Shaun Randall sat on the rocker on the front porch and puffed on his pipe as he watched the sun come up over the foothills, wondering, as he often did these days, what he was going to do about Emma. Last week he had sent a couple of his men over to the fort to see if there was any word of Kaylee. When they returned without any news of her whereabouts, Emma had taken to her bed. Randy Harris had gone off half-cocked and joined the cavalry. Damfool kid! Probably get himself killed, Shaun thought. He shook his head. If Randy or Emma had told him about what was going on up at the line shack when they first found that damned redskin, Kaylee wouldn't be missing now.
There was no sense blaming the boy. Emma was just as guilty. No wonder she had taken to her bed. The burden of not knowing if her daughter was dead or alive, combined with her own guilt over what had happened, had finally taken its toll. Dammit, why hadn't they told him what was going on?
It made him sick in his gut when he thought about Kaylee being at the mercy of a bunch of heathen savages. Damned Indians. Nothing but trouble, that was for sure. They forced you into action, and then you wound up feeling bad about some of the actions you took. His conscience still bothered him whenever he thought about that Indian kid Jackson had finished off. Still, if Randy had done the same to that injured warrior who had kidnapped Kaylee, Kaylee would be home, Emma would be up and around, and his stomach wouldn't be twisted in knots.
With a sigh, he looked at the newspaper in his lap. Now this—a slaughter of soldiers by the damn Indians. The headline was almost two weeks old: CUSTER AND 210 MEN WIPED OUT AT THE LITTLE BIG HORN.
It had been a bitter day for the Custer family. Custer's brother, Boston, had also been killed, as had his nephew, Autie Reed. Mark Kellogg, a newspaper correspondent, and Charlie Reynolds, a well-known scout, were among the victims. The article gave a brief description of the battle, then went on to eulogize Custer.
"George Armstrong Custer was born in New Rumley, Ohio. After high school, he enrolled in West Point."
Shaun snorted softly. Custer had gone to West Point, all right—and graduated last in his class. A bunch of half-naked savages had outflanked and outmaneuvered him, and he'd lost his entire command.
''During the Civil War, Custer fought in the First Battle of Bull Run, and served with distinction in the Virginia and Gettysburg campaigns. His aggression in battle resulted in high casualties among his men; however, it also earned him the respect of his superiors."
Well, Shaun reflected, those same superiors ought to respect the hell out of Custer now—he'd lost all his men this time and his hair to boot. He read on.
"In 1866 Custer was appointed Lieutenant-colonel of the Seventh Cavalry."
A step down, Shaun mused, since he'd been a brevet general during the War. Maybe somebody in the War Department knew something after all. The next paragraph seemed to confirm it.
"The next year he campaigned against the Southern Cheyenne. Late in 1867 Custer was court-martialed for being absent from duty during the campaign. He was suspended from duty for one year; however, he was called back to duty by General Phil Sheridan in 1868."
Politics, Shaun figured. There were probably politics in the Army, too, "where he redeemed himself in the battle of the Washita.
"In 1873 Custer was sent to the Northern Plains. The following year he led an expedition into the Black Hills.
"Custer is survived by his wife, Elizabeth."
With a shake of his head, Shaun let the paper fall to the floor. Damned Indians, all they did was cause trouble and misery. To add insult to injury, just when everybody around here thought all the Indians were running from Crook, some damned redskins had come along last week and made off with a hundred head of his cattle and another two hundred of Garth Jackson's. Garth was out with his tough riders, scouring the countryside, looking for sign. Shouldn't be hard to cut a trail—three hundred cattle would cut a wide swath.
Shaun paused at that thought. The Indians didn't usually steal that many head at once. They lived from hand to mouth for the most part, stealing only enough to live on for a while, knowing they could always come back for more. Blasted redskins. They were acting like real rustlers this time.
He let the thought go because it wasn't the cattle that concerned him at the moment. He could afford to lose a hundred head. Hell, he could afford to lose a thousand. But his life wouldn't be worth living if Emma grieved herself to death over her lost daughter.
Rising, he smacked the flat of his hand against the porch rail. Where the hell was Kaylee? And what was he going to do about Emma?