And One Rode West (22 page)

As it happened, her hair wasn’t pinned up and she wasn’t wearing clothing at all when he reached her.

But he certainly had no complaint.

While Christa was coming down to the encampment, Jeremy was busily engaged in a painful discovery.

He had come out to find an earlier company that had been headed for Fort Union had lost its regiment and bogged down somewhere in the vast country in between.

He knew the country and he had known where to look.

The Great Plains drew many tribes seeking the hunting grounds, the bountiful water, the rich grasses. Many of the tribes were peaceful, many were settled in reservations, and many were still at war.

He had come upon a place where they had dug into trenches. They had built up a wall of small rocks and mud to one side, and trenched in on the other. It had been a good maneuver to outsmart and outfight a band of horsemen. Some of the Indians had had rifles, but only a few. The others had been armed with bows and arrows.

But oh, how they had used them.

He could see the battle even as he walked around the trench of dead men.

The Indians had encircled the the cavalrymen. The cavalry had first used their horses as shields, forming a circle with their backs toward the middle, every man shooting as the Indians rode around them. It was the natural, textbook way to fight. It was perhaps the only way, under the circumstances. Perhaps night had then fallen. The men had dug in. The Indians had come again, but they had discovered that the white men were so well dug in that they were losing far too many braves with each encounter.

So the Indians had used different tactics, finding a distance from which to shoot their arrows. They had staked out the area with feathered shafts that remained to mark the grave the men had dug themselves. Someone had called out the order to fire—just like an artillery officer might have done in any battle of the war. Then adjustments had been made. A little to the left, a little to the right. Dead straight closer, perhaps a little farther. And so the arrows had flown. Perhaps twenty-five at a time. Once, twice, again. Until the men all lay dead.

“My God, Colonel! This is a sorry picture!” Captain Thayer Artimas of Company G told him. “Jesu, sir, but the poor fellows never had a chance.”

Jeremy stepped forward, pulling the arrow from the heart of a very young private with wide open, staring blue eyes. He knelt down and closed the boy’s eyes. He looked at the arrow. “Comanche,” he said softly. “They’ve come in quite far east. They don’t usually ride in this far.”

“They’ve been hot to fight lately, sir,” Captain Artimas said.

“I imagine they’ve been attacked a lot lately,” Jeremy murmured dryly.

Artimas shrugged. He looked around himself uneasily. “Think we ought to be moving onward, sir?”

Jeremy nodded. Night was coming. Comanche seldom
attacked at night, but he wanted to be out of the area. He had only twenty-five men with him and he didn’t want another massacre.

“Let’s get a burial detail going here!” he called to his men. But even as he said the words, he felt a peculiar sensation stirring at his nape. The wind seemed to have picked up. There was a trembling in the ground.

“Dismount and circle!” he ordered quickly. Jesu, it could be the same thing! Even as he gave the order, he heard the first war whoop of the Indians. They were coming around the scruff of trees that stood over the one hump of dirt near them that might be construed as a hill. He narrowed his eyes against the rising dust, trying to count. It was a small party—perhaps twenty or so braves.

He shoved his horse’s rump, aiming his rifle, calling to his men. “Wait to shoot, then shoot straight. We have to take them the first time, we can’t give them a chance to come back. Understand? We’ll be trapped like these poor fellows here if we make a mistake.”

There was no answer except for the rise of the war whoops on the air. The Indians were bearing down on them quickly. They were in buckskin breeches, only a few of them wearing shirts despite the fact that the nights were growing cooler and cooler. The paint on their faces, the feathers in the hair, all denoted them as a war party. They had come to kill.

Jeremy took careful aim at the warrior who seemed to be in the lead of the group. He squeezed the trigger and the man flew from his horse. He took aim again, steadying his nerves. He had learned long ago that no matter how difficult it was to stay still and take aim while Indians were bearing down on him, it had to be done. Steadily and quickly.

He fired again and caught a second warrior. At his side, Captain Artimas was also firing and firing fast. Private Darcy, an exceptional sharpshooter, was reaching
for his carbine in his saddle. Indians were falling quickly. Darcy brought down another.

Jeremy noted Willy Smith, a new recruit, standing straight and staring at the coming promise of death with wide-eyed horror. He looked just like an animal caught in a sudden bright light.

He was a target as big as the side of a barn to the Comanche.

“Get down!” Jeremy shouted, leaping toward the boy. He brought them both flat on the ground, not daring to look at Willy again but keeping both eyes on the horses that pounded surely toward them.

He kept shooting, emptying the six chambers of his revolver. He released Willy as he hastily filled the chamber again as the Indians raced around them in a complete circle.

“I’m all right now, Colonel,” Willy choked out. “I’m all right. I can shoot pert near as good as Darcy, and I won’t lose my senses again, sir.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Jeremy told him.

Dust rose, choking them.

Willy Smith took aim. He fired. A shrieking brave came flying from his painted pony, landing dead just in front of Willy. The boy stared at the dead Indian a second, then took aim again.

They were doing well. They had downed at least ten of the warriors in the first go-round.

“Injured, dead?” he shouted.

Artimas called out for an assessment. No one dead yet. Two wounded.

“We have to take them all this time around!” he called. “Else we’ll be sitting ducks for target practice!”

“Right, Colonel!” Darcy called and grinned. “I’m going to get me the first one this time, Colonel.”

“You do that.”

As he had expected, the remaining warriors began to circle again. They were lucky. If the Indians had
thought to pin Jeremy’s troops down in the same trenches, they might have done better. Except that Jeremy wouldn’t have stayed in the death trap—he would have charged the Indians.

The circle began again with the braves crying out their horrible war cries.

Darcy caught the first of them, just as he had promised. Jeremy began to fire. Aiming, squeezing, aiming, squeezing, faster, faster. He caught one, lost one, caught two. His men were good. By the time the second circle was completed, only five of the braves were left to ride away.

“Mount up! We’ve got to stop them before they bring more warriors against us!”

He leapt upon his horse, spurred the creature into motion, and started after the retreating Indians. Darcy and Artimas were right with him; the rest followed at a gallop behind. Darcy aimed his carbine and brought down one Indian. Jeremy caught two more in rapid succession. Artimas caught the fourth, and a man from the ranks brought down the last of them.

“Let’s leave them where they fell!” Artimas said bitterly, after dismounting by the first of the fallen Indians. The brave was half naked, his chest and face painted, his lance, still curled in his fingers, decorated with several scalps, some white, some Indian from other tribes.

“No. We’ll bury them all. Maybe that will delay their discovery for a while, and buy us some time.”

Darcy had already started digging with his gun butt. He looked at Jeremy. “Colonel, sir, what’s going to happen when we ride this way with the whole regiment?”

“They won’t attack the regiment, Darcy.”

“Why?”

“Because they haven’t the numbers to do so.”

“Why, Colonel, sir, there’s hundreds of them stupid savages out here—”

“First lesson, Private! They’re not stupid. See how they planned the artillery arrow attack that did in these men from Fort Smith? Second, don’t go causing a big war by assuming they’re all savages—we’re very friendly with a number of tribes.”

Near his side, Sergeant Rodriguez, a Mexican-born soldier who had served most of his life in the West, spit out a big wad of tobacco. “
Madre mío, niño!
Some of them are much more clean and smart than lots of the gringo riffraff we get in the West, eh Colonel, sir?”

Jeremy smiled. “Right,” he said. But his smile faded quickly. It was growing darker, they were miles and miles from camp, and they still had lots of burying to do.

“Let’s get to it, shall we?” he ordered.

This was a new company for him. Darcy had served with him just briefly before the end of the war and he knew that the man was a tremendous sharpshooter. He was grateful to have him.

He wondered if Darcy didn’t hear Rebel yells in the Indian whoops when he shut his eyes, just as Jeremy had.

He suddenly broke out in a sweat. God help him, but this was easier. Easier than shooting at men in gray uniforms and wondering if he might be aiming at his brother-in-law.

They finished with the burial detail, dusting over the Indians, packing down the trench dirt over their own dead. In the midst of it, a groan had been heard, and they had discovered one man just barely alive. They had gone back to thoroughly look over every dead man to be sure that he was dead before finishing with the burying. The survivor had an arrow in his upper back, but they had managed to extract it without further injury, get some water into him, douse the wound with
whiskey, and bandage it well. Jeremy was certain that the young man would make it.

He had survived this far—he could go all the way.

He forced his own men to ride until the moon was high in the sky. They rode for over seven hours and they rode hard, but they covered nearly fifty miles. He knew they would not be attacked if they camped on the plains.

He lay beneath the stars, watching the sky, exhausted but anxious for morning.

Christa should have arrived. He stared at the sky, but he saw his wife’s face. Beautiful, delicate, refined.

Passionate, alive, stormy, disobedient, and defiant, her blue eyes flashing.

He winced. What would it be?

Well, she would learn a few lessons in the West, he thought. She’d probably pass out from the weight of her petticoats on the first day!

Whoa, don’t be malicious there, sir, he warned himself. But she did have a few lessons to learn.

He inhaled deeply. So did he.

Jesu, he couldn’t wait. All the long nights without her he had lain haunted by her memory. What was it with Christa? What tore at his body and emotions so deeply? He had longed for her to arrive, then he had berated himself for ever suggesting that she come. This was no place for Christa.

But dear God! He wanted her. He didn’t give a damn how he found her when he returned. He felt torn by the pain and waste of his discovery on the plains, and he wanted nothing but comfort.

Christa? he thought, bemused. Comfort? She was like a little tigress, a wounded animal, proud, fierce, and ever on the defensive.

Yes, maybe they were both like wounded animals. Maybe time would heal some of the lacerations.

He closed his eyes tightly. Maybe he was falling in
love with his wife. Maybe he had always been just a little bit in love with her.

Aroused yes, but more. She infuriated him, but there was more. Christa would not be beaten. And he could not help but admire her for that. Exactly what were his feelings? He didn’t know.

He did know that he wanted to see her, no matter what her mood. Whether she was pleasant or furious because she’d realized just what a life he had brought her to!

He smiled, and pulled his hat low over his eyes. Tomorrow he would cleanse away the sight of the men in the trench. He would do so in her arms.

He didn’t know how he would find her—clinging to Jesse perhaps, or sitting in his tent with her toes tucked under an elegant gown.

But as it happened, he found her in a more delightful manner than he had thought to imagine. She was in his tent, in the hip bath, surrounded by a froth of bubbles. She didn’t hear him when he first came and he paused, unable to resist the temptation to watch her for a while.

Where had Nathaniel gotten hold of those bubbles?

They were wonderful. They covered her body, they popped, and then they no longer covered her. She leaned back, surrounded by bubbles. She lifted them and smoothed them over her shoulders. She seemed as sleek and luxurious and sensual as a cat, deliciously enjoying the feel of the hot water and the bubbles. Her hair was drawn up in a loose tie. Tendrils escaped, damp and curling, framing the delicate, perfect beauty of her face. Her eyes were half closed. Ink-dark lashes fell against her cheeks.

Suddenly, she sensed that he was there. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. God, they were blue.
Bluer than any sky in deepest summer, richer than any sea.

She was definitely startled by his appearance. Obviously, she hadn’t intended to be discovered so.

He smiled slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hello, darlin’!” he murmured softly.

“You’re—you’re here!” she whispered, dismayed. A flush rose to her cheeks.

“It is my tent,” he pointed out. “You did come here to join me, remember?”

“Yes, of course. I—it’s just I intended to be in the perfect plains garb! I meant to be ready for you,” she murmured, her lashes sweeping her cheeks again.

It seemed that all the wicked fires of hell came bursting to flame within him. “Christa!” he promised her hoarsely, “trust me! At this particular moment, there couldn’t be a more perfect garb for you to wear—nor could you appear to be the more perfect wife!”

And with that, he took his first, swift steps toward her.

Perhaps she wasn’t ready for him.

He was more than ready for her.

Ten