Wayward Lady

by Nan Ryan

  It was not to be.

  A huge, well-built brave, one she’d not noticed before, firmly planted a foot on each side of her. He looked down at her white, slender body, the small breasts, the narrow waist and long legs, then smiled at her. Slowly, his huge hand went to his breechcloth and the bit of leather fell from his body onto Beth’s trembling stomach. Now the brave stood above her, tall, menacing, and naked.

  Beth felt the heart inside her heaving chest stop completely as he lowered himself to his knees. Roughly forcing her legs apart, he moved inside them. A big, callused hand clasped her right breast and squeezed it painfully. He pounded into her and Beth screamed in agony with his first powerful thrust. Soon he fell away from her, spent, but another took his place, this one more brutal than the first. Not content just to rape her, he tore at her tender flesh with his hand. Finally, he, too, thrust himself into her, grunting and sweating. Beth’s eyes closed and she prayed for death.

  She lived.

  The third savage was hideously ugly and dirty, his pockmarked face leering down at her. And he was cruel, very cruel. Before he dropped his breechcloth, he took out his scalping knife and nonchalantly cut crosses on her left breast. Not deep enough to kill her and end her agony, but deep enough to cause more agonizing pain, deep enough to draw blood that ran down her ribcage and onto her belly. The Indian soon tired of the game, sheathed the bloody knife, grinned at Beth, and put his flattened palm in the bright red blood covering her breast. Chanting, he raised the bloody hand and smeared the bright crimson all over his happy face, popping a blunt finger into his mouth. Gloriously elated then, he dropped his breechcloth and raped her. The others stood watching, laughing and enjoying the playful sport, at the same time arguing over who would be the next to mount the naked white woman.

  “Mine,” said the young warrior who had murdered and scalped young Jenny. He stepped over Beth. The long, dark hair of her daughter, blood still dripping from the scalp, was tied securely to his breechcloth with a rawhide strip. A stifled scream bubbled from Beth’s throat, her eyes closed, and at last she mercifully passed out. Before the young animal could ram into her, Beth could feel the blackness blessedly creeping over her, taking her away from a horror too great to bear any longer. It was peaceful and safe, and from the mist came the glorious vision of her handsome husband and her beautiful little girl. Her very last thought was of them.

  The fact that Beth was no longer conscious made little difference to the savages. All had their turn and some of them came back for a second go at her, using her limp, fragile body as a warm receptacle. When all had finally tired of the game, one casually took a bow, raised it directly over Beth’s chest, and fired. The deadly arrow went into the top of her shoulder, exiting on the other side, pinning her still body to the ground. The Indian shouted and mounted his war pony.

  Not to be outdone, another eager brave took out his knife and squatted down over Beth. Lifting her from the ground by her hair, he stabbed her in the back, just below her right shoulder blade, and watched in fascination as blood spilled from the wound. Retrieving his knife, he wiped it clean on Beth’s hair, dropped her back to the ground, and swung up onto the bare back of his prancing, pawing horse.

  With jubilant shouting and yelling, the braves mounted and rode away to the north, headed for home. It had been a satisfying afternoon. They had all enjoyed it immensely. They didn’t take Beth Brand’s scalp. She deserved to keep it. She had been a source of joy to them all.

  Old Nate Simmons stepped from the blacksmith’s shop a block south of the town square. He meticulously rolled a cigarette, wet it with his tongue, and jammed it into his mouth. Before he could put the match to it, he noticed heavy smoke drifting across the clear April sky. Squinting into the sun, Nate located its origin. He knew immediately whose home was burning.

  Letting the unlit cigarette drop, he started running. He was at the square and inside the Longhorn Saloon in a matter of seconds. Puffing for breath, the old cowboy shouted at the top of his lungs, “Austin Brand’s home is afire! Let’s go!” He whirled and started for his horse. Behind him, a dozen men, having tossed down the last of their whiskey, followed.

  By the time the mounted men reached the Brand spread, the ranch house was beyond saving. Arrows and shell casings, along with prints of horses’ hooves, told the tale. It was old Nate, riding a short distance from the burning house, who found Bennett Day. Muttering only, “Those damned animals, those filthy savages,” Nate dismounted and bent over the old man he’d known since boyhood. Nate’s eyes filled with tears and he tenderly picked up a lifeless hand and held it in both of his. “Bennett, Bennett,” he whispered sadly, “how I shall miss you.”

  “The women aren’t here!” Nate heard a man shout. “Maybe they’re still alive!”

  Nate placed his friend’s hand on his chest and promised, “I’ll be back to see you have a proper burial, Bennett.” He rose and mounted, spurring his horse to catch up with the others. Silently they rode north, each man hoping for the best, fearing the worst. The worst was what they found.

  “Jesus Christ! The woman’s still breathing.” A young cowboy was bending over Beth’s slender naked frame. A faint but regular heartbeat could be heard when he pressed his ear to her chest. The boy stood and hurriedly stripped off his shirt. Kneeling again, he covered Beth and shook his head in disbelief.

  “The little girl’s dead,” a bearded, stocky cowboy informed the others. “At least she was luckier than the woman. It doesn’t appear she suffered.” The bearded man looked about for Jenny’s scalp, his eyes narrowed in hate and disgust. Knowing full well the dead child’s shiny hair now hung from a brave’s breechcloth or his lance, the man removed his shirt, draping it tenderly over Jenny’s head.

  The youth who covered Beth was lifting her onto his horse. He mounted behind her, holding her in his arms like a child. Then he applied big roweled spurs to the sorrel he rode, wondering if speed was the answer. Would it not be better if the poor woman didn’t survive? If she lived, would she ever be the same again? Could she ever put her ordeal behind her and live a normal life? He knew she’d suffered more than the cut breast, the arrow through the shoulder, the knife wound to the back. Her bruised, bloody thighs told him of her terrible suffering.

  Beth Brand was taken to the Fort Richardson hospital. Little Jenny was taken to the undertaker. The post surgeon did what he could for Beth. Perry Woods, hearing of the tragedy, rushed from his office to be with her. Neither doctor could do much. Her wounds were bathed and bandaged and the arrowhead was cut from her shoulder. Throughout their ministrations, Beth remained unconscious. Both doctors wondered the same thing: Would it not be better if Beth passed away?

  Perry Woods stood beside the post surgeon. Both men were washing up after tending to Beth. “You know, I wonder sometimes why we keep trying to live on this land.” Perry looked at the tall, blond man beside him.

  “My home is in the east. Life there is safe and civilized, even enjoyable. What am I doing down here? Why should I stubbornly insist on staying in a country so wild that my wife is in constant danger? Why don’t I pack up and return to Boston, where I belong?”

  His colleague sighed wearily. “You’re needed here, Doctor. I like to feel I am also. My home is in Philadelphia—at least I was raised and educated there. But I chose the army as a career, and here I am. If this section of the country is ever to be something other than a playground for the savages, men like you and me must stay here, make it our home.”

  Dr. Woods rolled down his shirtsleeves. “I suppose you’re right, but I’ve a pregnant wife to consider. I see something like this senseless butchering of two helpless females and my blood runs cold. My God, Austin Brand will go insane!”

  The blond doctor nodded. “I’ve never seen a man hate Indians with quite the vehemence of Mr. Brand. Perhaps this isn’t the first time they’ve touched his life.”

  Perry shrugged. “I don’t know, but Austin Brand was with the group that recovered the bodies of the me
n slaughtered at the Warren Wagon Train Massacre a couple of years ago. Young Luke Barnes, one of the slain, worked for Austin, I understand. Dr. Foxworth told me before his passing that he’d never seen anything like the grisly sight of those poor unfortunates.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. I guess you’ve heard rumors that Satanta and Big Tree are going to be released from prison.”

  “I know there’s been talk, but I don’t believe it. Surely no sane, thinking man, be he governor of Texas or president of the United States, would release those redskins.”

  “I should hope not,” the post surgeon agreed.

  Austin Brand was informed of the tragedy upon his arrival in Fort Worth. His face a mask of pain, he climbed back on his horse and headed for Jacksboro. He rode nonstop, spurring his horse like a wild man. Confederate, the big gray gelding, pressed dutifully on, eating up the prairie as though he had wings on his hooves. In less than seven hours, Austin arrived back home, having gone the sixty miles without dismounting.

  Austin spoke not a word as he was led into the small lamp-lit room where Beth lay unconscious. When he saw her pale face, her bandaged shoulder and breasts, he began to shake uncontrollably. Sinking to his knees beside her bed, Austin took her frail, cool hand into his and sobbed, “Beth, Beth, I’m sorry, so sorry. I’ll make it up to you one day. I will, I promise. Oh, Beth…”

  Austin stood with his big hands clasped in front of him. Under the shade of a stately oak tree, a small mound of fresh dirt marked the newly dug grave. It held the small white coffin of Jenny Brand, the beautiful dark-haired child of Austin and Beth Brand.

  “The Lord hath given; the Lord hath taken away,” the minister said in a deep, soft voice. Austin, his gray eyes staring straight ahead, stood alone in front of Jenny’s grave. Behind him, Suzette Foxworth wept quietly. She knew how much Austin was suffering and she longed to ease his pain, but there was nothing she could do. There was little any of the friends assembled at the Brand ranch on this pretty April afternoon could do to help the heartbroken man in his hour of grief. His wife still lay in her bed at the fort hospital. Beth Brand had regained consciousness, nothing else. She’d not spoken a word since opening her eyes, not even when her husband sat by her bed and talked soothingly. Beth didn’t appear to recognize him.

  The short memorial service for Jenny was over. When most everyone had quietly moved on to their horses and carriages, Suzette stepped forward. She knew he needed comforting, but when anyone had tried to console him, they’d been met with cold gray eyes and stony silence.

  Suzette had almost reached him. She stopped and looked about. Only one or two buggies remained; even the preacher had departed. Soon the gravediggers would start tossing the soft earth over the white coffin. Austin mustn’t see that; she would insist he leave with her.

  “Austin,” she spoke very softly, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. Slowly her turned to look down at her. He tried his best to speak, but there was no sound. “Oh, Austin,”Suzette whispered and put her arms around his neck. Slowly his arms closed around her and he pressed his sad face into her hair. His big body trembled against her and he began to cry, but still he said nothing. He didn’t apologize. He simply held the sweet girl and wept. When he could cry no more, he raised his head and whispered, “Thank you.”

  Handing him a dainty white lace handkerchief, Suzette took his hand and led him up the rolling hill to her buggy. In back of them, the remnants of the Brand ranch house stood like a lonely sentinel in the fading sun. Austin stood for a minute looking at the charred earth and the blackened structure, the home where only days before he’d kissed his wife and child good-bye and promised never to leave them alone again.

  “Austin, I’m taking you home with me. You must rest. When you awaken, we’ll go to see Beth.” Austin nodded and stepped into the buggy with her. Suzette said, “I’m terribly sorry that Mother couldn’t be there today. She’s…she isn’t well. I do hope you’ll forgive her.”

  Austin did not reply and Suzette doubted that he knew or cared that Lydia Foxworth did not attend his daughter’s funeral. Upon arriving at the small Foxworth ranch, Suzette, holding Austin’s hand, led him into the house and straight through the parlor into her bedroom.

  “Now”—she pointed to the soft bed—“why not stretch out on my bed.” She smiled up at him, but he continued to stand in the middle of the room, stiffly looking about. Pushing him toward the bed, Suzette got him to sit on its edge before she said, “Excuse me just a minute.” She left him and hurried into the kitchen. On the top shelf of the cabinet, a half-full bottle of brandy remained where Dr. Foxworth had placed it two years before. It was fine brandy, a present to the doctor from Austin.

  Suzette grabbed two glasses from the shelf, then rushed back to her room and found Austin just as she’d left him. She poured a healthy portion of the brandy into one of the glasses, a much smaller portion into the other. She handed the one with the larger amount to Austin. “Please,” she tried, “won’t you take a drink, Austin? It will help.”

  Obeying, Austin tipped the glass and drank the brandy in one swallow. Before she touched her own glass to her lips, his glass was empty and she hurried to refill it. He drank that, too. He set the glass on the small table by her bed and rubbed his eyes. Seeing the gesture, Suzette set her glass aside also and said quietly, “You’re very tired, Austin. Will you please take off your suit coat and lie down for a while?”

  “Suzette,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, Austin?”

  “I don’t think I can go on living.” His voice was flat.

  Biting her lip, she sat down on the bed beside him and took his hand in both of hers. “Austin, please don’t say that. You’re so strong and brave, and Beth needs you.”

  “No. Beth doesn’t need me. She doesn’t know who I am. And my sweet Jenny…I don’t want to live in a world without my little girl.” Still the same, flat voice. “I’m tired, Suzette, I’m tired of everything.”

  “I know,” she murmured and rose from the bed. “Please, let me help you.” Suzette began to tug at his jacket and he nodded his head and helped. She took the fine coat and draped it over a chair, turning back to him. Leaning close, she removed the narrow tie and unbuttoned his white shirt. She knelt in front of him and removed his black leather shoes. “Now,” she said sweetly, pushing gently on his shoulders, “lie down.”

  “Just for a minute.” He eased onto his back, his head on her pillow.

  “Put your feet up, Austin,” Suzette instructed, and Austin lifted his long, tired legs from the floor, crossing one ankle over the other, his hands on his middle. Suzette leaned over him and whispered softly, “Rest, my friend.”

  A big, bronzed hand slowly raised to a long blond curl falling from her shoulder. “Suzette, will you wake me in an hour? I must go to Beth.”

  “Go to sleep,” she whispered and kissed his cheek. His eyes closed and he was immediately asleep. It was the first time in seventy-two hours that Austin Brand had slept.

  Austin remained by his wife’s bedside day after day, though Beth looked at him with a blank expression and never responded.

  “I’m sorry, Austin.” Dr. Woods stood looking down at the pale woman in the hospital bed. “I wish I could tell you that her condition will change. I can’t. Beth may never be the same again. She may never come back to you. I’m sorry.”

  Summertime arrived, and with it came the cattle drive up the Chisholm trail to Abilene. Austin didn’t go. He hired cowhands to escort Tom Capps and his herd of two thousand longhorns and told Suzette Foxworth he’d be glad to have Nate throw in with his group and take the hundred head of Foxworth cattle up the trail with his herd. She was grateful and expressed her thanks as she and Austin sat with Beth one hot afternoon.

  “Austin, I hope you won’t think I’m prying, but, well, don’t you think it might be a good idea if you did go on the drive? You’ve been so diligent about staying with Beth day and night. If you want to go, I’ll look after her for you. It might
do you good to get away, work hard, be with other men for a change.”

  Austin rose from the chair where he’d been sitting since early morning. “You’re kind to worry, Suzette, but I’m fine. I can’t go. I promised Beth I’d never leave her alone again. I don’t intend to do so.”

  “But, Austin, Beth…she…she’d never know.” Her eyes were full of compassion.

  Austin shook his head. “But I’d know. I’m staying with her until…until…” He stopped speaking. Suzette sat perfectly still.

  Austin walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. He stared at the fort’s parade ground and at the enlisted men going about their duties as though all was right with the world. Soon the lone trumpet would play taps, signaling the close of another day. He turned back to look at the pale, drawn face on the pillow, then leaned over Beth and pushed a dark lock of hair from her brow. “Suzette, would you think me terrible if I confessed to you that I have spent many a night praying to a God I never before believed in for this poor, sweet creature to…to die?” He leaned down to Beth and tenderly kissed her cold lips. “Oh, my dear, forgive me. Please forgive me for everything.”

  “Austin,” Suzette said softly, “stop punishing yourself. You were a good husband and father. Beth was a happy woman.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t…“Austin sighed and straightened. “I’m not going up the trail. I don’t know how long it will be before the end comes, but when it does, I will be here with Beth.”

  Summer dragged on painfully and finally the chill of autumn was in the air. On a clear nippy October morning, Suzette rose early and went down to the creek to gather pecans. She went about her task remembering the days she and her father had picked up pecans and her mother had made wonderful pies from them. Those happy days were gone forever; her father was dead and her mother was a shell of her former self, frail and in bad health. Winter had not yet come and already Lydia was coughing and weak. The Brand tragedy had been too much for her. Suzette was unable to bring her around.