Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (21 page)

Just as she’d
hoped, the four burly warriors jostled and shoved one another as they snatched at the fluttering currency.

Sidestepping
around them, Lydia hurriedly rushed toward Ben, falling to her knees beside him. Seeing the blood gushing from the hole in his arm, as well as the knife wound in his chest, she choked back an anguished cry. Ben opened his mouth to speak but the ensuing words were garbled, speech made impossible by the leather restraint wrapped around his neck.

Lydia brushed a lock of sweat-dampened hair off
of his brow. “I love you, Ben Strong,” she whispered, afraid that this would be her only chance to say the words aloud.

Ben stared at her, a tear glistening in the corner of each eye.

Spurred into action, Lydia grabbed hold of a jagged rock. She then quickly commenced to rubbing the stone back-and-forth over the leather binding on Ben’s wrist. No sooner had she begun her labors than he frantically pulled against his restraints, his gaze fixed on a spot just above her shoulder.

A half-second later, a shadow
fell over her.

Craning her neck,
Lydia screamed as a large copper hand twisted in her hair, jerking her to her feet. Clearly enraged, the Comanche war leader stood before her, a tomahawk clutched in his other hand.

With a certainty born of fear, Lydia knew
that she was moments from her death. Fervently, she prayed, silently petitioning the Almighty Father to safeguard her child and to keep Ben—

Wit
hout warning, a shot rang out.

In the next instant, a dark hole materialized in the middle of the war leader’s forehead, the tomahawk
slipping from his lifeless fingers.

Hearing a bugle blast, Lydia spun around, fully expecting to see a band of heavenly
angels charging to the rescue.

Who else could have fired so auspiciously accurate a shot?

As a galloping band of riders fast approached, a standard bearer boldly led the charge, his emblazoned red, white and black banner proudly rebuffing the summer breeze.

Gasping in disbelief, Lydia
stared at a sight that she’d never thought to see again – a Confederate battle flag and a troop of gray-uniformed soldiers.

Uncomprehending, Lydia
gawked.

Because
General Lee surrendered the Confederate army at Appomattox nearly three months ago, the flag must surely be a mirage.

Lydia
had no time to dwell on the strange conundrum as the thunderous roar of repeating rifles mingled with the high-pitched yelps of fleeing Comanches.

Throwing herself on top of Ben, she did her best to shield him from the flying bullets that whizzed all around them. Beneath her
ear, Lydia heard a muffled groan, the sound alerting her to the fact that she’d inadvertently pressed against the bullet hole in his left arm.

“Forgive me,”
she whispered, shifting her weight. To her consternation, Ben’s skin felt cold and clammy to the touch.

Dear God, I’m begging you.
Please
don’t let my husband die!

Venturing a glance,
Lydia watched the Comanches race for their tethered war ponies as gray-suited soldiers charged across the river. Amidst the pandemonium, she again caught sight of that unmistakable, singularly unique southern battle flag.

After what seemed an eternity, but in reality was little more than several minutes, the shooting ceased save for some sporadic gun fire in the distance.

As Lydia pushed herself away from Ben, she belatedly realized that at some point during the uproar, he’d lost consciousness. Her alarm escalated when she saw the copious amount of blood pooled beneath his left arm.

Struggling
to her feet, Lydia found it hard to believe that the ravished encampment was the same idyllic spot where they’d earlier had their noonday meal. Everywhere she looked their personal belongings were strewn in haphazard disarray – crockery, corsets, camp pails, wash tubs, stockings, shoes. In their frenzy to pillage the Conestoga, the Comanches had left no barrel unopened, no carpetbag undisturbed.

Thank God, Ben had the foresight to safeguard Dixie from
this madness
.

About to rush to the wagon to retrieve her daughter and her medical
supplies, Lydia stood motionless, stopped in her tracks by an immense black stallion that reared to a sudden halt several feet from where she stood. Unnerved, she stepped away from the huge beast as it vainly shook its sleek head from side-to-side, emitting a sonorous neigh.

A uniformed rider
quickly dismounted, the elaborate gold braid on his gray coat sleeve glistening brightly in the midday sun. Removing an ostrich-plumed hat, the horseman bowed at the waist in a manner evoking a bygone civility. Strikingly handsome, the strong lines of the officer’s jaw were punctuated by a well-groomed goatee and a shoulder-length mantle of glossy brown curls.

“Colonel Percy Jefferson Beaumont at your service,
madam.”

Without thinking, the movement ingrained at an early age, Lydia curtsied
. She then held out her right hand, not the least bit surprised when Colonel Beaumont bowed his head and took hold of it, his lips lightly grazing her knuckles.

“I am Lydia Strong.
Mrs
. Lydia Strong,” she quickly amended. Trembling, she pointed at Ben, still staked to the ground. “My husband is seriously wounded. If you have any medical supplies, I would be most appreciative.”

“Not only do we have medical supplies, dear lady, but we h
ave an army surgeon, as well.”

“A surgeon!”
she exclaimed, utterly astonished. Unable to believe her good fortune, Lydia’s shoulders sagged with relief.

Motioning to a short, bespectacled man who stood near the wagon, Colonel Beaumont raised his voice to be heard over the din emanating from the scores of gray-clad soldiers.
“Doctor Wylie! Your presence is required over here, sir.”

Rushing toward them, a black leather bag clutched in his hand, Dr. Wylie
was the only man present who was garbed in civilian attire. The sight of his black medical bag filled Lydia with giddy relief.

Given the severity of the situation, Colonel Beaumont dispensed with a formal introduction. Instead he tendered a hurried exchange of names as the three of them knelt beside Ben’s u
nconscious, spread-eagle body.

Opening his medical bag, the doctor
removed several well-worn instruments, quickly selecting one which he used to probe the bullet hole in Ben’s arm. “Mrs. Strong, would you kindly hand me that ball of rolled bandages?”

Eager to help,
Lydia reached into the open medical bag and retrieved the clean bandages.

As he dabbed
at the bullet hole, Doctor Wylie actually smiled. “Just as I thought, the bullet passed completely through your husband’s arm.”

At hearing that,
Lydia’s eyes filled with tears of joy. “Then he’s going to be all right?”

The doctor chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong. This hole in his arm is going to hurt like the dickens. But a few days of bed rest should help mitigate the pain.”

Lydia gestured to the wound on Ben’s torso, his flesh having been sliced diagonally from his right nipple all the way down to his lower torso. “And what about the knife wound to his chest?”

“Superficial,” the doctor assured her, kindly patting her on the shoulder. “Although it will make for a rather
dramatic scar.”

“Yes, but think of all the heroic tales that will accompany such an impressive battle scar,” Colonel Beaumont remarked with a courtly flourish of the wrist.

Lydia kept silent, knowing full well Ben’s reticence when it came to discussing battles fought and won.

As if he’d overheard the exchange, Ben’s eyes unexpectedly opened wide. Even more unexpected was his hostile reaction to the medical treatment being administered to him
. Not only did the muscles in his jaw tighten and his nostrils flare, but his body violently jerked as he pulled against his leather restraints.

Clamping a hand around Ben’s jaw to immobilize him, the doctor
jutted his chin at the medical bag. “Quick! Hand me that brown vial,” he ordered brusquely, his bedside manner not nearly as solicitous as it had been.

Lydia’s fingers nervously fumbled as she
rummaged through the black bag. Snatching hold of a small glass bottle, she uncorked it and placed the vial in Doctor Wylie’s outstretched hand.

Removing a handkerchief from his breast pocket, the surgeon doused it with the vial’s sweet-smelling liquid. Then, with what could only be called a practiced hand, he placed the handkerchief over Ben’s nose and mouth.

Her hand splayed over her heart, Lydia watched as Ben’s eyes dilated. A few moments later, his chest stopped heaving. Clearly struggling to keep his eyes open, he soon lost the bout, his eyelids closing with a finality suggestive of a deep slumber.

Astonished by the tonic’s efficacy, Lydia said,
“What in heaven’s name was in that bottle?”

“Chloroform,” the doctor
said matter-of-factly as he slid a long, thin knife under the leather binding around Ben’s wrist, cutting the rawhide in a single slice. “Now that we’ve freed your husband from his bonds, I shall endeavor to clean and bandage his wounds.”

“Would you like me to assist
you, Doctor Wylie?”

“Given the sad state of your pilfered wagon, I
suspect that you have more pressing matters to attend to.” The medical surgeon smiled, once more the kindly southern gentleman. “Fear not for your husband. He shall pull through just fine.”

“Thank you, doctor. I am most appreciative.”

As Lydia rose to her feet, Colonel Beaumont solicitously reached for her elbow.

“I want you to know
, Mrs. Strong, that my men are at your complete disposal.”

“You are too kind,
sir,” she demurred, wondering how she could ever repay Percy Beaumont for his timely intervention. “Before the Comanches attacked, we hid my daughter under the large trunk closest to the wagon. If someone could retrieve her, I’d be most grateful.”

“What a clever
ruse,” Colonel Beaumont said as he escorted Lydia toward the wagon. “Clearly, you are as intelligent as you are lovely.”

Lydia felt her cheeks
furiously blush at the man’s glib, yet patently untrue compliment. Disheveled, garbed in a blood-stained calico dress, she could hardly be deemed ‘lovely.’

Colonel Beaumont
motioned to a soldier dressed in a gray cavalry-style tunic. “Lieutenant Starkweather!”

The
young officer spun on his booted heel. “Sir!”

“Mrs. Strong’s daughter is caverned beneath that large trunk over yonder. Please go and fetch her.”

The Lieutenant’s pale-colored eyes opened wide, clearly taken aback to hear that there was a child lurking in the near vicinity. “Right away, sir.”

Lydia anxiously watched as the junior officer dashed toward the wagon.

“Ah! Look what the brutes left behind.” Bending at the waist, Colonel Beaumont plucked a walnut mantel clock off of the ground. “A well-made timepiece,” he commented before handing the clock to Lydia.

“It was a wedding gift from my Uncle Avery upon the occasion of
—” The remark fell by the wayside, Lydia belatedly realizing that her first marriage had little bearing on her present circumstance. “Speaking of my uncle, we are on our way to his cattle ranch in Uvalde.”

“Uvalde, you say? That’s west of San Antonio, is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” Lydia verified with a nod of the head. “And, according to my husband, we are only a week’s journey from there.”

“Need I remind you,
madam, that seven days can be an insurmountable length of time in
Comancheria
. As you have painfully discovered.”

Lydia stared at the wrecked encampment, unnerved by Colonel Beaumont’s dire
assessment. Although the Indians had been sent packing by this brave band of stalwart men, it didn’t mean that the Comanches would let the three of them travel across their territory without further harassment.

“Hey, y’all!” Lieutenant Starkweather excitedly bellowed
as he swooped Lydia’s daughter into his arms. “This lil’ darlin’ says her name is Dixie.”

At hearing that, the same bugler who’d led the charge against the Comanche
s, robustly blew the opening bars of the southern anthem, several men exuberantly singing the words aloud.

“Looks like we got ourselves a new regimental mascot,” someone in the crowd
called out.

“Mama! Mama!”

Bowing to the urgency of that childish cry, Lieutenant Starkweather quickly set Dixie down; whereupon, she immediately ran to her mother’s waiting, outstretched arms. With a cry of joy, Lydia lifted her daughter off of the ground, hugging the child to her breast.

“Oh, sweetness, are you all r
ight?” Lydia anxiously inquired. Not waiting for a reply, she moved her hands over her daughter’s cheeks, arms, and head, checking to see if there were any suspicious lumps or lacerations.

“I stayed quiet jus
t like Captain Ben told me to.”

“That’s because you’re
an extraordinarily
brave little girl.” To Lydia’s relief, other than a dirty dress, Dixie seemed to have survived the brutal ordeal unscathed. “I know that Captain Ben will be very proud of you. As am I,” she affirmed.

Turning to Colonel Beaumont,
Lydia made the proper introductions, delighted when Dixie executed a ladylike curtsy for their gray-suited rescuer.

“And is your name truly Dixie?” Percy Beaumont
inquired, gently holding the child’s small hand in his much larger gloved one.

Dixie rewarded the colonel with a dimpled smile
. “My name is truly Elizabeth. But everybody calls me Dixie.”

“Early on, my daughter was tagged with her more charming sobriquet,” Lydia said, fondly smoothing a curl away from Dixie’s forehead.

“I could not help but notice, Mrs. Strong, that your husband is outfitted in Union infantry trousers. Evidently, he had little say in his daughter’s nickname.”

“Actually, Dixie is Ben’s stepdaughter
.” When Colonel Beaumont raised a quizzical brow, Lydia elaborated and said, “My husband and I are only recently wed.”

“Then he is a most fortunate man to have ensnared so lovely a prize. P
erhaps it is true what they say: ‘To the victor the spoils.’”

While the effusive compliment put a blush to
Lydia’s cheek, it also begged the question uppermost in her mind. “Please forgive my presumption, sir, but . . .” She hesitated a moment, uncertain how to phrase her query. Then, deciding on the direct approach, she said, “Why are you and your men still wearing Confederate gray? The war ended nearly three months ago.”

“Not everyone surrendered at Appomattox,” Colonel Beaumont
said quietly, his handsome features marred with an embittered expression.

Shocked by his unexpected reply,
Lydia’s eyes opened wide. “Do you mean to say that you’ve not yet surrendered?”