The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley

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       Chapter Two

      Rebecca’s patients did not awaken at the sounds of Dress Retreat from the parade ground. Teddy stirred fitfully when the sunset gun was fired, but Injun Jack snored on, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

      Or the dead drunk. The woman glared at him. The scout lay with his back to her, his good arm crooked beneath his head.

      He hadn’t awakened when she redressed his wound after their fall or when she washed his exposed upper body, unwilling to remove his leather pants. He didn’t move now as the nurses bustled around, lighting the lamps against the approaching night. No innocent babe ever slept more soundly, Rebecca thought tartly, and Injun Jack Bellamy was far from innocent.

      He had tramped into the hospital, threatened the nurses and tried to intimidate her. He had insulted her, pawed her and made her lose her temper, something she tried never to do. But most disturbing was the memory of his drunken kiss and the feelings it stirred in her. No one, not even Paul, had affected her so.

      “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, Rebecca?” Trying to keep his gravelly voice low, Doc Trotter joined her.

      “I thought I’d stay awhile yet.” She smiled at the short, stout man.

      “As you say, my dear.” Careful not to waken Teddy, he peered beneath the blanket at his wounded leg. “We must keep an eye on that red streak,” he muttered. “He’s resting easily enough. I thought he might need more painkiller, but apparently he does not.”

      “He partook rather liberally of Mr. Bellamy’s flask.”

      “Mr. Bellamy? Ah, Injun Jack.” Doc nodded in comprehension. “Sergeant Unger told me you had taken him on.” He regarded her, uncertain how to broach the subject. “He didn’t…er… harm you?”

      Her face colored tellingly. “I’m fine, thank you. And so is he, though he did his arm no good when we fell.”

      “How badly is he injured? I’d as soon face an angry bear than rouse Injun Jack.”

      “He’ll be fine until morning. The arrow passed through his arm and there’s no sign of blood poisoning. I cleaned the wound thoroughly before he passed out—-”

      “From pain?”

      “From whiskey.”

      The physician laughed aloud at her rueful expression. “Pain, exhaustion and good bourbon make a mighty potent sedative. This is probably the first sleep he’s had in days.

      “You’ve done a fine job, my dear,” he complimented her. “Call if Private Greeley awakens in pain. We’ll make do with laudanum since there’s no more morphine and no supply wagons within a hundred miles. I’ll be glad when the railroad finally reaches Chamberlain.

      “Sure I can’t talk you into going home?” he asked, preparing to leave her. “I can get one of the nurses to walk with you.

      “Very well,” he said when she shook her head. “Keep pouring water down our young friend. If his fever continues past midnight, dose him with more quinine and rub him with alcohol to cool him. I’ll be close by if you need me.”

      “Doc—” she stopped him impulsively “—do you know who Joe is? Mr. Bellamy has been muttering about him.”

      “Old Jo—that’s his horse,” he replied with a chuckle, “named after his old commander, General Shelby. If he wakes up, tell him I had the ornery animal taken to the stables.”

      “Mr. Bellamy was a soldier?” Rebecca stared skeptically at the shaggy man. He snored through her scrutiny.

      “A major in the Iron Brigade of the West, one of the finest in the Confederate Cavalry.” Perched on a footlocker, Doc drew on an endless supply of post gossip. “He doesn’t talk much about himself, but I understand he comes from a fine old family.”

      “An officer and a gentleman,” she murmured sadly. “You would never know now. What do you suppose happened?”

      “The war.” The physician shrugged.

      “The war changed a lot of things,” she murmured. “So Major Bellamy came west.”

      “I understand he has lived among the Indians for the past few years. He’s an expert tracker and the best interpreter on the plains. The army’s only complaint is that he’d rather talk to hostiles than fight them. Says he’s had a bellyful of killing.”

      “He has an odd way of showing it,” she scoffed. “He pulled a knife on Privates Westfield and Farina this afternoon.”

      Getting to his feet, Doc grinned. “Did he hurt them?”