“Which way would that be, Sam?”
“You know damn well.”
Lorette grinned. “I like it when you talk manly. That’s the first time I’ve heard you cuss.”
“I give up,” Sam said in exasperation, and put on a show of ignoring her while he drank his coffee. He hoped she’d get up and leave, but no. When he was done, he set the cup in his lap and noticed she was looking at him. “What now?”
“I like how you drink.”
“Oh, for crying out loud. I drink the same as everybody.”
“That’s not true. People don’t drink the same. My brother Harland swallows in big gulps. Thax always takes little sips. Your pa always holds his cup in both hands. And you, you curl your lip over the edge. I never saw anybody do that. It’s adorable.”
“First I’m pretty and now I’m adorable,” Sam said. “Shoot me and put me out of my misery.”
Lorette laughed. “I’d never harm a hair on your head.”
“What will it take to get you to leave me alone?” Sam asked.
“Being dead,” Lorette said.
“Well, I have news for you,” Sam said. “I’m going to go on living to spite you.”
“I didn’t mean you being dead, Sam. I meant me.”
“Honestly, girl,” Sam said.
A dreamy look came over her. “I’m always honest with you, Sam. And I always will be. Would you like me to tell you what I like best about you? Honest and true?”
“No, I wouldn’t, but you’ll tell me anyway, so go ahead.”
“What I like best,” Lorette said, “is that you’re nothing like my pa or my brothers.”
“No two people are ever the same.”
Lorette shook her head. “It goes deeper than that. You’re nice, Sam. Nice down to your bones. Or to put it another way, you have a nice heart.”
“Silly as silly can be,” Sam said. “Is that important?”
“To me,” Lorette said, that dreamy expression coming over her again, “it’s the most important thing in the world.”
Chapter 43
Philomena stared with trepidation out the parlor window at the setting sun. “We have to go out and close the shutters,” she announced. She had been putting it off, but it had to be done before dark set in.
“All three of us?” Mandy said.
Philomena nodded. “So we can cover each other. You’ll hold my shotgun. Estelle, you keep that squirrel rifle ready.”
“I’ve never shot anyone, Ma,” her youngest said.
“Who of us has?” Philomena replied. Not that she doubted she could. When it came to protecting her family, she’d do whatever she had to. Moving to the door, she quietly threw the latch, then cracked the door and peered out. The porch was clear, the yard empty save for Blue, who was sitting and staring off at the woods. He’d stopped growling, but his ears were pricked. “There’s no sign of them.”
“We’re right behind you,” Mandy said.
Philomena stepped out. If the Comanches were watching, they’d see her. But it couldn’t be helped.
The shutters had been Owen’s idea. An old-timer had told him it was a wise precaution to ward off arrows and the like. A lot of houses and cabins also had loopholes in the walls, to fire through. Owen had wanted loopholes in theirs, but she had balked. A house shouldn’t have holes in it, she’d told him. Looking back, she saw that Owen had been right and she had been wrong. Loopholes would come in handy right now.
As for the shutters, they’d made a mistake putting theirs on. Back east, shutters were always on the outside. Here in the Texas hill country, the shutters were on the inside, so they could be opened and closed without exposing the occupants to danger. Owen had offered to take the shutters off and put them inside, but once again she had balked. “It can’t make that much of a difference,” was how she’d put it. Now she realized it did.
Philomena worked quickly. The sun was half-gone. It wouldn’t be long before the Comanches made their intentions known.
“We should take Blue in with us,” Estelle suggested.
“We leave him out here so he can bark and warn us,” Philomena said as she swung a shutter shut.
“And be skewered with arrows?” Mandy said. “Please, Ma. I’ve heard the Comanches even eat them.”
“That’s not true, daughter,” Philomena said. “I know for a fact Comanches don’t eat dog or fish. A scout we met told us that. The Sioux do, though. The Cheyenne, too.”
“So can we bring Blue in?” Estelle said. “I’ll be sad as anything if you let him be killed.”
Philomena gave in. “As soon as we’re done with the shutters, we’ll get him.” Now that she gave it more thought, they’d be better off with the dog inside. Should the Indians try to break in, Blue would fight them tooth and claw.
The deepening darkness spurred her to go faster. So did the unnatural silence. Usually birds were warbling their last songs of the day and the chickens would be clucking in the coop, but everything had gone quiet.
“Hurry, Ma,” Mandy urged.
“Did you see something?”
“No. Just hurry. Please.”
“Calm yourself. We’re perfectly fine,” Philomena lied. They were in dire straits, but she refused to show it. She must inspire her girls to be brave. They would need all the courage they could muster.
None too soon, they’d made a circuit of the house, and Philomena had shut the last shutter. She took her shotgun and they hastened out to Blue and untied him. Thankfully, Mandy held on to his collar, because no sooner was the rope untied than he strained to run off toward the woods. He whined when Mandy wouldn’t let him, and twisted in her grip.
“He wants to go after them,” Estelle said.
“They’d kill him dead,” Mandy said. Using both hands, she had to practically drag Blue toward the house.
Philomena went last, the shotgun to her shoulder. She’d only fired it a few times, and reminded herself that she needed to brace herself. It had quite a kick.
“I thought I saw something,” Estelle suddenly whispered.
“Where?”
“Over by the barn.”
Dreading that an arrow would flash out of nowhere or a war whoop would rend the air, Philomena shooed them along. Her nerves jangled fiercely until she had closed and bolted the front door. “There. We’re safe for the time being.”
“Should I tie Blue or give him the run of the house?” Mandy asked.
“The run,” Philomena said. He would hear the Comanches before they did, and give them warning of where the Indians were about to break in.
Blue moved off down the hall, his claws clacking on the hardwood floor.
“I’ll set out a bowl with water for him,” Estelle said.
“You do that.” Philomena was racking her brain for a means of thwarting their besiegers. A lit lantern or lamp in every room would help. So would putting kitchen knives near each of the ground-floor windows. She contemplated heating water on the stove to throw in their faces, but lugging the heavy pot would slow her.
“Do you think we’ll live out the night?” Mandy unexpectedly asked.
“What a thing to say,” Philomena chided. “Of course we will.”
“You don’t need to sugarcoat it, Ma,” Mandy said. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
Memories washed over Philomena, of her daughters when they were younger, of Amanda with curls in her hair, laughing gaily, of Estelle playing with a raggedy doll, of them playing hide and seek, and tag. Precious memories, they tugged at her heartstrings and brought a lump to her throat. “None of us are dying tonight. I won’t let that happen.”
“Sure, Ma,” Mandy said.
Philomena put a hand on her eldest’s shoulder. “Don’t ever give up. You hear me?”
“I’ve always admired that about you,” Mandy sai
d. “Pa says that when you start something, you always see it through, come hell or high water.”
“Your father said that? And don’t swear.”
“Sorry. But he’s right. I’ve always looked up to how you never let anything keep you down. Pa says you’re a scrapper, and you are. If I’ve learned anything from you, it’s that a person should never let life trample them down.”
Welling with affection, Philomena gave Mandy a hug. “I keep forgetting you’re almost full-grown.”
“Almost?” Mandy said, and grinned.
Their tender moment was brought to an end by the patter of feet as Estelle rushed up, her eyes wide.
“Ma! Come quick!”
“What is it?”
“Blue is growling again. I think someone is prowling around the back of the house.”
It’s starting, Philomena thought, and hurried to the kitchen.
Blue was by the back door, his nose to the jamb, sniffing and rumbling in his barrel chest.
“See?” Estelle whispered.
Philomena went over. She put her ear to the door but didn’t hear anything. Moving to the window, she put her ear to it. Again, nothing.
“I wish Pa and Luke and Sam were here,” Estelle said.
“They’re not. It’s just us, but we’re not helpless,” Philomena said more harshly than she intended.
“I didn’t mean . . .” Estelle said, but she didn’t finish.
“Ma!” Mandy whispered. “Look!” And she pointed.
The latch was moving. Slowly, quietly, as someone outside tried to open the door.
Blue let out a whuff and a loud growl. He pawed at the bottom of the door, his claws digging into the wood.
Philomena was about to tell him to stop; she didn’t want her door scratched. The absurdity of it made her grin.
The latch became still. Then the door itself moved slightly as pressure was applied to the outside.
“They’re pushing on it!” Mandy whispered.
“If they get in, shoot at their heads,” Philomena instructed. A head shot to man or beast, her grandfather always told her, was the surest way to put something down. “We’ll retreat down the hall, and if we have to, barricade ourselves in an upstairs bedroom.”
“Listen,” Estelle whispered.
Now there was a scratching sound, as if a fingernail were being run over the outside of the door.
“What are they up to?” Mandy whispered.
“If they want in, they’ll have to batter it down,” Philomena said grimly.
The next moment, the door shook violently.
Chapter 44
Ebidiah Troutman hadn’t gone far into the woods after he left the Weaver place when he spotted something in the trees ahead. Halting, he raised his Sharps but held his fire. When he saw it was a horse he dropped into a crouch, thinking the Comanches must be nearby. As the minutes passed and the horse didn’t move and no warriors appeared, Ebidiah made bold to move forward with Sarabell’s rope in his left hand. He wasn’t about to leave her untended and have her stolen.
The horse was a sorrel that looked to be on in years and stood with its head hung low. On its flank was a scarlet slash. Around its neck was a rope, the loose end tangled in some brush, which explained why it wasn’t moving.
Ebidiah stopped and squatted. He reasoned that the horse must belong to the Weavers, that maybe it was Wilda’s animal, and that the Comanches had let it run loose. They probably didn’t take it because it was so old.
Whatever the case, Ebidiah could use it. Wary of a trick, he edged closer. The sorrel heard him and looked over. It didn’t whinny or try to run off.
Ebidiah felt safe in straightening. He patted the sorrel, which nuzzled him, and spent a minute untangling the rope. Using his bowie, he cut a length suitable for a halter, and swung up.
The lack of a saddle didn’t bother him. He was used to riding bareback. Leading Sarabell by her rope, he rode in a beeline for the Kurst place. He wanted to go to the Burnett farm first but he knew that Ariel Kurst was alone. Her husband and all her brood were at Comanche Creek.
Ebidiah had only ever seen the woman twice. The first time was when he paid the Kursts’ cabin a visit to see if they were interested in buying any of his hides. That they’d practically laughed in his face, saying they were perfectly capable of skinning and curing their own, and telling him to peddle his wares somewhere else, had rankled.
The second time Ebidiah saw Ariel Kurst was in town. She was there with her husband. Or, rather, behind him, for Ebidiah had noticed that everywhere they went, Ariel stayed a step or two behind Gareth. She never walked at his side. When Gareth stopped, she’d stopped. When Gareth talked to people, she’d barely said a word.
Ebidiah never had cottoned to men who treated their womenfolk as if the women were their personal property. That whole lords-and-masters business seemed to him to be nothing more than a man keeping his boot heel on a woman’s neck. That some females stood for it never ceased to amaze him. But then, sometimes folks didn’t have much choice.
Yet another reason Ebidiah avoided civilization as if it were a plague. In a sense, it was. A plague of people imposing their will on others and making people do things they didn’t want to do. That wasn’t for him. Give him freedom any day. True freedom, which in his mind was the right to make his own decisions and do as he pleased without anyone telling him different.
Ebidiah gave his head a shake. With a war party on the loose, he couldn’t afford to be distracted. He stayed vigilant for sign of the Comanches, but Providence was kind to him and in due course he came to the top of a hill overlooking the clearing where the Kurst cabin lay.
Right away, Ebidiah could tell he was too late. The cabin door hung from one hinge, and articles from within were scattered about the clearing. The corral was open, the horses all gone. A pair of hogs lay in pools of blood in their pen.
Against his better judgment, Ebidiah went down. He knew what he would find but he had to be sure. At the edge of the clearing he dismounted and tied the sorrel and Sarabell.
A lot of the scattered items had been broken. A chair was busted to pieces. Blankets had been cut up. That surprised Ebidiah a little. Indian gals were fond of blankets. Apparently this war party had no interest in plunder. They were out to count coup on their enemies.
Flies buzzed about the doorway. The smell of blood was strong.
Ebidiah found out why when he dared to step inside.
Ariel Kurst had gone to her reward in about as grisly a fashion as a person could.
Ebidiah felt his gorge rise, and backed out. Gulping in air, he leaned his brow against the cabin and closed his eyes. That was a sight he’d take with him to his grave.
Two homesteads attacked, two women slain. The war party was making a sweep of the outmost settlers. Which meant the next on their list would be the family he liked best.
Ebidiah hurried to Sarabell and the horse. He doubted he would be in time, but he had to try.
As he rode, Ebidiah wondered, yet again, if he was responsible for the spreading slaughter. He’d killed that warrior, after all. It could be what brought the war party. It could be the Comanches were out for revenge.
Ebidiah hoped not. He’d thought he was doing the settlers a favor when he confronted the warrior spying on them. How was he to predict this would be the result? He’d hidden the body the best he could.
The ride to the Burnett place was the longest ride of his life. Every minute was an hour. He prayed he would be in time to warn Mrs. Burnett and escort her and her daughters into town. They’d be safe there.
It occurred to him that Mrs. Burnett might insist on going to the cattle camp to be with her husband. He’d try to talk her out of it, although she had struck him as the kind who didn’t take no for an answer.
The issue became moot once Ebidiah reached the hills that
fringed the Burnett farm. Everything was unnaturally still.
Fortunately, Ebidiah saw the Indians before they saw him. They were in a stand of trees not far from the farmhouse. Some were sitting, some milling about. They appeared in no rush to attack. Then it hit him. They were waiting for dark.
Beyond the woods, past a corral, were the two Burnett girls, Amanda and Estelle, going about their daily chores.
Ebidiah withdrew until he was out of sight. He had to warn the women. He secured both animals, whispered in Sarabell’s ear that he would be back, and began to circle wide of the Comanches. He didn’t have a lot of time. The sun was low to the west. Within the hour it would set, and the warriors would close in.
A part of Ebidiah wanted to get out of there. Part of him felt he should climb on the sorrel and ride hell-bent for leather. He didn’t owe the Burnetts anything. Certainly not his life.
Another part of him said that wasn’t so. That women were in peril, and no man worthy of the name would run out on them when they needed his help. It wasn’t because of pride that he kept going. Nor was it out of any sense of honor. It was simply the right thing to do.
Ebidiah almost chuckled at the irony. He’d spent most of his life avoiding human contact. Now he was risking everything to save a few he did have contact with, on occasion.
It was his intention to reach the farmhouse before the sun went down, but he was still a hundred yards from it when he glimpsed furtive figures coming out of the woods.
Flattening, Ebidiah anxiously licked his lips, and crawled. He wasn’t about to stop. He had to do it.
Come what may.
Chapter 45
Philomena Burnett pointed her shotgun at the kitchen door, prepared to fire the instant the Comanches broke it in. She must prevent the warriors from overwhelming them and buy time for her and the girls to make it down the hall to the stairs.
“Ma?” Mandy whispered. “Don’t you hear that?”
Philomena had been so intent on shooting that she hadn’t realized someone else was whispering—outside the door.
“Mrs. Burnett? Let me in.”
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 17