“Colonel Ashford? The girls would like to bathe their hands and feet. Might we go to the water?”
“Of course. But no tricks, understand? And please, offer my men no temptations. Discipline is a delicate matter now that the War is over. We must tread carefully.” Then he smiled. “If temptation is offered, let it be to me. I can handle it better.”
“Thank you.” She walked to the girls and explained. Ashford called to the guards and told them to allow the girls to go to the edge of the water, no farther. And no straying to right or left.
When they were at the water’s edge and had washed a bit she gathered them together on the sand, out of hearing of the guards. Carefully, she explained what she had done, clarifying points that might have been left unclear.
“So he may want me to ride away with him, to go to visit Uncle Martin …”
“Mother always said he was a devil,” Dulcie insisted.
“At least he’s our devil, or I hope he is. What other chance do we have? The boys may be able to help us, but they are so few, and what can they do?”
“When will you go?”
“I’ve no idea. He may decide not to go, and we might go at once. There’s something he does not like about the ship that is coming in. Perhaps he doesn’t trust those on the ship.”
“I wish Mac and Dal would come,” Gretchen said. “I’m so tired of all this! I want to go home!”
“We all do, but there’s no help for it now.”
“But why did it happen to us?” Gretchen was near tears.
“We were in the way, there’s no other answer. I doubt they had any such plans, but then riding south they decided to raid your ranch, and there we were. They may be thinking of selling us into slavery, but they may change their minds and do whatever they wish to do right here. We have to be prepared for that. But remember – the boys are out there in the woods, and some one of them is watching, you can be sure of that. If the worst comes they would come in shooting, you can be sure of it.”
“They’d be killed!”
“I think they are prepared to run that risk. We will just have to wait.”
Under the glaring sun the beach was hot and white, the sky overhead a misty blue, misty with rising heat. Turning from where they were seated on the sand they could look back at the wagons, stark and still against the skyline.
Kate knew she must keep cool, she must think, think, think! Somewhere there was an answer. There had to be.
“I wonder where the boys are?” Dulcie said. “I wonder where they are right now?”
Mac lay on his belly on a low sand-hill covered with stunted brush. It was an unlikely place for a man to hide, but good for that very reason. What he needed was a good view of Ashford’s camp, such as it was.
They had simply drawn up their wagons on the sand and corralled the horses close by. The oxen had been led out on the grass no more than sixty yards from where Mac lay.
There were seven girls and women down there, Mac thought, Kate, Dulcie, Gretchen, Mrs. Atherton, and three whom he did not know. They had walked down to the edge of the water now and were bathing their hands and feet and faces. Several were making an effort to comb their hair, which had become tangled and messy. Kate was sitting with the Atherton woman. At least, he guessed it was she. The age was about right.
There were two guards on the beach about thirty yards from the girls. There were several other men gathered around a blanket, playing cards. A couple who were probably cooks were preparing food. He counted fifteen men … there should be more.
Had some eluded him? Were they out in the woods now, trying to track down the Travens? There had been times, of course, when their observation of the Ashford group had been less than perfect. Occasionally during the storm they had been hiding out or seeking shelter, and they had to prepare food from time to time.
Well, Mac reflected, until something happened, that chore would bother them no longer. Their limited supplies were gone except for a smidgeon of coffee.
The nearest town was probably Refugio, but whatever happened here would happen soon, and they dared not risk letting one man ride into town and back, which could take the better part of a day.
Mac, watching the men before him, trying to get a count, had reached his position too late to see Sam Hall go into the brush.
Sam was a big, burly man, and he was collecting wood for the cooking fires. He had gathered an armful of dry wood and was walking back, following a game trail toward the shore, when he saw a boot-track, and it was fresh.
The track was obviously made since the rain, and a blade of grass was just rising from where it had been crushed down. Sam knew that might take minutes, but not much longer. Probably less than an hour, more likely less than half that time. Sam Hall put down his armful of wood, taking great care to make no sound.
When the wood was on the sand he straightened very slowly. He was within a hundred yards of the wagons. Whoever had made that track had to be very close. Ashford had been worried about the Travens. Well, in less than a minute there’d be one less.
Sam Hall had come from Ohio, was wanted there for murder, and had fled to the South and joined the Army. He was a man to whom killing and violence came naturally. Had it been left to him they’d have had those women long since, and they’d never have wasted time carting that wounded Jesse Traven around. He’d have knocked him in the head when caught. No use wasting a bullet.
He was prepared to use one now, and to not waste it. Lifting the flap of his holster without making a sound, he drew his pistol. He wanted to ease back the hammer but decided against it. The click might warn the man he was hunting.
Suppose there was more than one? Well, he had seen but one track, and it was unlikely there’d be more this close. Also, he was going to start shooting before anyone saw him. He would have the advantage.
Sam was in thick brush, only the narrow trail winding through it. Directly before him was a dead tree trunk, the bark falling away from it, and some thirty yards further on was a low hummock of sand covered with brush. That was it, that was where Traven would be hiding.
He took a careful step, then another. He was sweating. The sun was hot, of course. He mopped his brow with the hand holding the pistol, and light glinted from the barrel.
Mac Traven, lying in the brush, caught a faint flicker of that movement but was not alarmed. It could have been a drop of rain still clinging to a leaf. It could have been …
Sam Hall stepped over the log, putting his foot down carefully. As he did so he saw Mac Traven not twenty feet away, lying on his belly in the sand. He lifted his pistol and let the weight down on the boot that had stepped over the log. Under the sand and out of sight was a small branch. As his weight came down the branch broke and Mac Traven whipped around like a cat. Sam Hall’s gun was up and the hammer coming back when something struck him a wicked blow in the chest, and then he heard a gun-shot.
Sam Hall took a half step back as his own gun went off, kicking sand three feet from Traven, who was coming toward him. Sam tried to lift his pistol again but his fingers were numb.
As Traven came face to face with him he felt the pistol slip from his hand. He said, “I guess you hit me.”
“I guess I did,” Mac said, and went by him, ducking into the brush. Within minutes there would be men all over, hunting him.
Under the shelter of the trees, he glanced back. Men were coming, but the one he had shot was still standing there. As he looked, the man fell.
Sam Hall’s face was in the sand. He was choking, but not on sand. He tried to cough, and blood spilled over his chin. He struggled to sit up as men swarmed around him.
“Sam! Sam? What happened?”
“Ohio,” Sam Hall muttered, “I always figured on goin’ back. By this time they’d have forgot that man I …”