Comanche Rose

CHAPTER 1

San Saba County, Texas September, 1870

Hurriedly gathering the laundry she'd hung out less than an hour ago, Annie glanced up at the dark, burgeoning clouds. The wind was already up, whipping the wet sheets against her legs, and the sky was turning decidedly ugly. The distant, flickering lightning she'd seen a few minutes earlier now shot down from the clouds, accompanied by deafening cracks of thunder. The baby behind her wailed loudly, while his four-year-old sister tugged at her skirt.

"He's scared, Mama!"

"Yes, I know."

Exasperated, Annie turned around. If she took him in now, she'd be washing everything again tomorrow, but if she didn't, he'd work himself into hysteria. She hesitated, thinking that if Ethan would come in, he could carry the baby while she saved the clothes. But as another clap of thunder shattered the sky, Jody crawled off his blanket, screaming.

"All right, we'll go in," Annie decided wearily.

"Mama, look!" Susannah exclaimed, pointing.

"Yes, it's going to come a toad-strangler, and I'll have lost a day's work," Annie muttered. But as she turned around, her heart nearly stopped. Racing across the farm field, whipping their ponies, were at least fifteen, maybe as many as twenty painted riders.
Comanches.

Grabbing the baby, Annie reached for her daughter's hand. "Ethan!" she called out. "Indians!"

There was no time to look back, to wonder if he had heard her. She ran toward the house, dragging the child, while Jody's stranglehold tightened on her neck. Susannah struggled, shouting up at her, "Where's Papa? I want Papa!"

But Annie could hear the thunder of horse hooves closing the gap. Gasping, she fought for enough breath to keep running that last fifty feet. If she could just reach the door, if she could just get to Ethan's rifle, they still had a chance. If she could shoot a few of the Indians, maybe she could drive the rest away.

"Listen, Susannah," she gasped, "you've got to get inside and get Papa's gun for me—you've got to get Papa's gun!" Releasing the child's hand, Annie gave her a push. "Go on, run! Don't look back—just run," she panted. "Mama's coming, Mama's coming—go, Susannah—go!"

Terrified, the little girl looked over her shoulder and tripped on her own feet, falling just short of the front door. Desperate, Annie plunged past her, thrust Jody onto his play pallet, and grabbed the rifle herself. Racking the lever, she forced a bullet into the chamber, then ran back to the open doorway.

"Susannah, get in here!" she shouted.

But her daughter was cowering, too frightened to move. An Indian dropped low, groping for her, missing her arm by inches. He came back up, wheeling the small spotted pony, whipping it furiously with a knotted thong, and charged again, ready to pluck the child from the ground.

"Mama! Come get me, Mama!" Susannah begged hysterically.

Sighting the Comanche, Annie squeezed the Henrys trigger, missing him as he dropped over the animal's side again. But the bullet tore into the horse's side. It shrieked, reared, then went down, quivering. The rider rolled free, coming up in a crouch, sheltered by the dying pony.

While Annie hesitated, considering her chances of pulling her daughter to safety, he sprang into the open, firing his gun at her. The doorjamb splintered beside Annie's head just as she got off another shot, this time hitting the painted torso just above the dirty breechclout. At impact, the bullet knocked him several steps backward. Blood poured from the wound as he raised his gun again, then dropped his arm. He staggered a few feet, sank to his knees, and began rocking back and forth, keening a death wail.

Beside her, Jody squalled at the top of his lungs, demanding her attention. But she couldn't think of anything beyond the Indians in her front yard, not now. Bracing her body against the door facing, she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She couldn't make any mistakes.

"Susannah, get in here right now," she tried again. "If I have to come after you, you'll get a whipping."

"Mama, I can't—I
can't
!" the child sobbed. "I'm scared!"

Shifting the rifle to one hand, Annie stepped onto the small stoop, but a tug at her skirt stopped her. The baby had crawled off his pallet and was frantically trying to pull himself up between her legs, hoping to hide beneath her petticoat and skirt.

"Get down, Jody," she said firmly, stepping away from him.

"Up, Mama, up! Jo-Jo up!" the baby persisted, throwing himself against her leg. "Up!"

Her eyes on the Indians, Annie stooped enough to thrust him behind her, blocking his escape with her body. "Not
now."

Another burst of wind banged the shutters and the back of the house, and for a moment her stomach knotted. When she'd boiled her clothes on the stove, she'd opened the windows to let out the steam, then forgotten to close them. If the Comanches got behind the house, there was nothing to keep them from coming inside.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her mind raced, jumbling her thoughts. She had to remember how many bullets she had left in the Henry. Fully loaded, it held sixteen rounds, she knew that much. If she were a crack shot, she could make every bullet count, but she wasn't. And yet with the ammunition box across the room in a cabinet, she couldn't afford to waste the fourteen in the gun's magazine. No matter how scared she was, she had to hold her fire until they were close enough she couldn't miss.

Suddenly, one of the Comanches broke away from the others to ride within fifteen feet. He waved his lance, shouting taunts at her. Holding her breath, she raised the rifle and fired, hitting him as he whirled his pony to rejoin the others. He slumped forward, then fell head first to the ground.

"Mama! Mama, he's got me!" Susannah screamed.

While she'd been distracted by the rider, she'd missed seeing the wounded Indian move, and now he'd pulled her daughter down by an ankle. As she watched in horror, his bloody, dirt-caked arms imprisoned her child.

"Mama! Mama!"

Annie raised the rifle to her shoulder, taking careful aim, holding him in the sight for several seconds. Her finger tensed on the trigger, then relaxed as she wavered. No, she couldn't do it—she might hit Susannah. She wouldn't fire unless he tried to kill her daughter, and if that happened, she was going to have to make the shot of her life.

She took a deep breath, holding it, striving to keep a cool head. As she lowered the gun, he sank back, rocking, resuming his death chant, impervious to the struggling child in his arms, while his blood soaked Susannah's dress. Annie hoped against hope that he would lose enough of it to pass out.

As they regrouped, she prayed fervently that her husband had seen them in time to hide, that he was safe somewhere near the field. And that he'd not try to come to her aid. Caught out in the open with nothing but a six-shot Colt, he wouldn't have a chance. No, it was up to her regardless of where he was.

A bullet shattered a front window, scattering shards of glass, bringing her back to stark reality. Pushing Jody behind her again, Annie pulled the breech lever down, shifting another cartridge into the chamber, then waited, her eyes on the Indians. An emboldened brave rode forward, posturing insolently, much as the other one had, but this time she held her fire. She wanted a clear shot at his chest.

When she hesitated, they apparently thought her out of bullets. They charged the house then, sweeping across her lawn, giving her no time to take aim. Overwhelmed by the suddenness of the attack, she could only fire and pump, fire and pump, as fast as she could work the lever.

Two Indians went down, but the others still came. Bullets and arrows hit the house, and a lance struck inches from her shoulder. Perspiration stung her eyes and made her hands so wet that the trigger was slippery within her aching fingers.

They were so close she could smell the stench of unwashed bodies, and she could feel the foam that flew off the horses. As a buck leaped from his pony's bare back, landing within three feet of her, she pulled the trigger again. There was an ominous click. The magazine was empty. Taking a step backward, trying to retreat behind the door, she swung the Henry like a club, aiming for his head.

"Mama, behind!" Susannah cried out.

An arm slid around Annie's neck, cutting off her scream, pulling her back, and she knew it was over. One of them had made it through a window. Struggling, she kicked and clawed until her head snapped back with the force of a blow. Then her world went black.

"I see a house over there!" Romero Rios shouted.

Hap Walker reined in, then leaned forward in his saddle, looking at the farmhouse ahead. The cold, steady rain dripped from his hat and soaked every inch of his clothing, but it was the only thing that still kept him awake. He ran his hand across his face, wiping the water over tired eyes. Every muscle in his body ached, but he wanted to go on. He wanted to get across the San Saba before the last trace of tracks disappeared in the mud. He shook his head.

"We've got no time."

"I ain't made of iron like you, Cap'n," Johnny Becker spoke up behind him. "I'm about done for."

"Me, too," A. J. Harris agreed. "Three days in the saddle's about all I can take. And my horse's all stove in."

"Maybe they got horses, Hap," Rios ventured.

"Yeah. If we was to rest up a bit—get some grub and some sleep—we might feel more like keeping at it," Ben Cummings allowed.

"If I could just spell Lucy, Captain, I'd be all right," Rios assured Walker.

That was the trouble with the state police, Hap reflected wearily. It was about as effective as the carpetbag government that created it, which wasn't saying a damned thing. Of the five men with him, only Romero Rios would have lasted a week in the old Texas Rangers Hap remembered. But since the war there hadn't been any rangers—or much law enforcement, either, to his way of thinking. Nothing like it'd been before. He half turned in his saddle.

"If we don't cross the river now, we'll never catch up to em," he answered shortly.

"Hell, Hap, they probably done killed the Halser girl already," Becker grumbled. "Ain't no sense to keep after 'em past three days."

"Until I see otherwise, I say she's alive."

After an exchange of mutinous glances, Jackson rode forward. "I ain't saving I ain't going a-tall, Cap'n, but I ain't going until I get a little shut-eye. Mebbe if we was to wait a bit, help'd catch up. I don't cotton much to tangling with a whole passel of injuns on a tuckered horse. Like A. J. said, she's probably dead, anyway."

"I say we wait for help," Becker agreed. "Might be a posse's coming behind us. Way we been ridin', ain't nobody got any chance to help us out."