sympathy," he responded soberly. "I'm terribly sorry."
"And the little girl?" Sprenger forced himself to ask.
"It was a large war party—there were some Kiowas, and Comanches from several other bands. When—when the Indians separated to discourage pursuit, one of the
other Comanches took Susannah with him." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still hear her screaming for me. But I couldn't help her—I couldn't even help myself."
"Red-skinned bastards," Will Sprenger muttered under his breath.
"Later, when I learned enough of the language to speak it, I asked who'd taken her. I was told it was a Comanche named Lost Dog, and he was either a Quahadi or a Noconi, but that's all anybody would say." She looked up, meeting Black Jack Davidson's sympathetic gaze. "I want her back, Colonel. I want your help finding her."
"Of course you do," Sprenger murmured soothingly.
"She's all I had to live for—everything. I stayed alive because she was out there somewhere, and I couldn't just abandon her. Colonel Davidson, I have lived amid filth and vermin. I have eaten everything you could imagine, and then some—even bugs and grass and uncleaned buffalo guts. And I have endured things I would wish on no other woman on this earth. For three years—three years, sir—I have survived with no other purpose than to find my daughter. Now that I am free, I am asking—no, I am demanding—that a search be conducted for Susannah Bryce before it is too late."
Davidson cleared his throat uncomfortably, then tried to explain why he couldn't help her. "It isn't really a matter for the army, Mrs. Bryce—or at least it isn't yet. Under the current Indian policy, my orders are to protect those Kiowas and Comanches who have come onto the reservation. I can act only on application for help by the current Indian agent, Mr. Haworth, and he is opposed to asking for so much as a single guard. Likewise, troops stationed in Texas cannot cross the Red River, even in pursuit of hostiles. While I don't agree at all with the policy, my hands, and those of every officer out here, are effectively tied. Whether I approve or not, I am ordered to see the government delivers adequate food and protection to reservation Indians while they rest between raids," he admitted regretfully. "Believe me, it is not a task I relish, but I am a soldier, my dear, and I will do my duty."
Annie couldn't believe what she was hearing. "But if a child is held captive, surely then the camps can be searched, can't they?" she demanded incredulously.
"No. Not unless Mr. Haworth should ask it."
Seeking to soften the blow, Will Sprenger laid a comforting hand on her arm again. "I doubt you would find many Quahadis on the reservation, my dear. Quanah Parker has chosen to keep his people away, and they are openly hostile."
"But I might have misunderstood. It might not even be a Quahadi." Clenching the handkerchief tightly, she tried not to break down. "One of the other bands could be holding her. She could have been sold, or traded, or—"
"You have my sympathy, Mrs. Bryce—my complete sympathy," Black Jack Davidson assured her again.
"I don't want sympathy, I want my daughter, sir—and I don't care how it happens, but I intend to get her back," she declared, her voice rising. "I want my daughter back where she belongs."
"Of course you do," he murmured soothingly. "Perhaps if you applied to Haworth, he might attempt to pressure the so-called peaceables into giving her up—if she's on the reservation."
"He's withholding rations now," Sprenger pointed out. "I don't think it's helping. They just deny they've got anybody."
"If she's not on the reservation, it would be a Texas matter," Davidson added. "And again, the army there is in a defensive posture right now. As I said, I expect that to change, but so far it hasn't. Next summer there could well be a campaign undertaken against the hostiles, but until then—"
"Then it will be too late! If the camps are overrun, she'll be killed with the Comanches! Surely you must see— surely you must understand—I've got to get her out before then! I cannot just wait for it to happen. Please, there's got to be something. I desperately need help before it is too late, sir," she pleaded. "Susannah's only seven years old, and I don't want her to die with them. Surely you can understand that, Colonel Davidson."
"Forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Bryce, but she may well be dead by now," he responded with unusual gentleness.
"No."
"Three years is a long time in an Indian camp."
"She's got to be alive! She's got to!"
He appeared to consider for a moment, then pressed his fingertips together and leaned across his desk. "If you are determined to assume that, Mrs. Bryce, then you must accept the probability that the child has become as savage as they are. After three years it's more than possible you wouldn't even recognize her."
"She's my flesh and blood, Colonel. I'm her mother," she said more calmly. "I know I would know her, no matter how long they've had her. And I know I can make her remember me."
"I understand—and I wish I could offer you some hope, believe me."
Her anger flared. "I have hope, sir—it's help I need! And I intend to get it. If I have to write the governor of Texas, or my congressman, or the Secretary of War even—I'm going to get it! If need be, I shall go to Washington to apply directly. But whatever it takes, I shall not give up, ever," she said evenly. Rising, she added stiffly, "I suppose I should thank you for letting me waste your time, Colonel Davidson, but I cannot bring myself to do it. Good day, sir."
As she opened the door, he sat very still, saying nothing. It wasn't until he heard Thompson tell her not to forget her cloak that he could bring himself to speak. "You were right, Will," he said finally. "Anne Bryce has a lot of grit." He sighed heavily, then looked at Sprenger. "It'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah." Will leaned forward to pick up his hat. "Guess I'd better make sure she's all right. When what you told her sinks in, she's going to take it real hard."
"The Texans probably won't help her, either," Davidson acknowledged. "There aren't enough rangers to risk sending them on a three-year-old trail."
"No."
"It'd help if she even knew whether it was the Quahadis or the Nokonis," the colonel mused. Suddenly, he heaved his frame up from the chair, asking, "Can Walker have visitors yet?"
"He's on the mend. He can't get around, but he's on the mend. Why? He's not in any condition to help her, I can tell you that for sure."
"No, but maybe he can tell me whether he found Bull Calf on or off the reservation."
CHAPTER 7
"Like I said, you're too tough to die," Will Sprenger observed wryly. "Damned if it doesn't look like you've beaten this."
"Either that or I'm too ornery," Walker agreed. Sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, he looked up, and his expression sobered. "Thanks, Doc. A week ago, I wouldn't have bet two bits on my chances."
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have, either," Will admitted. "I thought we'd be cutting off that leg come morning, and I figured it'd be touch and go even then. Guess it was the bromine that finally did it—that and Mrs. Bryce," he added slyly. "Woman was weaker'n an ant, and more than half sick herself, but she sat up all night with you, trying to bring that fever down one drop of water at a time. Bathed you, too." Turning around, he searched for his magnifying glasses. "Don't suppose you remember any of it, though."
"I knew I was sucking on a rag. The water tasted like laundry soap, but I was too dry to care. And I halfway came to during the bath, but I was too out of it to know who was doing the washing."
"Guess she must've thought she owed it to you." Hooking his glasses over his ears, Will returned his attention to the matter at hand. "I want to get a good look at those stitches, Hap," he murmured. "I know some of my colleagues like to leave 'em in a while, but I'm of the opinion that if they stay too long, the skin tightens around them, and you do more damage than necessary getting 'em out." Lifting the blanket and sheet covering Walker's leg, he bent closer to examine his handiwork. "Hmmm. Yeah, I'd say it looks damned good right now. When's the last time you ran a fever?"
"I don't know—Wednesday or Thursday, I guess."
"I could look it up and find out for sure, but I think it's been long enough, anyway. How's the leg feel?"
"Better than any day since the
bullet hit it."
"Stand down. I want you to tell me what it feels like with your weight on it."
"It feels all right."
Will looked up at that. "You've been on it, haven't you?"
"Not until yesterday."
"Dammit, Hap! Who's the doc around here, me or you? When I give an order, it's an order!"
"It's too damned hard to use the pan with another man looking at you," Hap muttered mulishly, not meeting Sprenger's eyes. "Besides, I wanted to know if I could walk, or if I was going to be a cripple forever."
"I'm supposed to be the judge of that," Will grumbled. "All right, what did you find out? It hold you up like you want?"
"It's sore, but yeah, it holds me up."
"You used crutches, didn't you?"
"Tried to—a couple of times, anyway. Kinda hard to get 'em in the privy with me, you know."
His mouth drawn into a thin line, Will picked up his scissors and small forceps. "If you move, I'm liable to stab you—you can sit still, can't you?"
"Barely."
Working deftly, the surgeon cut and picked out each stitch, pausing to drop the tiny pieces of silk thread onto the tray. Noting Walker gripping the edge of the mattress, he asked, "This hurt?"
"No."
"Never figured you for a liar," Will murmured, finishing up. "Now," he said, straightening, "I'm only going to say this once, and you can do what you damn well please, but you'd better stay on those crutches a week at least. If something busts open in there, I'll be damned if I'll fix it again. See that you remember that, Captain." Turning around to wash his hands in the basin, he acknowledged, "I expect it's not easy for a hard-living man like you to sit around and do nothing."
Hap took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "It's harder'n you'd ever think, Doc—harder'n you'd ever think."
"Don't like selling cattle much, do you?"
"No. Only thing good about it is I can kinda keep my eye on Clay."
"He did all right for himself, I'd say, but I never figured you'd wind up working for him. I never took you for a cattleman."