3

"Dear thoughts are in my mind, and my soul soars enchanted,
As I hear the sweet lark sing in the clear air of the day.
For a tender, beaming smile to my hope has been granted,
And tomorrow she shall hear all my fond heart would say.

—The Lark in the Clear Air, Samuel Ferguson

Laura blinked, surprised, and glanced down to compose herself.  By the time she looked up again, smiling, Captain O'Brien was at the parlor door.

"Captain?"

If he'd heard, he did not heed her, for he passed from the room and in two long strides crossed the foyer.  Laura rose and hurried after him, but reached the breezeway only in time to see him driving one of the wagons away up the street.  His men, standing about the placita, stared after him.  Mr. Shaunessy, who had been in the act of backing the second wagon out of the gate,  leapt onto the box and took up the reins. 

"Come on, lads," he shouted, hauling on the leaders, who snorted and backed into the street, then surged forward.  The placita burst into motion, and in a whirlwind moment the Colorado men were mounted and gone. Stunned, Laura walked to the gate and watched them disappear into the plaza.  Mrs. Canby came toward her across the placita, one of last fall's apples in her hand.

"What happened?"

Laura turned dazed eyes toward her.  "I'm not quite sure."

Fool.  Oaf.  Thón.

O'Brien heard hoofbeats overtaking the rattle of Shaunessy's wagon behind him, and glanced over his shoulder.  He half expected it to be Rebel guards following, but it was his own men.

No turning back.  Inisg.

He went too fast through the stream; the mules' hooves skittered.  He reined them in a bit.

No good to turn back anyway.  He must have ruined whatever credit he'd had with her, shouting it at her like an order.  An Diabhul, but he was the greatest fool in creation!

He kept up the pace until they were out of the town, then slowed the mules to a trot.  He couldn't drive them so, even with the wagons empty.  No use taking it out on them, poor brutes.

He stared straight ahead, for he wanted no conversation.  The men had the wisdom to ask him no questions.  He could feel his face burning.  He was made for a soldier, sure, and not for a ladies' man.  Well, no matter.  This would make it all the easier for her to forget about him.

He never stopped until they were back at Pigeon's Ranch.  He'd have liked to drive past it, but the beasts were weary and needed water.  He pulled up by the well, and for once left the work to his men, jumping down from the box and striding across the road, past the ranch house and corrals, to where a scrabble of rock went straight up to the clifftop.  He wanted to speak to no one, and no one to speak to him.

The smell of melting snow and wet pine greeted him atop the hill.  The ground was rocky and scattered with minié balls and buckshot, and the tree trunks were scarred and riddled.  The fighting must have been bad up here.  There'd been a number of bodies to haul down, he remembered, though others had done most of the work before he'd arrived with the burial detail. 

He stalked deeper into the twilit woods, wanting silence and solitude.  Tall trees, mostly pines, made him think of Avery town and the mine he'd given up back in Colorado.  He came across one great fallen trunk, roots frozen into claws grasping at the air.  He sat down upon it, and buried his face in his hands.

It was a sickness, love.  It stole a man's strength and his sanity.  He'd heard a thousand tales to prove it, but he'd never been stricken himself, until now.  Or not since he was a callow lad, chasing after the village girls in Racecourse, but that was nothing like this.  Nothing at all like it.  He had wanted Miss Howland with all his soul from the moment he saw her, and the only thing that had changed since then was that now he wanted her forever.

Well, you can't have her, man.

He'd behaved like a great, bloody idiot, and she'd looked away only because she was too kind to laugh in his face.  The memory burned; her hatred would be easier to bear than her pity.

Forget her.  No, impossible.  The best he could do was to stay far away, and that the army would help him to do.

He should go back down to Pigeon's.  If they didn't start soon, they'd be driving in the dark to Kozlowski's.  The thought made him tired.  He sighed, then froze.

A sound.  He raised his head.  There, again.  Something moving in the woods.

O'Brien's hand went to his pistol.  Coming toward him, shuffling through the trees.  He drew, and quietly cocked his gun, waiting, listening.

It was off to his left.  He moved quickly and silently to shelter behind the fallen tree's gnarled, uptorn roots, bracing his arm on one and aiming out at the large shadow rustling toward him.  It was a great giant of a Rebel.  No, a bear.  No. . . .

He uncocked his pistol, and the sound evoked a snort.  "Easy, there," he said softly, and slowly straightened to his full height, head and shoulders above the tree roots.

A horse, liver chestnut; a mare.  For a moment he'd thought it was Franklin's bay, but that fine animal was dead, shot on the field at Apache Canyon.  This lass was smaller, with mane and tail all the same, deep brown, only a small white star on her forehead to break it.  She stood still, nostrils flaring, ears atwitch.

"Easy, lass," said O'Brien, slipping the gun into its holster.  "I'll not hurt you."

He took a slow step sideways, out from behind the roots.  The mare snorted.  He raised his right hand, palm up, inviting her to smell.  She strained her neck toward him, sniffing the air, then sidled back.

"No, you're right.  I haven't any sugar," said O'Brien softly.  "Are you hungry, then?  You've been out here since the battle, haven't you lass?"

She was saddled and bridled, though the reins were gone.  Likely she'd trod on them and broken them.  O'Brien took a step toward her, and she threw up her head, rolling her eyes at him.

"There, now.  It's all right.  No one to jump at you."

O'Brien kept up a flow of gentle words, as he'd learned from his granddad in Racecourse.  Horses were sociable creatures.  They liked to be talked to, and sung to.  He moved slowly closer, holding up his hand for her to smell.  When he was just out of arm's length she gave a start and flattened her ears, eyes showing white.

"Ah, no, lass, you won't be playing off your tricks on me," he said, standing his ground.  "Come, you'd like to be out of that saddle, now wouldn't you?  Come along, then."

She allowed him to move closer, and condescended to snuff at his outstretched palm, then put her nose up to his face.  He breathed into her nostrils, letting her take his scent, and slowly moved his hand to her neck, touching her oh, so gently.

"That's it, cailin.  Good lass."

He stroked her, crooning softly, and moved to her side, where the saddle hung cocked toward him.  He reached under the skirt for the girth, found it, and with a little fumbling, managed to loose it, catching the saddle and blanket before they slid to the ground.  If she were going to bolt, she'd do it then, but instead she craned her head around to look at him, and whuffed.

O'Brien set the tack on the ground and pulled a handful of long needles from a nearby pine tree, brushed them gently against her side a couple of times, then more vigorously, rubbing down her back and flanks.  The mare sighed.

"That's better, eh, lass?"  She stood quiet while he stepped around to her far side.  She'd a sore where the girth had rubbed under her belly.  He avoided it, scratching gently all around it.  The mare sidled, but stayed where she was.

O'Brien went back to search in the saddle bags.  They had the Texas star stamped onto the leather.  Good fortune; he'd be able to keep the mare as spoils of war.  He found a length of rope and fashioned a loose halter from it. 

"Here now," he said, stroking her neck.  "Let's have you out of that bridle, eh?" 

He slipped the rope onto her head with no trouble, and undid the bridle's leather straps.  Freed from the bit, the mare worked her tongue, then ground her teeth and sighed once more.

"There's a stream down that hill, there," he said to her, draping the bridle over his shoulder.  "You might find a blade or two of grass left.  Shall we go look, cailin?"

Keeping hold of the rope, he bent down and scooped up the saddle over his left arm, got it balanced, then started to walk.  The mare followed gently.  He led her to the cliff, where she snorted at the battle smells, but she followed him down, picking her way among the broken rocks.  Surefooted, she was.  A good horse.  He would sell the ill-tempered mustang he'd broke.  If Miss Howland had stayed he'd have given the mare to her.

He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut.  The mare nickered at his back.  He turned and looked into her great, brown eyes.  At least she had made him think of something besides his own aching heart for two minutes together.

He started down again, looking across the valley at his men standing about in the road.  It was dusk, and the smoke from Pigeon's chimney looked inviting, but he would drive on to Kozlowski's, he decided.  There was still an election to run, to fill Franklin's place, and they'd likely march early tomorrow.  Then too, he was in no particular mood to be easy on his men, and the more miles he put between himself and Santa Fé, the better.

"He offered you marriage?" said Mrs. Canby, setting down her teacup.

"I believe so," said Laura.  She glanced at her own cup, and swirled the stray tea leaves left in it.

"And didn't stay for an answer."

Laura sighed.  "I keep wondering what I could have done to offend him."

Mrs. Canby picked up the teapot, and Laura held out her cup to be refilled.  This was the last pot of tea they would enjoy until the merchants returned to Santa Fé; Mrs. Canby's store had finally been exhausted.  Laura sighed.  No tea, no newspapers, no mail.  It was as if New Mexico had suddenly been lifted up out of the world, to survive or fail on its own.

"Has he made overtures to you before?" asked Mrs. Canby as she poured.

"Not in words," said Laura, remembering the captain's lips on the back of her glove, just after they had buried Lieutenant Franklin.  Had that been mere courtesy?  She thought not, but she was beginning to mistrust her interpretation of the captain's behavior.  "I believe he admires me," she said.

"My dear, he is head over heels in love with you."

Laura's heart fluttered into her throat.  She took a sip of tea, savoring its fragrance, before looking up at Mrs. Canby.  "Do you think so?"

"If he is not, then I am no judge of young men."

Laura let her gaze stray to the coals glowing on the hearth.  "Well, I must trust your judgement before mine," she said.  "I confess I don't know what to think."

"If you care to tell me, do you love him?" said Mrs. Canby gently.

"I—hardly know him," said Laura.  "Do you know, it is only a week since we first met?"

"A very eventful week."

"Yes."

"War condenses a great deal of experience into a short time," said Mrs. Canby.  "I remember how much older Richard's aides seemed when they returned from campaigning the winter before last."

Laura put down her cup and rubbed her forehead.  She certainly felt as if more than a week had passed.  She had gone from fearing the captain, to begrudgingly placing her trust in him, to relying upon his protection.  She missed him, she realized.  The thought of not seeing him again made her sad. 

"I could love him, I think."

"Well," said Mrs. Canby slowly, "Perhaps he is giving you time to consider your answer."

Laura smiled ruefully.  "It did not seem that calculated," she said.

"Nevertheless, you have time.  You need not decide right away."

"True."

Laura looked into the embers again.  The only trouble was, it would be rather embarrassing if she decided to accept him, only to find that the offer had been withdrawn.  She drew a deep breath, which became an unexpected yawn.

"Yes, you're quite right," said Mrs. Canby.  "It's time we retired."  She put her cup on the tray and stood up, and Laura followed suit.

It had been a very long day.  They had found places for every one of the wounded men—though they'd had to put two in the foyer and five in the shed—and had seen to their hurts as best they could.  Mrs. Canby's whole house was a hospital now, saving only the parlor, the kitchen, and the occupied bedrooms.

"Would you look in on Mr. Russell?" asked Mrs. Canby, picking up the tea tray.

"Of course."

Laura lit her candle from the lamp and went into the dining room, where she picked her way carefully between the sleeping men to a small door that led to Colonel Canby's study.  She paused to peer down at a Texan captain—quite badly wounded—who lay close by.  He was sleeping, so she opened the door slowly, not wanting to disturb either him or Mr. Russell,  the young officer they had brought from Kozlowski's, who was presently in the colonel's study.  Mrs. Canby had not explained how she knew him, but she apparently trusted him not to disturb her husband's room.

Not that he was in any condition to do so at the moment.  He lay on a mattress on the floor beneath the window, muttering with fevered dreams.  When she was sure she had not awakened him, Laura set her candle on the desk and knelt to lay a hand against his cheek, which she found was burning hot.

"I can't help it, Emma," he said, his voice cracking.  "I can't stop them."

"It's all right," Laura said softly.

She took up a cloth and bowl of water that Mrs. Canby had left on the windowsill, and gently bathed his face, which seemed to calm him somewhat.  He sighed once, and ceased murmuring.  Laura set aside the bowl and stayed watching him for a moment.

If war could wreak such drastic changes in her own fortunes in only a week, she wondered what it had done to this young man's life in the months since he'd marched out of Texas.  It had worn a furrow into his forehead, for one thing, and he could not be much more than twenty.

Laura sighed and felt his cheek again; a little better.  She seemed destined to drown her own troubles in caring for the sick and wounded.  Well, there was no more she could do tonight.  She rose, picked up her candle, and softly slipped out of the room.

Jamie stood at the top of a cataract, only instead of water it was made of wagons in flames, drawn by teams of weary mules.  Each time one approached the cliff's edge he would plead with the driver to turn, and each time he was ignored and the wagon went over the cliff to shatter on the rocks below.  His sister Emmaline stood by, frowning at him and demanding to know why he allowed it to happen, why didn't he do something?  But he didn't know what else to do.  He feared trying to stop the wagons himself, for they would only drag him over with them.

Then Captain Martin drove up, stopped his wagon at the edge, and stared at Jamie, holding out the reins toward him.  Flames silhouetted Martin, licking all around him.  If Jamie took over then Martin could get down and stay with Emma, and everyone would be happy, except that Jamie didn't think he'd be able to keep the wagon from going over the cliff.  Finally he jumped up on the box, but at the same instant Martin snapped the reins, and the mules went over the edge, and they fell.

Jamie woke with a start, his pulse thundering in his ears.  It was daylight, and he was staring up at a roof made of solid vigas overlain with latillas, Mexican-style.  He gave a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes, laying his head back down on the pillow.

Pillow?

His eyes blinked open again.  He was lying on a mattress on the floor of a small room, somebody's book room, it looked like.  A Mexican house, but there was calico tacked halfway up the walls over the whitewash.  He'd seen that before.  He frowned, trying to remember.

The door opened, and a pretty blonde girl looked in.  "Well, good morning!" she said, smiling.  "I thought I heard you call."  She came in, leaving the door open behind her, knelt beside him and felt his cheek, just as his sister would have done.

"Much better," she said.  "Are you hungry?"

"Where am I?" said Jamie.  His voice was rough, and he tried to clear his throat.

"Santa Fé."

The name brought back a flood of memories:  Lacey evading Phillips's Brigands, himself making the Brigands bury the dead in the canyon after the first battle, the wagon train lost.  My God, the train!

Battling a wave of despair, Jamie managed to smile.  "I didn't know there were any sympathizers in Santa Fé."

The young lady raised an eyebrow.  "I doubt that there are," she said.  "And if there were, they would not be in this house."

"Whose house is it?"

She looked amused.  "Mrs. Canby's."

"Mrs. Canby?"  Jamie struggled to sit up.  "May I speak to her?"  His head began to swim and he stopped, leaning back on his elbows.

"You should rest," she said, gently.  "You've been very ill.  I'll tell Mrs. Canby you're awake."

Jamie sank back and watched her go, closing the door softly behind her.  He sighed.  Santa Fé.  For one blissful moment he'd thought he was back in San Antonio.

He tried to think through the past few days, but his mind was bleary.  He remembered being locked in a shed with Lacey and some others—Hall, and a couple of the Brigands—and there had been a surgeon, he thought.  He'd had nightmares, but he'd been having those for weeks.

The door opened again, and Mrs. Canby smiled at him as she came in.  Jamie was struck anew at how much she looked like his mother.  A little taller, not quite as dark, and somewhat older.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Wrung out," Jamie replied.

"Just rest, then.  No, don't sit up."  Mrs. Canby pulled a short bench away from the wall and sat down beside him.

"How did I get here?" asked Jamie.

"In a wagon full of your wounded compatriots."

"I don't remember."

"Well, you've been in a fever for two days or more."

Jamie noticed his hat sitting on a chest by the wall.  The Texas star was getting tarnished.  His boots were on the floor beside the chest and his jacket hung on a peg above it, but his pistol was nowhere to be seen.  No, they'd taken it, that was right.  The Irish captain had made him surrender it.  And Cocoa, his mare, was gone too—he'd sent Sergeant Rose riding off on her to warn Scurry about the train being attacked.  Jamie swallowed a sudden pang of worry.

"You said wounded?" he asked.

Mrs. Canby nodded.

"Then I owe my presence here to your generosity."

"Actually, you owe it to the generosity of a captain in the Colorado Volunteers," said Mrs. Canby, smiling.

Jamie scowled, then tried to hide it.  He hoped he'd never meet any Colorado men ever again.

"There isn't a wagon in all of Santa Fé at present," she continued.  "I would not have been able to fetch you from Mr. Kozlowski's.  Ah, here is Miss Howland."

She went to the door to assist the young lady, who had returned carrying a steaming bowl.  Jamie tried again to sit up, this time with better success, and leaned his back against the wall.  He still felt light-headed.

"Miss Howland, may I introduce Mr. Russell?" said Mrs. Canby.

The young lady curtseyed, and Jamie nodded.  "Ma'am."

"It's a pleasure to see you restored, sir," said Miss Howland.  She flashed a brief smile, then knelt gracefully beside him.

"I had better finish my visits," said Mrs. Canby.  "The men in the shed must feel they've been abandoned.  I'll come back when I've seen to them."  She smiled at Jamie, then slipped out the door.

"Here, now," said Miss Howland, offering him a spoonful of broth.

"You don't have to do that," said Jamie, reaching for the bowl.

She held it out of his reach.  "Humor me," she said.

Jamie stifled a laugh, and obediently swallowed the soup.  It was hot, and laced with red chile powder.  He was suddenly ravenous.

Miss Howland fed him with dextrous efficiency, and between mouthfuls he studied her.  She had gentle hands—small and pretty—and a long, graceful neck, with little pale curls escaping her coiffure at the back.  Her eyes were blue-grey and rather serious.  Her dress was black and the fabric was wearing thin in places, which made him wonder about her circumstances.  If she had been a relative of Mrs. Canby, he doubted she'd have to wear an old, worn-out dress.  But so pretty a girl would never want for friends, would she?

Suddenly feeling shy, Jamie reached again for the bowl.  His hand brushed Miss Howland's, and she let him take the soup and feed himself.  Even half empty, the bowl was heavier than he expected, and he had to rest it on his lap between bites.  He must have been very sick indeed, to be so weak still.

"How were you wounded?" asked Miss Howland.

Jamie stared at her blankly, and she nodded toward his bandaged right arm.  "Oh.  It's just a nick."

"Bad enough to put you into a fever.  Which reminds me, I should change the dressing."

Jamie suddenly became conscious of his state of undress.  He set down the bowl and tugged the sheet up over his chest.  Miss Howland showed no sign of noticing; she just changed his bandage with quiet efficiency, but his skin tingled at her touch.  When she was finished, she looked up at him.

"There.  Are you still hungry?  I think María is making tortillas.  Would you like me to bring you some?"

Jamie nodded.  "Yes, please.  Um—do you know where my shirt might be?"

"Oh, yes, of course.  We've washed it, and Mrs. Canby has it in her mending box.  I expect she will finish it this evening."

Jamie nodded, feeling the heat of a blush rise up his neck.  "Thank you," he managed to croak.  She just smiled, picked up the empty bowl, rose in a whisper of skirts, and walked to the door.

"Miss Howland?"

She turned back, lifting her eyebrows in inquiry.

"Do you know if—by any chance, was Lacey McIntyre among the wounded brought here?"

It was as if he'd struck her a blow.  Her face drained of color, her smile faded, and her eyes stabbed into him in the moment before she looked away.

"No," she said in a brittle voice.  "He was not."  She turned and pulled the door to behind her, leaving Jamie bereft.

Marching was dog's work.  Kip was sick of it already, after only a few days, but he was damned if he'd show any regretful feelings before Sutter or Stavers or any of the rest of them.

One of the worst things about it, besides aching limbs, blisters, and lungs full of dust, was the sheer boredom of plodding along hour after hour.  He would have practiced some on the fife, except that to open his mouth was to invite the desert in, and he had drunk too much out of his canteen already.  He had picked up the fife pretty easily, as he'd expected to, and though its range was a bit limited, he could get some fair music out of it.  There was always room for improvement of course, but not while marching through the stinking desert.

Tonight, in camp, he might play a tune or two for the boys.  If they refrained from the already-tired cracks about Whistler's whistle.

He scuffed a step, raising a small cloud of dust from the half-inch deep layer on the trail.  The damn stuff got into everything, and seemed to suck moisture out of their very breath.  They'd made only one stop since dawn, to swallow a few bites of dried beef and soak themselves in the river, and by now their clothes were long dry.

Hot.  Hot.  Hot.  Kip's head was pounding so bad he almost didn't hear the order to halt.

"What is it?" he asked of no one in particular as the men around him sighed and muttered to a stop.

"Scouts coming back," said Sergeant Sutter.  "Keep your ranks, boys."

Kip eased his weight from foot to foot, searching for the least painful position, and pondered whether opening a button on his shirt to let in the breeze would be worth getting a scorched neck.  Stanwix Flats deserved its name; they were marching through a flat, flat valley, spotted with scrubby mesquite and here and there a lonely ocotillo.  Apart from a few tufts of dried-up grass there was nothing else growing in the whole blasted valley.  Kip wondered if they would halt long enough to go in the river and get wet again.  The stage road they were on more or less followed the Gila River, though sometimes it swung a mile or more away.

The hooves of the scouts' horses thundered up ahead, then a shout went up.  Kip craned to see the cause, but the road was filled up with infantrymen.  He stepped out to the side to get a better view, and saw the cavalry in the van all in commotion, with one horse running seemingly mad through the ranks.

"Christ!  Get out—"

But it was too late; men were scattering left and right and some falling down in the road and everyone yelling as a horse came plunging through the ranks.  It was indeed a scout, and he was hauling on the reins, trying to get his mount under control.

Firecracker, of course.  Kip stood frozen and watched the horse skitter through the infantry, set a forefoot down on the leg of a fallen soldier, and rear, eyes rolling.

The rider—Semmilrogge, he now saw—cussed, and Firecracker spun on his haunches, and suddenly over they both went sideways and backward, men leaping out of their way like popcorn out of a pan.  The horse struggled up and surged forward while the scout slid unconscious from his back.

With a sick feeling Kip realized he was caught with one foot hung up in the stirrup.  Firecracker dragged the poor fellow away from the column, full tilt and straight toward Kip.

He didn't even think about it, he just jumped for the saddle as Firecracker came by, and hauled himself up.  He clung to the mane with one hand while he searched for reins with the other, found them, hauled hard.  Firecracker hitched.

"Don't you buck, you!" said Kip, low and angry, hanging on with both knees and sitting back hard.  "Whoa, Firecracker!  Whoa!"

The gelding stumbled down to a trot.  Kip tried not to think about the scout being dragged behind him.  He let up on the reins and then eased them back again, saying, "Whoa, there, Firecracker.  Good boy.  Whoa."

It wasn't until the horse stopped still that he became aware of the shouting, though it must have been there all along.  He blinked dry eyes and dared a look down at Semmilrogge.  A couple of fellows were getting him untangled from the stirrup.  His eyes were closed, and there was blood all over his left arm.

Blood?  The horse hadn't dragged him that far, and there were no rocks or anything in the road that might have cut him.

Kip gave Firecracker's neck a pat.  "Good boy.  Stand."

Firecracker snorted, and Kip realized the horse was shaking.  He started stroking his neck.  "Easy there."  Firecracker looked around at him, wild-eyed, nostrils flared.

Something was wrong.  Firecracker wasn't just being ornery.  Something had scared him but good.

The rider had been freed.  Time to dismount, Kip decided.  He kept talking to Firecracker as he eased himself out of the saddle and back to the road.  Immediately several hands clapped his back.

"Good work, piper!"

"Well done, Kip," said Sergeant Sutter.

"Didn't know you had it in you."

Kip gave half a smile and turned away.  Captain Calloway and Lieutenant Barrett had ridden down the column to see the result of the ruckus, and Kip heard his name as Sutter spoke with them.  The captain was frowning as he came over, but he offered Kip his hand.

"Good job," he said as they shook.  "Quick thinking."  He looked at Firecracker.  "I've got half a mind to shoot this beggar."

"Wasn't his fault, sir," Kip said.  "Something scared the bejeezes out of him."  He nodded toward Firecracker's sweating flank.

The captain glanced over his shoulder back up the road.  "Semmilrogge was on picket at the stage stop.  The other boys with him said they were attacked."

Kip looked up.  "By Apaches?"

"By Rebels," said the captain.

Kip met the captain's gaze, and knew this was his chance.  Semmilrogge's misfortune was his own good luck.  If he worked it right, the captain might just let him take the scout's place, while Semmilrogge spent the next few weeks in a wagon.  Even if it meant being stuck with Firecracker, it would be worth it. He opened his mouth to volunteer.

"No," said the captain, before Kip could speak.  "The cavalry have already gone after them."  The captain looked to Barrett and said, "I Company fall out by squads to fill canteens.  D Company on guard."

Kip waited while the orders were shouted and the column broke up.  He stood, Firecracker's reins in his hand, and watched a couple of men trying to help Semmilrogge.  There was no surgeon with the advance, so they'd have to make do the best they could.  Sergeant Sutter had got the scout sitting up, half-conscious, and got his shirt off, revealing a wound at the back of his shoulder.

"Ball still in there?" asked the captain.

Sutter felt around Semmilrogge's arm, making him groan.  "Looks like it came out here," he said.

"Anything broken?"

"Don't think so."

Calloway looked at Kip.  "Can you keep that beast under control?" he said harshly.

"Yes, sir," said Kip.

"Then go fetch some water from the river.  Get this man cleaned up," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll help you," said one of the scouts, a round-faced fellow with dark hair that poked out in different directions under his hat.  He and Kip collected canteens and slung them on their saddles, then started for the river.

"Thanks for what you did," the scout said.  "Bet you saved his life."

Kip shrugged, embarrassed.  The scout offered a hand.

"Name's Felley," he said.

Kip shook hands.  "Whistler."

"You're a pistol, Whistler," Felley said, his smile widening to a grin.

Kip felt an answering grin tugging at his own lips.  "Thanks," he said as they made for the river.