The Scout's Bride

“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,” Diego entreated, “and we will eat well tonight.”

“You’ll win enough to buy your dinner,” Jack countered as he headed toward the stable. “I’m keeping the prize.”

Diego shrugged carelessly and called, “Do I have any other takers? I say Injun Jack will win by a length.”

Anticipation was high among the crowd milling at the edges of the racecourse. Flora bounced on her toes when the first competitors emerged from the corral. “Look, they’re coming,” she cried. “I see Francis.”

The yellow plume of his hat bobbing bravely, the adjutant nodded at his friends and guided his gray to the starting line.

“So that’s Boston Clipper,” Rebecca murmured. The horse tossed its head and pranced, seemingly aware of the crowd’s admiration. “He’s magnificent.”

“But what an adjutant needs with such a steed is beyond me,” Doc blustered from nearby, pushing his way toward them. “Good afternoon, young people,” he greeted them. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his brow. “It’s hotter than blue blazes out here, but I couldn’t miss the race. Might I interest you in a small wager, Captain Mackey?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll bet a double eagle that Injun Jack’s gelding leaves his opponents in the dust.”

“Injun Jack is racing? No, thank you, sir,” Brian refused.

“You can’t blame me for trying,” Doc grumbled with a twinkle in his eye. “I backed a loser in the footrace and was ignobly defeated in chess. I wanted one success before the day is over.”

“Is that Ol’ Jo that everybody talks about?” Flora’s face fell when she saw Injun Jack’s roan. “He looks so… ordinary.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Rebecca counseled, studying the horse with a farmer’s eye. “He might run like the wind.”

“Maybe,” Flora murmured dubiously.

Taking his place among the racers, Jack fought the urge to look at Rebecca while he waited for the starting gun. Instead, he tightened his hat cord under his chin, wrapped his reins around his good arm and studiously ignored Derward Anderson sketching nearby.

When the shot sounded, seventeen horses burst down the straightaway, their hooves casting divots of sod behind them. The spectators cheered as Francis and Captain Graham vied at once for the lead, running neck and neck. Company C’s entrant, Smith, was third, trailing them by a length, with Injun Jack close behind.

“Don’t let him catch you, Smitty,” Brian urged as Jack closed the gap between them.

“Come on, Injun Jack!” Doc bawled in encouragement when the scout eased into third place, just past the first stake.

“Come on, Jo, come on,” Rebecca chanted as he overtook Captain Graham and rounded the second stake, gaining on Francis.

Hunched forward, Jack seemed to be talking to his mount. In a blinding burst of speed, Jo passed Clipper and rounded the last stake.

As the horses galloped along homestretch, Injun Jack was a wild sight, leaning low in the saddle, his long black hair streaming out behind him. Tied on, his hat stayed on his head, but the brim was bent back by the wind. His expression on his sun-bronzed face was exuberant as he thundered over the finish line ahead of Francis. Straightening his legs, he stood in the stirrups, threw back his head and emitted a shout, half war whoop and half Rebel yell.