McCrory's Lady (35 page)

      
Potkin shuddered, recalling the ragtag group of savages, dressed in a peculiar mixture of greasy buckskin leggings, Army jackets, bowler hats and sweat-stained turban headbands—all armed to the teeth with old Henry lever actions or Sharps carbines. “I'll be ready to leave in a quarter hour.”

      
Colin stood in the shade of the post's wooden porch, watching in disgust when Potkin rode away with his motley escort of Crown Verde men and reservation police. He returned to Lamp's office, fully expecting the slimy bastard to be waiting, refusing to let him have the records, but Lamp was nowhere to be found. Colin took several of the most damning papers, which easily showed the agent's clumsy attempts at fraud, then headed down to the cluster of brush wickiups that Doc Torres was using as a makeshift infirmary.

      
By tonight, the physician planned to move the worst cases up to the big high-ceilinged post, which would provide far more sanitary conditions and better protection from the elements. Although Colin was concerned with Eden being here, surrounded by restive Apaches, he knew the doctor would not risk her exposure to contagion unless she was safe from the disease. As to the rest, he realized that short of locking her up at the ranch house, there was little he could do to keep her completely safe. Anyway, her willingness to undertake this task was a good sign. Perhaps this was a way for her to regain some measure of self-respect.

      
When he entered the first low brush wickiup, he saw the doctor examining a young girl whose feverish and blistered skin indicated she was cruelly stricken by the dread disease. Many whites survived it, with greater or lesser amounts of scarring from the pustule-like lesions. Indians, having none of the white man's centuries of built-up immunity, most often died.

      
Torres looked up as he covered the girl, whose eyes were glazed with pain. “She's mere hours from death and I feel so appallingly helpless, Colin,” he said quietly.

      
“How many cases so far?” McCrory asked.

      
Torres stood up, rubbing the back of his aching neck with one hand. “A couple of dozen here. Ten at the Chiracahua village and a dozen more at the Yavapai camp—the last I heard.”

      
“You can't be everywhere, Aaron,” Colin said, placing his hand consolingly on the exhausted doctor's arm.

      
“But this whole thing could have been prevented! All I needed was a simple cowpox serum that's been used to vaccinate people for nearly a hundred years.”

      
“White people, not Indians,” Colin said angrily. “You know what the red tape between here and Washington is like, not to mention how much the settlers in Arizona Territory hate Apaches.”

      
“Not even all the whites in isolated areas around here have been vaccinated. Lots of people are still afraid they might catch the disease from the serum. They sometimes did in past centuries when live smallpox was used in the vaccinations.” Aaron continued to be frustrated with the backwardness of the locals.

      
“Whites still have a far better chance of surviving than Indians, even without vaccination,” Colin reminded the doctor. Then realizing how hopeless the discussion was, he changed the subject. “How's Eden holding up?”

      
“I don't know what I would've done without her,” Torres replied with a weary but warm smile. “She's been wonderful, especially with the children. And that smattering of Apache dialect you've taught her has been a godsend. She can communicate with the medicine men. A few, having seen the results we've achieved with quarantine, are willing to use their authority to help us. And she's training a whole group of White Mountain women to work as nurses. At least, we can make them more comfortable.”

      
“Hello, Father.” Eden entered the wickiup and greeted McCrory with a hug.

      
He inspected her appearance with fatherly concern. Her braid was partially unfastened and loose tendrils of hair hung limply around her face and at her nape. Dark smudges beneath her eyes attested to several days spent with little rest, but her whiskey eyes glowed with intensity. “Hello yourself. You look like you could use some rest, young lady,” he scolded.

      
Ignoring him, she asked, “Has your man from Washington gone already?”

      
Colin muttered an expletive and nodded. “Damn fool will spend the night camped out in the foothills, but it serves him right for rushing off.”

      
“I take it he didn't exactly fire Lamp on the spot,” Wolf said cynically.

      
He had entered silently and stood behind Eden, almost protectively. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his hair was held back with a red cotton bandana, giving an even more Apache look to his swarthy features. The way Eden gazed up at him and smiled made Colin feel distinctly uneasy. “No. Lamp's conduct is going to be reviewed in Washington.” Before he could consider the relationship between Eden and the gunman, a commotion outdoors drew their attention. When Colin heard Maggie's voice, he was the first one out of the wickiup.

      
Maggie and Ed Phibbs were engaged in an attempt at conversation with one of Lamp's police, who spoke only Athapachen, no English or Spanish.

      
“It's all right, Natchee. This is my wife and her friend,” Colin said, and the hard-eyed guard let the women pass.

      
“We couldn't get to the post. I didn't think you'd be out here,” Maggie said as she dismounted.

      
Colin had closed the distance between them with ground-devouring strides, leaving Eden, Torres and Blake behind. “What the hell are you doing here? It's nearly dark! Two females alone on the reservation—have you lost your mind?” He practically snarled as his hands reached out, digging into her shoulders. He alternately wanted to hug her to him in assurance she was all right and to shake her until her teeth loosened for endangering her life so recklessly.

      
“Just listen to Ed before you get more worked up,” Maggie said, uncertain about the source of his anger but hopeful. He was still holding her possessively when he turned his attention to Ed.

      
The reporter quickly outlined what she had learned in Tucson about the witness and his whereabouts.

      
“What did you say his name was?” Wolf asked. He had quickly followed Colin to the women, intuiting that something important was going on to bring the nosy reporter all the way to the reservation searching for Colin.

      
Ed described what little she knew of Sug Rigley. “Do you know him?” she asked Colin's hired gunhand.

      
“I've heard of him, over in El Paso a few years back.” He turned to Colin. “I might be able to track him down.” A sardonic smile slashed his dark face. “And convince him to come back with me.”

      
Colin nodded. “An excellent idea. And while you're heading after him, I think it's well past time for me to call on Win Barker. He beat a quick retreat back to Tucson after checking to make certain Potkin was as incompetent as he could've hoped.”

      
Wolf nodded. “I'll ‘requisition’ some extra cartridges from the agent's supplies, then ride out.”

      
“Be careful, Wolf.” Eden's hand, so pale and delicate, caught his larger dark one and held it fast.

      
“You be careful here,” he admonished with a stern look that spoke more than his terse words. Then, he turned and headed to the big adobe building.

      
Maggie watched the exchange and felt the tension in Colin's body. As Wolf walked away, Eden looked disconsolately after his retreating figure.

      
“Exactly what is going on between you and Blake, Eden?” Colin asked baldly. “You've already been victimized enough and—”

      
“Colin, this isn't the time or place,” Maggie quickly cut in, seeing the fire flash in Eden's eyes. “Ed has more information to discuss with you. Let me talk with Eden for now,” she said softly.

      
Ed Phibbs, uncomfortably caught in the midst of such a private family matter, coughed discreetly. “Indeed, I do.” Her voice broke as she hastily went on, “I think we should formulate a plan for Tucson. You see, I fully intend to go also. The key to unraveling this whole enigma of the federal graft ring does lie in the Old Pueblo.”

      
Colin frowned, grunting in assent as Maggie whisked Eden away and the two of them disappeared into one of the wickiups.

      
Once inside, Eden knelt and began to gather up soiled linens. “We have to boil these before we can use them again. Doc Torres says it would be better to burn them, but we have so little clean white cloth. That cheap red calico Lamp doles out irritates the lesions with fading dye.”

      
Maggie knelt beside Eden and stilled her busy hands. “Maybe you'd better just rest for a few minutes and tell me everything that happened,” she said gently.

      
Their eyes met and Eden gave a smile that wobbled a bit. “Father won't approve, I know, but I don't care,” she said defiantly. Then, her eyes filled with tears and she quickly amended, “No, that's not true—I do care. I've hurt him so much already. Oh, but Maggie, I'm in love with Wolf.”

      
“And Wolf is in love with you.” Maggie had been pretty certain for some time about the direction of the relationship, but after all Eden had been through she had to play devil's advocate. “Your father has some legitimate concerns about Wolf Blake as a suitor for you. He's lived a dangerous life as a gunman.”

      
“He'll quit for me. He never wanted to become a hired gun—left alone, what else could a half-breed Apache raised in west Texas do?”

      
“What else can he do to support a wife and family now?” Maggie asked gently, thinking that Colin could give him a permanent job not involving the use of firearms. But somehow she knew Blake wasn't the kind to take the offer from Colin. It smacked too much of charity for his prickly Apache pride.

      
“His father has money.” Eden quickly explained about Wolf's childhood and the attempts at reconciliation his father had made since his wife's death.

      
Maggie remembered the oblique, bitter comments Blake had made to her on their ride from Sonora. “Wolf is willing to do this for you? It must mean he cares for you a great deal.”

      
“When Wolf told me he loved me...it didn't come glibly and quickly like Lazlo said it...and other things are different, too.” Her face flamed under Maggie's concerned gaze. “He's different.”

      
Maggie's shrewd eyes measured what Eden said and what she did not say. “It seems as though the two of you have already set your course. All I can do is try and oil the water with your father. He's not an unreasonable man, Eden.”
At least where you're concerned.
“I'll go with him to Tucson. The long trip will give us a chance to talk everything over.”

      
“Oh, Maggie, whatever would I do without you!” Eden enfolded Maggie in her arms and hugged her tightly. “I'm so happy Father married you.”

      
If only Colin were that happy, Eden. If only...

* * * *

      
Maggie spent the rest of the afternoon helping Eden and her Apache nurses treat the sick, making them as comfortable as possible. Dr. Torres enlisted Colin to gather a number of his men who had not ridden off with Potkin and who had been vaccinated or previously exposed to the disease to make stretchers from pine boughs and then carry the sick Indians into the post. By evening, the makeshift infirmary was operational. Agent Lamp was nowhere to be found.

      
Maggie wrung out a clean cloth soaked in cool water and gently bathed the face of a man still in the early stages of the disease. Sweat-soaked and wracked by pains in his back and head, he had not yet broken out with blisters. All Maggie could do was keep him as cool as possible.

      
“Here, take a break. The women have prepared some supper. You've been working all afternoon and you had a long hard ride before that,” Torres said, taking the cloth from Maggie's hand.

      
She smiled at the doctor and started to stand up, then felt suddenly light-headed. The room began to spin and she almost lost her balance before he steadied her. “I—I don't know what's come over me.”

      
“You did say you were vaccinated against smallpox back East?” he asked worriedly.

      
“Yes. I've been exposed to it many times. I'm quite immune. I've just been feeling a bit under the weather lately.”

      
“You're working too hard and you've had nothing to eat since breakfast—or did you even have breakfast?” he asked, concern furrowing his brow.

      
Remembering her early-morning reaction to food in recent weeks, Maggie realized that she had indeed skipped breakfast—in fact, been grateful of the reprieve when Ed had arrived just as Eileen was about to force oatmeal on her. “As a matter of fact, I suppose I haven't had time to eat.”

      
As she headed for the kitchen, Torres's troubled green eyes studied her.

      
The venison stew and tortillas were quite palatable and Maggie was voracious. Colin walked into the kitchen just in time to see her polish off a second helping. “I see you've recovered—your appetite's good, at least. Doc said you were a bit peaked earlier.”

      
She was surprised at the concern that warmed his eyes. They were the rich color of fine cognac and she could have drowned in them, intoxicated without even taking a sip. “I—I'm fine, Colin. I just neglected to eat today and got a bit light-headed.”