hearing. "But if a child is held captive, surely then the camps can be searched, can't they?" she demanded incredulously.
"No. Not unless Mr. Haworth should ask it."
Seeking to soften the blow, Will Sprenger laid a comforting hand on her arm again. "I doubt you would find many Quahadis on the reservation, my dear. Quanah Parker has chosen to keep his people away, and they are openly hostile."
"But I might have misunderstood. It might not even be a Quahadi." Clenching the handkerchief tightly, she tried not to break down. "One of the other bands could be holding her. She could have been sold, or traded, or—"
"You have my sympathy, Mrs. Bryce—my complete sympathy," Black Jack Davidson assured her again.
"I don't want sympathy, I want my daughter, sir—and I don't care how it happens, but I intend to get her back," she declared, her voice rising. "I want my daughter back where she belongs."
"Of course you do," he murmured soothingly. "Perhaps if you applied to Haworth, he might attempt to pressure the so-called peaceables into giving her up—if she's on the reservation."
"He's withholding rations now," Sprenger pointed out. "I don't think it's helping. They just deny they've got anybody."
"If she's not on the reservation, it would be a Texas matter," Davidson added. "And again, the army there is in a defensive posture right now. As I said, I expect that to change, but so far it hasn't. Next summer there could well be a campaign undertaken against the hostiles, but until then—"
"Then it will be too late! If the camps are overrun, she'll be killed with the Comanches! Surely you must see— surely you must understand—I've got to get her out before then! I cannot just wait for it to happen. Please, there's got to be something. I desperately need help before it is too late, sir," she pleaded. "Susannah's only seven years old, and I don't want her to die with them. Surely you can understand that, Colonel Davidson."
"Forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Bryce, but she may well be dead by now," he responded with unusual gentleness.
"No."
"Three years is a long time in an Indian camp."
"She's got to be alive! She's got to!"
He appeared to consider for a moment, then pressed his fingertips together and leaned across his desk. "If you are determined to assume that, Mrs. Bryce, then you must accept the probability that the child has become as savage as they are. After three years it's more than possible you wouldn't even recognize her."
"She's my flesh and blood, Colonel. I'm her mother," she said more calmly. "I know I would know her, no matter how long they've had her. And I know I can make her remember me."
"I understand—and I wish I could offer you some hope, believe me."
Her anger flared. "I have hope, sir—it's help I need! And I intend to get it. If I have to write the governor of Texas, or my congressman, or the Secretary of War even—I'm going to get it! If need be, I shall go to Washington to apply directly. But whatever it takes, I shall not give up, ever," she said evenly. Rising, she added stiffly, "I suppose I should thank you for letting me waste your time, Colonel Davidson, but I cannot bring myself to do it. Good day, sir."
As she opened the door, he sat very still, saying nothing. It wasn't until he heard Thompson tell her not to forget her cloak that he could bring himself to speak. "You were right, Will," he said finally. "Anne Bryce has a lot of grit." He sighed heavily, then looked at Sprenger. "It'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah." Will leaned forward to pick up his hat. "Guess I'd better make sure she's all right. When what you told her sinks in, she's going to take it real hard."
"The Texans probably won't help her, either," Davidson acknowledged. "There aren't enough rangers to risk sending them on a three-year-old trail."
"No."
"It'd help if she even knew whether it was the Quahadis or the Nokonis," the colonel mused. Suddenly, he heaved his frame up
"No. Not unless Mr. Haworth should ask it."
Seeking to soften the blow, Will Sprenger laid a comforting hand on her arm again. "I doubt you would find many Quahadis on the reservation, my dear. Quanah Parker has chosen to keep his people away, and they are openly hostile."
"But I might have misunderstood. It might not even be a Quahadi." Clenching the handkerchief tightly, she tried not to break down. "One of the other bands could be holding her. She could have been sold, or traded, or—"
"You have my sympathy, Mrs. Bryce—my complete sympathy," Black Jack Davidson assured her again.
"I don't want sympathy, I want my daughter, sir—and I don't care how it happens, but I intend to get her back," she declared, her voice rising. "I want my daughter back where she belongs."
"Of course you do," he murmured soothingly. "Perhaps if you applied to Haworth, he might attempt to pressure the so-called peaceables into giving her up—if she's on the reservation."
"He's withholding rations now," Sprenger pointed out. "I don't think it's helping. They just deny they've got anybody."
"If she's not on the reservation, it would be a Texas matter," Davidson added. "And again, the army there is in a defensive posture right now. As I said, I expect that to change, but so far it hasn't. Next summer there could well be a campaign undertaken against the hostiles, but until then—"
"Then it will be too late! If the camps are overrun, she'll be killed with the Comanches! Surely you must see— surely you must understand—I've got to get her out before then! I cannot just wait for it to happen. Please, there's got to be something. I desperately need help before it is too late, sir," she pleaded. "Susannah's only seven years old, and I don't want her to die with them. Surely you can understand that, Colonel Davidson."
"Forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Bryce, but she may well be dead by now," he responded with unusual gentleness.
"No."
"Three years is a long time in an Indian camp."
"She's got to be alive! She's got to!"
He appeared to consider for a moment, then pressed his fingertips together and leaned across his desk. "If you are determined to assume that, Mrs. Bryce, then you must accept the probability that the child has become as savage as they are. After three years it's more than possible you wouldn't even recognize her."
"She's my flesh and blood, Colonel. I'm her mother," she said more calmly. "I know I would know her, no matter how long they've had her. And I know I can make her remember me."
"I understand—and I wish I could offer you some hope, believe me."
Her anger flared. "I have hope, sir—it's help I need! And I intend to get it. If I have to write the governor of Texas, or my congressman, or the Secretary of War even—I'm going to get it! If need be, I shall go to Washington to apply directly. But whatever it takes, I shall not give up, ever," she said evenly. Rising, she added stiffly, "I suppose I should thank you for letting me waste your time, Colonel Davidson, but I cannot bring myself to do it. Good day, sir."
As she opened the door, he sat very still, saying nothing. It wasn't until he heard Thompson tell her not to forget her cloak that he could bring himself to speak. "You were right, Will," he said finally. "Anne Bryce has a lot of grit." He sighed heavily, then looked at Sprenger. "It'd be like looking for a needle in a haystack, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah." Will leaned forward to pick up his hat. "Guess I'd better make sure she's all right. When what you told her sinks in, she's going to take it real hard."
"The Texans probably won't help her, either," Davidson acknowledged. "There aren't enough rangers to risk sending them on a three-year-old trail."
"No."
"It'd help if she even knew whether it was the Quahadis or the Nokonis," the colonel mused. Suddenly, he heaved his frame up
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