by Andre Norton
But the Chinese merchant refused to look. "Balgin," he repeated firmly.
"All right!" Ritchie laughed. "Now that you know the worst, I'll bargain."
It was warm in the store; the tea was stimulating; and the stubbornness of the Chinese intrigued him. He "balgined."
When the price reached one dollar each, the shopkeeper produced a sheet of red paper and started to wrap the three selected. Ritchie protested.
"But—see here—" He counted out the coins. "Honestly— that's all I have. I can't pay your three dollars!"
"You solda, you get pay—bling to Fung Yu then tlee dolla."
"But you don't know me—you never saw me before tonight!"
"I see—you will pay." The Chinese was tying a cord twisted out of straw around the package now.
"I sure will!" Ritchie took the bright bundle. "Thanks for the tea and—and—" He really did not know how to put into words what he wanted to give thanks for. But when he was out of the shop and back on the fort road, there was a warm glow inside him that was not wholly born of a cup of hot tea. What luck—seeing that paper sign that way!
Back in the barracks he gloated over his gifts. They were good looking with the satin-smooth finish. He was still rubbing them up when the food committee burst in, all talking at once. And through the babble he heard the bad news.
"Skipped-!"
"Yeah. Cold pork is what we'll git now. Some Christmas!"
"Dirty trick!"
"Ought to have his slimy neck stretched!" The last was Sturgis' contribution as he flung himself on the bunk.
"What happened?"
"What happened? That dirty, no-good"—Sturgis rapidly became both technical and unprintable in his description of certain personal attributes of the man under discussion— "Sergeant Camp has been collecting for Christmas—screwing our last pennies out of us. Well, he's also had a bad run of luck at the table. And tonight he takes our funds and skips out of town! We'll get cold boiled pork for Christmas —if we're lucky—and nothing else!"
This calamity hung like a cloud above the fort the next day. Even Sergeant Woldemar showed none of his usual cheerfulness, and Ritchie scratched away at his writing, glad when he was overlooked. Only once was the disaster mentioned by the lords of the orderly room.
"Any chance of Tuttle bringing in some game?" Herndon looked up from his file of reports to ask. .
''No." Woldemar's one absorbing interest, outside the affairs of Company K, was in the fauna of this wild country. He had tried to raise a fawn on mare's milk, had tamed and trained squirrels, and had kept a snake-fighting road runner for two whole seasons. *'In this weather the deer, they are gone, and the turkeys—they vanish! There are hungry Indians now begging in the town."
"We might round up Diego. The men seem to like his show," Herndon suggested.
"Now I will tell you one very odd thing, my friend." Woldemar laid down his pen. "Diego, he has not come to the fort for weeks. I do not think that he is any longer in the town. He has not been here since the day of the paymaster's ambush—"
"Hmm. Weren't there rumors of a man with a performing dog visiting the Temple camp a day or two before they were ambushed? I was in Burwyen then, but I think I remember mention of that on the final report."
"That was so. And it was Diego who was the visitor. I myself saw him—"
Herndon slewed around in his chair. "I forgot you were one of the survivors, Fred. So Diego ivas there. It might be interesting to know just how many other times Diego has appeared in forts and camps before a raid—"
For a moment the German sergeant stared, and then he laughed. "It sounds foolishment—what you talk now, Scott. You have read too much, maybe, of those wild adventure tales in the Ledger. You see a spy in Diego. He is no Indian —he is Mexican. His family, they were all killed by the Apaches. He would not act as a spy for them."
"And who told us that sad story about his family? He did. No, we might never be able to prove anything, but I shall feel easier if Diego keeps away from here. A very suspicious form of ill luck seems to follow him. And let's hope that Tuttle can turn up something for dinner."
There was silence except for the scratching of their pens until stable call. But Herndon's shelving of the problem could not keep them from thinking.
When Ritchie went back to the barracks that evening, he found Sturgis pacing impatiently up and down.
"At last!" He caught Ritchie by the arm. "How much cash can you raise right away?"
"About four bits. Why?"
"I'm hot, I know it!" There were sparks in his eyes; he could not keep his hands still. "I've a pass. If I can get a stake and use it tonight, I can cash in. But Quinn won't let anyone gamble on tick—I'll have to have money to put on the board. Don't put on that Puritan face, boy. I tell you—I'm hot! I know I'll win tonight, but I have to have the stake to start with. I have to!" He beat his hands together.
Ritchie pulled out the handful of change and showed it. "Honestly, that's all I have—"
The Southerner gave it a contemptuous glance. "Chicken feed! I tell you, if I can raise a starting stake, I can take the house. I know it! Well, there's one way to raise ready cash in town!"
But Ritchie had caught that quick movement o£ the other's questing hands.
"Sturgis! Don't be a fool!" He tried to clamp down on the older man's wrist, but he wasn't fast enough. The other wriggled free with the object he had snatched and was already halfway down the room. Ritchie stumbled after him.
Sturgis must be mad. Sure, there were plenty of men in Santa Fe who would pay good money for government weapons. But if a man was caught selling side arms, it meant a court martial and prison. He must stop Sturgis before he got out of the gate. Once the Southerner got into town, he would never be able to trace him.
There was one chance, to round the barracks the back way and tackle him beyond the wall of the stables. Ritchie skidded through the snow along his chosen path. Sturgis would have to slow down to walk past the sentry. Then would be the time.
And his luck was in! Sturgis was just by the gate walking briskly. Ritchie flung himself forward. He did not know how natural his tumble would look, but all day men had been falling on strips of ice.
He hit the ground, and a moment later struck Sturgis. The Southerner let out a surprised yell and came down hard. Ritchie twisted and sent the elbow of his injured arm into the other's middle. His right hand went into the flap of Sturgis' coat, and seconds later the pistol was inside his own shirt. Sturgis lay still on the frozen ground as Ritchie bent over him solicitously.
8
Mounted Pass
“The Captain wished to see me, sir?" Ritchie stood to attention and hoped that he had forgotten none of the forms.
"Yes." Captain Clark favored him with more than a glance. “Peters, isn't it? Have you been passed for full duty yet?"
"Yes, sir. Yesterday."
"Hmm. Woldemar has put in for a clerk, and it seems you have been helping him out while on light duty—"
Ritchie wondered what the Captain was leading up to now.
"Do you wish to put in for clerk, Peters?"
"No, sir!"
"It might mean promotion—a stripe."
"If the Captain pleases—no, sir."
"How long have you been in the army, Peters?"
"I enlisted on the second of July last, sir."
"And this is the second of February, i860—almost nine months. Ever think of making a career of it? You have some education, I believe. There's West Point—"
"I prefer to remain in the service here in the west, sir."
The Captain laid down the paper he had been holding. There was a little quirk of distaste about his lips as he answered coldly. "So you are one of those, Peters? Well, what has happened before you entered the service has nothing to do with your life now. Continue to do your duty, and you will get along all right. Dismissed."
Ritchie saluted and left. Outside he kicked at a frozen clod. Now he had put his foot in it�
��he and his big mouth. The Captain believed that he was hiding out in the army, had done something back home so bad he couldn't face it. All because he didn't want to be sent back east! There were others in the ranks who couldn't go back—he was pretty sure that Sturgis was one of them. And maybe even Herndon. Anyway he had changed the Captain's mind about appointing him clerk. He could be sure of riding into action with the troop and not being tied to a stool and a pen all day.
“Hey, Rich!" Sturgis came up behind him. ''Didn't you hear—mail's in!"
“Mail!" He forgot about the interview as if it had never been and went pounding off in the direction toward which almost all the personnel of the fort seemed to be heading.
Later, when he shared his bunk with three fat letters and a package, he turned his share of the loot carefully over and over. The world it had come from seemed so far away and almost fabulous now. And yet he had once been a part of iL He carefully slit the first envelope.
Laura wrote elegantly with curly capitals, her violet-ink words marching in slightly crooked lines down the page a little extravagantly. It was almost like hearing her talk. But what she spoke of was so foreign to him now that he had to reread sentences and sometimes whole paragraphs to understand.
May was more staid, careful to put in what she thought might interest him most, but the notes about the doings of his former schoolmates were also far removed from here and now.
As he read, he flexed his scarred hand as he did conscientiously whenever he thought of it. Herndon had suggested doing that as a remedy for the stiffness which had frightened him so much when the last bandage had been removed. And now he glanced from the page he held to that hand bearing the twisted red brand which would never fade. They didn't go very well together.
A little reluctantly he opened Aunt Emma's letter. With its stiff phrasing he oddly felt more at home. Sometimes, he chuckled, sometimes Aunt Emma sounded just a little like Sergeant Woldemar!
"Good news?"
Sturgis was shuffling together the pages of the one letter he had received. And from his looks it had not contained any of that commodity.
"Just my aunt. Her ideas of army life are a little peculiar at times. Bad news?"
"Oh, they've hung that troublemaker John Brown. My kid brother went to see him turned off. D'you know, Rich, if those abolitionists don't keep their long noses at home and tend to their own business, there's going to be a smashup before long. A bunch of northern hypocrites can't come down and tell us what to do!" He stuffed his letter in his pocket. "Every state has a right to decide its own affairs—"
Ritchie frowned. "But what if it decides against the good of the country as a whole? Look here, Sturgis, suppose this arguing does keep up until somebody touches off a powder keg—why, it might even mean war!"
Sturgis shrugged. "That's what I've been saying. If they don't leave us alone, there's always secession. Wouldn't take us long to teach those Yankees to stay home where they belong-"
''Us? But, Sturgis, you're in the army—the Army of the United States!"
"And just how long do you think this army is going to last if there is a break between the states? My young innocent, maybe Herndon, Woldemar, and a few other die-hards will be left here high and dry, sitting on their tails and wondering how long they'll be safe before the Apaches learn what's up. The rest of us will be elsewhere."
Ritchie slowly refolded his letters.
"But, if the army goes, then the Apaches would think they had won. There would be raiding from the Mexican border clear up to the Mormon towns—"
"Maybe and maybe not. If the army pulled foot, there'd be a lot of settlers go with us. Wouldn't be much left in the country after a while. And who would care—honestly? Do you think anyone back in Richmond or Atlanta or New York or Boston cares about this death trap? We could be all wiped out tomorrow, and maybe one small paragraph would be written about us—appearing on the back page of some eastern paper. Why, to most people back east, there isn't any such country as New Mexico at all. And why should there be? Stinking pest hole where you either starve, freeze, or die under Apache knives! We'd better get out and leave it to the Indians—they like it!"
"We're still in the army." Ritchie could not see the flag which hung outside, but he knew that it was there. And while it was there, they held this stretch of land against the coming of a war so vicious that no man liked to even think of it. He had never yet ridden to the smoking ruins of a ranch house and buried what the raiders had left. But he had heard plenty of tales told by men who had. With that flag gone the whole countryside would be a funeral pyre within the month.
"What's in your package?"
Ritchie roused and accepted the change in subject. "Something from the girls—that's Laura's writing." He unwound the cord and pulled off the wrappings.
"Will you look at that! Some one sure loves you, boy. That's a nice bit of foo-fraw—"
Ritchie shook out a square of fine soft silk badly creased from packing. He had seen such neckerchieves. Herndon and one or two of the officers had them. They were invaluable in summer worn over nose and throat on a dusty trail to keep out the thick powder. This was a glowing golden shade, close to the glisten of a polished button. Sturgis touched the soft stuff wistfully, trying to smooth it out.
"You can have it up the snoot with the rest of us when you go sporting that. It's better than the one the Colonel's wife ordered from the east for him."
"Glad I had the boxes to send the girls." Ritchie folded away his treasure. "Maybe I can get them some of that Indian jewelry that Hastings was showing around last night."
"Then you'll have to take to cliff-climbing," Sturgis answered. "He found that under a stone in one of those ruined cave houses. Scraped out the beads with his fingers and got that Chinaman in town to string 'em for him. They're pretty, I'll admit."
But what Ritchie remembered was not Sturgis' stories of cliff-house finds but his dark hint of war and disaster to come. On the other hand, the Apaches during the following days seemed to have withdrawn to the ends of the earth for all the news which reached the fort. And Company K settled into the steady monotony of drill, drill, drill, with only a paymaster's visit and subsequent disturbances in the town to brighten existence.
"Peters!" It was Woldemar who caught him at the door of the barracks one day. *'So you would not be a clerk? Why? Because you are afraid that when it is time for the guns to go bang, bang you will not ride with the troop? Ah, I see by your face that that is so. Maybe you are right—only a little bit right. But what do you do now with yourself?"
Ritchie grinned. ''What do I do? Why, Sergeant, you know the order of the day. I have very little time for idling, I assure you."
''Idling? And who was playing at monte the other night? Yah, always there is mischief for young hands to meddle with. That is why I now say to you come with us—"
"You? Where?"
"You will make yourself nice and neat, and then you will go to Lieutenant Gilmore and you will apply for a mounted pass. Having that, you will prepare to ride with us—hunting. Do you not care for that. Private Peters?"
"I'll say I do! Right away, Sergeant?"
"Right away. We go to hunt meat for the fort and maybe learn a little about the country. Now hurry, boy, hurry."
Four of them rode out of the fort with Gilmore's lank hound and another as huge running easily beside the horses and the pack mule. The Lieutenant himself was not with them, but Herndon had authority to take the dogs. It was midmorning, and the air was clear. The snow which had blanketed them in remained only in draggled patches. Tuttle held his head high, drawing in great breaths, and Woldemar chuckled.
"Is it Taos Lightning you are drinking, Jesse?"
"Better'n that, Fred. That's mountain wind; comes roarin' down from the high ranges. Ain't no thin' like it no’.”
Where's else in the world! This is gonna be a fine day—a fine day 'n a fine trip."
"Old buck swinging his antlers," scoffed Woldemar. "The spring is runnin
g in your veins, Jesse. If we don't watch out, Scott, he will be shelling the town—like a dragoon on pay day-"
"No." Tuttle shook his head. "Ain't no dragoon born can stand up to a Mountain Man. Me, I was with Bridger, 'n went with Cutler into the bilin' spring country. I was runnin' buffalo on the plains 'n keepin' my scalp on my head 'fore yo' were britched, sonny."
Ritchie urged the pack mule to a brisker pace and wondered for about the tenth time why he had been included in this outing. Certainly none of the three had ever given him reason to believe that they had very much esteem for him. And he knew very well that any man in the fort would be only too glad to be asked to ride with them.
They left the fort road for the open country, and Woldemar and Tuttle, still engaged in their mock dispute, forged a little ahead. Herndon dropped back to ride with Ritchie.
"This isn't just a hunting expedition," he said abruptly. "We're to do some mapping to the northwest—"
"Why?" Ritchie asked before he thought, but this time the Sergeant didn't seem to resent questions.
"For Sharpe. He's intending to travel up the Chama this summer to survey a possible road north into the Utah country. Roads to tie the posts together, to give us speed of movement, are what we need now more than ever."
"Do you think there could be war—in the east I mean?" Ritchie asked the question which had plagued him since that talk with Sturgis.
"There might well be. It will depend upon the election. If a southern sympathizer wins, maybe there could be some sort of compromise—patch things up for a bit."
"And if it doesn't go that way?"
Herndon's face was bleak. ''We can look forward to as bitter a war as the world has ever seen. And God help New Mexico!"
"What would happen to us?"
"Ordered east maybe. And this land would be left with only token garrisons. That would mean the beginning of continual raiding. I give us a year—with luck a little more. And that is not much time in which to consolidate out here. That is why Sharpe's expedition and the others like it will be so important this summer. A few roads—even if they are only mapped—can mean the difference between disaster and the thin margin of safety—"
