Dorothy Garlock (22 page)

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Authors: The Searching Hearts

BOOK: Dorothy Garlock
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May 6.
The wagon train reached Fort Lancaster an hour past noon today. The fort was built around a large rectangular parade ground surrounded by twenty-five buildings that house two companies of soldiers. Located on Live Oak Creek a half mile above its junction with the Pecos River, the fort was established in 1855 to protect travelers on the San Antonio–El Paso Trail.
* * *
Sergeant Malone came by to thank Tucker and Laura for allowing Private Dabney to ride in their wagon. He lingered, telling them he’d been stationed at the fort in ’55 when it was first built.
“Back then Comanches were meaner than steers with crooked horns. I’ll be a tellin’ you that for a fact. They had themselves a real love of hangin’ pretty hair from their belts, ma’am. They’d a been after that red hair of yours like flies on a fresh cow pie, and the good Lord help anythin’ that got in the way.”
“That’s comforting to know,” Tucker said drily.
Sergeant Malone regretted his casual words and cursed himself for a fool. He tried to repair the damage in his poetic Irish way. “Smile fer me, me beauties, and forget the blatherin’ tongue of a foolish old Irishman. You be truly the one thing of beauty in all this barren land. There’d not be a rose in all Killarney that’d match your smile. I be a tellin’ the truth, now.”
It was impossible not to laugh.
“And there’d not be another man in all Ireland who’d be needin’ to kiss the Blarney stone more than yourself, Sergeant Malone.” Tucker matched his accent perfectly.
The old sergeant’s weathered face creased in a smile, and he slapped his dusty hat against his leg. “It takes a true Irishman to know when he’s bested. Good day to you, lassies.” The smile was still dancing in his eyes when he left them.
The train had come to a halt beside the creek and was stretched out between it and the fort. The women had the rest of the day to do their washing and to bathe in the clear shallow water. Tucker’s and Laura’s wagon was in position behind the grub wagon, which meant they would be last in line when the train pulled out again. Tucker’s mind was working overtime trying to invent a logical excuse to keep from being near the Collins’s wagon and Frank.
“I can hardly wait to get down to the creek, Tucker. Can we go now?” Laura prodded.
A heavy sadness crept into Tucker’s heart. Laura
was so bubbly, so happy, and she herself had never been more miserable in her entire life.
“Let’s see when Lottie is going and we’ll go with her.”
“We can go alone, Tucker. Buck said as long as we stay near the wagons we’ll be all right.”
“I still think we should go with someone. Oh, there’s Mrs. Hook and Billy. Are you going down to the creek?” she called.
“Yes. Would you and Laura like to go with us? Lottie and Mrs. Shaffer will be down later,” Marie Hook answered.
Relief was a tangible thing in Tucker’s breast.
The creek bank was steep and lined with timber. Tucker climbed down with the dirty clothes and came back up the bank to help Laura.
“Go down backward on your hands and knees like you used to go down stairs when you were little. I’ll stay below and guide your feet.”
The water was clear and flowed over a bed of smooth pebbles. Billy waded out into the middle, sat down, and called to Laura. “Come out here and sit on the rocks. It’s a good place to wash your hair, Laura.”
Marie looked at Tucker, who nodded approval. “Come get her, Billy,” she called.
Under Billy’s solicitous guidance, Laura, with her britches rolled up to her knees, waded into the flowing stream.
“What caused her blindness?” Marie asked. The washing was done and spread on the bushes to dry. Tucker was rubbing her wet hair with a bar of soap.
“I don’t know. She was six when she came to the farm. She had bruises all over her face and head. I think a terrible beating caused it, because she hadn’t been blind for long.”
“A blow to the head more than likely,” Marie said almost to herself. “Has a doctor looked at her eyes?”
“Yes, but he was an old drunk and I don’t think he knew any more about it than I did.”
Tucker had lowered her head into the stream to rinse the suds from her hair and failed to see the pained expression on Marie’s face.
“We’re going over to the grassy spot, Mama,” Billy called, pointing to the opposite bank. “I’m going to pick some of them flowers for Laura.”
“
Those
flowers, Billy,” Marie corrected. “Stay in sight. Don’t go wandering off into the brush.”
The ground on the other side of the creek was thickly carpeted with green grass and strewn with bright yellow dandelions. Laura, her hand on Billy’s shoulder, waded out of the creek, her britches wet and her hair hanging to her waist in wet strings. Tucker, instantly nervous and alert, looked around. There wasn’t another person in sight. She saw Marie’s calm face and relaxed. The only sounds to be heard were the gurgling of the water as it splashed over the rocks and the happy voices of Billy and Laura.
The afternoon wore on, and more of the women came to wash. Marie and Tucker sat in companionable silence, drying their hair in the sun and watching the two in the meadow across the stream.
Tucker didn’t see the wild, moss-horned bull when he broke from a clump of mesquite, but Marie did.
“Billy!” she screamed.
The huge longhorn trotted out into the meadow, stopped, then pawed the ground several times. The first thing Tucker noticed was the sun glinting off the tips of wide, sharp horns. The beast rolled its head and sniffed the breeze while white foam dripped from the corners of its mouth. Marie knew instantly that the bull had gone mad and was going to attack. Billy and Laura were a good fifty feet apart, Laura being closer to the bull. Frantically she waded out into the stream.
“Laura! Laura! Run! A bull! Run!”
It could have been the screams of the women as they realized what was happening, or just confusion because she couldn’t determine where the command was coming from, but Laura started running in the opposite direction, toward the brush. She stumbled, fell, then got to her feet again.
“Tucker!” she wailed.
“Stop! Laura, stop! You’re going the wrong way!” Tucker shouted.
“Tucker!” The plaintive cry came again.
Billy turned and, without a moment’s hesitation, raced toward Laura. The bull, surprised to see so much movement, made three complete turns and braced its legs.
“Stand still, boy!” The order came harsh and loud.
Rafe Blanchet ran out of the stream from behind the bull. His pant legs were rolled to his knees, and he
was shirtless. He waved a wet blue shirt above his head to attract the animal’s attention. He darted past the bull and took up a position between it and Laura.
“Don’t run, girl! Let me draw him away first, then you get her, boy, and hightail it across the creek.”
Rafe kept on waving the shirt. “Yaw! Yaw!” he shouted. The blood red eyes of the bull followed his movements. Rafe danced to the right, holding the shirt in front of him like a cape, while shouting over his shoulder: “Move slowly, boy. Get the girl. When I get the beast turned, run for the creek.”
Tucker’s terrified eyes went from the half-naked man to the bull to Laura and Billy. The bull was charging now, quickly closing the distance between itself and the man. Rafe had moved in a wide circle, and Billy had reached Laura. With hooves pounding, its horns held low, the bull raced toward Rafe and hooked into the space where he had been just seconds before but had vacated as he leaped to the side. One of the bull’s horns pierced the blue fabric as the animal reared its head, and the shirt was torn free from Rafe’s grasp. The bull plunged on, turned, then stood shaking its head as if to clear its vision. The shirt hung down beside one ear, drool hung from its mouth in strings.
Rafe clapped his hands and shouted, trying to turn the creature once again. Tucker raced into the creek and grabbed Laura’s arm, and she and Billy splashed through the water with Laura between them. Rafe hadn’t dared to take his eyes from the bull and didn’t know when Billy and Laura left the meadow.
“Yaw!” he shouted at the animal and clapped his hands. “You’re an ugly brute!”
As if maddened by the insults, the bull lowered its head and charged again, missing Rafe’s midsection by mere inches. Rafe turned and could see the boy and the girl scrambling up the opposite bank. Only the two women were standing in the creek.
“Run,” he shouted while clapping his hands. “He’ll turn your way if he takes a notion.”
Tucker looked frantically around for a way to help. Her eyes found a man on a horse a short way downstream. His forearm was resting on the horn of his saddle as he sat calmly watching the scene. Frank Parcher!
“Help him,” she shouted even as the bull charged again.
Rafe waited until the last minute before springing to one side, but a dagger-tipped horn pierced his pant leg and tore a gaping hole in his upper thigh. There was an instantaneous burst of pain, and he lost his balance and fell. Sensing that it had downed its foe, the bull whirled, then lowered its head to charge again. Rafe staggered to his feet, his leg almost collapsing under him, and waited. He knew he couldn’t run, but he might be able to outmaneuver the beast, who was becoming madder with each passing second.
Tucker darted a glance at Frank. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were riveted to what was happening across the creek. He hadn’t made any attempt to take his rifle from its sheath.
When the bull charged, Rafe attempted to jump to
one side again, but he was hooked in the side by the sharp tip of the long horn and crumpled to the ground. Horrified, Tucker watched the bull approach, heard it snort. Rafe lay in an inert mass among the flowers. It wasn’t possible that all this had taken place in but a matter of minutes; it seemed to Tucker the agony of suspense had been going on for hours.
The bull shook its head from side to side, and the blue shirt, still hanging from its horn, waved back and forth. It pawed the ground as it prepared to attack. Tucker sprang into action, yelling and screaming and waving her hands, trying to attract its attention, but its dazed red eyes saw only the body on the grass.
Vaguely Tucker registered the sharp crack of a shot being fired. The bull staggered, the momentum of its charge halted. The animal fell to its knees. Another shot was fired, and she glanced toward Frank. He still sat as unconcerned as before. She spun around to see Lucas standing on the creek bank, his rifle at his shoulder as he waited to see if the animal required another bullet to bring it down. The bull, its right horn buried in the ground, the shirt draped over its head, twitched its tail several times and flailed its legs helplessly before its frame shuddered and lay still.
Tucker was gulping in huge breaths of air as she started running toward the downed man, Marie beside her. They were halted by Lucas’s sharp command.
“Wait!” He sprang down the bank and waded across the creek. Cautiously he approached the bull.
Tucker glared with hate-filled eyes toward the
place where Frank had sat and watched so uncaringly as the bull attacked. He had vanished from sight.
Lucas stood his rifle against the dead beast and knelt beside Rafe. Tucker and Marie reached him almost at the same time. Lucas turned the man over on his back. Marie fell to her knees and her hands began, immediately, to search for his wounds.
“Give me your knife,” she said to Lucas without looking up. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
“You can use his shirt.” Tucker started toward the dead bull.
“No! Don’t touch it,” Marie said sharply. “We can’t risk getting any of that foam in the wound. I suspect the bull’s got the crazy sickness.” She took the knife from Lucas. “Go over and get that clean shirt of Billy’s off the bush. The white one.” Her orders were brisk. Tucker took off on a run to obey.
People were coming down from the fort. Tucker snatched the shirt from the bush, then called out to Mustang. “He’s hurt bad. Bring something to carry him on.”
Rafe was taken back to his wagon on a canvas litter. Marie had bound his wounds temporarily, but by the time they reached the wagon, Billy’s shirt was stained a bright red. They lowered the tailgate and lifted Rafe up to willing hands that placed him on his bunk. Tucker and Marie stood together at the end of the wagon.
“We’ll take care of him now, ma’am,” Mustang said.
“No. I’ll tend him.” This came from Marie, politely but firmly.
“Ain’t no call fer ya ta have ta do it. I been tendin’ hurt critters since afore the Alamo.”
“Mama.” Billy tugged on his mother’s hand.
“Go get my bag, Billy, and that pillowcase full of clean cloth.” She looked straight into Mustang’s eyes when she spoke.
“I already got it, Mama. The bandages, too.” Billy held out a black bag, and Marie took it from his hand. “My mama was the best doctor in all Tennessee, Mister Mustang. If anybody can fix Mister Blanchet, she can.”

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