Merline Lovelace (23 page)

“Your horse is saddled and waiting for you outside, sir, along with a few of our troopers who don’t want to see their bunkmates lose their hair over a worthless pile of buzzard shit like Kinkaid.”

Nodding, Andrew buckled on the gun belt and headed for the stairs. He took them two at a time and burst outside, only to stop in his tracks.

Company C’s red-and-white standard whipped in the morning breeze. The trumpeter sat with his bugle resting on his hip, waiting for orders. Behind them ranged almost the whole company, armed and ready to ride. Bewhiskered Lieutenant Stanton-Smith kicked his mount forward and whipped up a salute.

“I regret to inform you Colonel Cavanaugh is indisposed, sir. He took some, er, new medication the surgeon prescribed for him and felt dizzy and disoriented. He signed the order for your release just before he collapsed in his bed.”

A flinty smile whipped across Andrew’s mouth. Henry Schnell must have doped the old man to his gills to get him to sign such an order.

Swinging into the saddle, he ran an eye down the column. He knew every man jack of them, from the rawest recruit to the wizened scout who spit a brown wad through the stumps of his blackened teeth. Lone
Eagle sat beside Arizona Joe Pardee, his face stony as Andrew addressed the troop.

“There’ll be hell to pay when we get back…if we get back. You know that?”

“Yes,
sir!
”

Despite the tension that corded his muscles, the major grinned at the deafening chorus.

“All right, men. Let’s move out.”

A mounted troop pushing their horses hard could cover three times the ground of a slow-moving detachment escorting mule-drawn wagons. With any luck, Andrew figured they’d catch the small cavalcade before nightfall.

As it turned out, they heard the distant rattle of gunfire just as the flaming ball of the sun started to sink into a sea of prairie grass.

A
s long as she lived, Julia would remember the terror that gripped her when the hills around their small cavalcade suddenly came alive. In almost the blink of an eye, an unbroken line of horsemen crowned the rolling hills. Their silhouettes were black against the flaming sun.

The column’s scout first alerted the troop to danger. He came racing down one hill, bent low over his pony. The short staccato bugle notes that followed his report had the men reaching for rifles and pistols. As one, they broke ranks.

The ambulance driver knew just what to do, thank God. Whipping and cursing the mules, he pulled the team to the right and drew them up tight against the wagon in front, forming one side of a rough square. The moment their noses touched the wagon bed, he reached behind the seat to grab the picket stakes and jumped down to unhitch the team. With a stern order
to the whimpering Suzanne to stay where she was, Julia scrambled down to help.

Philip rushed up a moment later. “When the attack comes, you and Suzanne lay flat in the bottom of the wagon bed. I’ll let down the canvas sides. They should protect you from flying arrows.”

Canvas wouldn’t protect them from bullets, but neither she nor Philip would admit as much with their daughter peering over the side of the wagon with huge, frightened eyes. Mutely, the girl begged for more reassurance. Julia couldn’t give it. Instead, she drew her husband a few yards from the wagon and held out her hand.

“You have a rifle. Give me your pistol.”

His face grim, he drew out the heavy weapon and passed it to her. “Don’t use it unless…unless you’re sure it’s necessary.”

Julia grasped his meaning at once. Her eyes blazing, she wrapped her fist around the crosshatched grip. “I have no intention of shooting myself or Suzanne! I can survive being taken by the Sioux, and so can she. But I don’t intend to let them take either of us without a fight.”

Whirling, she stalked back to the wagon and climbed inside. With Suzanne’s help, she rearranged their bundles to form an inner bullwork. That done, both mother and daughter stretched out on the hard floorboards.

Within minutes, the flurry of preparations was done. The troops’ muttering died away. An eerie si
lence descended. Her heart thumping painfully against her stays, Julia lay wedged between the high-piled bundles and wished fervently the narrow space didn’t feel so much like a coffin.

Beneath her, Suzanne whimpered softly. Murmuring meaningless nothings to the terrified girl, Julia closed her eyes. If she was to die, she prayed she’d die fast. From a quick bullet or an arrow through the heart.

But not her daughter.

Please, God, not her daughter!

With every fiber of her being, she clung to the knowledge that the Sioux more often took children captive than killed them.

Hope surged wildly when she heard a distant shout. They wanted to parlay! Surely that meant they wanted to parlay!

She didn’t understand the Sioux phrases shouted across the plains, but the detachment commander’s reply left no doubt in her mind.

“Tell Chief Spotted Tail I have no authority to release the prisoners.”

Another string of angry phrases followed, then the sound of a pony galloping off. A few dozen heartbeats later, the earth beneath the ambulance began to rumble. What sounded like a thousand hooves thundered down from the hills, and the first volley of shots cracked through the air.

Company C chased the echo of rifle fire for a good twenty minutes. The sun was a ball of flaming red
fast sinking into the waving prairie grass when they topped the last rise and saw the small, besieged square below.

“Sound the charge!”

The bugler had his trumpet to his lips before Andrew had bellowed the order.

“For…
ward!
”

Fifty troopers spurred their mounts from gallop to full charge. The earth thundered beneath two hundred pounding hooves. Seconds later, rifles and revolvers roared, spitting a wall of smoke.

The whooping riders circling the wagons jerked on their bridles, surprised by the attack from behind. They returned fire for a few moments before breaking off and wheeling in a dozen different directions.

Andrew was too experienced in the ways of the Sioux and Cheyenne to go after them. Their ponies were tougher and fresher than his men’s mounts. A party of the attackers could easily lead the pursuing cavalry on a wild chase while the main body of warriors circled back to attack.

Instead, he aimed Jupiter right for the square. The chestnut sailed through the tight space between wagons, soaring over the barriers the besieged detail had thrown up. The rest of Company C followed, cursing and shouting warnings when their mounts knocked against each other or the picketed mules.

Whoops and cheers drowned out their shouts. As the last of the gunfire died away, the harried troopers
sprang up to punch their rescuers’ arms and pound hearty fists on their backs. The captain in charge of the detachment barely restrained himself from doing the same to Andrew.

“Sure glad to see you, Major! They were giving us a lively time of it.”

“So I saw. How many down?”

“Two that I know of. One trooper, one civilian.”

“Civilian?”

Andrew’s chest hollowed. He had already started for the ambulance wagon when he saw Julia hunched over a sprawled body. She pressed a wad of torn petticoat against Philip Bonneaux’s shoulder.

Blood stained the cloth and dribbled through her fingers. She glanced up at his approach and gave a sob of something that could have been joy or relief or pure terror.

“Andrew! Help me! Philip’s been shot.”

“Let me have a look at him.”

Once the sun sank behind the hills, night descended swiftly. With it came a biting chill and a vast panorama of stars.

Julia tucked a blanket up around Philip’s shoulders, then pushed to her feet. Wearily, she lifted the flap of canvas to check on the sleeping Suzanne. Between caring for Philip and calming her near hysterical daughter, she was too exhausted herself to feel fear.

The heavenly aroma of burnt coffee beans and siz
zling pork fat drew her toward the campfire at one end of the small square. She recognized most of the men seated on stools and cartridge boxes around the fire, but it was the tall, lean officer who drew her.

Whiskers stubbled his cheeks and chin. The low-pulled brim of his hat covered most of the bandage on his forehead. He told her what had happened. If she hadn’t seen the evidence of Cavanaugh’s hatred with her own eyes—when he’d ordered her not to include the Sioux in her classes—she wouldn’t have believed him capable of putting his whole troop at risk so deliberately.

Andrew rose and gave her his seat, then shoved a tin mug into her hand. “How’s Bonneaux?”

He couldn’t bring himself to call him Philip, Julia realized, much less refer to him as her husband.

“Better. The bleeding’s stopped, and the laudanum the ambulance driver gave him finally put him to sleep.”

Andrew’s grunt could have signified anything. Sighing, Julia sipped the bitter brew. As if sensing the things that needed saying between them, the others at the fire drifted away one by one.

He settled a heavy weight over her shoulders. The blanket smelled of horse and prairie dust, but Julia was grateful for its warmth.

“Do you think the Sioux will come back?”

“Yes. Spotted Tail wants Kinkaid.”

Her gaze shifted to the men huddled around the fire at the other side of the encampment. The two mule
drivers still wore their chains. One had a dirty bandage wrapped around his thigh. The other showed a similarly soiled bandage under the rents in his filthy shirt.

At the time of the attack, the captain commanding the detachment had turned a deaf ear to their demands for guns to defend themselves, thank God. Andrew hadn’t even bothered to listen to their whining pleas. The only concern he’d displayed for their continued existence was to send Lone Eagle out with Arizona Joe to stand silent sentinel. The Arapaho left with a look that promised Kinkaid he would return.

The freight driver looked up just then and caught Julia watching him. For a few moments, the night closed in on her and all she could see was Kinkaid carving Walks In Moonlight’s flesh. As if reading her mind, he pulled his lips back in a smile, then smooched them up in a silent, nauseating kiss.

If she’d held Philip’s pistol in her hand at that moment, Julia would have walked across the clearing and shot the man straight through his heart.

Shuddering, she whipped her gaze back to Andrew. “Will you give him to Spotted Tail?”

His jaw squared. Unshakable, implacable determination hardened his eyes. “Yes. I’ll ride out with him and the other one at first light.”

Julia could only guess the penalties Andrew would face for disobeying his commander’s direct orders. At that moment, she didn’t care. Clenching her fists, she uttered a short, savage wish.

“Good! I hope the bastard dies a long and agonizing death.”

She got her wish, but not until the freight driver had taken two more victims to the grave with him.

Kinkaid made his move in the darkest hour before dawn. The banked campfires gave off only a dim glow. Sentries hunched behind their barricades, staring out at the inky blackness beyond the wagons. Those not on watch tossed restlessly on their bedrolls.

The mule driver figured he had nothing to lose. He’d seen the look in the major’s eyes when he’d held that knife to the Bonneaux woman’s throat back at the post. The same look that had come over his face tonight. Kinkaid knew damned well he wouldn’t come out of this mess with a whole skin. If Garret didn’t take him ’n Brewster back to Fort Laramie and put nooses around their necks himself, he’d give them up to the Sioux, sure as shit.

Well, Billy Kinkaid didn’t figure to go to his grave without no fight. If the guard they’d set on him was dumb enough to give him the blanket he asked for, the stupid blue-belly deserved to die, too.

And die he did, without so much as a whimper. Muffling the sound of his shackles with the blanket the fool had given him, Billy slipped the trooper’s knife out of its scabbard, clapped a hand over his mouth and thrust the blade in between his ribs. One
quick twist, a single jerk of the trooper’s limbs, and it was done.

It was a chancy kill, with half the troop at the barricades and the other half too jumpy to sleep in more than snatches, but Billy’s luck held long enough for him to search through the blue-belly’s pockets for the key to his irons.

“Kinkaid!”

The hoarse whisper jerked his head around.

“Unlock me, too!”

“Unlock yerself,” he whispered, tossing the key at Brewster.

Thanking whatever devils owned his soul for the inky blackness, he tugged the dead trooper’s hat from his head and pulled it down low on his brow. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but he’d only use it for a few seconds. Just long enough to grab a horse and bust outta here.

Snatching up the dead trooper’s pistol, he slipped through the shadows toward the picketed horses. The woman rolled up in blankets beside her husband snagged his narrowed glance.

The wounded Bonneaux represented no real threat. Billy had seen him go down, had seen his wife dose him with something to make him sleep.

Billy’s avid gaze lingered on the woman. For a moment, only a moment, he was tempted to dig his fist into her hair and drag her along with him, like he done the squaw. Lordy, he’d like to hear her squeal.

Too bad he didn’t have the time for that kind of fun right now. Seeing the two of them gave him an idea, though. What he needed was a hostage to make good his escape, and he knew just which one to take.

The rough hand that grabbed her arm brought Suzanne out of her sleep with a startled cry. Before the sound had even left her lips, she was dragged up and over the side of the wagon. With a frightened sob, she tumbled out.

“Suzanne! What—?”

The terrified girl saw her mother throw off her blanket and struggle up. An arm swung hard and fast. Her mother crumpled to the ground.

Then that same thick arm was around her neck, choking her, holding her high off the ground against a body that stank with sweat. Sobbing, she clawed at the relentless band. Her heels drummed against hard thighs. Something cold and round jammed into her temple.

“Let her go!”

The major’s voice cut through the darkness. Other shouts rang out. Troopers scrambled to their feet. Through a red haze of terror, Suzanne felt the chest behind her rumble.

“What, this purty little thing? Nah, I think I’ll take her along to play with.”

“Dammit, Kinkaid, let her go!”

“You think I don’t know you won’t shoot me where I stand the second I do?”

“I won’t, I swear it. Nor will any of my men.”

“That right? Then why don’t you prove yer honorable intentions, soldier boy? Unbuckle that holster and toss down yer gun. Slowly now! Use your left hand.”

Through a sheen of tears, Suzanne saw the major reach awkwardly for his holster.

“The rest of you sons o’bitches do the same. Brewster, you get them guns and load them in this here wagon. We’re takin’ it and this pretty little thing with us.”

Suzanne’s fear-crazed mind registered only two stark facts. The man who held her had hurt her mama. And he wanted to take her away. With a frantic flail of her fists and heels, she tried to wrench free.

“Shoot him, major!” she choked out. “He’s a bad man!”

The gun barrel jammed into her temple. Sobbing with pain, Suzanne thrashed even harder. The arm crushing her windpipe loosened just enough for her to drop her chin and sink her sharp little teeth into the sweaty skin.

“You little—”

The gun barrel whipped away. Suzanne bit down as hard as she could, locking her jaws, expecting to feel the pistol butt come crashing down on her head any second.

Suddenly, the bad man jerked backward. Suzanne went with him. Someone fell on top of her.

Papa! That was her papa’s silk vest mashing into her face!

Still, she kept her jaws locked, like her little prairie dog the time he’d caught that garden snake. Crushed between her papa and the bad man, she could barely breathe. All the while her papa was grunting, the bad man was howling and trying to shake her loose.