by Anita Mills
She didn't dry him, but let the air cool his wet skin, then gently pulled his gown down. Using a corner of the bedsheet, she fanned his face. Exhausted, she sat back to pray.
Please, dear God, she thought, spare this decent man. Even as the words went through her mind, she wondered what there was about a man she scarcely knew that had moved her to pray for him, when she could hardly find it within her to pray for herself. It was, she supposed, all those things Major Sprenger had said about him.
The only light in the room was the yellow flame flickering valiantly within the sooty lamp chimney, the only sound Hap Walker's harsh, ragged breathing. She squeezed her dry, itching eyes tightly shut, trying to wet them, then leaned forward again to touch him. She didn't know why she'd expected anything different, but he was still hot.
The heightened nerves that had driven her through the day were giving up the fight for her mind and body. It was as though every fiber ached, every thought came with an effort. She knew she ought to summon Mr. Nash to watch Walker, then walk back to the Sprengers. But again the thought of sleeping in that featherbed was almost too much to bear.
The image of a smiling, scrubbed Ethan standing in Reverend Helton's Austin parlor, holding her cold hand in his warm one, telling the preacher they wanted to wed, came to mind. She could remember every detail of that day, from the figured waistcoat and navy blue serge suit Ethan had bought for the occasion to the pleated lawn waist, the cornflower blue twilled silk basque and matching skirt she'd made herself from the Butterick pattern she'd ordered in the mail. Ethan had gallantly told her the outfit matched her eyes.
After the few words were spoken, pledging them to a lifetime together, Mrs. Helton had dabbed away tears and pronounced them the handsomest couple in her memory. They'd had coffee and cake there, then taken a drive through the countryside in a smart gig Ethan had rented at the livery across the street from their hotel. They'd dined early on roast beef, boiled new potatoes, and candied carrots, all scandalously washed down with a bottle of burgundy.
But it was what had come after that had both shocked and delighted her. When she'd first discovered what was expected of her, she'd recoiled, but he'd coaxed and teased and tantalized her until she forgot her disgust. He'd made it seem so right, so pure, so very wonderful. And in that week in Austin, he'd given her Susannah.
That was then. With Two Trees the same act had been defiling, dirty, and disgusting. And when she'd missed her courses, his two wives had pummeled her so unmercifully that she'd hemorrhaged enough to miscarry, and she'd actually been grateful for it. The very thought of his baby within her had made her thoroughly sick. No, she never wanted to think of that again. But there was no justice in a world that let Two Trees live and made Ethan Bryce die.
"Why, Ethan—why? Why did it have to happen to you—to us?" she whispered brokenly.
A sob welled in her chest, rising, fighting to get out. Unable to suppress it, she leaned forward, resting her arms on Hap Walker's bed, and let go. She cried so hard she shook the mattress beneath him, but she couldn't stop. Not until she got all of it out of her.
"Wa—" Hap Walker's hand came up, then dropped. His mouth worked, trying to form the word. "Wa—water," he rasped.
Embarrassed, she sat back and wiped her wet cheeks. But his eyes were closed. He wasn't really conscious, just unbearably thirsty. Her hands shaking, she managed to pour a little water into the cup, then dipped the napkin into it again. As she pulled down his lip to squeeze the liquid into his mouth, his hand touched hers.
"Wa—water."
He began to struggle, attempting to rise, falling back. His fingers closed on her wrist, pulling her hand to his mouth. Standing up, she bent over him, slid her other arm beneath his shoulders, and tried to lift him. He wasn't a big man, but she was weak. Finally, she put a knee against the bed for leverage, then threw her shoulder beneath his, bracing him up. Freeing her hand, she reached behind her for the cup.
"Sip, don't drink," she cautioned him, bringing it to his lips. "Just a little at a time."
He tilted the cup and guzzled greedily, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed every drop. His eyes still closed, he leaned back against her.
"Thanks," he whispered.
She eased him to the mattress, then stepped back to put the cup on the table. Turning to him again, she touched his forehead hopefully. The fever didn't seem any better.
"Are you hurting? Do you want me to fetch Mr. Nash?"
"No." He'd said it so softly, she wasn't sure she'd heard it, but then he whispered it again. "No."
As tired as she was, she decided to wash his face and neck again. Her shoulders and back ached as she wrung out the cloth in the basin. As soon as she finished, she was going to have to force herself to make the walk back to the Sprengers' house. She couldn't fight it anymore. She was beyond dreaming now.
She dragged the wet cloth over his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, then back to his ears and down to the hollow of his throat. That was it—she couldn't do anything more.
But rather than leave, she sank back into the chair and just sat there. She leaned forward to touch him again, then her head dropped to the edge of the mattress. In a few minutes, when the weakness passed, she'd go.
The major and the corporal found her at six in the morning, her head resting against Hap Walker's body, his fingers touching her blond hair.
"Mrs. Bryce," Sprenger murmured, shaking her gently.
"Unnnhhhh."
Reaching over her, he touched Walker's forehead.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said softly.
"What is it?" Nash asked.
"He's sweating. His gown's soaked. As soon as Walsh gets here, you'd better change him."
The significance wasn't lost on the corpsman. His face broke into a smile. "You did it, sir. You did it."
As Annie Bryce sat back reluctantly, yawning widely, Sprenger's gaze took in the fatigue mirrored in her face, then the empty cup and the cloth in the washbasin. "I'd say I didn't do it alone, soldier."
CHAPTER 6
It was becoming increasingly obvious that Lieutenant Colonel Davidson, Fort Sill's commanding officer, was avoiding Annie. After two days of unsuccessful attempts to gain an appointment with him, she finally went to his office, determined to stay until he saw her. Whether he wanted to take it or not, she intended to file an official report on her captive daughter, requesting the army's assistance in the child's recovery.
She'd waited an hour, sitting in a straight-back chair with her hands folded in her lap, praying and hoping the colonel would do more than listen politely and send her on her way. From time to time she looked up and caught the aide watching her furtively. Their eyes would meet, then he'd hastily look away to busy himself at his desk. It was as though he didn't want to speak to her.
"Are you quite sure he knows I am here?" she asked finally.
"Yes, ma'am."
She didn't know much about Black Jack Davidson, as he was called, other than he'd served on the frontier even before the Civil War, and he was reputed to be a harsh, unpleasant man. But she figured that as long as he'd been in the business of fighting Indians, he'd surely be inclined to help her. At least he knew what she'd been through, so she wouldn't have to tell him much about her captivity. And he ought to sympathize with Susannah's plight.
It seemed as though another eternity passed, but the door to the inner office remained closed. She was beginning to wonder if he was in there at all.
"Excuse me, but how much longer do you think it'll be?" she tried again.
"I couldn't say," was the brusque answer.
"It's a rather long meeting, isn't it?"
"The colonel's a busy man."
"Yes, of course."
She'd just have to wait, no matter how long it took, and she knew it. But she was beginning to fume. If he was aware she was there, it seemed unconscionable that he couldn't at least let her know when he'd be done, instead of letting her sit there forever. She refolded the handkerchi
ef for the hundredth time before looking up again. The young man behind the desk was eying her speculatively.
"Is there some reason why you keep staring at me?" she asked irritably.
"No, ma'am."
Maybe she was imagining it, or maybe she was just overly cross this morning. Reaching up, she tucked an errant strand of hair under the edge of her bonnet. She felt like a fidgety child on a hard pew, wondering how long before church would be over. Glancing at the clock, she noted it was past eleven. She'd been there two hours, and before long he'd be going to eat. Her stomach was already growling.
"Would you inquire of the colonel if it would be more convenient for me to come again this afternoon?"
"He'll be going over to the agency then."
"Oh." Her fingers twisted the damp handkerchief. "All right, then would you be so kind as to ask him how much longer he'll be?"
It was obvious to Billy Thompson that Davidson didn't want to see her, but she'd been waiting so long he could almost feel sorry for her. But as prim and demure as she looked sitting there in that dress buttoned up to her chin, he knew she'd probably spread her legs beneath every buck Comanche in old Bull Calf's band. The thought had been turning his stomach ever since she walked in the door.
"I take it that you don't intend to find out for me," she decided.
"Uh, no, not exactly. But the colonel, well, he's a stickler for discipline, ma'am. He don't want me breaking in on him unless he calls for me."
"I see.
"Ain't nobody around here that likes him," he went on, unbending somewhat. "If he was to smile, it'd break his face. Now, Old Ben Grierson—the one that was here afore Black Jack—well, he had a smile for everybody. Too many, some people thought," he added judiciously. "Guess there was some as thought he was an Indian lover, but it wasn't that. Same way with the Negroes in the Tenth— long as they behaved themselves, he treated 'em right. When they didn't, then he could be hard on em."
"I don't care whether he smiles or not," Annie said tiredly. "I just wish he'd give me fifteen minutes of his time." She glanced up at the clock, then exhaled heavily. "I'm beginning to wonder what on earth he's doing in there."
"Got Doc Sprenger—Major Sprenger, that is—with him. Guess they're arguing over the yearly health and hygiene report."
"Oh."
"It's always like that, ain't it? The docs want to clean up everything, and the commanders don't care as long as they can put the cavalry in the field when it's needed. I guess Doc Sprenger wants the higher-ups to rule against enlisted men keeping pigs on the post. Says the filth gets into the water, and we had a bad bout with dysentery awhile back."
"And Colonel Davidson doesn't agree? Surely—"
"Naw, he don't want anybody telling him how to run his post. He ain't going to let anything bad go into Washing-ton.
"And you, what do you think?"
Billy shrugged. "They don't pay soldiers to think, ma'am." He saw her look at the clock yet again. "All right. Guess it wouldn't hurt none if I was to say they needed Doc over at the hospital. Reckon he'd be glad to hear it, whether it was the truth or not."
"Thank you."
When she smiled, he was struck by what it did to her eyes. If she had a little meat on those bones, she'd be downright pretty. But he didn't know a man alive that'd be able to forget she'd had a Comanche buck inside her. He knew he sure as hell couldn't. He pushed away from the desk and stood up.
"Guess more dysentery's as good as anything," he said. The thought struck him as funny. Given the timing, Black Jack wouldn't like hearing that.
"I really appreciate your help," she murmured.
The thought crossed his mind that it might be interesting to find out just how much appreciation he could get out of her, then he dismissed the notion. It'd be like bedding a whore who'd been with Grierson's Negroes, and there were just some things that were beneath him.
As she watched, he tapped lightly on the closed door, then opened it just enough to ease inside. It clicked shut behind him. She sighed and closed her eyes briefly, hoping she was going to get in now.
In the inner office, the colonel eyed his aide irritably. "What is it?"
"Beggin' the colonel's pardon, sir," Thompson began deferentially, "but they're needing the major over at the infirmary."
"Can't it wait?" Davidson demanded.
"What is it?" Sprenger asked, rising.
"Big mess—looks like another run of dysentery, sir." It was all Thompson could do to keep a straight face. "Guess it's spreading again."
"Must be bad meat from the last shipment," the colonel muttered.
"If it was bad meat, they'd have got it after dinner. More'n likely it's the damned pigs you're letting 'em keep all over the place," Sprenger retorted. "And you can't say I didn't warn you."
"If you put that down, it's insubordination, Will. I'm not having a bunch of staff officers come out and tell me how to run the place."
"What are you going to do if you come down with it?" the surgeon countered. "Pretend you don't have it?"
Davidson eyed him balefully for a moment. "No," he answered evenly, "I'm going to order all private livestock moved off post and away from the water. Does that satisfy you?"
"Thank you."
"And you are going to report we passed the health inspection," he added flatly. Seeing that Thompson was still in the room, he demanded, "Well, soldier, what else?"
"It's Mrs. Bryce, sir. She's still waiting."
"Damn. Tell her I'm occupied right now."
"She's expressed her intention to remain, sir. She's been here most of the morning already."
"She's actually quite a remarkable woman," Sprenger observed. "She's got a lot of grit. You have to admire her for it."
"Do you know what she wants?" Davidson asked his aide impatiently.
"No, sir."
He turned on the doctor. "She's staying at your house, isn't she, Major? Well, she must have said something, I'd think. What is it?"
While Sprenger had a pretty good idea what she intended to ask for, he wasn't giving it away. The way he looked at it, once Davidson saw her, the old martinet might be moved to gallantry. Even if he wasn't, she at least deserved a chance at him. He shrugged. "I'm not home much, and when I am, Mrs. Bryce tends to keep to herself. Cora might know something, but if she does, she hasn't mentioned it. If you want my opinion, I think you ought to see her."
"Tell her to come back," the colonel decided.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but she's been by every day already," Thompson dared to tell him. "She ain't giving up easy."
Sprenger nodded. "She'll keep coming back until you give her an audience. It says something for her that she survived three years with the Comanches, Colonel. You might as well find out why she's out there and get it over with."
Black Jack Davidson digested his surgeon's advice as if it gave him a stomachache. Finally he sighed heavily. "It's unfortunate, this captive thing. I never know what to say to a woman after that, you know. Hell, it's hard enough to look at 'em, knowing what's happened."
"You have to remember that she didn't ask to be captured."
"I keep thinking of the Purvis woman—and the unfortunate Miss Baker." The colonel looked up. "Her brother had to put Lucy Baker in an asylum, I was told."
"It doesn't surprise me. But Mrs. Bryce is made of sterner stuff. I don't know how she managed it, but she kept her mind. Aside from malnutrition, she's in pretty good shape. In fact, the way she's eating now, I'd say she's already put a few pounds back on. Along about Easter, she'll be a fine-looking female again."
"Really? I didn't get a good look at her the other day, but I've heard she's skin and bones."
"She's thin," Sprenger conceded. "But nothing like those poor men I treated after they came out of Andersonville. They were skin and bones, as you put it. They couldn't even walk out, but she's in a fair way to regaining her strength."
Unconvinced, Davidson asked wearily, "What do you say to her? Beyond offering con
dolences, I mean? Major, I'm a soldier, not a diplomat."
"You just listen. There's not much you can say."
"I don't know what good I can do for her, anyway. If it's justice, I can't give it," the colonel admitted bitterly. "With the Indian policy we've got here, my hands are tied. As long as Bull Calf and the others agree to come onto the reservation, I'm supposed to protect them." He sighed again. "I suppose I could arrest Bull Calf," he mused, "but putting him away is another thing. You saw what happened with Satanta, didn't you?"
Sprenger nodded. "They paroled the bastard."
"It's those damned Quakers. I'd like to bring the lot of them out here and leave them up on the Staked Plains. Those that came back alive would be singing a different tune, I can tell you."
"They'd probably just blame the Texans for making the Indians hostile."
"And I'll tell you something else," Davidson went on, betraying more than a little pique, "if General Sherman would give me the free hand he's going to give Mackenzie come summer, I'd take care of the Indian problem. They'd either come onto the reservation and stay put, or they'd die."
"I expect that's what Mac will do, don't you?" the surgeon observed mildly. "And he's as methodical as a damned machine, when you get right down to it. He'll have the supplies to outlast 'em on their own land. No, you're dead wrong. Sherman's picked the right man." Seeing that Davidson's color was heightening, he tossed the smallest of olive branches. "If anything, the general needs you right here. Without you, who's going to watch the Quakers?"
"Damned near anybody," the colonel grumbled.
"No, it takes a strong man to keep idle troops disciplined and in fighting trim. There's more discipline here than there's ever been."
"Humph."
"What do you want me to tell her, sir?" Thompson asked, reinserting himself into the conversation.
"The dysentery can wait, Major." Having made up his mind, Davidson turned back to Sprenger. "All you're going to do is give 'em copper and opium, anyway."
"That depends. Sometimes sulphuric acid and laudanum are more effective," the surgeon murmured.
