The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley
Brian pronounced, joining the women, oblivious to his wife’s concern. Plopping down on the quilt, he surveyed the picnic lunch with pleasure. “Pass the pickles, please.”
A dozen muted conversations went on as the families and friends of the officers dined. All discussion ceased abruptly, however, when a raucous clamor reached their ears.
“Look out, boys, here we come!” A dray, overflowing with garishly dressed females, rounded the curve from town in a cloud of dust. Squealing and laughing, the women clung to the sides of the wagon as it bounced behind a galloping team.
“Oh,” Flora breathed in awe, her face turned toward the spectacle, “a whole covey of soiled doves.”
“Flora!” Francis sputtered disapprovingly.
Brian chided mildly, “An officer’s lady is not supposed to know about those women.”
“But we do.” Flora grinned without a hint of remorse. “Don’t we, Rebecca?”
“They are rather hard to miss,” the widow agreed wryly.
“This is no subject…or sight…for ladies,” Francis cut in, stroking his moustache in vexation. “What are they doing here?”
“The colonel did invite the whole town,” Rebecca reminded him, her eyes on the wagon circling the parade ground. Its occupants leaned out, blowing kisses to the men in the crowd.
“Sorry we’re late,” a buxom redhead blared from the front seat, “but Nell couldn’t find her petticoat.”
“This is intolerable.” The adjutant shot a dark look toward his commanding officer, who watched the new arrivals impassively.
“There’s no reason for the Old Man to expel them unless they misbehave, Francis,” Brian argued sensibly. “If they observe post regulations, they can stay, regardless of who or what they are.”
“And the enlisted men will have someone to dance with tonight besides the washerwomen,” Flora teased him.
“Not that there’s a good deal of difference—” Francis’s retort was cut off by the blaring voice.
“Look, it’s Injun Jack! Howdy, Jack, save me a dance tonight.”
Against her will, Rebecca glanced toward the cottonwood tree. In its shade, the scout waved his hat at the red-haired woman.
“More cake, Francis?” she asked, turning her back on the scene.
Brian drowsed after lunch, his head in Flora’s lap, as Rebecca and Francis watched a group of men grease an unused flagpole near the guardhouse. Nearby, others marked the field for the afternoon’s events. From its starting point at the flagstaff, the racecourse ran straight past the tamarack and onto the brown, limitless prairie.
“Though I’ll officiate most of the afternoon, I plan to compete in the horse race,” Francis announced. “It’s the biggest event of the day.”
“You’ll be up against some stiff competition,” Brian murmured lazily, “Graham from the Tenth and Smith from my company.”
“I’m not worried.” Leaning to peer over Rebecca’s shoulder, Francis put his head so near hers that his moustache tickled her cheek. Squinting into the distance, he pointed. “See those stakes out there? We’ll ride straight out to the first one, loop around past the second and third, then come back.”
“What is the prize?” she asked, listing away from his closeness.
He sat back with a rueful smile. “A smoked ham and the thrill of winning. People will talk about this race for months to come. Betting is already quite heavy…unofficially, of course.”
“It’ll get heavier if Injun Jack races,” Brian contributed. “His Ol’ Jo is fast.”
“Not any faster than Clipper, my gray,” Francis argued.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention!” Sergeant-Major Flynn bellowed from the racecourse, “Colonel Quiller orders the commencement of Fort Chamberlain’s third annual Independence Day Games. The sack race begins in five minutes. Officials to your posts, please. Contestants to the starting line.”
“Duty calls,” Francis sighed. Getting up, he nudged Brian with his toe. “Take care of Becky while I’m gone.”
“She couldn’t be safer,” the captain answered without opening his eyes.
After a moment, he roused himself to walk the women to the sidelines where they watched an uproarious military tug-of-war between infantry and cavalry. When it ended, the victors, flushed with exertion and pride, assembled at the flagstaff where Amy Little stood.
Gesturing to a crock on the table beside her, the girl intoned in her best finishing school voice, “It is my great pleasure to present this prize, a gallon of maple syrup all the way from Vermont, to the Infantry Team.”
“Dios.” Under the cottonwood, Diego Dominguez y Garcia turned to his fellow scouts. “This Senorita Little is beautiful, st?”
“Don’t hurt my eyes to look at ‘er,” Solemn Longfellow allowed.
“What do you think, Injun Jack? She is not muy bonita?”
“She’ll do,” Jack replied absently, his eyes on a petite, blackclad figure near the flagstaff.
“But you have another woman in your heart?” the Mexican guessed. “Yo, también. I stray, but I always return to my wife.”
Jack did not bother to argue. “You’re going to stray once too often,” he warned, “and Antelope won’t let you back in the lodge.”
“Sí, even Kickapoo women can be unreasonable sometimes,” Diego sighed. But his swarthy face brightened when he saw the contestants gathering around the greased pole. “Let us not talk of women now, amigos. Can I interest you in a small wager?”
“Dominguez, I think you’d rather gamble than eat,” Solemn offered with rare insight.
“But when I win, amigo, I eat very well.” The Mexican chuckled. “Too bad Malachi could not endure the crowd. If he had not gone, he could buy my dinner tonight.” His dark eyes lit on a pair of Negro soldiers nearby. “Buenas tardes,” he called, “are you betting men?”
Shaking his head, Jack watched the face beneath the absurd pink parasol. Rebecca’s sparkling eyes were on the action at the greased pole and her dimples flashed with her smile.
He imagined that smile turned upon him, warming him. He imagined—What the devil was he doing? he asked himself abruptly, shoving the daydream from his mind. He barely knew Rebecca Emerson. And he would do well to stay away from her. He had no room for a woman in his life…not even a pretty little widow who would be leaving soon. The army would never let her stay.
“I tell you, hombre, this race will be no race at all if this man enters,” Diego was gesturing toward him when Jack looked around. “Injun Jack, he owns the fastest horse in Kansas, perhaps in the West. Es verdad?”
“It’s true,” Solemn confirmed.
“Couldn’t be any faster Cap’n Graham’s,” the tall Negro soldier disagreed politely. “That horse is pure lightnin’.”
“Only the cap’n can handle him,” the short one contributed.
“’Course he’s quite a rider,” the first man bragged.
“I have great respect for Capitán Graham and his famous Buffalo Soldiers,” Diego flattered his victims, “but I still would wager he cannot win against Injun Jack.”
“You got yourself a bet.” The tall Negro dug in his pocket. “I got a half eagle that says Cap’n Graham wins that smoked ham.”
“Saddle up, mi compadre,”