Authors: Cassandra Austin
His knife was sharp, and it took only a moment. When the final cut was made she tossed her head, turning the bluntly cut locks into curls. Placing the hat firmly on her head she sent him a grin. “Thanks,” she said as she walked away.
Clark looked after her, down at the knife and handful of dark, soft hair, and back at the retreating figure. He realized with a start that his hands were shaking and his breathing had become labored. He returned the knife to its sheath but stared at the hair for a long moment while the wind tried to pull it from his grasp.
He had the fleeting feeling that he had just scalped her.
He drew a white handkerchief from his pocket and, entering his tent, spread it on his bunk. Carefully, not wanting to miss a strand, he placed his treasure on top and folded the handkerchief around it, tying it with a string from his pack. Then he unbuttoned his blouse and, without pausing to analyze his actions, tucked the bundle into the pocket in the lining, next to his heart.
A
unt Belle would probably swoon. Then she would try to find a way to punish her. But Aunt Belle’s authority had diminished with every mile they put between themselves and Chicago. Soon Rebecca would be back in her father’s care, and he was easily managed.
Rebecca made her way from Lieutenant Forrester’s tent to the ambulance, putting Aunt Belle out of her mind. The lieutenant’s face was much more fun to think about. He tried so hard not to register any reaction that it took something outlandish, like a request that he cut her hair, to get him to so much as raise an eyebrow. Disconcerting him was worth anything Aunt Belle could think to do to her.
Alicia had set up a camp table and two chairs beside the ambulance and sat hunched over a book. She looked up when Rebecca arrived. “You actually did it,” she whispered.
Rebecca took off her hat and gave her bobbed hair a toss. “Do you think you can get my scissors from your mother and trim it for me? I doubt if it’s very even. Maybe you could cut it in layers, like a man’s, so it’ll lie better.”
Alicia merely stared.
“Relax, Alicia.” Rebecca moved to the other chair and put the hat on the ground beside her. She looked at the table for the first time. It was set with Aunt Belle’s everyday china and flatware—probably this was her idea of practical. There were only two places and an extra plate sat atop Alicia’s.
“Is Aunt Belle feeling all right?” She hoped her determination to cut her hair hadn’t actually made her aunt ill.
“She won’t come out,” Alicia whispered.
Rebecca glanced at the wagon, noticing that the canvas had been unrolled completely. “Even now? There’s nobody around.”
“There’s lots of men around.” Alicia waved her hand to encompass the whole camp with its many little campfires. “Besides, our driver said he would be bringing our dinner soon. Mother doesn’t want anybody to see her in the pants.”
“She might as well change into a dress if she’s never coming out of the wagon. Of course, then she would have no reason to
stay
in the wagon.”
Alicia started to giggle, then touched her finger to her lips. “She’s sure she will be instantly scalped.”
“That’s ridiculous. She’d be perfectly safe.”
Alicia gaped at her a moment, then hissed, “You said women would attract the Indians. That’s why we’re wearing these awful pants.”
Rebecca shook her head. “Lieutenant Forrester said that. I called his bluff.”
“What!” Alicia clapped her hand over her mouth.
“There may be some truth in it,” Rebecca acknowledged, “especially when we get farther west. Alicia, that wasn’t the real reason he didn’t want us along, but it was the reason he gave. The pants prevent him from claiming we disregarded his concerns.”
Alicia leaned back and stared at Rebecca as if the explanation was too much to fathom. After nearly a full minute she asked, “What do you think was the real reason?”
Rebecca grinned. “He thinks I’ll flirt with all the soldiers.”
Alicia arched a brow. “And won’t you?”
“No!” She tried to look indignant, but in the face of Alicia’s knowing nod it was impossible. She grinned instead. “At least not until I get tired of Lieutenant Forrester.”
Clark signaled a halt when he saw the rider. Sergeant Whiting relayed the order then squinted at the approaching figure. “He’s riding a mule.”
Clark lifted the binoculars that hung from his saddle
and took a look. “Some old-timer.” He passed the glasses to Whiting.
“I think it’s Decker,” Whiting said. “He’s done some scouting for the army.”
“Hold the column. I’ll see what he wants.” He spurred his horse forward.
“First Lieutenant Clark Forrester, Seventh Cavalry,” he said when they had drawn rein near each other.
“How do, Lieutenant?” The man extended his hand. “Name’s Carl Decker. Saw your dust from over yonder. Soon as I knew you wasn’t a band a renegades, I decided I’d come on in, see if I could share a fire and have some company for the night Startin’ to get a little spooked out here alone.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Decker.” Clark turned his mount, and they started back toward the waiting column.
“Don’t nobody I know call me Mr. Decker. Carl, maybe, or more likely Short Deck. On account a me being not so tall, I reckon.”
Clark shook his head. “They wouldn’t call you Short Deck because you cheat at cards, would they?”
Decker spat a stream of tobacco juice on the far side of his mule. “Maybe,” he said with a chuckle.
Clark waved the troops forward, and he and Decker fell in alongside the sergeant.
“Short Deck,” Whiting said. “I thought that was you. Where you headed?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Sam,” the old man answered.
“I’m thinkin’ about leavin’ the state. Or I may just find myself a place to hole up over here in Salina or yonder in Abilene.”
“I can imagine the accommodations you’re looking for,” Whiting said.
Decker laughed. “How far am I gonna be backtrackin’ here, Lieutenant?”
“I planned to camp about a mile farther west.”
“Don’t mind trading a couple miles for some company. How many men ya got here?”
It was Whiting that answered. “Forty. Most of them green as grass.”
“They’ll do,” Clark said, knowing at least a few of the men in question had heard their sergeant
“Replacements for Hard Ass?”
“Most likely.” Clark bit back a grin at one of several nicknames for Custer. The man had reached the rank of Brevet General during the war. He enjoyed the use of the title, though the reorganized army considered him a Lieutenant Colonel.
Decker added, “The boy general has more than his share of desertions, don’t he?” He leaned over and spat tobacco juice on the ground. “Bull’s-eye.”
Clark didn’t turn to see what the man had been aiming at. As he listened to his sergeant and their guest talk he hoped Decker didn’t change his mind about heading east; if the man stayed with the column long enough Clark might have his own problem with deserters.
After supper, several of the troopers settled in near Clark’s camp, curious about the stranger. Miss Huntington was one of them. He sensed her presence before he caught a glimpse of her. He ignored her, or tried to, not wanting to draw her to Decker’s attention.
“You told us where you were going, Deck,” Whiting said. “Tell us where you’ve been.”
Decker sat Indian-style, his coffee cup in his hands. “I been down around Fort Lamed with Hancock so I guess you can say I was there when this damn war started.”
Clark couldn’t pass up an opportunity to get more information than was in the official reports, even if it meant some green troopers would hear it as well. “What happened?”
“Well, there’d been some trouble, mostly with the Dog Soldiers, so Hancock comes down there. Sends for the chiefs. This was back in April, and we get a snowstorm. Chiefs have a time gettin’ in. Hancock don’t want to set back the deadline. He’s gonna teach them a lesson if they’re late.
“Well, they show up the evening of the deadline. Ol’ Hancock decides to start the council immediately. What does he care if there’s no sun to bless the proceedin’s? He’s not there to listen, anyhow. He’s there to threaten. He insults those chiefs from here to Sunday. Insists the Cheyenne ain’t actin’ in good faith
since Roman Nose ain’t along.” Decker shook his head at the memory.
“Roman Nose is Northern Cheyenne,” Whiting put in.
Decker nodded. “Been livin’ down here, though. Kinda a rabble-rouser. At best he’d be called a war chief. They send their peace chiefs to councils. Anyhow, the Indians went away mad.
“Day or so later Hancock takes his forces and heads for Red Arm Creek where the Cheyenne are camped. I’m along as scout, you understand. The Cheyenne fire the prairie, forcing us to camp away from the village. There’s a standoff for a couple a days.-When we surround the village we find it deserted.”
“Of course it was.” The feminine voice brought Clark’s head up, and Decker’s as well. “Hadn’t Hancock ever heard of Sand Creek?”
She had crept closer during the narrative and sat only a few feet from him. As surprised as he was to find she had gotten so close without his notice, he was more surprised by the question. He hadn’t expected the colonel’s daughter to know anything about the ‘64 massacre, let alone connect the Colorado Volunteers’ burning of that peaceful Cheyenne village with the Cheyenne’s behavior now. Most people didn’t seem to believe Indians had memories.
The troopers, however were more interested in the
woman than in the question. They were watching her more closely than they watched their guest.
Decker was clearly startled. Clark could guess what he was thinking. An effeminate boy? A woman in disguise that only he had seen through? Clark decided to let him wonder. Besides, she had asked a good question.
Decker recovered quickly, though he cast Whiting a questioning glance. “As a matter of fact, that’s just what Roman Nose asked him. He came to parley during the standoff.”
“What happened to the deserted village?” Clark asked, though he could guess.
With a flick of his wrist, Decker tossed his cold coffee on the ground, in lieu of tobacco juice, Clark supposed. “Hancock sends Custer after ‘em, waits four days, and burns the village. Two hundred fifty lodges. Now they got no choice but to raid. This here’s Hancock’s war plain and simple.”
The camp was quiet Darkness had closed in around them during the past few minutes. Clark glanced around the circle of young faces, knowing each was considering what they were about to ride into.
“Sergeant Whiting,” he said quietly. “Arrange guards for the night.”
“Yes, sir.” Whiting issued orders, and the troopers moved toward their own tents.
Except for the curvaceous “soldier” beside him.
She was staring into the fire. Decker was staring at her.
“Thanks for the information, Mr. Decker,” Clark said, drawing his attention.
“Sure thing. Don’t reckon you need guards, though. Most all the raiding’s a mite farther west.”
“The men will sleep better knowing there are guards on duty,” Clark said.
Decker nodded his approval. “I reckon you’re right. ‘Cept for the ones actually doin’ the guardin’.” He went back to watching the “soldier.”
Clark didn’t like the speculative gleam in the old scout’s eyes. He was probably thinking she was his mistress, smuggled into camp in uniform.
“Miss Huntington,” he said. She turned toward him, sorrow evident in her dark eyes. “Have you met Carl Decker? Mr. Decker, this is Colonel Huntington’s daughter.”
“Short Deck,” Decker croaked, then cleared his throat “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but is there a reason you’re in that getup?”
She gave him her most brilliant smile. Clark could feel the force of it even in profile. “All the ladies are wearing these back east,” she said, plucking at the shoulders of the wool blouse. “Though I personally think it needs a little decoration. A couple of bows or something. What do you think?”
Decker grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Maybe it needs a medal or two.”
Her eyes brightened. “Medals! I hadn’t thought of that. Do you know where I could get some?”
“If I had any, I’d hand them over right now. Maybe the lieutenant has earned hisself a few.”
She turned her smile on Clark. Her eyes were fairly dancing. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”
She was quite a picture, her dark hair curling around her collar and ears, her dimples bracketing smiling pink lips. Every curve of her body outlined by the uniform. “I think you should go back to your wagon.”
Her eyes went from teasing to knowing. Damn, she could guess why he wanted her to leave. He didn’t like the way Decker watched her. Or the fact that she was practically flirting with the man. She thought he was jealous. He wasn’t, of course. She was under his protection, and her flirting made that a more difficult job. He kept his face impassive as she grinned at him.
“Well,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose you’re right. It was nice meeting you, Short Deck. I’ll leave it to Lieutenant Forrester to explain my presence as best he can. Good night”
Out of habit, Clark stood as she stood. Resuming his seat, he tore his eyes away from the retreating figure only to discover that Decker hadn’t “She’s traveling with the supply train because the public transportation has temporarily shut down.”
Decker didn’t turn toward him. “The getup your idea?”
Clark couldn’t resist a laugh. “No, that was hers. She believes it won’t attract the Indians’ attention.”
“Sure as hell attracts everybody else’s.”
“I imagine she’s aware of that, as well.”
Decker turned and laughed. “She gettin’ to ya, Lieutenant?”
Clark had his expression back under control. “She’s my commanding officer’s daughter.”
Decker was still grinning. “You’re a better man than I am if you let that stop you.”
Clark didn’t respond.
“Ah, well,” Decker said, coming to his feet with more agility than Clark expected, “I better find my roll and turn in. See ya in the morning, Lieutenant.”
“Good night.”
Clark gazed into the darkness beyond the fire. He tried to consider what the scout had said, but found himself thinking about Miss Huntington instead. “Medals,” he muttered. If he could deliver her to her father without touching her, he would deserve one.
It was best not to even think about her. He would think about Annie; that should bring him back to his senses. Oddly enough, he had a little trouble remembering her face. He remembered the pain when she turned down his proposal, however.
When he got word that his uncle had died, he had requested leave to go home and asked Annie to join him. He had pictured a small wedding with some of
his family but had offered to
marry
her in Dodge before they left. He had known he would be reporting to the new fort upon his return.
She had turned him down. Life as a soldier’s wife wasn’t for her. She didn’t want to move from fort to fort and worry about her husband every time he rode away. And he couldn’t blame her.
He didn’t feel heartbroken, exactly. But she had been a sweet, quiet, gentle woman who would have made a good helpmate. If she couldn’t tolerate his life, what woman could?