The Crossed Sabres (29 page)

“What about Custer? Can he think ahead enough to whip the Indians?”

Winslow frowned. “Well, the Indians don’t think like us. They have little discipline, and they’ll follow a war chief only as long as he’s winning. That sort of force is bound to lose when it’s faced with a trained army.”

“So you’ll win?”

“In the long run, Larry—but this campaign is going to be different.”

“Different how?”

“More Indians than anyone has ever seen. And Custer has a poor opinion of them as a fighting force.”

They spoke of the Indian problem until Laurie came in to say, “Supper’s ready.”

The table was set with a white cloth, sparkling china, and silver tableware. As Winslow sat down, he said, “Not sure I have the manners for this setup. Laurie, you keep an eye on me. Be sure I don’t lick my knife.”

“Faith, will you ask the blessing?” Eileen said, adding after the prayer, “Laurie made this special dish, so you all better enjoy it.”

The dish was passed around and the contents tasted and praised lavishly, making Laurie’s face glow with pride. The conversation was light and happy, interjected with lots of humor. “It’s good to have people to do things for,” Eileen said. “I’ve missed this so much!”

Dutton gave her a peculiar look, started to say something, then changed his mind. The expression on Dutton’s face wasn’t lost to Winslow, and he wondered if the red-haired teacher didn’t have more than a casual interest in his hostess.

“How much longer will you be laid up, Larry?” Winslow asked.

“Oh, I’m checking out day after tomorrow,” Dutton shrugged. “Going to spend a few days in the hospital here, but I’m over the hump.” He looked toward Eileen and added, “If you get wounded, Tom, I recommend that you come here. It beats any hospital all hollow that I ever heard of.”

“It was a little thing to do,” Eileen protested, her face flushing.

“Not to me, Eileen,” Dutton argued.

“I agree with Larry,” Faith added. “He was a very sick man and needed the special care.” She glanced around and said, “Now that we’ve consumed your delicious meal, Eileen, I’d like to do the dishes, so the rest of you scoot out.”

“I’ll dry,” Winslow offered.

After the others departed for the living room, Faith and Tom made a leisurely job of cleaning up. “I think Dutton’s coming here saved his life,” Winslow said. “I heard he was in a fair way of dying.”

“That’s true,” Faith nodded. “He’s a fine man, isn’t he?”

“Sure. He’s taken with Eileen, did you notice?”

“It’s pretty plain,” Faith nodded. “He hasn’t had much to do with women, Tom. I’m afraid he’s in for a disappointment.”

“Why?” Winslow asked in surprise. “He’d be a good choice for Eileen. She needs a husband and he needs a wife.”

Faith looked at him quizzically, then laughed. “That’s very neat, Tom, but love doesn’t work like that—all organized and orderly.”

Winslow mused on that comment, his eyes half closed. He made a strange-looking figure standing there, the fragile dish in his large hands. “That’s an odd thing to say,” he remarked. “Are you saying that love is out of control? Like in the dime romances where a man and a woman gaze at each other for the first time and go into some sort of fit?”

“Oh, Tom, how awful!” Faith laughed. Her face was rosy
from the hot water, her eyes sparkling. “Of course love’s not like that—well, not exactly.” She washed another dish, then said, “You were married once. Wasn’t there something special between you two? Wasn’t she somehow different from all other women?”

Winslow dropped his eyes, remembering those days. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, there was something special.”

“Well, I’m not sure a person can
arrange
that. Larry may need a wife, and I know Eileen needs a companion. She’s born to be a wife. But it takes more than that to make a marriage work, I think.” She stopped, embarrassed by what she had said. “Listen to me—a spinster spouting off on courtship and marriage. And the only experience I ever had was getting jilted at the altar!”

The sadness in her voice touched him, and he turned her around with a firm hand. “Don’t talk like that,” he insisted. “You’ve got
everything
a man needs—and wants, Faith.” Then the memories of the past rose sharply. “Well,” he said almost brusquely, “that’s it with the dishes. Let’s see what the others are doing.”

Dutton and Eileen were listening to Laurie read a story she’d written. When she saw Tom and Faith, she stopped and said, “I’ll start over.”

When she finished, Winslow said, “That’s very good, Laurie.”

“Miss Eileen helped me with it a little,” she confessed.

“Just a tiny bit, but it’s your story,” Eileen responded, patting Laurie’s head.

Winslow picked up his coat, saying, “Got to be on the way before dawn.” He halted, then looked toward Faith, adding, “Lieutenant Grayson wants to make an early start.” He saw the startled look in her eyes, but she said nothing. He kissed Laurie firmly. “I’ll see you in three days.”

“Come and see me, Tom,” Dutton said. “I’ll be at the post hospital or back in my room.”

Later when Faith and Laurie had gone to the kitchen for
cocoa, Dutton said, “Tom’s quite a fellow, Eileen.” When she nodded, he continued. “You know, he’s the kind of man I always dreamed about being—big, tough, and always doing something heroic.” He smiled painfully, adding, “At the orphanage, when I was a kid, I made up stories with a man like that as the hero, then pretended to be him.”

His confession touched her, and she smiled. “We all do that. I pretended to be the beautiful heroine I’d just read about in the romance novels.”

Dutton dropped his eyes. “Well,
you
turned out to be beautiful, but
I
turned out to be just a runty schoolteacher.”

“Why—Larry! What a terrible thing to say about yourself!” Eileen scolded. “You’ve gotten a fine education against all odds, and one day you’ll be a successful attorney.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but I’d rather put on a uniform and ride out with Tom in the morning.”

“No! Don’t ever say that!” Her sudden vehemence caught him off guard, and he was acutely conscious of her hand squeezing his arm. “It’s no life for you, Larry. It’s terrible!”

“Why, it’s not that bad, Eileen.” Dutton hesitated, then said daringly, “You wouldn’t refuse to marry Tom because he’s a soldier, would you?”

Agitated, she turned away. He had no way of knowing it was that very question that had plagued her for days. She had felt Winslow’s gaze on her, had known that it was for Laurie’s sake they had grown close. But she knew Tom was lonely and found her attractive. More than once she had felt that if she had chosen, she could have drawn him into a closer relationship, but she had not enticed him, though the thought was in her heart and mind.

“I don’t know, Larry,” she replied. “It’s a hard life for a woman. She’d have to love an army man a lot to risk that.”

Her answer depressed him, for he was perceptive enough to see that Eileen was thinking a great deal of Winslow. “Well,” he said, “he’s a fine man. I hope nothing happens to him on this scouting trip.”

“If it doesn’t, Larry,” she said evenly, but with pain, “there’ll be another scouting and another battle. That’s the life of a soldier—and of the woman who marries him!”

****

The first two days of the scouting were uncomfortable and unproductive. Snow threatened constantly, but on the afternoon of the third day the sun came out, shedding a welcome warmth, and Winslow found the trail of a large band of Indians.

When he brought back the news, Grayson’s eyes glinted. He had said nothing to Winslow up until that time, but now his voice crackled as he shot back, “How many and how far?”

“I’d guess at least a hundred, Lieutenant. I cut their sign about five miles from here. I figure they passed through less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Grayson looked up at the sky, calculating quickly. It was past two o’clock, but there was a chance they could catch up with the Indians before dark. He made his decision and called out “Mount!” and when the troop was in the saddle, he commanded, “Take us to the spot, Sergeant Winslow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Winslow led them at a fast trot to the sign he had cut, and pointed down at the trail. “Heads toward the foothills, sir.”

“Go ahead,” Grayson ordered. “We’ll follow so we don’t confuse the sign. I want to catch them, so make it as fast as you can.” His eyes shone with excitement. “Let’s go!” he said impatiently.

They followed the sign until almost dark, with Winslow ahead. Then he waited until the troop caught up with him. “Going to be too dark to follow the sign in another half hour, Lieutenant.”

A gust of temper rose and Grayson spewed out an oath. He shook his head stubbornly. “We can’t be too far behind. We’ll leave at first light.”

“Well, the general said to make it a three-day scout, for information,” Winslow said.

“You do the tracking, Winslow! I’ll give the orders.”

Sergeant Jess Moody was close enough to hear this exchange, and later when they were hunched over small fires eating supper, he asked, “What’s going on with the lieutenant, Tom?”

Winslow shook his head. “Can’t say, Jess.”

But Dempsey spoke up. “A glory hunter, that’s what he is!” He tore hungrily at the food, adding glumly, “Winslow, don’t you find them Indians tomorrow. If there’s as many as you claim, they could wipe us out.”

“Maybe I’m a glory hunter, too, Dempsey.”

“Naw. You got sense,” the burly soldier grinned. “You want to keep your hair just like the rest of us poor troopers. It’s the officers who got to get a bunch killed to get their names in the papers.”

The next day the sun rose brightly, and after a quick breakfast, Winslow rode ahead, following the sign, which was easy. At nine o’clock he halted to let the column catch up. “They camped here last night. Ashes still hot from the fires.”

“How far ahead, do you think?” Grayson asked.

Winslow gave a dubious look toward the horizon where some low lying hills scored the sky. “Not far. And we’re not going to sneak up on them.”

“Call me
sir!
” Grayson yelled. He looked toward the hills, his face sharp with anticipation. “You go ahead. We’ll follow. When you make contact, give me a signal.”

Sergeant Moody spoke up. “Sir, he’ll be a sittin’ duck out there that far.”

“Never mind!” Grayson snapped. “Get moving, Sergeant Winslow!”

“Yes, sir.” Winslow galloped ahead, and when he was far enough away, Grayson waved the command forward. For the next hour they covered the ground at a fast gallop until they reached Winslow, who had pulled up his horse to wait.

“They’re right ahead of us, just the other side of those hills, Lieutenant.”

“How many?”

“Must be over a hundred. And these are braves—no women or children to hold them back.”

“Have you actually
seen
any Indians?” Grayson demanded.

“No, sir. But they’ve seen us.”

“You can’t be sure of that! Let’s push on.”

Winslow looked up, his face bearing a trace of shock. “Through that gap, sir?”

“That’s where they are, Sergeant.”

The spot Grayson was looking at was a barrier of rock with a peak in the center. The rock was a six-foot breastwork heaved up by some ancient slipping of the earth’s crust; it lay a quarter mile forward, and to either side the land rose in broken hummocks. “That’s a bad place to be caught, sir,” Winslow protested.

But Grayson was adamant. “Forward!” he called out, waving his hand in an imperious gesture. The column broke into a trot, aimed at the lowest section of the rock barrier. The steady run set up a clatter of iron hoofs on the solid ground, and suddenly what had appeared to be clumps of brush became round black heads. A shot broke the silence, its echo rocketing all up the hillsides.

“Skirmishers!” Grayson called.

Sergeant Moody’s voice beat at the troopers as they rushed along a long, broken line abreast Grayson. Winslow flung his horse around and rushed to the right of the line. Rapid firing broke from the rocks, the smoke indicating the Indians to be scattered along the parapet. Grayson took a quick look toward an empty spot to the left and promptly rushed for it, signaling the men to follow. The move whirled the troopers into an irregular grouping, forcing them to cross the line of fire. Instantly a trooper dropped lifeless and his horse bolted.

When they halted, Winslow saw that a series of broken hummocks rose sharply before them. Grayson urged his horse
toward the end of the rock parapet, his troops close behind. When they neared the hummocks, they were caught by the cross fire of lead as the bullets rained upon them. The Sioux showed themselves between the hummocks, and the troopers returned their fire. Winslow saw Dempsey shoot one of the Indians at point-blank range. Suddenly, Tom was caught between two mounted warriors armed with carbines. He lifted his revolver and shot one of them in the chest. The other Sioux was right on top of Tom, ready to fire when the warrior fell away, his face a bloody mask. Winslow looked up to see O’Hara grinning at him. He rode in, saying, “Let’s git out of here, Sarge, this place is too hot!”

Firing as they rode, they caught up with the rest of the troop. It was a tight and wicked moment, the troopers caught by the fire of Indians stationed along the uplifting rock, well-hidden and safe from return fire. They kept fading and reappearing from spot to spot, giving ground stubbornly.

Grayson had charged straight at a small group, taking a few of the men with him. Winslow saw other Indians were heading for that spot. The lieutenant waved the men forward. “Come on! Stick close! They can’t stand a charge!”

As Grayson got farther into the broken country, the Indians kept retreating, vague as shadows. He suddenly realized that he was cut off from the troop with only three men and that the Indians were closing in from three directions. There was no way to fight his way back, yet he knew no fear, so great was his battle fury.

As he prepared to sell his life dearly, he looked up to see the bulk of the troop appear from over a slight rise, firing as they came. With a bitter twinge, even at that moment, he saw that Tom Winslow was leading them.