Nathan Stark, Army Scout

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Nathan gave a short nod as the doctor neatly tied off the bandage around his arm. “I suppose it might seem that way to some, Doc. But you know, I’m not really Army. My compadre, Cullen Jefferson, and I are in a somewhat precarious position. I need to know everything . . . and it saves me a world of time and trouble to learn it quick instead of having to find out about it from personal experience.”

  The doctor handed Nathan his dirty, torn shirt. “You may not want to put this on.”

  Nathan laughed. “Doc, that’s where you’re wrong. You don’t ever show your wounds to the enemy. Gives ’em a place to aim for. If I could take this bandage off my forehead, I would—but the only thing that brings out bloodlust more than a white bandage is the sight of blood. So I’ll leave it on, and hope my Stetson shades it enough so it’s not too noticeable.”

  “You’re smart. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “Anything you want to tell me about Ledbetter? Or any of the others?” Nathan sat on the edge of the table, looking at the doctor unwaveringly. He figured the doc wasn’t ready to talk yet. Nathan was the new guy, and the doctor was every bit as savvy as he’d said Nathan was. “Okay, how about general information?”

  Lightner broke eye contact, looking away briefly, then back at Nathan. “Do you hurt anywhere especially? If so, I can give you some laudanum—”

  Nathan shook his head. “Don’t need it. And frankly, I’d rather deal with pain than face the nightmares laudanum brings on.”

  “Understood.” Lightner turned to put his supplies away. “If you change your mind, you know where I am.”

  Nathan stood and shrugged into his shirt. “Same goes for you, Doc. When you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

  Lightner turned quickly, bending a cool stare on Nathan.

  “Thanks for patching me up. What do I owe you?” Nathan asked as he finished buttoning his shirt and settled his hat on his head.

  “Nothing. My services are courtesy of the U.S. Army.”

  Nathan nodded to the medico and went outside to find Cullen lounging in front of the building.

  The older man grinned and said, “Hear tell you got yourself into a scrape while I was over at the sutler’s store. When I heard the commotion I should’ve figured you’d be in the middle of it.”

  Nathan grunted. “It was nothing to worry about.”

  “That bandage on your noggin says different.”

  “You know how it is when you get a cut on your head. You bleed like a stuck hog, but it doesn’t amount to anything. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so. Also heard that the ruckus was about a woman.”

  “Cordelia Blaine,” Nathan said.

  Cullen raised a shaggy gray eyebrow. “The fair Delia. Her husband’s posted here?”

  “Her husband’s dead.” Nathan’s voice was flat. Stephen Blaine had been a friend, but the life Nathan had led for the past fifteen years had accustomed him to never getting too close to anyone. He was sorry the Sioux had put Stephen under, but he wasn’t overcome with grief. He didn’t figure he had that capacity anymore.

  “Too bad,” Cullen said. “He wasn’t a bad sort . . . for a Yankee officer.”

  “I’m having supper with Delia tonight.” Nathan wasn’t sure what prompted him to say that, but the words came out and lay there between him and Cullen.

  Both of the older man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Is that so? You reckon that’s a good idea?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Nathan said, his voice curt. “We’re old friends, that’s all.”

  “Yeah,” Cullen drawled. “Old friends.”

  Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “You mean something by that?”

  Cullen grinned again and held up a hand, palm out. “Not a blessed thing.”

  Nathan wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.

  * * *

  “Our new scout is certainly cocksure of himself.” Colonel Ledbetter let the curtain fall completely across the window once more, shutting off the view of the two scouts talking, then turned to face his aide. “Your opinion, Corporal Cahill?”

  Cahill cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t know him well enough to say, yet.”

  Ledbetter gave a disgusted snort. “You never have an opinion of your own, do you, Corporal? Stark walked in the door and I knew within a minute what kind of man he was.”

  Cahill looked at Ledbetter, then stared stoically ahead. “What kind of man would that be, sir?”

  Ledbetter crossed the room to his desk and seated himself in his plush cowhide chair. For a long moment, he toyed with the glass paperweight that his sister had given him when he’d made colonel, twisting it and turning it this way and that. The hollow thump it made came erratically as he repeatedly dropped it to the desk from a short distance.

  “A dangerous one, Corporal. A very, very dangerous one.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Come in, Nate.” Delia opened the door wide to admit him at six-thirty, as they’d agreed.

  He had put on a clean shirt before coming over and knocked the dust off his hat, trousers, and boots. Removing his flat-crowned black hat, he stepped inside. She took it from him and hung it on the hat rack made from deer antlers that stood in the front entryway.

  “Delia, dinner sure smells wonderful.”

  She led him into the small dining room where the table was set, including candles and some fresh flowers as the centerpiece, then turned a pretty pout his way. “Dinner smells good? I was hoping you’d have noticed this gardenia perfume I’m wearing rather than the smell of shepherd’s pie.”

  Nathan hadn’t been with a woman for a long time, but not so long he didn’t recognize her bold flirtation for what it was. He forced a faint smile. He hated to be caught off guard, but realized he should have recognized there was more to this dinner invitation than what he’d expected.

  The mouth-watering smell of the meal Delia had prepared soured in the air.

  “My apologies, Delia. I guess I’ve been too long in my own company and that of other men. Of course, I should have complimented you on how beautiful you look—and the scent you’re wearing. But you always were beautiful.”

  Delia smiled forgivingly, and Nathan realized belatedly he’d said something else offensive. Perhaps it was the phrase should have complimented you. He supposed he should have left it at My apologies ...

  “Everything’s ready.”

  Nathan nodded, looking over the lovely table setting Delia had created in the middle of the savage prairie land.

  She put her hand out toward the table. “Aren’t the flowers gorgeous? I have my own flower and vegetable garden. It’s my pride and joy. And it’s good for my soul to be able to at least grow something to contribute to the community sometimes.”

  Nathan nodded. “They are beautiful. I’m sure it takes a lot of work. I remember, growing up, having to plant, and weed, and water. From an early age, I knew I wasn’t cut out for farming. I had no choice, though, if we were gonna eat.”

  Delia gave him a somewhat forced smile. “Well, shall we? It’s getting cold.”

  Nathan pulled Delia’s chair out and seated her, then took his own chair directly across from her. Every square inch of the table was used somehow. It made him feel closed in.

  “Would you say grace, please?” Delia asked quietly.

  How he wished he could oblige her, but the words weren’t there. They’d never be there again, he figured. Not since God had seen fit to let Camilla and the baby be murdered by the Pawnee on that long ago sunny day. The day everything had been taken from him. How could he thank God for a meal when He’d taken everything else? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

  Nathan shook his head. “Delia, I-I’m not able.”

  She gave him a questioning look but then smiled. “It’s all right, Nate. I’m sure you have your reasons. Do you mind if I say a grateful prayer over our meal?”

  Dumbly, Nathan shook his head, then managed to say, “No. I don’t mi
nd.” The dull ache in his pounded ribs almost made him wish for the laudanum Doctor Lightner had offered.

  Delia had as much right to her beliefs as he did to his own. As she began her blessing—“Dear Father, thank you for the bounty you have provided . . .”—he tried to let his mind wander.

  Is there really something between Delia and the big Irish sergeant?

  He glanced across the table at her, but her head was bowed, her eyes closed, as she continued her blessing.

  No. Delia wouldn’t have encouraged the attentions of someone as crude as Sergeant McCall. She is truly too lovely, too intelligent, and she’d been so in love with Stephen when they’d been married.

  Yet something had been in Delia’s expression. Something. . . hungry. Stephen has been gone almost two years. Is it right having dinner with my good friend’s widow? We’re just friends. Just old friends. Having a meal together and catching up.

  Nathan had always perceived Stephen as one who would never be killed... but he was gone... always a possibility in the life of a soldier. Or a scout. Nathan had always seen Stephen living to a ripe old age in his retirement, with Delia at his side.

  “Amen.” Delia raised her head and motioned to the dish of shepherd’s pie. “Please, help yourself. I would ring for the serving maid, but she just stepped out.” Her green eyes twinkled with humor at her poor joke.

  Nathan returned her grin. “Sure you trust me to serve myself? I might eat the entire thing.”

  “Eat as much as you like, Nate. I know how a man prizes a good meal. Mother believed the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.”

  Nathan took a biscuit and put it on his plate. “Well, that may be true for most men, Delia. If they have a heart left to get to.”

  Her bright smile dimmed a bit, and she picked up a bowl of fresh tomatoes. “Care for any?”

  “Maybe later. Thanks.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments, then Delia laid her fork down. “Are you sure you’re all right? Sergeant McCall is a rough customer—”

  “I’m fine,” he answered, a little too curtly.

  Anger flashed for a moment in her eyes. “Really.” Delia knew how to cut a man to the quick with her tone, for sure.

  Nathan inwardly winced. He’d managed to keep her at arm’s length so far. “Delia, again, I apologize.” He shook his head. “I guess I’m just not used to having someone fussing over me. Not for a very long time now.”

  Delia stared at him, then leaned forward. “Nate, Stephen told me about what... what happened. And why you are so single-minded in your hatred of the Indians. I don’t blame you. My Stephen was killed by them, just as your Camilla was. It’s hard to forgive—”

  “Forgive? Delia, the thought of forgiving them for what they took from me never even crossed my mind. My family—not only my pregnant wife, but my parents and my little sister. My little brother barely survived.”

  “And you, Nate?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Forget about me. I was left behind to pick up the pieces.” His voice had risen.

  “It still bothers you so much?” Delia’s eyes were filled with concern.

  “Shouldn’t it? Should it ever stop bothering me?”

  Delia recoiled as if he’d struck her.

  He grimaced. With his knack for saying the wrong thing in the wrong way, you could sure as hell tell that he hadn’t been around women much in recent years. “Delia—”

  “How long has it been?” she broke in. “Fourteen years? Fifteen?” Pity crept into her voice. “Yet your hatred is still eating you alive, Nathan Stark.”

  “You’ve never felt hatred for—”

  “Oh, yes, I have!” She threw her napkin on the table where the edge of it trailed through the dish of shepherd’s pie. “If you believe for one minute that Stephen wasn’t as precious to me as Camilla was to you, you are sadly mistaken! I loved Stephen with all my heart. I gave up everything for him. Everything! So even though your parents were taken from you, I lost my family, too. You see, I was disinherited, Nathan, for loving a man so far beneath my station—but love him, I did. And I don’t regret one blessed moment of it . . . of what I gave up to have him for the time I did. Why can’t you remember the good times you were blessed with instead of making revenge your reason for living?”

  “How can you forget what happened, Delia?”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” She stood up, her green eyes blazing with righteous fire that burned him with a glance. “Don’t you ever dare say that to me, Nathan! I will never forget what was taken from me. But by God, I refuse to let them steal the rest of my life, my happiness—my future—from me because of what happened in the past. You are soulless! Do you care about anything at all, Nathan? Anything, other than revenge?”

  Nathan stood slowly. “No. I guess I haven’t cared about anything else but seeing justice done for fifteen years.”

  She shook her head, an errant curl bouncing loose at the gesture. “I pity you, Nate. I pity you for thinking what you’re doing is in the name of justice. Justice would be vindicating their deaths by seeing the perpetrators captured and lawfully punished, not by taking vigilante revenge on every Indian you come in contact with. What a horribly sad way to live out your life, never sparing a thought for your future, other than killing. ”

  “My future was decided when everything was taken from me.” His voice was as hard as flint.

  “Oh, Nathan, you are so wrong. We each are the master of our own ship. I’m afraid yours has been set adrift in a storm of bitterness.”

  He gave her a sharp nod, biting back the retort he wanted to make. “I’m sorry you see it that way, Delia. Thank you for the dinner, but—”

  “I’ll let you see yourself out,” she responded stiffly, her hard stare pinning him for a moment until he turned away and headed for the front room to retrieve his hat.

  CHAPTER 11

  The guardhouse at Fort Randall stood at one end of the long parade ground bordered by cottonwood trees, in a row of buildings that included the sturdy brick powder magazine and the quartermaster’s commissary and storehouse. The cells were at the rear of the structure, and that was where Sergeant Seamus McCall was lying on a bunk inside one of them. Every breath that rasped, wheezed, and bubbled through his broken nose fueled his growing hatred for the scout named Nathan Stark.

  Doc Lightner, that smug bastard, had wrenched McCall’s nose back into place, drawing a howl of pain from the sergeant. His reflexes made him try to strike out at the medico in reaction, but two soldiers holding his arms at the time kept a good grip on him. Probably a fortunate thing, if he ever wanted to get out of lock-up. Lightner had taped a plaster across McCall’s nose to stabilize it. He probably appeared ridiculous with that stuck on his face and his eyes swollen and blackened. The Widow Blaine wouldn’t want anything to do with him while he looked like that.

  Of course, some of his so-called friends had told him that his quest to win the affection of Cordelia Blaine was doomed from the start, but he didn’t believe those jealous spalpeens.

  “Pssstt! Hey, McCall!”

  The voice intruded on McCall’s sullen brooding. He would have ignored it, but it repeated the insistent summons.

  McCall growled a curse, sat up, swung his legs off the bunk, and stood. He turned to the small window and lifted his hands to grip the bars that closed it off. His knuckles were sore from banging them against Stark, but he ignored that.

  “Is that you, Dockery?” McCall asked. Dusk had settled down on the post, and all he could make out was a dim shape outside the window. “What the devil d’ ye want?”

  “We just got back in from patrol,” Sergeant Jeremiah Dockery said. “You got in another fight, didn’t you?”

  “What if I did?”

  Dockery heaved a sigh. “If you keep getting in trouble, you’re gonna get tossed out of this man’s army, you damned fool. Then where will we be?”

  McCall started to make some comment about how he’d be free of the army’s d
amned rules and regulations at last, but he swallowed the words and sighed. He knew what Dockery meant.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just that I saw the new scout playin’ up to the widow, and I could not stand it.”

  “The Widow Blaine? We’ve told you, Seamus—” Dockery stopped short. “What new scout?”

  “Fella name of Stark,” McCall replied. “Nathan Stark.”

  “The Indian Killer?” Dockery’s startled exclamation made it clear he had heard of Stark. “That’s the one you mean?”

  “Aye, some call him that, I think. An ugly son of a gun. I dunno what the widow sees in him. Old friends, Stark claims they are, but I don’t believe it. He’s tryin’ to weasel his way into her good graces, mark my word about that!”

  Dockery’s fingers rasped on beard stubble as he rubbed his chin in thought. “Bucher may know him. I’ll talk to him and find out. Stark’s got a reputation as a cold-blooded killer, as long as it’s redskins you’re talking about, but I don’t know anything else about him.”

  “Are you worried about him horning in?” It hadn’t even occurred to McCall until just now that Stark might represent a threat to the plans he had made with Dockery and Dietrich Bucher, one of the other scouts assigned to the fort. He had been too upset about what Stark could mean to his ambition regarding Delia Blaine.

  “I worry about anybody knowing more than is healthy for us,” Dockery snapped. “But I’ll see what I can find out. In the meantime, McCall... for God’s sake, keep your nose clean!”

  McCall’s big hands tightened on the bars. “What about my nose?” he demanded. “It’s not my fault Stark broke it!”

  “What? He ...” Dockery’s voice trailed off into a laugh. “I didn’t know that. Well, all the more reason for you not to be sticking it where it don’t belong, you big oaf!” He faded away into the shadows, leaving McCall to scowl after him.

  After a moment, McCall turned from the window and sank onto the bunk again. Between his adoration for the Widow Blaine and the scheme that Dockery and Bucher had hatched together and brought him in on, sometimes there was just too much for him to keep up with. When he thought too much, it made his head hurt.