by Anita Mills
“But what do you think?”
“Did you torture him—Mendoza, I mean?”
“No.”
“Did you cut off his head?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Sitting there, his wet hair clinging to a water-spotted white shirt, he didn’t seem such a dangerous man. Gone were the crossed holsters and the pair of six-shooters. As she stared into it, even his face seemed unguarded. She hesitated, more fascinated than afraid, then she sank down beside him and gathered her skirt around her legs with one hand. She would have tried to fasten her bodice, but she’d draw more attention by fiddling with the buttons than by leaving them alone. Besides, she was covered, if only just barely.
“You can’t want to hear about my family,” she insisted.
“Go on—I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Well, after the war, Big John came to see Don Leandro about buying cattle, and he saw Isabella Ybarra. He was a red-haired Scots-Irishman, with bright blue eyes, and she was this small, dark-haired, dark-eyed Spanish girl with a black lace mantilla on her head. They eloped within the month.” She hesitated, then sighed. “I always thought she was happy, but if she was, she forgot him soon enough. Whenever I think of him, it still hurts almost as much as it did the day he died. I don’t know why we can’t keep the memories without the pain.”
He sat there, his arms around his knees, looking across the water. “I don’t know why either,” he said finally. “But we can’t.”
“And you—do you have any family left?”
“Here?”
“Anywhere.”
“Well, the only one I know of is an aunt”
“Have you met her?”
“Yeah. I lived with her for a while, and she deserved a lot better than I gave her. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t raise half as much hell. But it never daunted her, and in four and a half years, she almost managed to civilize me.” He picked up a stone and skipped it over the water. “I’ve got a lot of respect for her.”
“Ramon said you were raised by the Comanches.”
There it was, the thing that kept him apart from nearly everybody, the thing that made him a curiosity. He drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “Yeah,” he said finally.
“It must have been awful for you,” she murmured sympathetically. “Awful,” she repeated. Without thinking, she reached out to touch his arm. “You must have felt so very alone and afraid.”
He drew away. “Save your pity for somebody else,” he said harshly. He looked across the spring, his jaw tightening visibly. “Those were some of the best years of my life.”
“I guess I just cannot imagine how anyone—”
“No, you can’t—nobody can.”
“I’m sorry,” she said simply.
Abruptly, he heaved himself up, towering over her. “You’d better put yourself together before somebody thinks you’ve been tumbling in the grass with me. I don’t care, but a lady like yourself might not want the gossip.”
“Look—”
“Go sleep on your fancy featherbed, Amanda.”
With that he disappeared into the darkness as silently as he’d come out of it. She waited, hearing nothing but the sound of the water. Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was still out there, and she turned away to rehook her corset before buttoning up her bodice. Pulling her hair back, she attempted to give it a semblance of order, pinning it together by feel.
She crept back, hoping no one besides the bemused Negro sentinel she’d passed had seen her. She stopped to look back, but there was no sign of McAlester.
As she entered the Baxters’ quarters, she was nearly overwhelmed by the stifling heat. Finding her way to her bed in the darkened house, she undressed completely, wishing she could sleep naked. But her aunt had always said one ought to be decently covered in case there should be a fire. With that reluctant thought, she put on her nightgown, pried open a window, and lay on top of the covers, knowing she’d not sleep in the heat.
Her thoughts turned to McAlester. Aside from surprising her, he’d been pleasant until she’d brought up the Comanches. Those were some of the best years of my life. She could hear him say it.
Well, it didn’t really matter if she’d somehow angered him, she decided. As soon as the heat broke, she was going to Ybarra-Ross. And after that she’d probably never cross his path again. Oddly enough, she didn’t feel good about that either.
While she lay awake inside, Clay McAlester stared at the stars from his bedroll. Beside him the reflection of the moon shone on the mirror of water. Usually he reveled in the beauty of a place like this, but not tonight. Tonight he just felt done.
He closed his eyes and listened to the night sounds, and for a moment he relived the pain of a fourteen-year-old boy on the cold November morning when the soldiers and rangers raided Buffalo Hump’s small camp, killing almost everybody but him. But when he turned to rest his head against his saddle, it was the pity in Amanda Ross’s voice that echoed in his ears. And pity was the last thing he wanted from her.
Amanda sat on the Baxters’ porch, fanning herself determinedly, keeping time with the creaking rocking chair. It was too hot to stay inside, but as she looked at the bright, cloudless sky, she had to admit there was little relief anywhere.
It was as though everything was brown and dead, and only an occasional Negro soldier or an Apache scout dared to stir beneath the blazing sun. The hottest day of his memory, the post surgeon had called it, reporting at noon that the thermometer in his infirmary had registered one hundred and eleven degrees.
Moved as much by boredom as by pity, she’d gone there to do what she could for the five men unlucky enough to be sick on such a day. One of them, Trooper Hill, had been half out of his head with a fever brought on by an infected wound. Dr. Abbott, the surgeon, said he needed to take the leg, but Hill didn’t want to give it up without a fight. The world had little enough use for a Negro, let alone one with one leg, and once he let them cut it off, the army wouldn’t have him either. Buffalo soldiers, the Indians called men like Trooper Hill, comparing their wooly hair to that on a buffalo head. But whatever the name, they were still outcasts. Mostly former slaves, they fought the white man’s implacable Comanche, Kiowa, and Cheyenne enemies. Yet she’d heard Louise Baxter complain, “Poor Charles will never get a promotion until he commands soldiers rather than nigras.” As though these men who fought and died to make Texas safe weren’t people.
“Howdy, ma’am.”
Startled, Amanda came down hard on the runners of the rocker. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed the rider approaching.
“Sorry,” he said. “Reckon I shouldn’t have surprised you like that.”
“No, no,” she murmured, recovering. “Not at all—I was daydreaming.”
His blue eyes were warm and friendly within his tanned face, and his smile lifted a full mustache. He removed his hat, revealing thick, curling brown hair.
“You aren’t from around here,” he decided.
“No—well, I was born at the Ybarra-Ross, but I’ve been away for years,” she admitted.
“Mighty big place, the Ybarra.”
“Yes—yes, it is.”
“I knew the fella that owned it.”
“John Ross?”
“Yep.”
“He was my father.”
“Well, I’ll be—” His smile broadened. “Yeah, me and him fought Comanches way back. ’Course I wasn’t dry behind the ears back then, you understand.” He dropped his reins and swung down in front of her. Stepping onto the porch, he wiped his hand on dust-caked pants before holding it out. “Name’s Walker—Hap Walker, ma’am.”
“Amanda Ross.” As she shook his callused hand, she instinctively liked him. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“You wouldn’t know if Clay McAlester’s made it in yet, by any chance?” he asked. “Big fellow on a
little pony,” he added for description. “Can’t miss him—looks like a cross between a mountain man and an Indian—got yaller hair halfway down his back.”
“He arrived yesterday.”
He appeared relieved. “I was kinda worried about the boy. Well, he ain’t really a boy—must be twenty-eight or twenty-nine by now. Yeah, that’d be about right. Damn, but I’m getting old.” Catching himself, he apologized, “Sorry, ma’am—didn’t mean to cuss. Out here, a man don’t meet too many ladies.”
“Hap! Hap Walker!”
He spun around, his hand on his gun, much as Clay McAlester had done, then he relaxed. “Well, if it ain’t Billy Samson! Haven’t been running any wagons in from the territory, have you?”
“Cap’n, you know better’n that! No sir, them redskins ain’t gettin’ no mo’ chances at this ole wooly head. I’m bringing supplies over from Griffin now.”
A grizzled Negro carter crossed the grounds toward them. As he drew closer, Amanda could not help noticing the awful scar that ran from his forehead halfway up to his bald crown. Hap Walker reached out to pump the old man’s hand, then turned back to her.
“Comanches caught him out,” the ranger explained. “Only man I know of that survived a scalping—‘course they botched it and only got half his hair.”
“So I see.”
“Everything going good for you now—what with the government contract, I mean?” he asked Billy.
“Yeah, I been hauling for the army since last winter.” The old man shook his head. “But did you hear about Nate Hill, Cap’n? He’s down—real bad.”
“What happened?”
“Outfit ran into a war party up by the Pecos, and a bullet plumb shattered when it hit Nate’s thigh bone. Guess they didn’t get all of it out. I dunno—maybe you might talk sense to Nate—tell ’im he’s got to let go of that leg afore it kills him.”
“Mr. Hill is refusing the amputation,” Amanda cut in. As they both turned to her, she took a quick breath, then let it out. “I’ve seen it myself, and there’s no hope of saving the limb. I … I could smell it, I’m afraid.”
“Jesus.” Recalling himself again, Hap Walker looked sheepish for a moment. “Sorry, ma’am, but he was in the State Police with me, and like most of the coloreds, he had a hard time getting much respect for it.”
“Told me he nearly got lynched over in Walker County,” Billy recalled. “Would have, he said, if it hadn’t been for that McAlester.” His face broke into a wide grin. “Fired a load of buckshot out of that double-barreled shotgun right over that mob. Took the vinegar right out of ’em, Nate said. Faced ’em down, telling ’em he’d take the first man that moved with the other load. Nate said he had the coolest head he’d ever seen. No sir, they wasn’t wantin’t’ tangle with ’im, not a-tall. That boy’s a rough ’un, Cap’n.”
“Clay’s not afraid of much,” Walker agreed.
“Much? He ain’t afraid of nuthin’!”
“And you think I can change Nate’s mind?”
“Well, he always said you was the finest white man he ever met—best officer in the State Police. Maybe if you was to tell him to let go of that leg, he’d mind you. He’s got a woman and a boy in San Antone, Cap’n.”
Hap squinted up at the relentless sun, then looked down at his boots. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt none to talk to him, but I don’t know about asking a man to give up his leg, Billy—mighty hard thing to do.” Abruptly, he jammed his wide-brimmed felt hat back on his head. “Yeah, I’ll give it a try,” he decided. With that he jumped down from the porch and started across the dusty ground.
Billy Samson turned back to Amanda. “Thank you, ma’am, for looking in on Nate.” Glancing at the door behind her, he added significantly, “There’s them here that don’t care if a colored man’s going to die. I ain’t namin’ names, you understand, but that’s just the way it is.”
“I just hope it isn’t too late.”
“Well, if the cap’n tells ’im, he’ll listen. Hap Walker don’t tell no lies—no, ma’am, he don’t. Ain’t a finer man a-livin’ nowhere. Ain’t another man I’d want beside me in a fight neither,” he declared.
“Not even Mr. McAlester?”
“Lordy, but that’d be a choice, wouldn’t it?” he said, rolling his eyes.
Shading her face with her hand, she watched Hap Walker. He walked with a slight limp, but there was a determined set to his shoulders. It occurred to her that if he’d fought the Indians with her father, he was worth knowing. She rose and smoothed her skirt over her petticoats.
“Excuse me, Mr. Samson, but I think I’ll go with him.”
The old Negro moved back diffidently. “Tell the cap’n I’ve gone to fetch Mr. McAlester—he’ll be sure enough glad to see him. It was him that brought the boy back from them thieving Indians.”
Gathering her skirt with her hands, she stepped off the porch and hurried across the yard. When she reached the infirmary, the ranger captain seemed surprised she’d followed him. He’d paused to take off his hat again, and as he smoothed his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, his smile crinkled the skin around his bright blue eyes.
“No need to come on my account, ma’am. I kinda know my way around this place.”
“I came for Mr. Hill,” she said simply. “Perhaps if he agrees to the surgery, I can be of help.” She hesitated for a moment, then met his gaze soberly. “I was nearly thirteen when my cousin Joe came back from the rebellion, Captain Walker. He was with the second Massachusetts, and at Gettysburg he took five Confederate bullets. He lost an arm, and his leg was shattered, and there were two balls that they couldn’t remove because they were too near his spine. We tried to nurse him, but he died from the infection,” she recalled bitterly. “So I assure you that I am not likely to swoon at the sight of blood—or of the surgeon’s saw.”
“Whew—I guess not.” Shaking his head, he exhaled fully, then reached for the door. Standing back to let her pass, he waited until she was inside before he spoke again. “A lot of men died then, and a lot who came back were never the same,” he said quietly. “I guess folks here in Texas don’t stop to think what the war did to the Yankees.”
“You fought in the rebellion?”
“I fought for the Confederacy, ma’am—under John Bell Hood. But in the end, there were just too many goddamned Yankees for us. We killed a lot of ’em, but they just kept on coming, until they even overwhelmed the likes of Bobby Lee.”
“Slavery was wrong.”
‘Texas joined the Union in 1836 by choice,” he countered. “In 1861 we chose to get out of it, and that damned Yankee Lincoln had no right to stop us.”
“You sound just like Mr. McAlester.”
“I reckon he got it from me.” Looking past her, he saw the post surgeon directing the application of wet cooling sheets over his patients. “Jesus God—it’s hotter’n hell in here,” he muttered. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“I’ll probably hear worse before I die.”
Leading the way between the rows of cots, she found Nate Hill’s bed. His eyes were closed, his teeth clenched, and his breathing shallow. She reached out to touch his forehead. It was hot and dry.
“He ain’t no better’n he was,” a soldier in the next cot told her. “Been out of his head since you left.”
“He’s worse,” she observed. Leaning over Nate Hill, she tried to rouse him. “Can you drink some water?” she asked loudly. “I’ll get you cold spring water.”
He opened eyes that seemed yellow against his gray-brown face. “Help me,” he rasped. “Help me, Sergeant.”
“Captain Walker is here,” she told him.
“Don’t leave me … can’t ride …”
Reaching past her, Hap shook the trooper’s shoulder. “Nate, it’s me—Hap Walker.”
“Don’t let ’em have m’hair, Sarge … don’t …” The eyes closed.
“Mr. Hill, you’ve got to let the doctor operate,” Amanda pleaded, taki
ng his hand.
“He doesn’t know what you’re saying, Miss Ross,” Abbott, the post surgeon, said behind her. “He’s beyond consent now. We’re going to put him on the table.”
“This should have been done yesterday—or the day before.”
Ignoring that, the physician walked to the other side of the cot and lifted Nate Hill’s big hand. “Uneven pulse,” he muttered. “Fever’s high.”
“I can try to bring it down. I can bathe him with cold water,” she offered. “I’ve seen it done.”
He looked up, his expression pained. “Miss Ross, I know what I’m doing, I assure you.” Letting his patient’s hand fall back to the cot, he wiped perspiration from his own face. “I know it’s too damned hot for this.” Turning to two soldiers waiting behind him, he ordered, “Heave him up, boys and make it quick. Thompson, you’re going to have to fan me while I do the cutting.” Turning to Hap Walker, he said, “Guess you saw your share of this in the war, Captain.”
The ranger nodded. “Can he make it?”
“Chancy—real chancy.” Twitching the sheet back, the surgeon exposed Nate Hill’s leg. As Amanda looked away, he told Walker, “Feel that.”
Hap stepped to the bottom of the cot and grasped Nate Hill’s toes, then he shook his head. “Cold,” he said quietly. “Dead cold. How much, do you think?”
“The whole thing,” the doctor answered grimly. “At this stage I can’t risk anything less.” Nodding curtly to one of his aides, he ordered, “All right, let’s go, boys. Thompson, fetch the chloroform while we put him up. Best get on before we start, Miss Ross—it’s not going to be pretty.”
But as the men lifted Trooper Hill, his eyes opened, and he blinked in bewilderment. Then it was as if the confusion lifted, and he realized what they were going to do to him. “Cap’n,” he begged desperately, “don’t let ’em—eeeeowwwwwwwww!”
“Nate, listen to me,” Hap said, leaning over him. “You’re going to lose that leg. It’s dead—it’s poison now.”
“No—no—” Hill bucked between those who held him and turned his head from side to side. “No! Ain’t no use for—”
