Читаем Winter Rain полностью

“We may not be military,” Lamar Lockhart had reminded them before they rode out from Jacksboro. “We may be nothing more than irregulars—but we have no need of looking like bobtails, do we?”

Irregulars indeed: a Ranger furnished all his own needs and arms. Never did these men ride beneath any flag, nor with a surgeon along. And all matters of rank came about through a man’s ability to lead and inspire his own company of staunch individualists—not through some political appointment or timely graduation from the U.S. Military Academy.

It did not take long for Jonah to come to admire the saddle-hardened men in this crude bunch he rode with, marching northwest from Fort Richardson toward the Staked Plain of the Penateka and Kwahadi Comanche.

No—not for pay, nor for glory did this company of Rangers ride into the breach.

For most of these it might be but the memory of a loved one killed, scalped, and savagely mutilated that spurred them to join. Mothers and fathers, perhaps a sister or brother. Blood kin captured and enslaved, outraged or butchered.

This was something that Jonah Hook understood right down to the very core of him.

These were men who rode into Comanche country with a score to settle.

33

Summer 1874

SUMMER’S LONG DAYS of oppressive heat were almost more than Gritta Hook could bear.

Year after year her days flowed like this, agonizingly slow from one to the next. Season after season Usher marched them north when autumn kissed the trees with color, south again when those trees bloomed in spring—into the land of desert and cactus and dark-skinned, raven-haired people who stared at her from the side of the dusty roads where rumbled the ambulance George drove.

It was good she remembered. She tried so hard to remember names nowadays. Jubilee Usher … and the old colored man called George and … her name was Gritta.

The big man never called her by her name. How she wished he would. If only once. To say her Christian name. Not the one she took when she married long, long ago. But her own name. Gritta.

So she said it to herself when the days grew long and the nights became lonely. She devised conversations between herself and Usher, between herself and the old colored man, long conversations about nothing of any great consequence. Something—anything at all—to keep her mind from slipping over the edge where she already teetered precariously.

And so many times she came back to recalling snips and snatches of Bible verses, remembrances of things faceless folks had said to her of a dim time long ago, perhaps fragments of a song heard on a hot Sunday morning as a child, lullabies sung as a mother to children of her own.

Sunday-morning sunlight had always poured like creamy white butter in through the isinglass windows of that tiny church—just the way the sun’s light was magnified as it penetrated the creamy white canvas of this wall tent where she was imprisoned most every day while Usher’s men roamed the deserts and mountains. Horses and men coming and going. Celebrating their bloody work, then taking their leave once again in a new direction.

Here in the tent the air began to hum like a hot summer Sunday at church, listening to the preacher drone on and on. The way Usher droned on and on, ranting before his faithful.

Gritta began to whisper, faintly caressing each bright note belonging to the melody of an old Baptist hymn.

Do not wait until

Some deed of greatness you may do.

Do not wait

To shed your light afar.

To the many duties

Ever near you now he true:

Brighten the corner where you are.

Brighten the corner where you are!

Brighten the corner where you are!

Someone far from harbor

You may guide across the bar.

Brighten the corner where you are!

Her eyes found the corner where the canvas seams came together, bunched to make for a shadowy place. How she longed to be there, where it would be cool. Right where a spider hung in the dark midst of her web. She had hung there, balled up for the better part of two days, likely hibernating after a feast on the moth snared in her sticky trap day before last.

Up there in the shadows, where things looked all the cooler.

They had learned the old songs from her, the three children had. Learned to say grace before their meals. No matter that they might eat nothing but plain food, there was always some meat on the table, along with potatoes and an abundance of other vegetables in season. Always plenty of food for their growing bodies to eat. That is, until Jonah marched off to fight that war he never come back from.

Grace. Thanking God for all His bounty. For what the Lord had seen fit to bless them with.