The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley

Note

      In the latter half of the nineteenth century, the government of the United States built a string of forts across the frontier.

      

      Fort Chamberlain could have been one of them.

       Chapter One

      Arid and constant, the wind swept in from the prairie. It whistled between the buildings of Fort Chamberlain, snatching the tune from the instruments of the regimental band, nearly drowning out the clatter of the returning cavalry. Gusts raised dust devils and snapped the tattered flag, but did little to cool the sweltering afternoon.

      At the flagstaff, trail-dusty soldiers halted and presented themselves to the garrison commander while onlookers cheered. On the verandas of Officers’ Row, women and children gathered to scan the forward ranks for beloved faces.

      The blackclad widow who watched the company’s arrival from the edge of the parade ground did not linger to see its dismissal. Though glad for the joyful reunions that would follow, she could not bear to watch them. Squaring her slender shoulders, Rebecca Hope Emerson walked briskly toward the post hospital.

      Three wagons had drawn up in front of the infirmary. Nurses, all enlisted men, poured out to assist the walking wounded while litter bearers moved among the wagons. The shouting and activity unsettled the teams, causing the mules to lurch in their traces and bray loudly, adding to the pandemonium.

      Through swirling dust, Rebecca saw Doc Trotter, the civilian contract surgeon, in one of the open wagons, directing the bearers.

      “Westfield, Farina, step to it! And be gentle,” he bellowed at two “mill birds” or guardhouse prisoners, who had been drafted into hospital duty. “These are wounded men, not sacks of potatoes.”

      Catching sight of Rebecca, he boomed, “Here you are again, my stouthearted little friend.”

      “You know I’m glad to help.” She halted beside the wagon. “What happened?”

      “Company C got to a grading site the same time as a Cheyenne war party.” Doc’s attention was fixed on a wounded soldier. “They’ve brought us six of our own boys and three civilians. Will you prepare the operating room?”

      “Right away,” she promised, already halfway up the steps.

      In the foyer, Rebecca paused just long enough to plait her wind-tumbled hair into a neat braid. Plucking a Medical Corps apron from a peg on the wall, she donned it while her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the ward. Two rows of cots lined opposite walls along the length of the narrow room. Several patients watched as a nurse made up the unoccupied bunks. Another nurse emerged from the storeroom, laden with clean undergarments for the newcomers.

      Sergeant Unger, the hospital steward, stood at the dispensing table in the center of the ward. With elaborate care, he measured a dose of quinine into a tin cup and filled it with whiskey, mixing “Army Elixir,” the military cure for pain, fever, sleeplessness or ill humors. He nodded when he saw the widow in the doorway. Though the hospital was no place for a lady, he welcomed her presence today.

      In the operating room, Rebecca removed the sheets from the two tables in its center. Though she had prepared the room several times, she could hardly bear to look at the larger table, gouged and scratched, stained with blood that could not be scrubbed away.

      She mustn’t dwell on what would happen here, she admonished herself. If surgery must be performed, it must be done. Even an amputation. It would, however, be done in the cleanest possible conditions. She would see to that.

      Waiting for boiling water from the kitchen, she filled the lanterns and trimmed the wicks. She saw there was a pitcher of clean water on the washstand, then reluctantly gathered the surgical tools from the cabinet: scalpel, lancet, saw, even a small hammer and chisel.

      When a nurse delivered a steaming kettle, Rebecca placed the instruments in a deep pan and poured scalding water over them. While they soaked, she scoured the tables with hard, yellow, army-issue soap, sluicing the excess water onto the floor. The puddles evaporated almost immediately in the dry heat.

      Alert for the sound of approaching footsteps, she put out needles, catgut, gauze and a bottle of chloroform. She was fishing Doc’s instruments out of the hot water when he arrived just ahead of the stretcher bearing the wounded man.

      “Ah, Rebecca-Perfecta,” he teased her from habit, “you’ve done well, as usual. Thank you, my dear. We’ll handle it from here. Administer the anesthetic, Corporal,” he directed the nurse accompanying him and selected a saw from his instruments.

      “I’ll see if Sergeant Unger needs me,” Rebecca blurted. And, though she prided herself on her composure, she fled.

      No sooner had she stepped out of the operating room than the mill birds reeled past her. Propelled by a mighty shove, they fell in a tangled heap at her feet.

      “Move, damn it!” A furious voice reverberated in the foyer.

      Whirling, she glimpsed a brawny back covered by dusty buckskin. One hand steadied the burden over his muscular shoulder as the interloper rounded the corner into the ward. Beneath a beaten wide-brimmed hat, his thick black hair streamed to his shoulders.

      An Indian! Rebecca’s heart pounded. Then she forced herself to relax. He was probably one of the scouts, a friend rather than a foe. Her tolerance ended, however, when she saw what he carried: the limp form of a soldier, hardly more than a boy.

      “What in heaven’s name?” she muttered, about to follow.

      “Wait, Mrs. Emerson.” Scampering to his feet, Westfield blocked her path. “You oughtn’t go after ‘im.”

      “Who is that?” She stared indignantly at the broad back.

      “Injun Jack.” His eyes darting toward the ward, the English private implored, “Stay back, ma’am. You’ll pardon my bluntness, but I’ve ‘eard ‘e would just as soon split you from gizzard to gullet as to look at you.”

      “Sì,” Farina concurred from the floor. “He’s a good scout, but bad when he’s ubriaco... drunk.”

      “He doesn’t look intoxicated.” Moving to the doorway, she observed as the man traversed the room on silent moccasined feet.

      “Well, ‘e smells like a distillery,” Westfield insisted as Injun Jack laid the wounded soldier on a bed and hunched down beside him. A few beds away, Sergeant Unger glanced up, but made no move to stop him.

      “If nobody’s going to do nuffin’—” Westfield hitched his trousers around his waist “—we’ll ‘ave to see to this wild man.”

      “Peste,” Farina mumbled, but he got to his feet.

      Trailing them into the ward, Rebecca positioned herself at the dispensing table, at a prudent distance from the big Indian.

      Also loath to approach closely, Westfield hailed him from ten feet away, “Afternoon, Injun Jack. We’ve come to tend the private.”

      “No!” Loosening the unconscious man’s clothing, the scout did not look up.

      “You’ve no right ‘ere,” the mill bird went on with surprising temerity. “Tendin’ the sick is our job.”

      “Sì, our job today,” Farina corroborated from behind him.

      When Injun Jack did not answer, Westfield advanced a foot or two. “Some clean clothes and a little whiskey, yer friend’ll be ‘alfway to recovery.” Cautiously, he took another step. “Just let us get to ‘im.”

      “I said, no!” Spinning on lithe legs, the man rose to a wary, menacing crouch. His hair flailed across his face, obscuring his furious features, but the knife in his hand was plain to see. One instant,