by Anita Mills
No, if she could just follow the wagon’s dusty tracks back to the road they’d left about noon, the Overland Stage or even someone traveling between Fort Stockton and Fort Davis might find her. Only this morning, Hap Walker had said that McAlester would be going to Davis, and if Ramon had wanted to wait until late afternoon, the ranger could accompany them that far. Of course her step-cousin had declined, saying he didn’t want to travel at night.
She sat there for a few minutes, mustering her strength, telling herself she would survive. Even if Ramon didn’t come back, she would survive. God in Heaven would not let her die alone in such a place. Picking up her purse and the canteen, she began the long walk toward the Overland Road.
Despite the lowering sun, it seemed that heat came up in waves from the baked ground, reaching beneath her skirt. And now even the sweat on her limbs seemed precious, for she had no water to lose.
She plodded along, trying to keep a steady pace, trying not to think of the distance. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, she stopped to unbutton her bodice and loosen the corset hooks. She had to get out of the corset. Reaching around to her back, she felt the wet laces and untied them. Then, throwing all modesty to the wind, she pulled off her gown and peeled down the horsehair bustle pad and damp petticoats. Stepping out of them, she undid her corset cover and took it off. Standing there in nothing but the corset, she patiently worked the back laces all the way down, then loosened the wet elastic. Stripping it away, she breathed a sigh of freedom.
For a moment, she let the hot, dry air absorb the perspiration, then she pulled on her gown. But she was dizzy from the heat. She glanced down at the dirty handkerchief for a moment, then picked it up. Soaking it again with the now precious water, she folded it crosswise, pushed the sombrero back, and tied the cloth over her hair. Leaving her discarded garments behind, she told herself that she felt cooler, better. As she walked, she allowed herself one sip of water. She was rationing it now.
She heard the faint sound of wheels, and she looked up, her heart in her throat. The wagon was headed toward her, a cloud of dust behind it. And she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry with relief. Ramon had come back for her. She waved her arms wildly, shouting, “Over here! Over here!” And she began running toward him.
He slowed, then stood up from the wagon seat, his rifle in his hands. Raising it, he took aim and fired. It sounded as though a bee buzzed past her. She dived and rolled on the hard earth, then lay very still, her heart thudding. Not daring to raise her head, she heard him drive away again.
It wasn’t until she could no longer hear distant rattle of wagon wheels that she twisted her head to look around her. There in the dust she could see the faint, undulating sworls, a reminder that she wasn’t quite alone. Somewhere nearby there was a sidewinder. Probably more than one.
Her hands and knees hurt from the force of her fall, but she managed to sit up gingerly and look about her, first at the ground, then into the distance. Ramon had disappeared again, this time apparently satisfied he’d killed her. With an effort she picked up the hat, the canteen and her purse. Twisting the purse strings around her wrist, she began walking once more. The wagon tracks were so fragile that even a light wind could blow them away.
She was frightened now. And tired. And already thirsty almost beyond bearing. She wanted to sit down and cry, but she couldn’t waste the tears. She was her father’s daughter, she reminded herself fiercely, and he had despised cowards. He would expect her to put up a fight to survive. Anything less would be unworthy of his only child.
She wiped her stinging eyes with the back of her dirty hand and plodded ahead. To take her mind from her fears, she began praying. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …
Clay McAlester crested the hill and surveyed the desert beneath, his weary eyes squinting to focus, searching for some sign of life, of movement. From above, the blistering sun beat down, burning his head through the black felt hat, and below, undulating waves of heat came up from the land.
He’d been in the saddle all night, and he was tired. He’d planned to go on to Davis, but while cutting for sign, he’d come across enough broken brush to know that a large war party had recently passed within a few miles of the fort. And judging by the width of the path, they were returning from a horse raid, probably in Old Mexico.
It was enough to make him follow them north, hopefully to Quanah Parker’s summer camp. If he found Quanah, he’d know where the Comancheros were coming. The trick would be to get between them before a deal could be made, and he had no illusions as to the difficulty of that. Sanchez-Torres was wily, enough so that he’d never actually been caught with anything more than a few empty wagons. He was, he always protested vigorously, merely in the salt business. Never mind that he was miles away from the El Paso flats or that there was never any trace of salt in the wagons.
But now the sun played tricks on his eyes, making halos when he blinked. If he had any sense, he’d just make a cold camp for the day and wait for nightfall. A little water, some buffalo jerky, and pinon nuts, and he’d probably feel a whole lot better. He half turned in the saddle, looking back toward his mule. The animal regarded him balefully from beneath his trail packs.
“All right, Hannibal,” he murmured. “I guess this is about as good a place as any to stop.”
At least it provided a good view all around, making an ambush impossible. He shrugged his aching shoulders, then swung out of his worn saddle and pulled off his bedroll. Using rocks to prop up his rifle and shotgun for posts, he draped the blanket between them, affording him shelter from the high sun. Uncinching his saddle, he dragged it and his saddle bags off, and carried them to his makeshift tent. Then he unloaded the mule. While the two animals drifted a few yards away to nibble on mesquite, he settled in.
Opening a saddle bag, he pulled out a cloth-wrapped package and took a day’s ration of what Hap called “damned Injun food.” Leaning back against his saddle, he began chewing thoughtfully, his mind on the job ahead of him.
As much as he wanted to stop the Comanchero trade, he didn’t really want to set himself against Quanah—or any other Comanche, for that matter. So far, he’d avoided testing his own loyalties, mostly because he and Hap had a private understanding that he wouldn’t be asked to hunt Comanches. He’d move to the border to fight Mexican rustlers, or to Ysleta to track unfriendly Apaches, but he still had a great deal of respect for the Indians who’d raised him.
But as he’d told Amanda Ross, Comancheros were another matter. With their guns and whiskey they were hastening the end of the People. Allies now, Texas and the U.S. Army stood ready to kill every Comanche, if that’s what it would take to stop the raiding. And Mackenzie had proven last August that he could take the fight to the Comanche when he’d struck at them in the canyons that laced the Llano Estacado, deep in the heart of Comancheria.
But it would be hard, if not impossible, to look Quanah Parker in the face and tell the half-breed war chief he couldn’t have the guns. Not when Quanah believed the war trail was the only path left to survival. Not when he believed life on a reservation would mean the death of the People.
It was coming, whether Quanah wanted to accept it or not. But Clay didn’t want to be there when Colonel Mackenzie and his cavalry herded them across the Red River into the Indian Territories. Sometimes he still thought if they had any chance of surviving, of keeping the land, he’d want to stand with them. But as his Aunt Jane had once said, if wishes were pigs, he’d have pork chops every day. And it was too late to go back. He’d never be fourteen again.
He finished his food and reached for his hat. Lying down, he started to put it over his face when something caught his attention. In the distance dark specks circled in the sky. He watched them for a few minutes before he roll
ed over, reached into his saddlebags, and drew out his glass. Squinting again, he looked through it.
Buzzards. Four of them.
Adjusting the glass, he looked to the dry earth below, expecting to see the rotting carcass of a wild longhorn or a javelina. As he drew the lens back toward his position, he saw something else. Two thin ribbons cut into the dust. Wagon tracks. He felt the prickle of excitement just looking at them.
Alert now, he stood up, debating whether to leave his gear in his camp, or whether to saddle up and follow the trail at high sun. Another look at the wagon tracks decided him. Sometimes, to fool Texas authorities, a line of wagons would keep to the same tracks, making it look as though only one had come through. He dragged his saddle from beneath his makeshift tent and threw it on his paint mare, cinching it beneath her belly. “Come on, Sarah,” he murmured, running his hand along her neck. “We’ve got to get a move on.”
Walking to where the blanket still shaded the small spot of ground, he rolled it up, draped the saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up his Whitney and the Henry rifle, and reset the hat on his head. The guns were almost too hot to hold. Carrying them back, he fastened the bedroll and checked the rifle before sheathing it in the saddle scabbard. As he secured the packs on the mule, the animal threw back its head and bared its teeth in protest.
“Sorry, Hannibal,” he murmured sympathetically. “But it looks like it’s going to be a workday.”
The mule’s ears flattened and its nostrils flared, then as the paint nudged it with her nose, it accepted the inevitable. Clay mounted the mare, settled the shotgun in front of him, and dug his moccasins into the animal’s side.
As Sarah moved down the hill, he almost forgot his earlier fatigue. No, there was nothing quite like the satisfaction of finding a trail early on. He might just get lucky. Maybe the rumors were wrong—maybe Sanchez-Torres was coming from farther south. If he was, it would sure save Clay some unpleasant choices.
Distances were deceiving—it took him nearly three-quarters of an hour to reach the wagon tracks, and then he was disappointed. While a quick study of the ground told him they were fresh, probably not much more than a day old, if that, it also told him that the wagon was too light to be carrying a full load of guns. And instead of heading northward, it had made a turn and gone back.
He squinted up at the sky and saw that the buzzards were still hovering, waiting almost lazily for whatever it was to die. He took out his glass, rubbed the eyepiece on his shirt sleeve, then took a quick visual sweep of the area.
There, lying next to a gnarled mesquite, was a dead animal. No, it was a brown hump. Refocusing the glass, he narrowed his vision. It was an article of clothing—some sort of bustle. And just beyond it lay a crinoline snagged on a clump of prickly pear.
He rode down for a closer look. It was a bustle all right. Dismounting, he went for the other undergarment. Tangled with it was a fancy lace-trimmed chemise. The hem, scalloped to show small embroidered roses and tiny pink bows, tore as he freed it. It was dainty, fragile, as though it had been possessed by a lady of wealth rather than by a homesteader’s wife.
Carrying the clothing, he caught a glimpse of corset some twenty-five feet away, probably dragged there by a nocturnal animal who’d abandoned it upon the discovery that elastic and whalebone made poor eating. He retrieved that also. As he held it up, he could see the fancy frill above the front hooks, reminding him of the lace he’d seen across Amanda Ross’s cleavage. It was far finer than anything he’d seen in bordellos and border cantinas. He stuffed the crinoline and chemise into his bedroll and tied the bustle and corset on by their laces.
The most obvious answer was that part of the Comanche war party had passed this way with a female captive. And unless he missed his guess, when he found the body, it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight. The last one he’d found had been scalped, skewered on a lance, and hung on a tree, still alive when he found her—Jacob Misner’s widow. The only help he’d been able to give the woman was a burial, followed by the few remembered words of a hymn spoken rather than sung. It had seemed woefully inadequate even then.
He considered going on. It wouldn’t make much difference, anyway, and he was short on time. But the buzzards were still there. Reluctantly, he remounted and headed toward them again. Judging from the fact that they were south and the Indians had been going north, the captive could have been killed or left to die anywhere along the trail, and the clothes could have been thrown away as the war party lost interest in them. But that didn’t explain the wagon. Nor did it explain the cleanly swept path that ran along side the faint tracks—a path that looked like cloth had been dragged over it.
He thought of Amanda Ross. She and Sandoval had left Stockton early yesterday, and by now they ought to be almost to the Ybarra. At least they’d been on the Overland Road most of the way to Davis, and they probably wouldn’t have encountered a war party on that route.
Looking down, he saw the imprint of small square heels that went on for several steps, then they disappeared. Now he understood—a woman had been walking across the desert, and her skirts had brushed her footprints from the dust. But what the hell was she doing alone in the middle of the west Texas desert? Had she somehow managed to escape from her captors? While it wasn’t likely, it was possible. While he’d been with the State Police, a naked woman had stumbled into his camp, bloodied, bruised, and in one hell of a shape. She’d crawled out on her hands and knees while the Comanches slept, and by some quirk of fate, she’d found him.
No, he had to look for this one. As hard and disciplined as he considered himself, he couldn’t leave a woman to die out there. He hadn’t been able to do anything to save her, but he’d been there to hold Mrs. Misner when she died. He straightened in his saddle and nudged Sarah with his knees, turning her back onto the faint wagon trail.
It was probably another half hour before he found where she’d stopped. Dropping down to study the dusty earth more carefully, he discovered a threaded cap. And a few feet away, there was the empty canteen, along with a pair of women’s shoes. He picked them up, then stood. Looking upward, he checked the location of the buzzards again.
Damn, but it was hot. Hot enough to boil water on a rock, Hap would say. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat that ran down his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He’d lost so much sweat that he felt dizzy, and he was used to being out like this. But somewhere out there, there was a woman with no water, few clothes, and no shoes.
He climbed into the saddle again and rode slowly now, fixing his gaze on the ground, making sure he did not miss her trail. And with each plodding step, his appreciation of how far she’d managed to come grew. He was following one hell of a woman. She was doing her damnest not to die.
Ahead, one of the buzzards swooped low, testing its target. Clay raised the shotgun and fired, killing it and scattering the others. They rose higher, but did not leave. For good measure, he fired again, taking down another.
And then he saw a bare, bloodied foot extending from behind a stunted stand of scrub oak. But any exhilaration he’d felt at the discovery was soon dispelled by the realization that the body was prone and unmoving. Afraid he was too late, he reined in and swung down. Taking his canteen, he walked toward her.
What he saw stunned him. It was Amanda Ross. She lay there, her head cradled by one of her arms, her other hand holding a purse with a short-barreled revolver half out of it. She wasn’t moving.
Her closed eyes were sunk in the sockets, and a small trickle of blood had dried on her cracked lips. He knelt and turned her over gently, then probed along her neck for a pulse. It was faint and uneven, but it was there. His hand moved lower, slipping under the unbuttoned waist of her dress. Her ribs rose and fell rapidly, shallowly, beneath his touch. And her skin was as hot and dry as if she ran a high fever. But at least she’d used her hat and handkerchief to shade her face, so that the worst of her sunburn was on her cheeks and throat.
“Miss Ross�
��Amanda—can you hear me?” he asked gently. “It’s me—Clay McAlester.”
She didn’t respond. Lifting one of her lids, he saw the pupil narrow. He pried open her jaw and checked her tongue. It was nearly black from the lack of water. Another hour or so and she’d have been dead when he found her. But right now she was alive, and he was going to do his damnedest to keep her that way.
The trick was going to be getting enough water in her quickly enough to do any good. And if he managed that, then he could turn his attention to the rest of her. Lifting her, he balanced her shoulders with his knee while he unscrewed the cap of his canteen.
“Come on, girl—you’ve made it this far. Don’t give up now,” he coaxed, holding the bottle’s lip to hers. Her hand came up weakly, brushing at his wrist, then fell limply to her side. “Amanda, it’s McAlester,” he told her. “Come on—just a sip for now. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters.”
Dazed eyes fluttered but did not fully open. “Papa,” she croaked.
She was hallucinating, but that was to be expected. He slid an arm beneath her shoulder, taking care to touch the cloth as much as possible. Thankfully, she hadn’t discarded her dress, or she’d have been sun-poisoned from the burn.
“It’s all right, Amanda—all you’ve got to do is drink, and I’ll take care of the rest.” He held the canteen to her lips. “Come on—drink.” He tipped it slightly, allowing a small trickle. As he watched, her throat constricted, telling him she swallowed. “That’s good. Just a little more—not too much.” But even as he said it, the water hit her stomach, and she began to retch. He shifted her against his leg and watched helplessly as the water came up.
“Come on—not so much next time. We can’t afford to waste it.” Trying again, he kept his grip on the canteen, giving her only enough to wet her dark tongue. “That’s better.”
