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CHAPTER 1
San Saba County, Texas September, 1870
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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 Henry's 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 saying 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."
"And maybe if it was to snow in July, hell would freeze," Hap retorted. "What if it was your daughter they got?"
"I'd pray for her," Jackson declared. "But I wouldn't ask nobody to kill hisself going after her."
"Hap, there ain't but six of us, and more'n twenty of them — and they're a good day ahead of us, ain't they? Hell, afore we catch up to 'em, we'll be right smack dab in the middle of the Comancheria! There'll probably be a hunnerd more a-waitin' fer us! I don't know about you, but I got a real hankerin' to keep my hair, Cap'n," Harris argued.
Hap's gaze rested on Rios. "How bad's the horse?"
"If she had an hour, Lucy could go on, Cap'n."
"Well, at least that's something. Guess you're the only one that's not yellow-bellied," Hap muttered under his breath.
"Captain, that ain't right to say no such thing," Harris complained. "I been doing my damnedest to keep up — we all have. You can't fight Comanches with dead men."
Maybe Hap wasn't being fair, but he had promised the girl's dying mother he'd get Gretchen Halser or her body back. And every time he had to stop, his odds of keeping that promise went down. But looking at Rios' black mare, he could see she was nearly spent. "All right," he decided. "We'll stop in here, try to eat a bite, and see if we can buy some fresh horses."
"Sure could use some home cooking," Harris said. "I'm downright sick of wet biscuits and cold coffee."
"All I want to do is dry out and sleep for a week," Becker decided. "My butt's so tired I can't think."
"I knowed there was something wrong with your brain, Johnny," Jackson declared, "but danged if I knew it was in the wrong place. You hear that, Cap'n? He's sitting on it!"
"Yeah, I heard."
On approach, the rain had obscured the fact there was something wrong, but as they reached the muddy field, Hap could feel the hairs on his neck prickle. A big draft horse still hitched to a plow lay dead, its body bristling with arrows. And when he looked toward the house, he could see laundry sagging heavily on the line.
At first none of the men spoke, then finally Jackson said it: "Looks like they been through, don't it?"
"Yeah. Sure as hell looks like it, all right."
The house itself appeared untouched, and the laundry basket still had some clothes in it, giving an eerie unreality to the scene. Hap's eyes moved back to the field, scanning the rows until he saw a mound of clothing about a hundred feet from the animal. Easing his exhausted body from the saddle, he slowly walked down the muddy furrow, then dropped to his knees to examine the dead man. Turning him over, he found a gun underneath. It was still fully loaded. The poor devil hadn't even gotten off a shot. But there was something even more ominous about the body — aside from the missing scalp, it hadn't been mutilated.
"Damn," Rios muttered, coming up behind him.
"Yeah, they went after something else." Rising, Hap wiped muddy hands on his buckskin pants. "Guess we'd better take a look at the house."
But Rios stood there for a moment, his lips moving silently. When finished, he leaned over and closed the dead man's eyes, making the sign of the cross over his face.
"He was probably a Baptist," Hap muttered.
"I know," Romero responded simply. "But I didn't figure it'd hurt to put in a word for him."
As they passed the laundry line and the soaked clothes basket, Hap noticed a small, soggy blanket lying beside it. And a china-faced doll with yellow hair was staring up from the wet grass. He stooped to pick up the little girl's toy. The cloth body dripped muddy water from beneath a blue checked dress covered with a little pinafore. A loose black lace dangled from a little high-topped doll shoe. He stood there, staring at it, his big hand smoothing the dirty hair back from that painted face. If he'd had anything in his stomach, it would have come up. Mastering himself, he managed to look at Rios.
"Guess they got a little kid."
The other man's toe lifted what looked like a hanky with a knot tied in it. "Your mother ever fix you one of these?"
"I don't know — what is it?"
"Your people call it a sugar titty," Romero responded soberly. "Must've been a baby here, too."
"Jesus." Wiping rain from his face, Hap looked around. "No sign of them or the mother," he said wearily. "Damn."
"Not unless she's in the house."
"The door's wide open."
The other three men were watching from the porch, and it wasn't until Hap and Rios reached them that they reported, "Nobody inside, Cap'n."
"Yeah."
"Didn't see no horse in the pen, just a milch cow and some chickens. Funny, you'da thought they'da butchered it," Becker told him. "The cow, I mean."
"They were in a hurry."
"We ain't gonna catch 'em, Cap'n," Jackson declared. "Not the way that sky looks. Even if we was to have the horses, we couldn't do it."
The rain was pelting down hard, sending them ducking into the house. There, just inside the door, a number of spent cartridges were scattered over the floor. Somebody had put up a fight. Hap looked around the dim room, taking in all the little things that made it somebody's home. His gaze strayed to the piano. It was a fine piece of furniture, oddly out of place in the small room.
On top of it, a young couple stared from an oval frame. He thought he recognized the fellow in the field, but it was the woman's face that drew him. Despite the artificiality of holding that pose, she didn't look like so many folks when they had their pictures taken. She stood beside the man, her hand on his shoulder, smiling as though she meant it. There was a liveliness in those eyes that the camera hadn't missed. He picked it up, turning it over. On the back somebody had written a date in neat script.
"I found their Bible," Rios murmured. Opening it, he read, '"Married — August 27, 1865, in Austin, Anne Elizabeth Allison to Ethan Wayne Bryce.'"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Comanche Rose"
by .
Copyright © 1996 Anita Mills.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
