Free The Texans by Brett Cogburn Page B

corner of his well-groomed mustache. He was young and obviously very considerate of his appearance.
    â€œThat must keep you awful busy. I guess these other two fellows are colonels or commissioners too?” Mrs. Ida pointed to the men lingering slightly behind and to the right of Anderson. She had lived long enough in Texas, and the South in general, not to be surprised at so many titles.
    â€œNo, ma’am, I’m just plain Tom Torrey, Indian Agent.” A small man in thick-lensed, wire-rimmed glasses and a stovepipe hat held up one nervous hand to them as manner of identifying himself. He had a bookish look about him and appeared out of place and worried to be sitting on a horse, as if he feared he might fall off at any moment.
    â€œWhat about you?” Mrs. Wilson focused on the fourth man.
    â€œH. P. Jones, at your service.” He too doffed his hat, but not in such a dramatic a manner as had Colonel Anderson. He was a stout, portly man with a thin goatee and mustache below his round, flushed cheeks. He wore a buckskin jacket with military patches sewn onto the shoulders and a red sash girthed his waist and held in his prominent belly.
    â€œI guess you’re a general and are running this errand Sam has you all on?”
    â€œNo, he’s just a militia captain and along for the show,” Colonel Moore said. Red Wing thought he seemed awfully impatient with all the small talk.
    â€œWell, Sam must really have you doing something he thinks is important to have sent so many of you on this journey,” Mrs. Ida said.
    â€œPresident Houston considers their mission very important,” Colonel Moore said.
    â€œWhat about you? Are you bossing this deal?”
    â€œNo, I was just to guide them here, and then I’ll go back home.” When he received no answer from her, he frowned and rubbed painfully at his lower back as if he’d been in the saddle for a long time. “Mind if we get down and have a talk with you?”
    â€œI thought talking is what we’d been doing.”
    â€œWe’ve important matters to discuss with you, and a cool sip of water and a chair would be welcome,” Commissioner Anderson said.
    â€œWell, get down, but I don’t know how I’m going to keep all of you straight in my head. The man in the funny hat I can remember, but there’s too many of you other important types.”
    â€œNever mind me. I need to go talk to our guides and interpreters.” H. P. Jones seemed glad to have a reason to excuse himself. He rode over to where the Delawares and the Waco squatted in the shade of a live oak beside the corral.
    Colonel Moore, the commissioner, and the man in the stovepipe hat dismounted and came up on the porch. Mrs. Ida took a seat in a wicker-bottomed chair and offered the remaining two to her visitors. Anderson and Moore took the chairs and the man in the glasses and tall hat sat on the edge of the porch. Placido stayed on his horse, his face bland and as inscrutable as ice. Red Wing was sure that if he smiled his face would break into pieces. He seemed oblivious to their conversation, but she thought she detected a slight twinkle in his eyes when he glanced at her.
    She turned away from him and stood behind her mother with both her hands on the back of the chair. She realized that the newcomers were all looking at her, and the look on Colonel Moore’s face made her even more uncomfortable than the Tonkawa had. She fought down the urge to run once more.
    â€œWhy, Red Wing, I had no idea just how much you’ve grown and how beautiful you’ve become,” Colonel Moore said.
    Red Winged tried to smile. “Thank you.”
    â€œQuite beautiful,” Commissioner Anderson muttered like the observation bothered him.
    â€œJust what have you come for? From the sound of it, I’d say it has to do with Injuns,” Bud Wilson said as he leaned up against a porch post with his rifle cradled in the bend of his