Comanche Rose Page 4

  But despite his frightening aspect, Bull Calf was about as different from Two Trees as an Indian could be. While he could boast of following the war trail deep into Texas, killing settlers and stealing stock, he never took captives, nor did he seem to delight in torture like so many others. To him the struggle with whites was simply a war, captives were more trouble than they were worth, and an enemy ought to be dispatched as quickly and efficiently as possible. By the standards of his people, he was downright humane.

  So instead of abandoning Annie, he'd taken pity on her, telling her she could follow behind him and eat his family's leftovers. He'd even cut a scrawny pony from his herd and tied it to a tree for her. Hopelessly lost, she'd mounted the animal and trailed after the Penetaka band, never daring to speak for fear he'd discover she hadn't lost her mind.

  Later, as she listened from a good distance behind him, she heard him explain to his indignant wives that he'd done it for his mother, who'd been scalped by Crows, something that condemned the poor woman to wander the spirit world forever. In showing compassion for Saleaweah, or Woman Who Walks Far, as he called her, he was easing his own guilt over his mother's death.

  Not that he didn't share the Comanche fear of spirits. He never spoke to Annie without fingering the eagle feathers that gave him his power, and even then he maintained a certain wary distance. There had been times when she suspected he let her stay to prove his bravery to the others.

  But that was behind her now, and it was time to stop thinking of those years. Resolutely, she turned her attention to the man across from her. By the time Mr. Haworth and two Indian policemen had carried him in, Hap Walker was so sick he was hallucinating. Even now, after the medical aide had revived him several times with liquor of ammonia, he wasn't making any sense. From time to time he'd rouse enough to croak out orders to imaginary subordinates, then fall back, mumbling. His fever was high, Corporal Nash said, and that made him restless.

  She was still trying to place him. When Mr. Haworth had sent one of the agency Indians up to the fort, he'd repeated several times, "Tell them it's Hap Walker—Hap Walker—and he's sick, bad sick. Tell them to send help right away. It's Hap Walker—can you remember to tell them that? Otherwise, they won't want to come out in the storm."

  The wagon was slowing, then it halted. Nash relaxed his grip on her stretcher. "We're here," he announced. Turning his attention to Walker, he shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him. "Captain Walker—"

  That was another thing—everybody called him "captain," although he wore no uniform.

  "Captain Walker," Nash repeated loudly, "we're here."

  "Uh?"

  "You're at Sill, sir. If you can just hang on a little longer, we'll get you in."

  "Pinned down... they got m'leg—"

  "You're at Sill—Fort Sill, sir."

  "Rios—where's Rios?" Walker's head twisted, but his eyes didn't focus. "Take my gun. I can't—"

  "He's still out of it," the soldier decided, shaking his head. "I'd say Haworth was right. He's in a bad way, a real bad way."

  "At least he's no worse than he was an hour ago."

  He looked up, thinking she was saying he was neglecting her. "You doing all right, ma'am?" he asked politely. "Yes."

  There was a wariness in his eyes, as though he didn't know what to make of her. It'd been the same with Mr. Haworth, who'd been quick to voice the opinion that she belonged at the fort rather than on the reservation. Maybe he was afraid her presence might cause trouble with the Indians. It didn't matter where she went, she reflected wearily. All she wanted to do was regain her strength so she could press the government to search for Susannah. With enough food she'd be all right.

  "Looks like you've got a welcoming committee, Captain Walker," Nash said, opening the canvas flap. "Even got Old Black Jack himself out here, and that's something, for sure. Yes, sir, you got a lot of folks caring about you, all right."

  "Rios, tell Clay—"

  "Now, don't you fret yourself, Captain Walker. You're going to get well. We got Doc Sprenger here, and if anybody can fix you up, it'll be him. He's a mite crotchety sometimes, but he sure can patch a body up." Half turning to Annie, he told her, "They'll be ready to carry you in right away, ma'am."

  She sat up, then leaned forward. She was so weak, so very weak, and she'd moved too quickly, making herself dizzy. "No, I'm all right," she said as Nash reached to steady her. "Tell them to see to him first. And I'd rather walk, if you don't mind."

  "Ma'am, you're in no shape—"

  In that moment she was afraid of the pity certain to come her way. And she knew she couldn't stand that any better than the censure likely to follow. "No," she declared resolutely, "I don't wish to be carried like an invalid."

  Despite the bitter wind blowing heavy snow across the parade ground, close to twenty men, including the commanding officer, had waited for the ambulance. Staying in the warmth of her house, Cora Sprenger was standing at the window, watching intently, praying for the strength to welcome her guest.

  "Dear God," she'd written in her journal while she waited, "it has been my misfortune to see one such wretched creature; I know not how I shall deal with another. The shame and degradation of a woman's captivity leaves such terrible scars on the mind and body that I am determined to save my last shot for myself rather than risk capture by those capable of such savagery."

  The words had been incapable of expressing the horror she still felt whenever she thought of Millie Purvis's face. And she would never forget the scars that crisscrossed Millie's body. The squaws had done that, she'd said. To Cora it was beyond understanding how a female of one race could do such barbarous things to a female of another.

  As she watched, Corporal Nash opened the canvas cover, and two soldiers climbed up into the ambulance. Cora held her breath, then exhaled when she realized the occupant of the stretcher they passed down was a man. For a moment she dared to hope Haworth hadn't sent the captive, that the Quakers were ministering to her, after all. But while one soldier jumped to the ground, the other turned back, and she knew she was about to receive the poor, pitiful creature. She looked away, fighting tears, unable to watch any longer.

  After the dim interior of the ambulance, the snow was Winding. Grasping the hand offered her, Annie gathered her blankets closer, then put her foot on the icy step— and lost her balance. An officer lunged to catch her, swung her body up into his arms, and carried her past a line of sober-faced soldiers toward the surgeon's quarters.

  "I'm all right, really," Annie insisted. "I can walk."

  "It's slick out, ma'am. No sense risking a fall."

  Embarrassed, she turned her face into the hard-finished wool of his blue coat and fixed her eyes on the gold cavalry buttons. One ordeal was over, another was just beginning. And she realized with resignation that there was nothing she could do now but hold her head high and ignore everyone who tried to pry the details of her captivity out of her. No matter what, she wasn't going to relive them again for anyone.

  "Mrs. Sprenger!" he called out.

  Cora's breath caught audibly. Behind her, Sarabeth Hughes hovered. "Well, she's here," Cora managed, moving toward the door.

  It swung inward, admitting a blast of cold air as he stepped inside. Looking past Cora to his wife, Elliot Hughes said, "She's light as a feather, but Nash says other than being more than half-starved, she's in pretty good shape. Where do you want her?"

  "Just down," Annie answered quickly. "I'm all right now. I can stand, really. I'm more tired than anything. But I—" She paused, aware they were staring at her curiously, then went on, "But I'm in desperate need of soap and water— and something clean, anything clean, to put on."

  "You'd better rest first," Cora said firmly. "If you'll just help her to that chair, Lieutenant," she told Hughes.

  But as he put her down, Annie Stood her ground. "I'd rather wash up, if you don't mind it." Her hand crept to her matted hair, and she flushed self-consciously. "I'm going to need a comb—and some kerose
ne, please."

  Sarabeth Hughes was the first to find her voice. "We thought—that is, we were told you were captured by Indians. It must have been terrible for you."

  Annie didn't meet her eyes. "Yes," she said simply.

  "But you don't look—that is, I mean... other than—"

  "Hush, Sarabeth," Cora said, cutting her off. Looking again at Annie, she apologized, "I'm sorry, my dear, you must think us utterly rude, but we were led to expect— oh, dear, I'm making a botch of this, aren't I? You must forgive me. I'm just so glad to see that you aren't, well, disfigured like so many when they are got back," she managed somewhat lamely. Then, recovering, she tried again, blurting out, "Oh, my dear, we're so very glad you're back among us! It must have been terrible for you! And, gracious, where are my manners? I'm Mrs. Sprenger, and this is Mrs. Hughes," she said, smiling. "And of course, you've already met our gallant Lieutenant Hughes."

  "Annie Bryce. I was Mrs. Ethan Bryce before—" Annie paused awkwardly. "Before my husband was murdered," she finished, exhaling. "We had a farm on the San Saba in Texas." There. She'd said about all she wanted to. She touched her hair again and forced a smile. "Please, I think I'd better take care of this first, or we shall all regret it."

  Her meaning wasn't lost on Cora. "Yes, of course. I think I have laid out everything you'll need, so if you'll just follow me, Mrs. Bryce, we'll get you all fixed up." Laying a hand on Annie's arm, she directed her toward an open door. "Now, we've plenty of room, so you just make yourself at home."

  But Sarabeth was still regarding Annie suspiciously. "How long were you a captive?" she wanted to know.

  "Since the fall of 1870."

  "Three years," Cora murmured, shaking her head. "All I can say is you're far stronger than I would have been. It's a credit to you that you survived."

  "I can't believe they let you live for three whole years."

  "Sara—" There was no mistaking the warning in Lieutenant Hughes's voice. "I'm sure Mrs. Bryce has no wish to speak of her captivity—at least not yet, anyway."

  "Well, I just meant—"

  "Let us just say I survived," Annie cut in dryly. "And now I want to go home as soon as I can."

  "Well, I certainly can't blame you for that," Cora declared briskly. "And I am sure that once you are sufficiently recovered, arrangements can be made. But right now we've got to see you get enough rest and food."

  Annie hesitated awkwardly, then forced herself to impose further on Cora Sprenger's charity. "I, uh, I'll be needing to borrow some clothes until I can sew myself something to wear, but when I get home, I can send you the money for whatever you can spare. Right now all I have is what you see."

  "I've already collected a few things and spread them on the bed for you to try on, my dear," Cora reassured her. "And as for money, well, there's no need, no need at all."

  "No, really, we had money in the bank. I can pay for everything."

  "Pish and nonsense! My dear, I cannot wear any of them anymore, anyway. Indeed, my greatest concern is that you will find the dresses sadly outdated. No, I won't brook any argument," she declared firmly. "Now, you go on in there, and you'll find everything at the ready. There's hot and cold water pitchers already filled by the wash-stand, and plenty of good lye soap for a start. And I put lard and kerosene, along with a comb and scissors, on the night table."

  Annie tried to swallow the lump forming in her throat. "Thank you," she managed to whisper. "I'll be beholden to you forever, Mrs. Sprenger."

  "Oh, go on with you! And while you are getting started, I'll be heating the rest of the water for the washtub. There, I think that's everything, isn't it? Oh, the towels. I put plenty of towels on the bed, too, but I expect you'll want the bath before you'll be wanting them, won't you?"

  "Yes."

  "And if you need me for anything, I'll be more than willing to help."

  "No, I'll be all right, thank you."

  "Well, in my time I've bathed the sick and tended the wounded, so there's not much I've not seen. I'm not the least bit squeamish about anything, I promise you." Afraid Annie was too weak to walk more than a few steps on her own, Cora took her elbow and guided her. "Goodness, they didn't feed you much, did they?" she said, looking down at Annie's arm.

  "Not lately, anyway. They were all starving."

  "Serves them right, to my notion. I wouldn't care if every last one of them perished from the earth," Cora declared stoutly. "But I'll have you fattened up again in no time, starting today. I've already made a good hearty broth, and my noodles are drying. I'll have them boiled within the hour." She stopped to peer into Annie's pale face. "They did give you something to eat at the agency, didn't they?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. We'll have some hot cornbread and milk with the noodles, so that ought to set all right in your stomach."

  "It doesn't matter. I learned to go for days without food, then gorge myself when I got the chance."

  "Well, you won't be going without food around here. Will—Major Sprenger, that is—lives by his stomach. But that's a man for you, I guess." Cora stopped at the door, then turned to Annie. "If you need anything more, don't hesitate to ask. There's a bell by the bed you can ring, and I'll be right here."

  "Thank you."

  As Cora Sprenger closed the door behind her, Annie could hear the other woman observe archly, "Well, she certainly seems to have survived three years with those savages rather well, hasn't she?"

  "For God's sake, Sara, she lost her husband," Lieutenant Hughes retorted. "And she's thin as a rail. You act like you're disappointed she doesn't look like the Purvis woman."

  "I wouldn't call being starved surviving well," Cora added.

  "There's no telling how many of the savages she's been with, is there?" Sara went on nastily. "No doubt that's how she managed to live—by letting them do whatever they wanted."

  "That's enough. She can probably hear you," her husband said harshly. "Good God, Sara, you ought to be ashamed to think it, let alone say such a thing."

  "Well, it's true, isn't it?"

  "What would you have done under the same circumstances?" he countered.

  "I would have chosen to die first, Elliott."

  Despite having made the same resolution to herself, Cora murmured, "The desire to live is a strong one, my dear. I don't really think we can fault Mrs. Bryce for staying alive."

  "The very notion of one of those filthy savages even touching me is more than I could bear," the younger woman insisted. "I should never feel clean again after that, and I'm sure I could never face Elliott or anyone else the rest of my life. No, I'd have killed myself."

  "Well, she didn't. Come on, Sara, I'm going over to the infirmary to see what's going on with Captain Walker. You do have a sewing circle or something this afternoon, don't you?" he asked pointedly.

  "It was the Indians that got him, wasn't it?" Sarabeth blurted out.

  "I don't know, Sara. If it was, it didn't happen in the last day or two. Nash said he's running one helluva fever, and you don't get that overnight."

  "Really, Elliott—"

  "All right, then, he's got a high fever. Now, come on. I'm sure Mrs. Sprenger's got enough on her hands with Mrs. Bryce without having to listen to you carry on about how you hate it out here."

  "Why wouldn't I hate it here?" she demanded. "You didn't tell me there'd be nasty, dirty Indians all over the place, did you? You didn't tell me I'd be exiled to an outpost in the middle of nowhere! Well, I don't want to live here—I don't deny it! And if you won't take me, I'm going back to Ohio alone! There, does that surprise you?"

  "You knew I was in the army when you married me, Sara," he responded evenly. "As a soldier I have to go where I am assigned." He turned to Cora apologetically. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll see she stays away from Mrs. Bryce. The woman doesn't need to hear things like that."

  But Annie had heard it. Every word. And as much as she'd expected, even resigned herself to the very things the Hughes woman had said, they still stung. And this wa
s only the beginning of what would surely be more to come. Fighting the urge to weep, Annie moved to the washstand, then stared in shock at the gaunt-faced stranger in the mirror.

  Her hand crept to her hair, feeling the lice-infested, matted knots. She touched the taut, dirt-caked skin that clung to her cheekbones. Her fingers traced the hollows, then moved to the dry, cracked, bloodless lips. But it was the stranger's eyes that tore at her soul. They were too old to belong to her.

  She reached for the pitcher of hot water and poured it into the washbasin. Then she picked up the soap and lathered it between her hands. It'd be hours before she got herself cleaned up, and then it would be only the part of her people could see. Sarabeth Hughes had been right about one thing—she'd never, ever be clean on the inside again, no matter how long she lived.

  The door cracked open behind her, and Cora Sprenger carried a steaming kettle in. "I'd be glad to help," she offered again. Walking to the tin bathtub, she emptied the hot water into it. When she straightened up, she smiled reassuringly at Annie. "You're going to be all right. It just takes time," she said gently.

  Annie's face crumpled then, and she gave up the fight. "But I don't have any time!" she cried. "I've got a little girl out there somewhere!"

  "Oh, my dear—"

  As Cora Sprenger's arms enveloped her shoulders, Annie turned her head against the older woman's bosom, and she sobbed uncontrollably. Rather than pushing her away, Cora stood there, holding her, smoothing the awful, tangled mass of hair against Annie's back.

  Finally, Annie stood back, embarrassed by her outburst. Wiping wet cheeks, she managed to whisper, "I'm sorry. I don't usually cry, really." Turning back to the washstand, she touched her hair. "It looks hopeless, doesn't it?" she asked wearily.

  "No. But we may have to cut it before we soak it with the kerosene. It'd be easier to get a comb through it then."