“Mind if I join you for a few minutes?” she asked the driver after he had hastily made room for her. “It’s much cooler out here than inside.”
“I can stop and help you roll up the sides if you’d like,” he offered.
“That’s kind of you,” she said, trying to locate the lieutenant in the column ahead. “Aunt Belle prefers her privacy. Your name is Brooks, isn’t it?” He had been introduced that morning when he was assigned to drive their wagon, but she had barely noticed the young enlisted man.
“Yes, ma’am. Victor Brooks.”
“Have you heard when we’ll be stopping to rest?” The new recruits were riding four abreast directly in front of their wagon. She stood up for a moment to get a better view beyond, assuming the lieutenant was leading the column.
“Ain’t been in the army long enough to even make a guess. All I know is to mind my sergeant, steer clear of officers, and eat whenever they give me a chance.”
Rebecca laughed. “I hope they give us that chance soon.”
“Me and my messmates are supposed to cook for you ladies as well as ourselves. I reckon that means we roast your rabbit before we boil our salt pork.”
Rebecca turned and studied the soldier for the first time. Judging by his smooth skin, he was in his early twenties, but there was a hardness about his eyes that made him look older. She couldn’t tell if he was resentful of the assignment or had intended his comment as a joke.
“Oh dear,” she said with a sigh. “I seem to have forgotten to set out my rabbit traps so tonight you’ll probably be cooking double rations of pork.”
Brooks gave a mirthless laugh. “Not likely, ma’am. Dixie Boy will be looking out for himself, and for you too, I reckon. I imagine there’s a hunting party out what won’t get a bite of what they kill.”
Dixie Boy? She had a feeling this soldier was headed for trouble. Arguing with him wouldn’t help, though, especially if he turned out to be right. He had evidently heard stories, she had too, of officers who dined in elegance while the troops ate the standard rations. Or substandard as they called them.
“Did you see a hunting party go?”
“Three men were sent ahead a while ago.”
Rebecca scowled. Why would she be so disappointed if Brooks was right? “Maybe they’re scouting out a river crossing,” she suggested.
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
“Tell you what, soldier,” Rebecca said, standing again as the column ahead mounted a rise. “If you turn out to be right, I’ll see you get a share.”
“Why, that’s kind of you, ma’am,” Brooks said.
Rebecca smiled. She had located him finally, riding a bay horse in the lead of the column. She sat down when he was once again hidden by the other soldiers. “But that won’t be till evening anyway. The noon meal is usually too hurried to cook anything. And General Hale’s wife packed us a lunch.”
“I should have guessed.”
She leaned closer and spoke softly. “If it won’t make your messmates jealous, I’ll see if I can’t save something back.”
“What my messmates don’t know, can’t upset’em.”
They caught up with the three outriders at a creek and rested just beyond it. Stock was fed and watered, fires were quickly built and coffee boiled. Rebecca wanted to spread a blanket on the ground and eat Mrs. Hale’s lunch picnic style, but Aunt Belle refused to leave the wagon except for a brief excursion into the trees. Even with Rebecca and Alicia standing guard, she found the experience humiliating.
Brooks offered them coffee, but otherwise they were left alone to eat their lunch in the same confining space they had shared all morning. Rebecca listened to the voices of the men outside and felt like a prisoner. She hoped the lieutenant would come to check on their well-being and comfort but knew Aunt Belle would probably voice her complaints. When he hadn’t come by the time they started down the trail, she told herself it was just as well.
She slipped out to the seat again shortly after they started, bringing the driver two pieces of cold chicken. He seemed surprised, though not particularly pleased to receive the offering, as if he would rather have had his worst notions confirmed than have the chicken to eat. She decided she didn’t like Victor Brooks.
Still, she determined to be nice to him. She and her companions were dependent on him in many respects, and he would no doubt take more care for their comfort if she was kind to him.
Brooks, busily eating the chicken, didn’t seem inclined to talk so Rebecca watched the column ahead, especially the officer when she could get a glimpse of him, and wished she was riding alongside him. As she imagined smiling up at him, the wind took a swipe at her hat. She grabbed for it too late.
“Stop!”
Brooks stared at her. Only after seeing the heat in his eyes did she realize that her hair had come completely unpinned and tumbled around her shoulders.
She gathered it into her fist, and Brooks came to his senses, hauling on the reins. He jumped from the wagon and Rebecca leaned around the side to see if the next team had already trampled her hat. The freight wagons were still a few yards behind, and Brooks sprinted to her hat, bringing it back to her at a run. He was in the seat and calling to the team before the next wagon was forced out of line.
“Thanks,” Rebecca said, brushing at the dust on the hat.
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
Rebecca frowned. She would have to go back inside the wagon and try again to pin up her hair. She probably ought to stay there. Aunt Belle didn’t approve of her spending time with the driver. Of course, Aunt Belle didn’t approve of anything.
Still, until she found a way to keep her hat in place, she would have to stay inside. Stopping the ambulance to retrieve it would be considered a nuisance by a certain officer in charge.
That evening, Clark set up the field desk and took out his journal. He had written half a page when a uniformed figure approached his desk. His first reaction was to finish the sentence. Then he remembered his experience of the morning. He looked up and came instantly to his feet, barely avoiding knocking over his chair again.
“Ma’am. This will take some getting used to.” Her hat was in her hand and her dark hair was loose around her shoulders. He was sure he had never seen a woman’s hair like that outside the bedroom. He shook off the image.
“Not for me.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin that nearly disarmed him. “All this time I thought women were clumsy, but we hobble ourselves with our dresses.”
Clark had no response for that. Feeling like a fool as he did every time she was nearby, he escaped behind his military training. “Is there something I can do for you, ma’am?”
“I have a problem,” she said, but she didn’t look particularly concerned.
“What’s his name?”
The girl looked positively hurt. He almost regretted his bluntness, but it had been a reasonable guess.
“Not that kind of problem. Aunt Belle took my scissors.”
Scissors? “Would you like her arrested, ma’am?”
She shot him a grin that told him she liked the idea. “No, I don’t want her arrested. I wanted to know if you have a pair I can borrow.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“A knife?” she asked.
He drew a large bowie knife out of a sheath at his waist, certain the size would change her mind. “May I ask what you need it for?”
She looked from the knife to his face and grinned. “I’m having trouble keeping my hat on over all this hair. Would you do the honors?” She spun around, tossing her hair over her shoulders. It cascaded down her back in dark, shimmering waves.
Clark stared. “Ma’am?”
She turned to face him, sighing in exasperation. “I want you to cut my hair.” She paused, but he was speechless. “I can’t pass as a soldier like this, can I?”
“Ma’am,” he pleaded, making a mental note to thank Mrs. Evans for hiding her scissors. “I could never explain this to your father.”
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br /> “Lieutenant, we are probably being watched or will be as we travel farther west. You said yourself that women might tempt the hostiles to attack. With this much hair showing, I am plainly a woman.”
“Or an Indian scout,” he interjected hopefully.
She chose to ignore him. “If I don’t keep my hat on I’m going to be sunburned. I could die of sunstroke. Do you want to explain that to my father?” She paused a moment, to give him time to digest her comment, he supposed, then turned her back again. “Slice it off at about my shoulders.”
“Perhaps you could stay in the wagon.” Even as he said it he knew that would be too much to ask of someone like Rebecca.
She spun around. “With Aunt Belle? All day, every day? For a week? I’ll go mad. Wouldn’t you?”
She turned her back on him again. When he made no move toward her, she tossed, “Lieutenant,” over her shoulder. There was just enough threat in her voice to irritate him. He stepped around the desk and took the dark tresses in his left hand. She deserved this, he thought. Let her explain it to her father.
His knife was sharp, and it took only a moment. When the final cut was made she tossed her head, turning the bluntly cut locks into curls. Placing the hat firmly on her head she sent him a grin. “Thanks,” she said as she walked away.
Clark looked after her, down at the knife and handful of dark, soft hair, and back at the retreating figure. He realized with a start that his hands were shaking and his breathing had become labored. He returned the knife to its sheath but stared at the hair for a long moment while the wind tried to pull it from his grasp. He had the fleeting feeling that he had just scalped her.
He drew a white handkerchief from his pocket and, entering his tent, spread it on his bunk. Carefully, not wanting to miss a strand, he placed his treasure on top and folded the handkerchief around it, tying it with a string from his pack. Then he unbuttoned his blouse and, without pausing to analyze his actions, tucked the bundle into the pocket in the lining, next to his heart.
Chapter Three
Aunt Belle would probably swoon. Then she would try to find a way to punish her. But Aunt Belle’s authority had diminished with every mile they put between themselves and Chicago. Soon Rebecca would be back in her father’s care, and he was easily managed.
Rebecca made her way from Lieutenant Forrester’s tent to the ambulance, putting Aunt Belle out of her mind. The lieutenant’s face was much more fun to think about. He tried so hard not to register any reaction that it took something outlandish, like a request that he cut her hair, to get him to so much as raise an eyebrow. Disconcerting him was worth anything Aunt Belle could think to do to her.
Alicia had set up a camp table and two chairs beside the ambulance and sat hunched over a book. She looked up when Rebecca arrived. “You actually did it,” she whispered.
Rebecca took off her hat and gave her bobbed hair a toss. “Do you think you can get my scissors from your mother and trim it for me? I doubt if it’s very even. Maybe you could cut it in layers, like a man’s, so it’ll lie better.”
Alicia merely stared.
“Relax, Alicia.” Rebecca moved to the other chair and put the hat on the ground beside her. She looked at the table for the first time. It was set with Aunt Belle’s everyday china and flatware—probably this was her idea of practical. There were only two places and an extra plate sat atop Alicia’s.
“Is Aunt Belle feeling all right?” She hoped her determination to cut her hair hadn’t actually made her aunt ill.
“She won’t come out,” Alicia whispered.
Rebecca glanced at the wagon, noticing that the canvas had been unrolled completely. “Even now? There’s nobody around.”
“There’s lots of men around.” Alicia waved her hand to encompass the whole camp with its many little campfires. “Besides, our driver said he would be bringing our dinner soon. Mother doesn’t want anybody to see her in the pants.”
“She might as well change into a dress if she’s never coming out of the wagon. Of course, then she would have no reason to stay in the wagon.”
Alicia started to giggle, then touched her finger to her lips. “She’s sure she will be instantly scalped.”
“That’s ridiculous. She’d be perfectly safe.”
Alicia gaped at her a moment, then hissed, “You said women would attract the Indians. That’s why we’re wearing these awful pants.”
Rebecca shook her head. “Lieutenant Forrester said that. I called his bluff.”
“What!” Alicia clapped her hand over her mouth.
“There may be some truth in it,” Rebecca acknowledged, “especially when we get farther west. Alicia, that wasn’t the real reason he didn’t want us along, but it was the reason he gave. The pants prevent him from claiming we disregarded his concerns.”
Alicia leaned back and stared at Rebecca as if the explanation was too much to fathom. After nearly a full minute she asked, “What do you think was the real reason?”
Rebecca grinned. “He thinks I’ll flirt with all the soldiers.”
Alicia arched a brow. “And won’t you?”
“No!” She tried to look indignant, but in the face of Alicia’s knowing nod it was impossible. She grinned instead. “At least not until I get tired of Lieutenant Forrester.”
Clark signaled a halt when he saw the rider. Sergeant Whiting relayed the order then squinted at the approaching figure. “He’s riding a mule.”
Clark lifted the binoculars that hung from his saddle and took a look. “Some old-timer.” He passed the glasses to Whiting.
“I think it’s Decker,” Whiting said. “He’s done some scouting for the army.”
“Hold the column. I’ll see what he wants.” He spurred his horse forward.
“First Lieutenant Clark Forrester, Seventh Cavalry,” he said when they had drawn rein near each other.
“How do, Lieutenant?” The man extended his hand. “Name’s Carl Decker. Saw your dust from over yonder. Soon as I knew you wasn’t a band a renegades, I decided I’d come on in, see if I could share a fire and have some company for the night Startin’ to get a little spooked out here alone.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Decker.” Clark turned his mount, and they started back toward the waiting column.
“Don’t nobody I know call me Mr. Decker. Carl, maybe, or more likely Short Deck. On account a me being not so tall, I reckon.”
Clark shook his head. “They wouldn’t call you Short Deck because you cheat at cards, would they?”
Decker spat a stream of tobacco juice on the far side of his mule. “Maybe,” he said with a chuckle.
Clark waved the troops forward, and he and Decker fell in alongside the sergeant.
“Short Deck,” Whiting said. “I thought that was you. Where you headed?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Sam,” the old man answered. “I’m thinkin’ about leavin’ the state. Or I may just find myself a place to hole up over here in Salina or yonder in Abilene.”
“I can imagine the accommodations you’re looking for,” Whiting said.
Decker laughed. “How far am I gonna be backtrackin’ here, Lieutenant?”
“I planned to camp about a mile farther west.”
“Don’t mind trading a couple miles for some company. How many men ya got here?”
It was Whiting that answered. “Forty. Most of them green as grass.”
“They’ll do,” Clark said, knowing at least a few of the men in question had heard their sergeant
“Replacements for Hard Ass?”
“Most likely.” Clark bit back a grin at one of several nicknames for Custer. The man had reached the rank of Brevet General during the war. He enjoyed the use of the title, though the reorganized army considered him a Lieutenant Colonel.
Decker added, “The boy general has more than his share of desertions, don’t he?” He leaned over and spat tobacco juice on the ground. “Bull’s-eye.”
Clark didn’t turn to see what the man had been aiming
at. As he listened to his sergeant and their guest talk he hoped Decker didn’t change his mind about heading east; if the man stayed with the column long enough Clark might have his own problem with deserters.
After supper, several of the troopers settled in near Clark’s camp, curious about the stranger. Miss Huntington was one of them. He sensed her presence before he caught a glimpse of her. He ignored her, or tried to, not wanting to draw her to Decker’s attention.
“You told us where you were going, Deck,” Whiting said. “Tell us where you’ve been.”
Decker sat Indian-style, his coffee cup in his hands. “I been down around Fort Lamed with Hancock so I guess you can say I was there when this damn war started.”
Clark couldn’t pass up an opportunity to get more information than was in the official reports, even if it meant some green troopers would hear it as well. “What happened?”
“Well, there’d been some trouble, mostly with the Dog Soldiers, so Hancock comes down there. Sends for the chiefs. This was back in April, and we get a snowstorm. Chiefs have a time gettin’ in. Hancock don’t want to set back the deadline. He’s gonna teach them a lesson if they’re late.
“Well, they show up the evening of the deadline. Ol’ Hancock decides to start the council immediately. What does he care if there’s no sun to bless the proceedin’s? He’s not there to listen, anyhow. He’s there to threaten. He insults those chiefs from here to Sunday. Insists the Cheyenne ain’t actin’ in good faith since Roman Nose ain’t along.” Decker shook his head at the memory.
“Roman Nose is Northern Cheyenne,” Whiting put in.
Decker nodded. “Been livin’ down here, though. Kinda a rabble-rouser. At best he’d be called a war chief. They send their peace chiefs to councils. Anyhow, the Indians went away mad.
“Day or so later Hancock takes his forces and heads for Red Arm Creek where the Cheyenne are camped. I’m along as scout, you understand. The Cheyenne fire the prairie, forcing us to camp away from the village. There’s a standoff for a couple a days.-When we surround the village we find it deserted.”
The Unlikely Wife Page 4
