The Crossed Sabres (31 page)

“Like me to run out there, Nick?”

“Hate to ask you, Tom, but I got a sick child, and—”

“No problem. Maybe we could put a load of split wood on your wagon.”

“Say, that’s a good idea! I’ll run get some fellas to help me load the wagon—”

“Daddy, can I go with you?” Laurie asked as Owens hurried away.

“No, not this time.” He picked her up and gave her a resounding kiss on the cheek, then put her down and turned to Eileen. “Can you keep her tonight?”

“Yes, Tom. Will you be back tonight?”

“Well, I doubt it. By the time I get there and have the wood unloaded, it’ll be pretty late. I’ll probably stay over and come back tomorrow.”

Something in his reply seemed to disturb Eileen, Dutton noticed. He waited until Winslow was gone and Laurie moved away to talk to one of her schoolmates. “What’s wrong, Eileen?”

She started at his abrupt question, then shrugged. “Well, it seems a little . . .imprudent. The two of them all alone out there.”

Dutton studied Eileen so directly that she flushed. “I suppose I shouldn’t think such things, should I?”

“You’re jealous of the preacher lady.”

Eileen blinked, and though she kept her voice down, there was anger in it. “Jealous! Don’t be silly, Larry!”

Dutton shrugged, knowing that he was making her angry, but there was a streak of perversity in the red-haired schoolmaster. He had watched Winslow and Eileen together ever since his recovery and had said nothing, but now he spoke out. “If you weren’t jealous of her, Eileen, you wouldn’t be so upset at the mention of it.”

His logic caught her, and she dropped her eyes. Finally she
lifted them and said quietly, “You have sharp eyes, Larry. I didn’t think I was quite so transparent.”

“Be strange if you weren’t drawn to him,” Dutton said. He made an unimpressive figure as he stood before her, his slight figure upright and his face almost boyish. “He’s a man women admire—and you’ve been lonely.”

Eileen looked at him with a new interest. “Well, what do you think, Mr. Lawyer? Do I have a chance with him?”

“Sure you do,” Dutton nodded instantly. “The question is—do you really
want
him, Eileen?” His lips drew firm, and he shook his head, saying, “You get all tense every time he goes out on patrol. And you’ve told me what a misery it was for you when your husband went out. I admire Tom as much as I admire any man—but I don’t think he can make you happy as long as he’s in the army.”

“He’s a very talented man,” Eileen answered quickly. “He could have a career outside the army.”

“Maybe—but I don’t think he wants that,” Dutton said. “We’ve talked a lot, Tom and I, and from what I hear, he’s got no plans to leave the army. He’ll get a commission when the campaign is over. Custer’s promised that to him.”

Eileen was defensive and asked rather sharply, “I thought Tom was your friend, Larry. Why are you talking against him?”

Dutton looked down, considered his reply, then made it, looking up to meet her gaze. “He’s my friend, but I’m convinced he’d make you unhappy. You might talk him into leaving the army, but that would make him unhappy. But there’s one more thing . . .”

“Yes? What is it?” Eileen asked when he hesitated.

He smiled crookedly at her, but said evenly, “He’s not the only man in the world, Eileen. I’m here.”

Eileen gave him a startled glance, taken off guard. But then she thought of his attention toward her since she’d nursed him and recalled that the possibility of his saying something like this had flashed through her mind more than once.

“Took you a little while to get around to that, didn’t it, Larry?” she said gently. Then she added, “Come along, let’s take Laurie and go home.”

He took her arm and said, “Maybe we can talk later.”

She smiled. “You lawyers . . .I’m afraid of you! You just come and make the popcorn for Laurie and me.” They collected Laurie and left the building, each of them holding one of her small hands.

****

The blizzard caught Winslow only a mile from the mission. At five he could see the building, but ten minutes later the light failed. A sound like the trembling echo of a distant train came to him, and he whipped up the horses in an attempt to outride the storm. But ten minutes later he knew he had lost the race, and pulled the team to a walk.

A gray wall moved toward him, awesome and frightening. Nothing could stand before it, and then he felt the first snowflakes. Almost at once the full pressure of the blizzard was on him, the winds tossing the wagon from side to side, howling like a demented spirit.

There was nothing to follow, for the snow blotted out the road instantly, and there were no telegraph poles or rails to follow. His only hope was to keep the team aimed as straight as possible toward the mission, for if he missed the buildings and headed into the rangeland, he would be dead before morning.

The wind rocked the wagon and the team fought him. There was no time in the midst of that vortex—just blind power of wind and cold. The horses stopped, and when he lashed out with the reins, he realized his movements were as slow as if he were under water. The bitter cold had begun to paralyze his mind, and a sense of danger shot through him. He stamped his feet on the floor of the wagon, but felt little. Then he yelled into the wind and stretched his arms, moving very slowly.

The team plodded ahead, shoved by the wind, and when Winslow realized that he was freezing, he stepped out of the wagon. There was only faint sensation in his feet as he walked to the head of the team to lead it. By now the sound seemed muffled and farther away.

Walking warmed him somewhat, but the cold was slowly sucking the vitality out of him. Once he thought of leaving the team, but shook that idea out of his mind. He pounded his face with his hands, and then stamped his feet. He was losing his senses, for the sound of the wind faded, though he knew from the whipping of the snow around him that it was as potent as ever.

It became a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, each step a conscious decision. An insidious warmth seeped through his legs, and he knew he had little time.

Ten more steps—and his head struck something unyielding, the force of it knocking him to the ground. Brilliant lights shot across his vision, and when he tried to get up, he failed. The wind seemed to die down to a muted moan, and the warmth began to flood his entire body.

With a start, he jerked himself to his knees, then struggled to his feet. He put his hand out, now almost numb, touched a post, then ran his hand up and felt a cross piece. His fuzzy brain barely comprehended the thought:
Why, this is the sign on the road in front of the mission!

Turning at right angles, he drove himself forward, pulling the reins on the horses after him. Five minutes later he ran into the side of the barn. To his right, he saw a faint gleam and knew it came from Faith’s house. Staggering like a drunken man, he made his way to the front of the barn, managed to unbolt the doors, and with what was left of his strength, pulled them open, led the team inside, then closed the doors.

His face was stiff with ice and his hands were numb, but he knew better than to rest. Unhitching the team took half an hour, but by that time the relative warmth of the barn had restored some of his sensations. He remained there, slapping
his arms against his sides and stamping his feet until he could feel needles of pain, then opened the door and made for the house.

When he hit the porch, he fell, and the door swung open, shedding yellow light. “Tom!” a voice said, and he felt Faith’s hands pulling at him. “Get up . . .help me. You can’t stay out here!”

He pulled himself up with her help, and she half shoved him through the door, kicking it shut behind her. He heard the sound of the door slam, but it was muffled and faint. The warmth of the room was like a drug, and he shuffled toward a divan and fell sprawling into it, his feet on the floor.

He never knew when she picked them up and put them on the divan, for despite his determination to stay awake, he slipped into sleep, falling helplessly into the blackness as a man might plunge into a dark hole.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“He’ll Never Change!”

A sharp stinging sensation in his feet awoke Winslow, and he opened his eyes to find Faith sitting in a chair beside him. He turned his head to look out the window and saw that the storm had spent itself, or so it seemed. It was quiet, the keening of the wind had ceased, and he could hear the faint crackling of wood burning in the potbellied stove across the room.

“How do you feel?” Faith leaned forward anxiously.

“Feet are tingling,” Winslow said. He lifted himself, swung his feet to the floor, and flexed his hands, which were also prickling as if thousands of small insects were biting him. He tried to smile but his lips cracked. “A couple hours of sleep made a difference.”

“Almost eight hours,” she said. “It’s six in the morning.”

He stared at her, then shook his head. “Cut it pretty fine, I guess. Can I have some of that coffee?” He stood to his feet, feeling strangely light-headed, but was relieved that it was no worse. She brought him a mug of steaming black coffee, and he drank it slowly, savoring the sensation.

“What brought you out here, Tom?” she asked.

He drained the cup and handed it back to her. “Didn’t like the thought of your being alone in the middle of a blizzard. If you don’t know those storms, they’re dangerous.” He grimaced and flexed his fingers, adding, “Even if you do know them, they can get you.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” she said quietly. “I would
have been all right, I think—but it was kind of you.” She seemed strained and nervous. Something was on her mind, something she wanted to say but was holding back. He had never seen her like that. He waited for her to speak, but when she did, it was an abrupt, “I’ll fix breakfast.”

“Got a load of wood for you—from Nick Owens,” he said. “I’ll unload it after breakfast.”

She suddenly lifted her head and turned toward the door, for the sound of steps on the porch came clearly.

“Somebody’s out in bad weather,” Winslow murmured in surprise. He thought perhaps one of the Indians might have dropped by, but the door swung open, and there stood Spence Grayson!

Grayson was wearing a pair of heavy mittens and a thick buffalo overcoat, and carried a load of wood in his arms. At the sight of Winslow, he shot a steely look at him before crossing the room to dump the wood into the woodbox beside the stove.

Instantly, tension filled the cabin like electricity, and Faith said quickly, “Tom, the storm caught Spence. He dropped by yesterday afternoon and by the time he was to start back, the blizzard hit.”

A strange mixture of emotions surged through Winslow—his close brush with death, his struggle to stay alive, his intense hatred toward Grayson. Away from the routine responsibilities of life at the fort, yesterday’s battle with death had brought to the surface feelings held in check for years. The raw wound lay exposed and demanded revenge.

Life as a soldier seemed a million miles away, and of no importance. The sight of Grayson’s handsome face as he stood across the room unleashed the bitterness and a gush of black anger that Winslow could no more control than he could have controlled the storm that had almost killed him. Grayson was watching him with an alert expression, his eyes glinting with hatred.

“Up to your old tricks with women, Grayson?” Tom asked softly, deceptively.

“Tom—I told you how it was,” Faith broke in. “He was caught in the storm just as you were.”

“Sure. He’s always got a reason for what he does to people.”

Grayson glared at Winslow. Ever since Winslow had come to his rescue from the Sioux, the dislike in him had grown, and now he said, “Get out of here, Sergeant. You can make it back to the fort. The blizzard’s over.”

Winslow was poised to move toward the officer. Grayson knew it and pulled his revolver, warning, “Don’t make that mistake, Winslow. You know I’d be justified by any court if you attacked me and I shot you. Get out!”

Winslow stared at him, then nodded. “I’ll dump the wood,” he said tonelessly.

When he left the room, Faith said, “I think both of you are fools!”

“You’re probably right,” Grayson nodded. He put his revolver away and went to the window to watch Winslow as he unloaded the wagon.

Faith was shaken by the confrontation and started making breakfast mostly to have something to do. When it was ready she put a plate on the table, saying, “Here’s your breakfast, Spence. I’ll take the sergeant’s out to him.” She was fixing a plate when the door opened and Winslow entered.

“I’ve got something cooked,” she said, holding out the plate.

“Thanks.” Winslow stepped forward to get it and moved slightly behind where the officer was sitting. Instead of taking the plate, he moved swiftly, throwing one arm around Grayson and plucking the revolver from his holster. Then he stepped back as Grayson scrambled to his feet.

Grayson’s face was livid with anger. “I’ll have you court-martialled for this, Winslow!” he cried out.

Winslow stared at him, then tossed the revolver across the room. It hit the wall, bounced to the floor, and Grayson dived
for it. He fumbled at the weapon, got a grasp on it, then swung around, his eyes wild with hatred. Faith cried out, “Don’t Spence—!” But just as the officer turned, Winslow—who had expected exactly this and had come closer—struck Grayson a sledging blow on the cheek.

Involuntarily, Grayson squeezed the trigger, the explosion filled the room, the bullet smashing against the front wall of the kitchen. The force of the blow drove him backward, and Winslow followed at once, grabbing for the gun. He caught it, wrenched it away from Grayson and walked to the door. Opening it, he tossed it outside, then turned and advanced on the officer with his face cold, his eyes glittering.

“I’ll have you shot!” Grayson yelled, fury welling up in him, and then he ran toward Winslow, striking out with a wild right hand. The blow caught Winslow on the chest, forcing him backward a step; but as Grayson lunged at him, he planted his feet and drove a powerful right hand into Grayson’s face. The force snapped the head of the officer backward and dulled his senses. He fell forward, grappling with Winslow, and the two careened around the small kitchen, crashing the table to the floor. They rolled around, punching each other with short, vicious blows. Then Grayson pulled his feet up and drove Winslow away with a powerful kick that caught Winslow in the side.