And he had liked the life in the saddle on the plains, dealing with the
Indians, far better than he had liked to see what had become of the
South.
This was western Texas, and the reprisals from the war weren't what they
were in the eastern Deep South. Everywhere in the cities and towns were
the men in tattered gray, many missing limbs, hobbling along on
crutches. Homeless and beaten, they had been forced to surrender on the
fields, then they had been forced to surrender to things that they
hadn't even understood.
Taxes forced upon them. Yankee puppets in place where local sheriffs had
ruled. The war was horrible--even after it was over.
There were good Yanks, and Jamie had always known it. He didn't blame
good men for the things that were happening in the South--he blamed the
riffraff, the carpetbag- gets. He liked his job because he honestly
liked a number of the Comanche and the other Indians he dealt with--they
still behaved with some sense of honor. He couldn't say that for the
carpetbaggers.
Still, he never deceived himself. The Indians were savage fighters; in
their attacks, they were often merc'fless.
But as Jamie felt the power of the handsome roan surge beneath him as he
raced the animal toward the rise of fire and smoke, he knew that his
days with the cavalry were nearing an end. For a while, he had needed
the time to get over the war. Maybe he'd needed to keep fighting for a
while just to learn how not to fight. But he'd been a rancher before the
war had begun.
And he was beginning to feel the need for land again. Good land, rich
land.
A place where a man could raise cattle in wide open spaces, where he
could ride his own property for acres and acres and not see any fences.
He imagined a house, a two-story house, with a great big parlor and a
good-sized kitchen with huge fireplaces in each to warm away the
winter's chill. Maybe it was just time for his wandering days to be
over.
'Sweet Jesus!' Sergeant Monahah gasped, reining in beside Jamie as they
came to the top of the rise of land.
Jamie silently echoed the thought as he looked down upon the carnage.
The remnants of a wagon train remained below them. Men had attempted to
pull the wagons into a defensive circle, but apparently the attack had
come too swiftly. Bodies lay strewn around on the ground. The canvas and
wood of the wagons still smoldered and smoked, and where the canvas
covers had not burned, several leathered arrows still mmained.
Comanche, Jamie thought. He'd heard that things were heating up.
Seemed like little disputes would eventually cause a whole-scale war.
Monahah had told him he'd heard a rumor about some whites tearing up a
small Indian village.
Maybe this was done in revenge. 'Damnation!' Sergeant Monahah breathed.
'Let's go,' Jamie said.
He started down the cliff and rocks toward the plain on which the wagon
train had been attacked. It was dry as tinder, sagebrush blowing around,
an occasional cactus protruding from the dirt. He hoped there was no
