Free Texas Rifles by Elmer Kelton Page A

troops turned me back at
the line. They said I was wrong, that none of their Indians had been out. I tried to slip in, to hunt for my little girl. One of those Yankees shot me.” Hatred colored his voice as he spoke. “A little later a bunch of the Comanches jumped the reservation and headed for the high plains to join the wild tribes. If my little girl was still alive, they had her with them.”
    He paused a little, remembering. “She’s six now, if she’s living. She was so little she probably wouldn’t even remember anything about me, or about her mother. She probably wouldn’t look the same. Maybe I wouldn’t even know her.” He clenched his fist, then let it go. “Sure, she’s probably dead. Most likely they killed her early and left her somewhere. In a way, I guess I hope they did. But I don’t know, Cloud, that’s what drives me crazy, I don’t know. I keep thinking to myself, maybe she’s still out there. I wake up in the middle of the night seeing her face. Maybe if I look long enough I’ll find her.”
    With his thumb and forefinger he rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed tight. “I’ve got Miguel down there now, questioning those squaws. Someday perhaps we’ll find someone who knows something. Someday …”
    He broke off and looked away, down the creek.
    Cloud stood up. Uncomfortable, he started to say something more, reconsidered and backed off, leaving the captain there alone.
    Â 
    Cloud caught the slight movement beyond a fringe of brush, far out in the grass. He didn’t believe it at first. He tried to find it again, and it had disappeared. The wind, he thought, a glimpse of shadow as the grass bent aside. Then he spotted it again, just for an instant.
    A squaw? A buck who had gotten away? It didn’t seem reasonable. The Texans had made a good search of the whole camp.

    The third time he knew it was more than a shadow, more than just the play of the wind. He caught his horse and moved out that way for a closer look. Whatever it was, it was a good three hundred yards from the village.
    Tensing, he drew his six-shooter, holding it high and ready. At first, it was hard to tell where the thing had been. Then he caught it—something light brown—out there in the sun-cured grass. An animal—a dog, perhaps?
    Suddenly it leaped up and began to run. A woman—a squaw with a bundle in her arms—a baby.
    â€œHow in the …” Cloud choked off the question and touched spurs to the horse.
    Rapidly overtaking the woman, he shouted, “Stop there!” He didn’t know how to say it in Comanche, but he figured she would know well enough what he meant. She kept running. He put the horse in beside her and slowed it down. “Now looky here, woman … .”
    She jerked away from him and suddenly headed off at an angle, fleet as a deer.
    â€œWhoa there,” he shouted. “There ain’t nobody goin’ to hurt you.” He reined after her. For an instant she looked back over her shoulder at him. That was her undoing, for she tripped and sprawled in the grass. The bundle went rolling, and Cloud heard a baby’s plaintive cry.
    He slid his horse to a stop and jumped down. He reached the baby before the mother could get up. He unrolled the blanket for a quick look. He carefully examined the small brown head, the arms, the legs.
    â€œDon’t seem like he’s hurt none, ’cept his feelin’s,” he said, knowing as he spoke that the woman couldn’t understand him. She dropped to her knees and examined the baby for herself. She grabbed it up then, wrapping the blanket around it and smothering its cries. She turned her blazing eyes on Cloud.
    Cloud gasped. They were blue eyes!

    For a moment he just stood and stared at her, struck dumb. Then he said haltingly, “Why, you’re … you’re a white woman!”
    She drew back from him as if