The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (33 page)

      
“Send him in,” Hugh replied tightly, dismissing the noncom. Everyone at the post knew his wife had been missing for over a week now, mysteriously vanished without a trace from the Rawlins Hotel where she and the other officers' wives were staying. Gossips who knew the Phillipses were having marital troubles whispered she had run away with another man. All he needed to make matters worse was for her to have been captured by savages!

      
A tall gauntly built man wearing a moth-eaten frock coat and shabby boots shuffled into the office. A sour smell of cheap whiskey and body odor filled the stuffy little room. He needed a shave and his eyes and face were ravaged by prairie winds and drink, probably more of the latter.

      
“I understand you had an encounter with savages, Mr....” Hugh waited for the man's name, not offering him a seat. A cheap huckster by the looks of him. He couldn't possibly know anything about Stephanie. Still the doubt niggled.

      
“Wallaby. Seth Wallaby, Lieutenant...Phillips, ain't that yer name?” the narrow faced man asked.

      
There was a crafty gleam in the bloodshot eyes that unnerved Hugh. “I'm Lieutenant Phillips, yes.” He waited for the man to speak his piece, volunteering nothing.

      
“Last week, Friday, it was, er, I think,” he said, scratching his thinning greasy hair, trying to retrieve the event from whiskey blurred memory. “Me 'n' my pards, Laben 'n' Marty, we run on this buck. Had him a fancy Yellow Boy Winchester. We run a circus wagon 'n' sell a little tonic on the side.”

      
“What did the savage do, Mr. Wallaby?” Hugh's patience was wearing decidedly thin.

      
“Tried to buffalo us into giving him these here two Injun brats we had workin' in the show. When I said no, he up 'n' shot Laben 'n' tried to do fer me 'n' Marty. Winged Marty. We split in opposite directions. Never did find him.”

      
Hugh could wager how diligently Wallaby had searched for his injured comrade. “And this white woman?” he said, affecting a bored tone.

      
“All a sudden just after the fireworks started a woman come running out of the bushes—yellin' she was a cavalry officer's wife—Stephanie Phillips. Course, I was bein' shot at by a buck with a repeater, Laben was stretched out dead 'n' Marty wounded. I couldn't get near her to save her, but I thought the army might want to know.” He shuffled his feet a bit more, one well-worn muddy boot, then the other. “I, er, I heerd they might be a reward for the lady.”

      
“Until you heard that you stayed buried in a bottle in some Rawlins saloon, though,” Hugh sneered. “What did she look like, this ‘lady’ you were unable to rescue?”

      
Wallaby scratched his head. “Kindy tall fer a female with lots of long brown hair—light 'n' shiny like metal er somethin'. Oh, 'n' she wore a black dress, like she was in mournin'.” He studied Phillips nervously with crafty eyes.

      
Hugh felt pole axed. How the hell had the damnable woman run into a savage? “Was the buck alone or with a war party?”

      
“I only saw him but there was a powerful lot of shootin' goin' on. Musta been a whole bunch of ‘em. I was lucky to get away. Like I said, Marty 'n' Laben, they didn't make it.”

      
“How far from town did this take place?”

      
Wallaby shrugged. “We got lost comin' from Cheyenne. Musta overshot the turn off to Rawlins. I ain't sure.”

      
“And I imagine you aren't sure what tribe the buck was, either.”

      
“Cudda been Sioux, mebbee Arap, or even Cheyenne, I reckon. But whatever he was, he was big, 'n' tall 'n' pure mean.”

      
Hugh pulled a five-dollar banknote from his pocket and shoved it across the desk. “I better not hear anything about this matter or you'll answer to me, Wallaby,” he said, indicating the man was dismissed.

      
Wallaby looked into those deadly cold dark eyes and shuddered. He needed a drink. Clutching the banknote he backed out of the room, nodding his assent.

      
But the gossip spread all too quickly once the first whispers about the snake oil man's visit were out. Wallaby had spoken to several people in town, once he sobered up enough to learn there was a Lieutenant Phillips at the nearby fort whose wife was missing. A drummer stopped off at the post from Rawlins, discussing with several troopers whether or not the female whom Wallaby had seen was the officer's missing lady. The corporal, eavesdropping at the door during Hugh's interview with Wallaby, quickly substantiated the fact.

      
By the following morning, Hugh Phillips was the object of sidelong glances and pitying looks from the officers' wives, awkward attempts at condolences, even false wishes for a blessed reunion with Stephanie from their husbands, and outright sniggering and foul jokes behind his back from the enlisted men, who detested the martinet lieutenant. If he had been eager to win military distinction before, now he became obsessed with finding Stephanie and the mysterious savage who had abducted her. He drove his men to the brink of exhaustion and past it, taking out one patrol after another, riding from first light to full dark. But weeks of scouring the foothills of southern Wyoming, from the Medicine Bows to the banks of the Sweetwater, yielded not a trace of any Indian war party or a white captive.

      
They did run across a pitiful bunch of Arapaho so decimated by smallpox that Hugh ordered their execution instead of taking any prisoners, then had the village fired to prevent contagion. Each time he returned to Fort Steele to face the other officers and men, his plight grew more unendurable. Soon winter would envelop the High Plains and surrounding mountains in a lethargic coat of deep white snow. When the winds howled across Wyoming, only fools ventured out.

      
Hugh knew the Indians were already splitting up into small bands to go to ground until spring. The odds of locating his wife were growing more remote with the passing of each day. He considered resigning his commission and going east to live in luxury on old Josiah' s money, but money had only been a means to an end for him. Hugh wanted the recognition, the glory of being a general, of moving among the highest echelons of power in Washington, of showing his supercilious Southern family that his choice in attending West Point had been the correct one. Still, he despised the dust and the silence, the crude tobacco spitting troopers and opinionated settlers—he despised everything about the West. Most of all he hated the savages for threatening his plans and humiliating him by stealing his wife.

      
But he loved the killing.

      
Nothing would stop him until he had found Stephanie and her abductor and that damned renegade raider White Wolf. He would see to it they all died. Then he could return East, bathed in glory, a tragic hero. Meanwhile, he relentlessly patrolled in ever widening circles, searching tirelessly. Every opportunity he found, he attacked the Indians he located, searching their villages for a trace of Stephanie, bringing in the captives to be herded onto reservations. His energetic efforts came to the attention of General George Crook, head of the Department of the Platte. Lieutenant Phillips was commended...but not promoted.

      
Hugh's idol Custer also languished in rank, chomping at the bit during the summer and fall of 1875, albeit he “languished” with the rank of lieutenant colonel. On the far northern plains at Fort Lincoln, Custer had seen no outbreaks of hostility by the savages. South at Fort Steele, Hugh had at least consoled himself with the activity afforded by the White Wolf's raids. When he was not pursuing the renegade or searching for Stephanie, Hugh went into Rawlins and drowned his frustrations with cheap whiskey and cheaper women.

Chapter Fifteen

      
The days grew colder now that they were living in the Bighorns. The valley Chase and Stands Tall had brought them to was isolated, impossible for any army patrol to locate—if the army was even searching for her, Stephanie thought bleakly. She wondered from time to time what Hugh had thought when she vanished. Was he relieved to have her gone? Frustrated by her imagined defiance? She was certain how acutely Hugh would feel the embarrassment of having his wife desert him.

      
But her thoughts were seldom on her husband. They centered on Chase. He was gone now, as he was so often, off on some sort of spying mission this time. He had ridden with a saddle and worn white men's clothes, his hair unbraided and a beard bristling on his jaw line. No one knew when he would return or where he had gone. At least, no one told her and she did not ask.

      
His avoidance of her caused both relief and heartache. She knew they could never act on the desire that had drawn them to each other over the years and the miles, but just seeing him walk across the camp or leap gracefully onto Thunderbolt's back gave her pleasure. Watching him covertly became a habit. Just knowing he was nearby gave her comfort. When he left her alone in this strange isolated place among his people, she had at first been frightened, but as the weeks wore on, she began to grow used to her new routine.

      
Every morning she awakened to the voice of the crier, rose and went out to watch the golden glory of sunrise in the mountains. The Bighorns were wild and magnificent and the hidden valley in which they lived was deep and fertile with clear running streams. There was even a remarkable natural hot spring that bubbled up into a series of pools. Everyone could bathe no matter how cold the weather. Wild fruit trees and bushes grew in abundance and small game was easily snared. All in all, it was an idyllically beautiful place, the sort she had fantasized about when a youthful Chase first described the West to an impressionable eight-year-old girl.

      
This morning she arose and donned a tunic and leggings, then pulled on a pair of the soft doeskin moccasins that were so comfortable. When she stepped outside she picked up a bucket and walked to the stream that flowed a few dozen yards from their lodge to draw fresh water as Red Bead smiled approvingly. Her second morning in camp she had used the clean water left sitting from the night before. The old woman had upbraided her for washing in “dead water.” Each morning the women all drew fresh water for the day.

      
She made her way across the awakening camp, smiling greetings at those who had become friendly to her, bypassing others who still looked upon her as an outsider whose Blue Coat husband might yet bring them to grief. The village seemed to be split into three factions. Many were members of the Crazy Dog Society. They and their families resented Chase, mistrusting his white blood and thus, his captive. Others were grateful for the White Wolf's prowess as a warrior who could outwit the White Eyes and provide his people with weapons and supplies. They were willing to accept Stephanie. The third group simply waited to see how the strife would end, withholding judgment and their friendship from the white woman.

      
After splashing her face and hands in the icy waters of the river, Stephanie dried off, then completed her simple toilette by combing her hair and plaiting it into one fat long braid which hung below her waist. She lowered the bucket and filled it from the cold swift current. When she rose and headed back to Red Bead's lodge, she saw Kit Fox some distance downstream, but before she could call to her friend, a young warrior approached, smiling a shy greeting at the lovely Cheyenne. The morning air was chilly and he wore a heavy buffalo robe draped across his shoulders like a blanket. He opened it in invitation and Kit Fox stepped inside. The sounds of soft laughter echoed faintly as they stood, sheltered thus, talking in plain view of the camp. Such was the way a man courted a maid among these people. Kit Fox seemed well pleased by the comely man, whose name was Blue Eagle.

      
Stephanie felt a sudden pang of loneliness as she watched the young couple, then reminded herself that it was good Kit Fox had found someone who made her happy. When Chase had created that scene throwing Stephanie on the travois in front of the soldiers, she knew Kit Fox was aware of what still lay between them and had been hurt by it, abandoning her hopes of wedding the White Wolf. The white woman would not have blamed the Cheyenne if she had withdrawn her friendship, but Kit Fox remained her staunchest ally.

      
Now she has found someone who returns her affection. Be happy for her,
Stephanie chided herself. Chase would not wed her friend. But Chase could never wed her either. Even if the insurmountable barrier of race did not separate them, Hugh would always stand between them.
What will become of me?
Forcing herself to abandon the melancholy thought, she walked briskly back to Red Bead's lodge to begin the day's chores. Today she would learn how to clean and tan the heavy buffalo hides which provided shelter, bedding and blankets.

      
Red Bead took the bucket of “living” water and dipped a bone ladle into it, drinking deeply, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “Smooth Stone has gone with some of the older boys hunting rabbits. Tiny Dancer will spend the day with us while Crow Woman goes with the other women in search of the last of the grapes. Soon the frosts will kill them.”

      
Stephanie's heart filled with joy for she loved nothing as much as watching over the winsome little girl. “I've seen some of the other girls with dolls. Could you teach me how to make one for her?”

      
Red Bead nodded. “If you wish. We will gather sticks and cattails for it this afternoon. Your heart is good for children.”

      
“I always wanted children...but...”