“The McClendons, the goddamned sons-of-bitches!” Monty cursed, emerging from his cover behind the log he sat on while he ate his meals. “I thought they’d have come before this if they were coming at all.”
“Are you sure it’s not the Mexican bandits we stampeded coming back from Austin?” Salty asked.
“Naw, it had to be the McClendons. No self-respecting bandit would be caught dead on one of their nags.”
“It doesn’t matter who it is, they both want the same thing,” George said. “Make sure everybody’s all right. Salty, do we have any medicine?”
“Not for gunshot wounds.”
“If anybody’s hurt, we’ll have to take them back to the house.”
But nobody seemed to be hurt.
“See how the vaqueros are doing, Monty,” George said.
“I’ll warrant they were a hundred feet into the brush by the time those sons-of-bitches passed through our camp.”
“Check on them anyway.” Monty headed off.
“Looks like we’ll have to post a guard from now on,” George said.
“Just like the army. Do we stand guard in pairs or alone?” Silas asked.
“One’s enough. The dogs will be more help than an extra man.”
“You ought to let young Alex stand the first watch. He’s always the last to go to sleep.”
“Where is Alex?” George asked. “Has anybody seen him?”
“No, now that you mention it,” Salty said.
Without a word, Hen plunged into the surrounding darkness, heading toward the clump of bushes where Alex had bedded down. Alex always liked to have something to sleep under. He had come from the hills of Alabama and didn’t trust wide open spaces. They made him nervous, he said. He liked woods better anytime.
He was a skinny lad, looking much younger than his twenty-three years. He had a happy disposition and was a favorite of everyone. He and Hen had become particularly fast friends. George had never understood it—they were so different. With a sinking heart, George followed Hen.
Hen put his hand out to part the branches over Alex’s bed. He froze, his hand still in midair. From the way the boy hunched his shoulders, the muscles becoming steel-hard, George didn’t have to ask any questions. He knew what he would find.
Even after four years of war, the sight made George sick to his stomach. A shotgun blast must have caught him at close range about the time he got to his feet. He was unrecognizable.
Instinctively George reached out and gripped Hen’s shoulder. He felt the muscles hunch, the tension build, but Hen didn’t shrug him off.
“He meant to head for Santa Fe come spring,” Hen said, his voice low. “Said he knew a girl out there. With sandy hair and freckles.”
“We’ll write. I’m sure she’d want to know.”
“He wanted a place in the hills. Never did sleep good on flat land.”
“We’ll bury him on the highest hill we can find,” George promised. “First thing in the morning.”
“Hadn’t we better get ready in case they come back?” Salty asked.
“The sons-of-bitches won’t come back,” Monty said, contempt in his voice. “They’re cowards. They expected to catch us by surprise. They’d attack women and children before they’d face us again.”
“The house!” George exclaimed. Cold fear gripped him. The McClendons must have headed for the ranch when their second attack failed. Rose, Tyler, and Zac were alone.
He started for his horse at a dead run. The men came streaming behind him.
Rose didn’t notice the sound at first. She was telling Zac a story. It was particularly important she tell it well because Tyler was listening. He pretended to be asleep, but she knew he wasn’t. He thought he was too big to be interested in stories, but she remembered she had enjoyed them as late as the time her father left for the war.
“But when the prince came to the castle, he couldn’t get in. Vines covered the doors and windows.”
“He could chop them down,” Zac said.
“He didn’t have an ax,” Rose replied, a little cross at Zac’s constant interruptions.
“How could he chop wood for the stove?”
“Princes don’t carry axes, you stupid boy,” Tyler said, sitting up in his bed. “They dress up in shiny armor and carry swords.”
“Somebody has to cut wood,” Zac insisted. “How will the princess cook breakfast?”
“Don’t you know anything?” Tyler said, exasperated. “Princesses don’t cook.”
“Rose does.”
“Bless you, child,” Rose said, giving Zac a kiss on the top of his head, much to the boy’s disgust, “but I’m not a princess. The palace woodcutter cuts the wood,” she said, hoping to end the quarrel. “A prince never carries an ax. It’s not very princely.”