by Nan Ryan
His patience gone, his fear escalating with each hour that passed, Austin could stand it no longer. His jaw set, he bounded back up the stairs. Halfway up, he heard it. Faint, almost inaudible. Austin clutched the polished banister to keep from falling. Straining every muscle of his tired body, he didn’t dare breathe. Then he heard it again.
An infant’s cry. From the room at the end of the hall, a baby was crying. His baby. Relief and happiness flooded through him. When he reached the door, it opened and Kate came out, beaming happily. She caught Austin’s arm and said, “A girl, Mr. Brand. You have a beautiful baby daughter.”
Austin squeezed the woman’s hand and looked over her head to see Blake turn and smile. “Yes, Austin, come on in. We’re all ready for you.”
Austin never knew when the doctor left the room to give him some time alone with his wife, because his wide eyes never lifted from the pair in the bed. Beth, hollow-eyed and pale, smiled up at him and held out her frail hand. On her breasts, a tiny little girl with hair as dark as her mother’s was sleeping soundly.
Tenderly clasping his wife’s hand, Austin slowly sank to his knees beside the bed. “Beth, dear,” he whispered and kissed her fingers, “she’s beautiful. Beautiful.”
“Austin,” Beth spoke through her tears, “she’s so little. Much too little. I’m so afraid she won’t…”
“Sweetheart”—he choked and put his hand to her cheek—“she will live. Dr. Foxworth brought her into this world and he will see to it she survives. Now, don’t you worry about her for one minute. She’s going to make it.”
Later, when an exhausted Beth was asleep and the tiny baby slumbered peacefully in the satin-trimmed crib nearby, Austin stole out of the room and down the stairs. He found the weary doctor in the kitchen drinking coffee.
“Dr. Foxworth, you have to make that child live, do you hear me? Beth couldn’t stand it if she lost that baby. I know the infant’s too small to have much chance, but you have to promise me she’ll live.” Austin’s gray eyes were fierce.
Blake calmly sipped his coffee and motioned for the big man to take a seat across from him. “Austin, your daughter is the very first baby that I’ve delivered since coming to Texas. I’m not saying that should make her special to me, but it does all the same. I have no intention of losing her. For the next two months, you’ll see more of me than you want, and you’ll follow my instructions to the letter regarding her care. Starting tonight. You are not to pick her up unless I’m in the room with you. Find yourself another bedroom for a while. Mother and daughter will be sleeping in yours, but you won’t.” Seeing the frown on the younger man’s face, Blake chuckled softly. “You’re a daddy now, Austin. Congratulations.”
True to his word, Blake Foxworth had spent a lot of time at the Brand ranch until baby Jenny was strong and healthy and completely out of danger. More than one close call with the delicate infant had terrified Beth and Austin, but Blake was there to clear her congested little lungs so Jenny could breathe. He was there to apply cold packs that made Jenny’s dangerously high fever recede. He was there to walk the floor with the tiny girl until her crying subsided and she was able to sleep. Blake Foxworth had literally willed the child to hang on, just as her parents had done, and Austin and Beth would never forget his kindness, skill, and care. They owed him a debt of gratitude that could never be repaid. The healthy five-year-old the doctor carried into the dining room was a strong bond between Blake and the Brands.
“If there is ever anything at all I can do for you, Blake, please name it,” Austin Brand had told him more than once.
“Your friendship is payment enough,” Blake assured him. “You, Beth, and Jenny are like kinfolk.”
Smiling, Austin agreed. “We feel the same way about you and your family.”
For reasons that Austin Brand could not fathom, Blake’s smile had faded and he had put a hand on the younger man’s arm. “Austin, if anything should ever happen to me, will you look out for Lydia and Suzette?” His eyes held a sad, resigned look that unsettled Austin.
“Doctor, you know I will. You’re not…that is…”
“No, no.” The smile was back on Blake’s lean face. “I’m planning on a long life. I just meant should the unforeseen ever happen.”
“Depend on me, my friend.”
The music from the fiddles grew fainter. Voices were now indistinct, barely audible. Still Suzette and Luke continued walking, under the tall cottonwoods, past the dozens of empty buggies, Suzette clinging to Luke’s hand. When they had gone far enough to be certain they could not be seen by anyone on the porch or in the yard, Luke grinned and drew her to his side, sliding his arm around her narrow waist.
“Suzette, honey, I’ve been waiting all evening long to get you alone.” His warm lips brushed across her temple.
Eyes sparkling with happiness, she nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder and sighed, “Luke, I feel the same way.”
“Do you, honey? Will you let me kiss you, Suzette?” He had stopped walking.
Blushing under the light of the pale spring moon, Suzette smiled up at the tall, handsome boy and nodded her blond head. “If you’ll promise that you’ll only kiss me once, Luke,” she answered demurely.
Excitement caused his heart to pound, and Luke looked hastily around them. Never loosening his hold on her waist, he inclined his curly head southward. “This way, sweetheart.”
Suzette daintily picked up her long skirt and let Luke guide her off the road and into the underbrush. Moonlight filtered through the tall oaks and elms and dappled their path into a small clearing. Drawing her to the trunk of a stately water oak, Luke turned and leaned against the tree’s rough trunk, then gently pulled Suzette close to his tall, hard frame. She was looking up at him, her soft lips parted in anticipation. When her slender arms stole up around his neck, she smiled.
“You’re so pretty,” Luke whispered and lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her softly, his mouth warm and gentle on hers. Suzette closed her eyes and gloried in the feel of his lips tasting hers. It was an innocent, brief kiss. Two bashful pairs of lips meeting, touching, retreating.
Lifting his curly head, Luke said quietly, “Suzette, honey, I’ve been hired to escort Warren’s wagon train to Fort Griffin tomorrow. They’re bringing corn and supplies from Weather-ford for the troops at Fort Griffin, and they need an extra man to ride shotgun across Salt Creek Prairie. Luckily, it’s a few days before I leave on the cow hunt, and Mr. Brand said it would be all right with him if I want to pick up some extra money.” Luke stopped talking and looked at her.
“Luke, please don’t do it.” She touched his cheek. “I want you to spend your time with me until you leave on the cow hunt. After all,” she dropped her eyes to his sunburned throat, “you’ll be gone for weeks on the hunt. Then as soon as you get back, you’ll be leaving on the drive to Abilene. When will I ever get to be with you?” When she raised her face again, she was frowning.
“Honey”—he squeezed her and grinned—“one of the reasons I’ve hired out to escort the wagon train is so I can save enough money for us. Suzette, I love you, honey. I want you to be my wife.”
“Luke, you…you’re asking me to marry you?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Yes, oh yes. I want you to be Mrs. Luke Barnes, and just as soon as possible. You love me, don’t you?” It suddenly occurred to him she might turn him down.
“Oh, Luke.” She pressed closer to him and buried her face in his warm throat. “Yes, I do. I love you and I want to be your wife.”
“Suzette.” He sighed as he gently pulled back to look at her. Then his mouth came down on hers again and his arms wrapped around her, pulling her firmly against him. Suzette gasped when his lips opened on hers and his tall frame was crushed against her. She could feel the fierce pounding of his heart through his cotton shirt. Just when she felt she would surely swoon from his searing kiss, Luke’s mouth moved from her lips to her ear. “We’d better go back now, honey. Your daddy will be wondering where we are.
”
Her hands clinging to the fabric covering his chest, she fought for breath and murmured, “Yes, I know, I know.” She whispered, “Luke, I have something to give you.” Shyly, she pulled from his arms and turned her back. From inside the bodice of her party dress, she took the new red bandanna. Smoothing it into a nice folded square with the hand-embroidered “L” at the corner, she turned back to him and proudly thrust it up to his face.
“Say, now, what’s this?” Luke grinned and took the shiny bandanna. “Why, Suzette, there’s a big ‘L’ on it.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I put it there, Luke. Do you like it?”
“Like it? Honey, it’s beautiful. I’ll never be without it.” While Suzette beamed, Luke tied the red scarf about his throat, fingering the initial, his green eyes flashing in the moonlight. “How do I look?”
“Handsome.” She grinned. “Luke, are you sure it’s safe for you to go across Salt Creek Prairie? You know it wasn’t too long ago that those four men were killed and scalped out there.”
“Suzette, don’t worry. I’ll hang on to my scalp. We’ll be crossing the prairie in broad daylight, so don’t spend your time worrying your pretty blond head about me. They’re paying me real good and I’ll be wanting to buy you a ring. If it suits you, I thought we’d get married as soon as I get back from Abilene next autumn.” He looked to her for an answer.
“Yes, as soon as you return from Abilene. Mrs. Luke Barnes!” She sighed. “I’m going to be a good wife to you, Luke. I swear I will. I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll learn for you.”
“You don’t have to, Suzette. We’ll live on love.”
“Umm,” she murmured. “In that case, you may kiss me again, Luke.”
His lips were once again on hers and Suzette kissed Luke with growing enthusiasm as her hands stole up to rake through the thick red curly locks she so admired.
3
It was noon on May 18, 1871. General William T. Sherman, Commander in Chief of the United States Army, riding with his escort of fifteen troopers under Lieutenant Mason Carter, 4th United States Cavalry, reached Salt Creek Prairie in Young County. The portly general and his protectors were en route from Fort Belknap, in Young County, to Fort Richardson, in Jacksboro.
When the small contingent of men started across the prairie, the sky was a deep, cloudless blue, the air still and sweet—a beautiful spring day in North Texas. There were only seventeen miles more to travel; by suppertime, the general would be at his quarters at Fort Richardson. General Sherman, skeptical about the complaints coming from the frontier regarding the reservation Indians, looked at the young lieutenant riding with him and smiled, his merry eyes disappearing into the laugh lines in his fleshy face.
“Lieutenant Carter, it appears just as I had presumed. Mountains have been made of molehills. This land seems as safe and tranquil as it must have been on the very day our Creator made it. I see no traces of all the ‘savage Indians’ I keep hearing so much about from these good, but unnecessarily nervous, settlers.”
“Begging your pardon, General, but I have to disagree. I was in this part of the country before the war, and at that time the population was denser than it is now. I put that down solely to fear and flight from the savages.” The lieutenant’s steely eyes raked the horizon as he spoke.
“That may well be true, Lieutenant. Nonetheless, I feel much of that fear is unfounded. We are, at this very hour, crossing what is supposedly one of the most dangerous stretches of prairie in all Texas. I don’t know about you, but I feel as safe as if I were taking lunch in the great dining hall of the White House in Washington City.” His hand came up to hide a yawn.
Yet, as the confident general spoke, he was silently observed by one hundred fifty pairs of dark eyes. On a conical hill overlooking the barren prairie the slow-moving caravan now traversed, eager Kiowa and Comanche warriors sat on their war ponies, their lances adorned with human scalps, impatiently awaiting word from their great medicine man, Dehate, to attack. As they strained to rein their horses in, corded muscles rippled across their powerful naked backs. The warriors were thirsty for blood, anxious to thunder down the hill and hurtle themselves on the unsuspecting white men, to yell and shout and count coup, to do the only thing they were born and bred to do—make war.
But they must wait a while longer. Dehate had sung his medicine song on the previous night. He had heard the hoot owl’s cry and was pleased. At dawn he had gathered the eager warriors and told them he had seen the sign of a successful attack.
“Tomorrow two parties will pass this way,” the medicine man had announced with authority. “The first party will be small and we could easily overcome it, but it must not be attacked. The medicine forbids! Another party will come by later and we will attack. The attack will be successful.”
So it was that the relaxed general and his escort passed safely by and disappeared around Cox Mountain and into the timber country. The general dozed atop his seat in the horse-drawn ambulance as it bumped along under the clouds rapidly gathering overhead.
Not three hours later, Warren’s wagon train rounded Cox Mountain, heading west. Riding at the front of the slow-moving caravan, Luke Barnes, his green eyes scanning the terrain for any possible danger, his new red silk bandanna tied proudly about his throat, exhaled and breathed a little easier. As far as the eye could see, nothing moved.
Cleverly hidden from young Luke’s view, Dehate, along with the mighty war chiefs Satank, Satanta, Big Tree, Fast Bear, and Eagle Heart, prepared to teach the eager young warriors how to make war. At the signal from Dehate, Satanta, his handsome face painted red, regally raised his brass trumpet to his lips and blew the charge. The warriors swept down the mountainside to surround the unsuspecting white men, war chants bursting from their throats.
“God in heaven!” Luke murmured, then reined his horse in a tight turn and signaled for the others to move quickly into a circle. While Suzette’s words fleetingly rang in Luke’s ears—Please, Luke, don’t go across Salt Creek Prairie, it’s not safe—the mountain came ablaze with painted, screaming Indians, riding fast, armed with long-range guns, revolvers, and carbines.
James Long, the wagon master, was shouting commands as the terrified men hastily made a circle with the mules at its center. Luke dismounted to help build a protective breastworks from sacks of grain.
But there wasn’t enough time. The speed and surprise of the attack left the white men vulnerable as one hundred fifty shouting warriors rode around the wagons in an ever-decreasing circle, firing with frightening accuracy. Wagon master Long was killed immediately. Within minutes, four more men were dead. Knowing it was futile to remain inside the wagons, Luke shouted to be heard above the bloodcurdling melee, “It’s no use! We’ll have to make a run for it!”
Running frantically for the safety of the trees two miles east of the wagons, the men fired as they retreated through the circling, mounted warriors.
Luke Barnes never felt the shot that shattered his backbone, that rendered his long legs useless. He did hear the hoofbeats of a war pony as a young, grinning warrior jumped from his blowing, snorting horse and came toward him. Just before the mahogany face bent over Luke, a cloud passed directly over the sun. In that instant, Luke Barnes knew he would never see the sun again.
A cruel, savage face was above his, a half-naked body astride his chest. When the warrior reached into his breech cloth for his sharp hunting knife, Luke fought valiantly with the upper part of his body. Strong arms forced the furious brave over onto the ground and restrained the hand wielding the knife. Fighting desperately for his life, Luke never saw the tomahawk that entered his broad back. His hands were still subduing his first attacker when he began to choke on his own blood. As the life seeped from his body, he was slammed to his back by two smiling, triumphant braves.
Luke never saw their happy faces. Before his eyes danced the vision of a lovely young girl, her blond, silky hair framing her sweet face, her blue eyes flashing with happiness. She was c
alling Luke’s name softly.
“Suzette,” he murmured and clutched at the red silk bandanna with a sunburned hand that his two attackers were in the process of chopping from his arm.
“May I offer you a cigar, General Sherman?” Austin Brand smiled engagingly at the stocky man across the table from him. It was late evening and General Sherman was tired from his long day’s journey. He and his troops had arrived at Fort Richardson at the dinner hour and he’d hardly had time to eat his meal before a contingent of frustrated Jacksboro citizens rode into the fort, determined to meet with the visiting general.
Austin Brand, Blake Foxworth, and several other concerned men of the community told the weary general that the reservation Indians roamed at will, killing and stealing horses, terrorizing the gentlefolk with their atrocities.
General Sherman took the offered cigar, bit off the tip, and struck a sulphur match, puffing the smoke to life. Rolling the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, he nodded his approval to Austin.
“Dammit, General!” Blake Foxworth slammed a slender hand on the table. “Unless the army does something about the Indian situation, North Texas will soon have no population at all. It is not safe to live here. The Indians know they can raid at will and then ride to the safety of the reservation, where they can’t be followed! It makes little sense! What good are the soldiers manning this fort if they can’t touch the marauders once they cross the Red River?”
Glancing at the doctor, a benevolent smile lifting his lips, the general drew on his cigar and spoke. “Gentlemen, I can see that you good people of Jacksboro are fearful, but I think a lot of that fear is ungrounded. I’m sure there have been some scattered incidents of the Indians driving away some of your horses, but I don’t see—”
