The Pride of Hannah Wade by Janet Dailey Page A

so he simply lifted his hand in an absent farewell and moved into the night. Cutter noticed that he headed over to join the scouts; he was more comfortable with the Indians than he was with his own kind.
    Beside Cutter, Sotsworth inquired, “Coffee?” A tin mug of the black, vile brew was extended to him.
    “Thanks.” The lieutenant was considerably steadier of hand as he passed Jake the mug than he had been earlier. Sotsworth felt he was doomed to oblivion as a junior officer in a black company—and usually tried to drink himself to that point whenever he could. The smell of whiskey drifting in the rising steam from Sotsworth’s coffee didn’t escape Cutter’s notice. He said nothing. If every soldier who drank on duty was thrown out of the army, only a scant handful would be left to fight the Indians.
    “What do you think tomorrow will bring, Captain?” Sotsworth wondered aloud as he stared at the tall shape of Major Wade standing at the fire, one leg cocked, a restless brooding quality about him.
    “The sun, Lieutenant,” Cutter replied dryly.
    “Always ready with the clever answer,” Sotsworth remarked into his cup. “Clever and never revealing.” He lifted his head to gaze again in the direction of their commanding officer. “I, myself, await the morning andthe sun. Nights are lonely, I find. It must be particularly difficult for Major Wade this evening.”
    “Yes, I expect it is.” His curtness was an attempt to end this personal speculation on a topic that was none of their business.
    “Knowing your wife is out there, alone with the Apaches. The mind can be a cruel organ, Captain,” Sotsworth stated. “He must be visualizing all the things they might be doing to her—“
    “That’s enough, Lieutenant.”
    Untroubled by the censure in Cutter’s voice, the lieutenant took a long swig of his coffee and gazed into the night with an expression of melancholy. “All this darkness makes a man remember the dreams of his youth, those wonderful nights when there was still plenty of time . . . for everything.” A couple of horses began to scuffle along the picket line, disputing territory. “Will we see action tomorrow?” He rephrased the first question he’d put.
    “We’ve been on campaigns many times without seeing a single Apache.” One of the most difficult aspects of fighting the Apache was finding him. A cavalry company raised a lot of dust, which made it easy to spot. Even now, the Apaches knew the soldiers were on their trail. Their location was already known, so there was no need for a dry camp.
    “But when we did see them, Captain, we were usually under attack,” Sotsworth reminded him. “I don’t relish the idea.”
    “If you’re lacking courage, maybe you’d better take another swig of that coffee.” The suggestion informed his lieutenant that Cutter knew what flavoring was in his brew.
    A flush darkened Sotsworth’s face. “It isn’t that I fear the Apaches, Captain Cutter.” A deep, burning resentment flashed across his face as he looked towardthe shadowy troopers, dark shapes against an even darker night. “I can’t decide which would be worse— the ignominy of dying in the oblivion of this company or the humiliation of having my life saved by one of these coloreds.”
    Cutter emptied out the dregs of his coffee, a deft flick of the wrist splatting it on the rough ground. “If I were you, I’d worry about the Apaches . . . and staying alive.”
    A prodding foot started the shooting agonies all over again, Hannah groaned, slowly raising her heavy eyelids partway and letting the soft gray of dawn fill her vision until it was blocked by Lutero’s looming figure as he kicked her again. Her second groan was louder and she opened her eyes fully. Further movement was made almost impossible by the rawhide that stretched out her legs and bound her hands above her head. The Apache bent down to free her feet.
    No blanket had protected her naked body from the chill of the