The tender snag in his voice held her.
“I don’t say these things to hurt you.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I know, Papa. Good night.”
It wasn’t her father’s words that hurt like a cruelly wielded saber. It was the truth.
The post band played “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” a gay yet sentimental song that had all the ladies’ eyes misting as the men of Company B prepared to ride out, perhaps for the last time. Noble Banning, with Albert Howell and Tom Folley flanking him, led the line of mounted men past the gathering. Without a pause, he presented his saber in a formal salute to his commander while his gaze was fixed upon that man’s daughter. Juliet couldn’t offer him a smile. Her jaw was too tight from withholding her tears. Instead she just nodded, and his quick wink said it was enough.
And as the column of fours became an indiscriminate cloud of dust that could be seen from horizon to horizon, Juliet heard Miles’s quiet words of encouragement.
“Don’t fret. He’ll be fine.”
Of course he was speaking to his sister about her husband’s welfare, but Juliet clung to the sentiment. It was the only way to keep the awful anguish at bay.
At the close of the first day out, they came across the spot where Company H had been ambushed. The ground was bristling with arrows. The company’s dead still lay where they’d fallen, mutilated in Apache fashion so that they would be maimed in the hereafter. Grimly, Noble ordered the remains buried. For the next few days, they’d be moving fast, and he couldn’t spare the men to return the bodies to the fort. He said a few words over the fresh-spaded dirt, then was perplexed when Howell used branches and rocks to disguise the graves.
“So they can rest undisturbed,” his lieutenant told him.
Thinking about that kept Noble awake most of the night.
Thinking about Juliet kept him up the rest of it.
They were mounted and moving before daybreak, intent upon reaching the first of three homesteads before noon. Their haste proved unnecessary.
The Bowdens had been dead at least a day.
“Bury them,” Noble ordered, trying to shut out the sight of the butchered woman.
One of the privates emerged from the still-smoldering house with a child’s dress in one hand. His expression was filled with tragic confusion. “They had two little ones.”
“Are they inside?” Noble asked, dreading the answer.
The private shook his head.
“Spread out, men. I want them found and properly buried with their folks.”
“Major, there’s no need,” Howell told him. “Most likely the savages took the children to raise as their own.”
Noble stared at the tiny calico dress, his insides clenching in anguish. His voice was soft and conclusive. “We’ll find them and bring them back with us.”
Howell looked at him sadly, not saying anything.
“I said we’ll find them.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Fenton place they reached midafternoon. It was a small ranch that had just managed to subsist. Now it was smoking rubble. They were only hours late. The wood was still burning. This time, the children hadn’t been spared.
Again Noble ordered burial and spoke the words, which didn’t come quite so easily.
“How far to the Stacy ranch?”
“About two hours.”
“Two hours,” he echoed. So much could happen in two hours. “Mount up. We’ll double-time—”
“Major, the men and horses are nearly spent.”
“And that last family is probably out there fighting for their lives.”
“That family is probably already dead. We should conserve out energies to save ourselves. Sir.”
Noble stared straight through him. “Lieutenant, can you guarantee me without a doubt that those people are dead, that we can be of absolutely no use to them?”
Howell hesitated. “No, sir. I can’t.”
“Then mount up. Dammit, I want to bring someone back alive with us.”
The glare of flames hugged the horizon. Within ten minutes, the sound of gunfire reached them.
“Bugler,” Noble shouted over the thunder of hoofbeats. “Let them know we’re coming.”
Against the blare of the horn, the troop swept down upon the besieged homestead, carbines drawn, eager to vent their horrified anger over what they’d already left in the hard New Mexico ground that day. Apache scattered as soon as they saw that they were outnumbered. Company B swarmed into the yard, to a man praying they were in time to effect a rescue.
The barrel of a rifle protruded from one of the shuttered windows. With the roof ablaze, it was only a matter of minutes before the entire structure caved in.
“Hello in the house. This is Major Noble Banning, United States Army, out of Fort Blair. You’re safe under our protection. Show yourself.”
A long moment passed in which the roof joists creaked and tiles began to fall inward. Finally, the front door flew open and a woman of about fifty years staggered out, choking on smoke, but still with the presence of mind to keep her rifle trained upon them.
“Mrs. Stacy, you can put down your weapon. You’ve nothing more to fear.”
The barrel drooped. “My husband, he’s inside.”
“Is he wounded?”
She shook her head, gulping for air and courage. “He’s dead, but I want him buried properly.”
“Anyone else?”
Again the head-shake.
“Sergeant, fetch Mr. Stacy.”
Another burial, more words he hoped would bring comfort to those sent on their way, because they left none for those who remained. Anne Stacy stood dry-eyed at the grave site, her home now rubble, her only possession the empty Spencer rifle.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to intrude on your grief, but we need to get to safer surroundings so we can set up camp for the night.”
Calm dark eyes lifted to his. “I’m ready, Major. I’ve said my good-byes.”
Noble nodded, respectful of the woman’s quiet fortitude but anxious to put some miles between them and the glowing timbers that pointed out their location like a beacon in the night.
They made camp under the stars a half-hour later, silently rushing through tending the animals and pitching tents. After a cold supper, they gave their safety over to the sentries and slept hard until daybreak, too exhausted for even Anne Stacy’s soft weeping to disturb them.
Moving out with the dawn, Noble considered what his scouts told him. The Apache were heading west, back toward Fort Blair. Needing to get Mrs. Stacy to the safety of the fort, he was willing to follow their trail, grateful not to have to divide his number to provide the widow with an escort. That didn’t lessen his concern.
“Albert, will they attack Fort Blair?”
“It’s unlikely, sir. They prefer to pick off the weak and the easily dominated. But if they set their minds to it, they could attack the fatigue details and keep them from bringing water to the post.”
“How many would you guess we’re dealing with?”
“Hard to say, Major Banning. Three can do as much damage as three dozen.”
“When we’re close to the fort, we’ll send a detail in with Mrs. Stacy. The rest of us are going to track down our murderous friends. And we’re going to rescue those children.”
Howell sighed, obviously thinking his plan without merit. But he said, “Yes, sir.”
However, his doubts weren’t shared by the majority of the men who’d gone into battle at Noble’s back. And seeing that unswerving confidence, the mood spread through the remaining troops like a bolstering contagion.
Observing his men—his men—Noble saw a single unit bound by grim circumstance into a whole, one no longer divided by geography or accent. They were soldiers, joined by respect for their leaders and by their hatred and fear of a common enemy—just as Crowley had predicted they would be. Too bad it took the sacrifice of two families to bring about that change.
They were within twenty miles of the fo
rt when one of the scouts raced up on a lathered mount.
“I’ve spotted the hostiles, Major. About fifteen of them heading fast for Bright’s Canyon. It’s a box canyon, sir. We can trap them inside, but once they get up into those hills, we’ll never catch them.”
Thinking of those two captive children, Noble didn’t hesitate. “Sergeant Dell, take a detail and get Mrs. Stacy to Fort Blair. The rest of you men, we’ve got some renegades to run to ground.”
A unified whoop of agreement filled the air. Not quite a Rebel yell, but close enough.
The trail was fresh, better than a dozen riders on unshod ponies, carelessly dashing for the concealing rocks of Blight’s Canyon. Determined to catch them while he still had the advantage of numbers, Noble led an all-out charge through the mouth of the canyon. Up ahead he could see the dust from the Apaches’ horses. He called for his men to draw arms, the roar of battle in his blood.
It should have been a simple assault. The Indians had abandoned their horses at the back wall of the canyon and were running for the cover of the rocks. Flank them, call for surrender, and cut them down if they failed to comply. Simple. Except that the fifteen Apaches weren’t running away. They were purposely leading Noble and his troops—straight into a trap.
The troops realized it just seconds after it was sprung. Gunfire and arrows rained down on them from the rocks above, where the main body of Apaches had lain in wait for the decoy group to lead the soldiers in. Shocked and startled, Noble called for a retreat. Again too late, for the mouth of the canyon was already closed by hostile sharpshooters picking off every man and horse that came within range.
Caught in the open, the troops circled in a natural depression, dismounting and trying to hang onto their horses as the Apaches fired down upon them.
Tom Folley was one of the first to fall, an arrow piercing his throat. Albert Howell crumpled beside him, blood blossoming high on his chest. The rest of the troop crouched to make smaller targets, dragging their horses down to provide a shield, but also rendering escape impossible. Noble pulled Howell behind one of the downed horses and bared the wound in his shoulder. It bled fiercely but not fatally. Howell placed his hand over the wadding Noble had made to stanch the flow, pressing hard and grimacing. His pain-filled gaze fixed upon his field commander.
“What the hell are we going to do, Major?”
Noble glanced from Howell to the high surrounding cliffs from where the Indians pinned them effectively to the ground. His mind worked frantically for a solution.
“We’ve got to get help from the fort. It’ll take someone who’s half centaur to ride through those bastards.”
“I know a man like that,” Howell said with a grim smile.
“Who?”
“You, sir.”
Noble recoiled from the idea, then shook his head. “I can’t abandon my command.”
“If we don’t get word to the fort, you won’t have a command. Noble, you’re the best chance we have of getting a man through. I’ll hold down our position until you bring Crowley back with reinforcements.”
He hesitated and in that brief moment, another man fell, mortally wounded. There was no glossing over their situation. They were all going to be dead if something wasn’t done and soon. Noble gave Howell his ammunition box.
“Keep ’em alive for me, Albert.”
“Yes, sir. Good luck to you.”
Noble wasted no time once the decision was made. He broke from cover, dashing across bullet-chewed ground to where one of the Indian horses stood. He could make better time without extra weight. He vaulted onto the animal’s bare back and grabbed up the rope bridle, kicking back his heels as he did. The horse lunged forward with him leaning low.
The Apache must have expected the troops to try an escape, for they were on him in an instant, first with a rain of arrows, then with a mounted attack. He wasted no time trying to place a shot. His goal was to get out of the canyon alive.
Once he made it into the clear, Noble glanced back to see three braves in pursuit. Only then did he fire off a couple of rounds, knowing them to be out of range. Still, it made the Indians think twice about closing the distance.
Without regard to man or mount, he drove his horse down into rocky washouts and up crumbling banks on the other side. In the mad scramble across open ground, he remembered all the times he’d raced to glory on a hard-packed Kentucky dirt track for the fun and sport of it. This time he was gambling not with his pocket money but with other men’s lives. They were counting on him, and time was his enemy—time and distance and his three pursuers.
He bent low over the animal’s neck, urging it to greater speed. He tried to keep his mind on the single objective of survival, but a great cloud of blame hung over him.
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have led his men right into that shooting gallery?
It wasn’t his military skill that would save them now. It was his horsemanship.
But even the best rider in the world could do nothing once his horse’s foot went down into a prairie-dog hole. With a scream and the crack of its fetlock bone, the Indian pony went down, casting Noble over its head to slam into the dirt and roll into darkness.
Chapter 19
Waiting was hell.
Juliet had watched her father leave on perilous marches countless times during her growing-up years, but somehow this was different. The way she missed Noble was different.
Instead of just loneliness and worry to cope with, a deep gnawing ache settled inside and refused to be soothed. No matter how much time she spent at the infirmary, nursing the invalid men of H Troop, no matter how many volumes she read until her eyes no longer focused, no matter how many witty conversations she had with Jane, the fear of losing Noble failed to ebb, because he’d ridden away without telling her how he felt about her.
Jane and Pauline had history with their husbands and futures upon their return. She had nothing but stolen moments, as fleeting as they were unsubstantial. She had pieces of his past and no guarantee that there would be more than that if—not when—he came back. Though she’d sworn not to need it, she craved that sense of permanence, the stability of a ring upon her finger, a shared cupboard of clothing, the right to cherish his personal belongings. She wanted to bear his children.
Having never allowed herself to consider what she’d missed in her nomadic life, fearing that longing for something her father couldn’t give her equated to disloyalty, Juliet was surprised by how deeply she desired … more. The house, the family, the sense of community that didn’t revolve around a bugle call. A man who wore lace-up shoes and suspenders and didn’t risk meeting death each time he left the yard. These were no longer vague wishes. It was what she wanted with Noble Banning.
She was tired of sacrifice, tired of being afraid and brave and silent in her suffering. And because she felt all these things churning inside her, sitting across from her father at dinner was too torturing to endure.
“If you’d excuse me, Papa, I promised to take some fresh milk over to Pauline for the children.”
He studied her expression, and for an anxious second, she was sure he could see right through her to the treachery of her heart, to the fact that if Noble Banning asked her in the next moment to desert with him to Kentucky, she would be packed and gone in an instant, without thought or remorse. But of course, he wouldn’t. And her father had no way of guessing at her treachery.
He smiled. “Enjoy your visit, daughter.”
How could she enjoy it?
Juliet measured out a pail of milk from the cooling jug hanging close to the ceiling, her emotions in turmoil. How could she enjoy a meeting with Pauline, well knowing the talk would revolve around Tom and the life they shared. She had no such experience to relay, no tender times, no fond recall, no routine to miss, no empty sheets to mourn. She didn’t even have the freedom to discuss the sentiments she was feeling, because they didn’t belong to her and Noble the way they belonged to a man and wife.
&n
bsp; She was about to step out the back door when she collided with George Allen. After they’d steadied the pail of milk between them, she smiled and said, “Good evening, Captain. My father is just finishing his meal. I’d be happy to set you a place if you’d care to join him.”
“No. No, thank you, ma’am. Actually it was you I came to see.”
“Me?” She set down the pail, noting the pallor on the young man’s face that had his freckles standing out like a rash of measles. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
Despite his awkward shifting, there was a seriousness about George Allen that alerted her. “This is a delicate matter, ma’am, one I promised I would not involve you in.”
“Promised whom?”
“Colleen—that is, Miss McDonnal.”
Juliet was suddenly all concern. “Is something wrong with Colleen?”
“More than she’ll admit, at least to me. I thought you being another lady, perhaps she would confide the cause of what I’ve witnessed and she denies.”
“What exactly have you seen?”
At her taut command, the chaplain relaxed, seeming to realize that he’d done the right thing in coming to her. “Bruises, ma’am. More each day. On her arms and legs and now on her face.”
Juliet summed it up in a word. “Maisy.”
“I fear the woman is beating her. This morning, she could hardly walk or lift so much as a broom without—” He broke off, clearly distressed by the evidence of abuse.
Refusing to vent her fury in front of him, Juliet merely placed a hand upon his arm. “Thank you, George. I’ll take care of it.”
He sighed in relief. “Yes, ma’am. I was hoping you would. I could only arrive at one other solution for freeing her from that household, a last resort if you wouldn’t help.”
His embarrassment made Juliet smile. “George, I hardly think Colleen would see a proposal from you as a last resort.”
His ruddy face stilled. His expression grew somber. “I’m not worthy of her.”
“You are a good man, George Allen.”
He shook his head sadly, his features tragic. “Being a man of God does not excuse him from sin.”
The Men of Pride County: The Rebel Page 20
