The Jeweled Spur
Authors: Gilbert Morris
© 1994 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6006-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Josh Madison
This book is dedicated to Paul and Mary Root.
A man loses many things as time washes away the years—
but the memories of the fine times
we’ve had together are safe—
locked up in my heart along with all the other good things!
CONTENTS
20. “You Listen to Me Preach—And I’ll Watch You Shoot!”
CHAPTER ONE
Apaches!
The Apache made no more noise than the white cloud that drifted across the hard, blue Arizona sky.
Only the sound of the gelding’s steel-clad hooves—a sharp clicking on the feldspar floor of the desert—disturbed the silence of the land. The rhythm of the horse’s gait had made Laurie Winslow sleepy, and her eyes were half-shut against the rays of the burning yellow sun.
There was no warning—except for a jackrabbit that popped up suddenly, his ridiculously long ears flopping wildly as he zigzagged around rocks and disappeared into a small patch of yucca cactus.
One moment Laurie had been smiling, thinking of something her father had said; the next, the sudden appearance of the rabbit jerked her out of her somnambulant doze—which may have saved her life. She had been taught better. Her father had warned her many times:
Don’t take it for granted that there’s nothing behind that innocent-looking rock. It may hide a Chiricahua Apache.
Just as Laurie’s head snapped up to catch sight of the vanishing rabbit, a flash of movement drew her eyes to the left. There had been only a stone formation, gray and rounded by a hundred years of weather, but just as Laurie whirled around, an Indian erupted from behind it!
He was small and wiry, as were most Apaches, dressed in a shirt, breechclout, and moccasins with leggings folded down. A headband rested on jet black hair, and his eyes glittered as
he threw himself at the horse. He moved faster than a striking snake, closing the distance between him and the startled girl in two bounds. His hand grabbed for the bridle even as Laurie drove her spurs into Star’s flanks.
The powerful black horse let out a shrill cry, lunging forward with a force that snapped Laurie’s neck—but the Indian was too quick. His fingers just missing the bridle, he caught the saddle horn with his left hand as his right clamped down like a vise on Laurie’s arm. The force of his grip pulled the girl half out of the saddle, but she was a strong-nerved young woman. Knowing what would happen to her if she lost her saddle, she reacted by grabbing the small .38 her father insisted she carry.
Even as she drew the pistol, the strength of the Indian’s grip pulled her off balance. Looking down, she saw the evil leer on his broad lips. He cried something in Apache she didn’t understand, but the cruel, metallic glint in his black eyes left no doubt of his intentions.
She was falling as she lifted the pistol, swung it over, and pulled the trigger. At once the smashing sound of the explosion was followed by a cry of pain and rage. Star gave a tremendous bound, almost causing Laurie to fall the rest of the way, but then she grabbed the saddle horn and pulled herself back into the saddle. Twisting around, she saw the Indian scrambling to his feet and felt a rush of relief that she hadn’t killed him.
But as she watched, another Apache stepped from behind a cactus, lifted a rifle, and fired. Instantly Laurie felt a white-hot burning high on her right side and knew that she’d been hit. Ignoring the pain, she managed to turn and fire three shots at the pair. She must have come close, for the Indian with the rifle dodged to one side and did no more shooting.
As Star pounded across the desert at a dead run, Laurie looked back and saw that the two had mounted their ponies and were in pursuit. “Come on, Star!” she shouted to the gelding, leaning low over the saddle and moving in rhythm with
the animal. She was four miles from the fort, but she knew that the Indians would not follow close enough to chance an encounter with a patrol of troopers. She also knew that the scrubby Indian ponies could never catch her—not when she was mounted on a horse like Star.
By the time she crested a low hill and the walls of the stockade came into view, she saw no more of the Apaches when she looked back over her shoulder. Slowing Star to a trot, then a walk, she took a shaky breath. The suddenness of the attack and the short, vicious struggle had left her no time to be afraid; but now that the danger was over, the reaction set in. Her stomach wanted to erupt and a sense of nausea swept over her as Star champed at the bit, ready to run for the fort and his dinner. Looking down, Laurie saw that her hands were trembling violently. A light-headed sensation made her reel slightly in the saddle, but she fought against it.
A streak of pain from her right side made her grimace, and she stopped Star and pulled her shirt up. The bullet had raked across her side, gouging out a small track that was bleeding. Pulling out her handkerchief, she pressed it against the wound, then pulled her shirt down, clamping her arm tightly against it.
Holding Star back to a walk to give herself more time before entering the fort, she took a deep breath and expelled it slowly, feeling the trembling and the nausea pass away.
Better!
she thought with relief. But as she approached the gate, one question loomed before her:
What will I tell Dad?
As the guards swung open the gate and she rode inside, Laurie knew she had to tell him the truth about what happened.
He’s trusted me enough to let me ride, so I’ll have to be honest with him, even if it means no more riding alone.
She rode across the parade ground, and even troubled as she was over speaking with her father, she glanced around with distaste at Fort Grant.
It was only a shabby collection of buildings, made of warping cottonwood lumber and closely surrounded by a
stockade of logs set upright in the ground. Each corner was capped by a small bastion from which sentries might view the surrounding countryside at night. The ground was worn smooth of vegetation, all the living quarters were paintless, their walls pulling apart from the effects of the relentless sun and rain. Fort Grant commanded no more than a wide expanse of desert and broken rock formations, exposed to the full rigors of winter’s harsh winds and summer’s brutal heat. The walls of the fort were formed by back edges of barracks, storehouses, officers’ quarters, and stables, all facing a parade ground where sweating troopers drilled under a blazing summer sun.
As Laurie dismounted in front of headquarters, a wave of despair welled up in her. It was such a forlorn place! There were no diversions, no entertainments, no breaks from her dull and confined life. To the east and west stretched an empty land. Forty miles to the south lay the Indian agency, and much farther to the north lay Phoenix and Prescott—much too far for a casual ride.
Entering her father’s office, she was greeted by Corporal Ned Randall. “Well, now, howdy, Miss Laurie.” Randall was a skinny man of twenty with rusty hair and light blue eyes. “Enlisted man’s dance next month,” he said abruptly, adjusting his left arm, which was in a sling. “I’m puttin’ my bid in early.”
“You’re too late, Corporal,” Laurie smiled. She was feeling the effects of the bullet wound in her side now, but she clamped her jaw tightly, determined not to show her pain. Laurie was thankful that Ned was too taken with her to notice her injury. “Sergeant Reinman asked me a month ago.”
“Aw—!” Randall groaned, letting his thin shoulders slump. Then he brightened up. “How about the Christmas dance? I ain’t too late for that, am I?”
“No. I’d be glad to go with you, Ned.” Her words pleased the young man, and Laurie was glad. She knew how lonesome
it was for the young troopers, and tried to play no favorites. “I need to see my father if he’s not too busy.”
“Oh, go on in, Miss Laurie—”
Laurie took him at his word, knocked on the door, and entered when she heard, “Come in.” Major Tom Winslow was bent over some papers on the battered desk, but when he looked up and saw her, his dark face brightened. “Well, you’re back early. Have a good time?” He was a big man with heavy shoulders and the slim flanks of a horseman. At forty-one, his dark hair had no trace of gray, and his blue eyes were alert as he looked at her.
Laurie said at once, “Dad, two Apaches jumped me about four miles from the fort.”
Instantly Winslow’s pleasant expression grew watchful. “Tell me about it,” he said, coming to his feet. He listened intently to her story, then walked to the door and said, “Corporal, have Sergeant Morgan assemble a detail. As soon as they’re mounted, I’ll give them their orders.”
“Yes, sir!”
Turning back to his daughter, Winslow said, “I was afraid of this, Laurie.”
“But the Indians have been so peaceful, Dad!”
She made a pretty picture to him as she stood before him.
Got the same black eyes and hair as her mother,
he thought as she spoke. He thought then of Marlene Signourey, his first wife. She’d died at Laurie’s birth, and her last words to him had been, “I never loved you, Tom—it was always Spence.” But as Winslow looked at Laurie, he realized that somehow he loved her more because her mother had not cared for him. He was not a man who analyzed his own emotions, but he sensed that this young woman would always have some part of his love that he couldn’t give to the children he had by his second wife—as much as he adored them.