John Welch glanced up to see the tall scout approaching the field clinic. He couldn’t help but think the man looked as much like a savage as those he hunted. John did not deny the need for Indian scouts but he had little use for white men who turned savage, as Jason Coles obviously had. If a man’s profession was to fight the Indian, then he should be wearing a uniform. There were plenty of real Indians to do the scouting. Deep down he harbored a real dislike for Jason Coles. Maybe it was because he was so cocksure of himself. Maybe it was his air of independence. John wasn’t sure. He just didn’t care for the man.
“Coles,” he acknowledged as the scout pushed the tent flap back and entered.
“Captain,” Jason returned.
“What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Miss Holder.”
“Oh?” John raised an eyebrow, wondering what concern it was of Jason’s.
“Yeah,” Jason continued, failing to notice the raised eyebrow. “I’m real concerned about her. I mean the way she’s taking this thing, moping around that tent all day. I’m afraid she’s going to get funny in the head about it if she doesn’t let it go.”
“How did you think she would react, being raped by a savage? I’d be surprised if she behaved any other way.”
Jason was impatient. “I know, I know, but ain’t there anything you can give her to ease her mind or something? Maybe you could spend some time with her…something.”
“I’ve already seen her. There’s nothing physically wrong with her. She’ll probably get over it in time and I’m pretty busy in the clinic right now.”
Jason looked around at the cots, which were empty except for one trooper in the corner. “Yeah, I can see that.” He wasn’t sure why he had bothered to come see the surgeon. He didn’t like the man and he liked him even less for his attitude toward Sarah since her return from captivity. He wished it wasn’t so but a big part of Sarah’s problem was the fact that Welch had avoided her like the plague since her tragedy. “You sure as hell had a lot more time for her before she got raped. I don’t reckon that had anything to do with it, did it?”
John recoiled from the comment. “What…?” he stammered. “I don’t think I like your impudence, Mr. Coles. My personal business is none of your concern. Now you can get the hell out of my clinic!”
Jason did not reply for a moment. He stared straight into John’s eyes, his contempt undisguised. “You sorry son of a bitch. I reckon she ain’t good enough for you now, is she?”
“Get out!” John shouted. When Jason did not move, he called for the orderly at the front of the tent. “Walters! Escort this man out of the clinic!”
Walters responded when ordered to but he didn’t exhibit a great deal of enthusiasm. He nervously measured the considerable bulk of Jason Coles with his eyes before glancing back at the mortified captain. Jason turned toward him.
“Don’t get excited, boy, I’m leaving.” He had no quarrel with the orderly but he was sort of hoping the doctor would try to physically remove him from the tent. He wondered how satisfying it would be to plant his fist in the middle of that pretty face.
Walters was visibly relieved as he stood aside and watched Jason exit the tent. Outside, Jason pulled his hat brim down against the glare of the afternoon sun and stood there a moment thinking about the confrontation with John Welch. He didn’t feel good about it. It bothered him to have angered the surgeon. He was a sorry son of a bitch as far as Jason was concerned and needed to be told so. No, he was angry that Sarah cared for the man and that his attention was really what she needed at that moment. And he was disgusted with the shallow young officer for turning his back on Sarah when she was in such desperate need of understanding from everyone who cared anything about her.
Across the hard-baked clay of the makeshift parade ground, Cora Kennedy paused to watch the figure just emerged from the clinic tent. She had heard the shouted order to “Get out!” and had stopped to see who had been ordered from the doctor’s tent. Seeing who it was, she somehow sensed what had caused the young surgeon’s ire to rise. She, too, was aware of the coolness that had followed John Welch’s call on Sarah when Jason brought her back into camp. For a man who was so passionately courting the young lady, he sure came up short when it really mattered. He had not been back to see Sarah since her tent had been moved next to Cora’s. It was not the child’s fault that she had been violated. It was not right to condemn her for it. Her opinion of John Welch had plummeted after that. She put aside her sewing and went to see how the girl was doing.
* * *
Long Foot squatted low on his haunches and studied the faint hoofprint only partially visible on the grassy bank of the trickle of water that etched a line down the length of the ravine. He said nothing for a long time, continuing to stare at the print as if trying to read into it. Finally he stood up and called out to Jason, who was further down the stream searching the bank for sign. “Here.”
Jason came back to him immediately. “Where?”
“Here,” Long Foot repeated, pointing to the faint markings in the grass.
As Long Foot had done, Jason squatted to examine the print. After a moment, he said simply, “Stone Hand.”
“Damn right,” Long Foot replied. “Long Foot damn good scout.”
He was a good scout all right. Jason couldn’t deny that because that one faint print seemed almost impossible to find. Long Foot was damn good…or lucky. Either way they had something to go on when it seemed they were going to have to give up on a trail they had followed for half a day. It had not been an easy trail, Stone Hand’s trail never was. Jason suspected the renegade had not given any thought to the notion that he was being trailed. Still his trail was hard to follow because of his natural instinct to be evasive in all his comings and goings. For that reason one could never assume a destination simply because the tracks were leading in a certain direction. With Stone Hand, they were sure to change directions several times before finally leading to an end. There was no guarantee it was Stone Hand they were trailing but the attack on the stagecoach looked to be his work. There had been no survivors among the three passengers, the driver, and the guard. And the guard, his body mutilated, was missing his left eyebrow. If it wasn’t Stone Hand, someone was using his signature.
“My guess is he’s heading for that Commanche camp to trade whatever he got off the stage.” He glanced at Long Foot for confirmation and received an affirmative nod of the head. “According to them Pawnee scouts of Colonel Holder’s, that bunch of Commanches moved north to the fork of the Washita after the colonel raided their camp.”
“Damn right, maybe,” Long Foot solemnly agreed.
They mounted and rode off in the direction indicated by the print even though it led away from the fork of the Washita. After another change in direction back to the north, the trail petered out and once again the illusive Stone Hand seemed to have vanished.
“Shit!” Jason exclaimed in disgust after searching the grassy hillside for some sign. “This ain’t getting us nowhere.” He jerked Birdie’s head around to the north. “The bastard is more’n likely heading to the Commanche camp. We’re just wasting time here.” Long Foot followed as he galloped off toward the fork of the Washita.
They found the camp right where the Pawnee scouts had said it would be. The colonel’s raid had reduced the number of tipis to about twelve, still too many for Jason and Long Foot to ride into. So they hid their horses and crawled up to a place behind a couple of fallen trees and watched the camp for some sign of Stone Hand.
After a few hours, night began to descend upon the camp. Still there was no sign of the Cheyenne renegade. Finally, after the cookfires were dying out, Jason gave up the vigilance. He had guessed wrong, he figured. There was nothing left to them but to return to Camp Supply and wait for another lead.
* * *
It was the middle of the afternoon when Jason and Long Foot crossed the creek and skirted the willows where Sarah and John Welch had spread out their picnic blanket. Jason only glanced at the spot as he let Birdie pause for a drink before riding into the camp. Long Foot split off and made straight for his tent while Jason went to report to the colonel.
“Hello, Jason.”
“Max.” Jason returned the sergeant major’s greeting. “Is the colonel here?”
“Nope. He’s over at the agency. Any luck tracking that renegade?”
Jason slowly shook his head. “Hell no. I thought we were on to his trail, followed it all the way to the fork of the Washita. Nothing. He just seems to vanish. I wish to hell I could tell you I knew where to look for him but I ain’t got the slightest notion. Nothing to do but wait till he strikes again, slaughters some other poor farmer or stage driver.”
“At least he’s operating further away from here. Maybe he’s not as bold as he used to be. Might be that he’s decided it’s healthier to stay away from Supply.”
“I doubt it, Max. I think he’s just biding his time. He ain’t about to quit until he’s had his revenge.”
The sergeant major shook his head, his face reflecting the concern he felt inside. “Yeah, I reckon. Damn, I wish he’d stay away from here. Sarah’s been getting better every day. At least she’s getting outside the tent a little bit now. And she don’t hang on Cora’s apron strings like she was.”
The thought of Sarah beginning to show signs of pulling out of the melancholy that had all but consumed her was good news to Jason. “I reckon I’ll drop in to see how she’s getting along.”
“She’ll be glad to see you. I believe she thinks a lot of you. At least she talks about you a helluva lot.”
Jason didn’t visibly react to Kennedy’s comment but inside he could feel his heart skip a beat at the mere suggestion that she gave him more than a passing thought. He forced himself to linger awhile longer talking to Max before taking his leave and making his way toward Sarah’s tent. If he had chanced to look back at the sergeant major when he walked away, he might have been embarrassed to see the broad smile on Kennedy’s weathered face.
* * *
He tapped gently on the tent pole and waited. After a few moments, Sarah was in the doorway. She smiled when she saw the tall scout standing there. “Well, Mr. Coles,” she greeted him, her voice cheerful, with no trace of the melancholy that had burdened her the last time they had talked.
Jason was pleasantly surprised. “Well now,” he started. “Ain’t you as pretty as a prairie flower this afternoon.”
“Thank you, sir.” She smiled sweetly for his benefit. “I missed you.”
“Well, I’m mighty glad to see you’ve perked up some. When I left I wondered if you were ever going to be yourself again.”
“I decided what’s done is done. I can’t live the rest of my life being afraid to come out of this tent.”
“Good for you.” He reached out and patted her hand.
“Daddy said there was no reason to believe that monster is anywhere within fifty miles of here. It’s been almost a month and none of the scouts have heard any word of him. I think he’s not fool enough to remain this close to the regiment anyway, don’t you?”
“Probably not,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her that he and Long Foot were pretty sure they had been on the renegade’s trail only two days’ ride from the camp. There was no need to put any fearful thoughts in her head. The colonel could be right and the Indian could be headed out of the territory. But Jason wouldn’t bet on it.
“So I’ve decided to leave for Fort Cobb in three weeks’ time to arrange for transportation back home,” she said.
“I reckon that is the best thing for you, to go on back East to where your friends are and where you don’t have to sleep in a tent.” He turned to leave but took only a couple of steps before turning around to face her again. “I’m going to be gone for about a week, I reckon. I should be back before you leave.”
She stood up and offered her hand. “Take care of yourself, Jason Coles.”