Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04 by Quanah Parker Page A

children were getting had to be crammed into those fewprecious moments when neither work nor prayer had prior claim on the adults. Free time was nonexistent.
    And there would be no money. They would have their hands full scratching enough to eat from the ground. The river bottom was fertile enough, and there was plenty of water and, God knew, more than enough sun. But there was no market, no place to sell what little excess they would be able to raise, and without money, college for John would be nothing more than a dream tucked away in the back of his father’s skull. They were growing food for themselves, and at least they wouldn’t starve, but beyond the next day of stultifying field work, and the one after that, there wasn’t a lot to look forward to.
    He turned back to the fields, glancing involuntarily at the sun until his eyes watered and he was forced to turn away, rubbing at the brimming sockets with his knuckles. Shaking his head, he wondered how the men could endure their work. It was one thing to believe, like Elder John Parker, or to be the son of such a man and willing to endure out of a sense of filial obligation, and quite another to dig down inside yourself and find enough faith of your own to pack up everything you had and follow a man already full of fire and brimstone to the very doorway of hell itself.
    But that’s exactly what Hiram Hardee and Peter Wilhelm and David Jason had done. And they had dragged their families along in the bargain,imposing on them, at one remove, the same sense of duty that John Parker had imposed on him. But, willing or not, they were here, and they would all have to make the best of it.
    Benjamin was feeling restless, and turned his eyes to the distant edge of the pine forest that ran along the river bottom, spearing dark green tongues toward the sun and shimmering in the glare like green flames. It looked cool, even pleasant, but he knew the same oppressive heat that choked him there against the wall would clamp him in its viselike jaws under the trees. The tang of the pine needles would make it more pleasant, perhaps, but not much.
    He looked at his musket and started to reach for it for some reason, then changed his mind and allowed himself to slide down along the rough bark of the palisade wall. The ground was dusty, in some places the dirt so fine it felt like talcum powder under his fingertips. It was smooth and almost slippery. He hefted a palm-ful, then tossed it into the air and clapped his hands together to rid them of the residue.
    The first hint of movement near the edge of the trees almost slipped past him unobserved, but for some reason he could not quite put his finger on, he glanced up. At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary, but squinted away the bright sun and finally spotted what had drawn his eye. A figure on horseback, then another moved away from the dark mass of pines. As he got to his feet, he spotted a third, moving quicklyout of the trees and closing on the first two.
    He could tell at once that they were not white. Grabbing the musket, he turned to yell back into the fort. Granny heard him and came running. The Indians were holding a makeshift flag of some sort, gray or beige as near as he could tell through the glare, and waved it once or twice, then stopped their ponies as if to wait for him to come meet them in the middle of the open field.
    Granny reached the gate, with Elder Parker right behind her.
    “What is it, Ben?” John asked.
    Benjamin edged back toward the open gate. “Indians, three of ‘em. Over there,” he said, jabbing a finger in their direction.
    Parker looked for a moment. “Why, them Indians has got a white flag! See there?”
    Instinctively, Benjamin glanced toward the fields where the others were working. It was a long run, and he didn’t want to call attention to them if he could avoid it. Some of them had guns, but there wasn’t a soul at Fort Parker who was much of a marksman. If there were trouble, he