The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  As their death song reached its peak, Halcon thought that he heard the hollow rumble of thunder that preceded one of the infrequent but vicious rainstorms common to the area. These tempests blew up without warning and dumped tons of water on the hard-baked desert soil. Flash floods, like the one that had ripped out the cottonwood stump, formed quickly and they were no respecters of man or the land. Anyone caught out in one often paid for it with his life.

  Halcon was mistaken, he realized, as he heard the high-pitched, keening cry that rose over the rapidly approaching thunder.

  “Che-e-e-a-a-a-r-r-r-ge!”

  Then the bluecoat pony-soldiers, whom they believed to be trapped inside the ring of silent watchers, burst into the firelight. Revolvers flashed fire to either side of the two horses in their small cavalry charge. They slammed into the circle of shuffling dancers, bowled them over, and leaped the fire, blazing away with their Colt Model ’73 Army revolvers to left and right. One horse veered to the side, toward the pony herd.

  Halcon watched helplessly as a short, bandy-legged man leaped from the back of one troop horse onto the shaggy flanks of an Apache pony. The other horses threw up their heads and snorted, bolting away into the darkness as the two men on the other mount gave chase. The other soldiers wheeled his animal at the far end of the sand wash and now bore down on the still-disorganized Indians.

  As he came closer, Halcon dived for cover, his hand seeking his carbine. His eyes remained on the face that loomed over him in the fading firelight. He saw the yellow marks on the man’s sleeve and a great gout of bright red hair that sprouted from under his nose. A pony-soldier chief with a burning lip!

  He rolled clear of the bullet that was meant to slam into his chest and yelled in frustrated anger as he saw the soldier ride into the darkness, following the other two.

  Only a few seconds had passed, and the drink-clouded minds of the Apache warriors slowly began to respond. They shouted curses and threats into the empty desert night, suggesting a number of ways to deal with the bold troopers. Halcon disdained being as demonstrative as his followers. Even so, he made a silent vow never to forget the little soldier with burning hair under his nose. Someday, he would get his revenge.

  Five

  Two men sat in high-backed leather chairs in the office of the Secretary of the Interior. Samuel J. Kirkwood sat across the desk, facing young Robert T. Lincoln, secretary of war, and Wayne MacVeagh, the attorney general. Secretary Kirkwood glanced up from the papers on the wide expanse of mahogany and steepled his long, spatulate fingers. The lush gray growth of his muttonchop sideburns waggled when he spoke:

  “The legal angle has been well taken care of, Wayne. I’m grateful for that. We desperately need weather stations. The whole world does.

  “None more so than the military. The navy in particular,” Robert Lincoln interjected. “That’s why we’ll have no complaint from their branch.”

  “Robert, you’ve done a masterful job in outlining the value of this program for all ships at sea, not just the military. Someday we’ll have weather observation stations all over the world.”

  “Where we actually need them is above the earth,” emphasized the youthful son of Abraham Lincoln.

  “Granted, Robert. But such a preposterous undertaking isn’t possible. It’ll never be done,” Kirkwood expostulated. “Back to the matter at hand. I’m sure the navy will cooperate. I’m not so certain about ...” Secretary Kirkwood’s voice faded out for a long moment while he listened to the shrill sound of children’s voices from outside, enjoying the heavy snowfall in Washington, D.C. The nation’s capital had been blanketed with a heavy coat of white during the night, a completely unexpected event. Reflection on it caused the secretary of the interior to smile.

  “A fine example of why we need these stations can be had in that playful activity outside. Who would have ever thought we’d get so much snow in a single night. Not even advance warning of any storm. When we meet with the admiral and the others in a few weeks, I want our reports to stress the necessity of inland weather stations as well as on our coastlines. Point out, Wayne, that most will be placed on land not claimed by private individuals, but on, er, government land, if you please to call it such.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Oh, folderol to all that formality, Wayne. Call me Sam, like always. Now, what say to a couple glasses of fine French brandy to warm you both up before your long, frigid trip back to your offices?”

  Both men agreed with alacrity. Grins spread on their faces as they contemplated the weather project becoming a success.

  ~*~

  O’Callan’s patrol rode slowly into Fort Dawson, their heads drooping with fatigue. A quick glance—worn-out men, with one on an Indian pony while another was missing—told the story plain enough to the veterans, who dropped what they were doing and rushed to their aid.

  Jim Brannigan heard the commotion and stepped out of C Troop’s adobe orderly room. He waited as O’Callan and his men rode up and dismounted. “Good afternoon, Sergeant O’Callan.”

  O’Callan handed over the mail pouches. “Sergeant O’Callan reportin’ back from the mail run. All mail accounted far, but we lost Trooper Taylor, a horse, an’ one mule.”

  “Dismiss yer detail to quarters, Sergeant,” Brannigan said formally. “Then come into the orderly room and give me a full report.”

  “Bradley, Whitlow, turn in the horses, then dismissed.” O’Callan limped into the orderly room and sat down in the chair beside Brannigan’s desk.

  “Was it a big bunch of ’em, Terry?” Brannigan inquired as he dumped the mail out on his desk and sorted it.

  “Nearly a dozen, Jimmy. Faith, it was tight. A lot tighter than I let on to my darlin’ babies there.”

  “What about Taylor?”

  “They cut him all up. By the Grace of God, he was already dead when they did their deed.”

  “At least them recruits was spared that,” Brannigan sighed. He picked up one large envelope, ripped it open, and read the contents. “Now how do ye like that?”

  “What is it, Jimmy boy?”

  “Whitlow’s discharge,” Brannigan laughed. “His old man bought him out of his ’listment. He has but forty-five days more to stay with us.”

  “’Tis a shame, it is,” O’Callan observed. “If I coulda took him out on one more patrol, he mighta turned into a soljer. He’s got the potential, y’know.”

  “What about Trooper Charlie Bradley?”

  O’Callan thought a moment. “Let’s give him a try at lance-jack, Jimmy. I think he might just make it.” Brannigan shoved the remaining mail back into the pouches. “Terry, would ye care for a drink?”

  “Awh, Faith! Sure an’ I thought ye’d never ask, ye black-hearted Mick!”

  ~*~

  Early the next morning, a patrol formed up under Sergeant O’Callan’s command to retrieve the body of Trooper Taylor. As the capable NCO inspected the last cinch strap for tightness, Terry O’Callan felt the close presence of another person. He turned to find out who it might be.

  Trooper Whitlow stood there, body tense with hesitancy. “I ... ah, that is, Sergeant, I request permission to accompany this patrol.”

  “I thought yer dad bought ye outta the army, Whitlow.”

  “He did, Sergeant. But it isn’t effective until the first of January. So I’m still a trooper and ... I thought at least it would be the proper thing to do.”

  O’Callan covered his mouth, wrinkling his brow in feigned concentration. He wasn’t studying the propriety of the request, only trying to hide a broad grin that spread on his face. Whitlow appeared embarrassed by what he had forced himself to say, yet his desire seemed genuine. O’Callan found himself surprised by that ... and pleased, too.

  “Well, if ye’ve no other duties, ye might as well. It won’t be pleasant, I warn ye.”

  “I was there. I saw them hacking at him. Remember?”

  “So ye were. An’ ye’re a vet’ran now. So saddle up, Troope
r Whitlow, and join the patrol.”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” Whitlow rushed to catch up his mount, happy as a kid with a new toy.

  Neither Whitlow nor any of the others were happy, though, when they gathered up the pieces of Taylor’s body and placed them in tow-sacks to return to the fort. Several men gagged as they brought in their burdens. Two vomited up the last of their cold dinner along with the bile that had rushed into their stomachs as they surveyed the brutality visited upon the body of their comrade in arms. A burial detail was never pleasant, far less so after an Apache mutilation.

  Whitlow sat silent and white-faced in camp that night. In the early morning they would ride back to Fort Dawson and bury his former enemy and tormentor. God! Even Taylor didn’t deserve that end. If there was only something that could be done about it ... after all, one must remain civilized. But how, with less than a month left in the army? Some demonstration, he agonized, a gesture. A way to say it wasn’t all in vain. But ... what could he do?

  After a while, O’Callan joined the solitary man’s vigil. “Yer a strange one, Whitlow,” he began, then hurried on. “Na’ no call to bristle up. I didn’t mean that as an insult. You had no need to come along on this detail. Yet you did with a spirit that shamed others with more time than you by far.”

  “I ... well, I thought ... after all, Taylor was one of us, Sergeant. Does that make any sense?”

  “In its way, Whitlow. In its way. But that’s soljer stuff—what you got yer daddy to buy you out of.”

  Whitlow scowled. “I’m not running away, Sergeant O’Callan. Really I’m not. I ... it’s only that all my life things were handed to me on a platter. My father is, ah, rather well off. Has connections in Washington, with the government and the army. I always felt under his thumb, so to speak. I lived with such pressure to excel in school, to do well with making the right friends. I suppose I found that what I was running away from was the control, the discipline he enforced on me. Worse, I found the army to be even more exacting than his demands. It ... overwhelmed me. I—I wanted to get away again.”

  “So ye begged far him to git ye a release. Like I said, that’s runnin’ away.”

  “Not now. I—I don’t know how to put it, Sergeant O’Callan, but ... I—” Whitlow broke off and struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Dammit, Sergeant. I ... well, I’d give anything to do it over. The whole thing. Make friends here, get along with Taylor and have him alive again, and ... and not leave the army.” The last came out in a strained whisper.

  “The papers is all signed, bucko. An’ there’s no bringin’ Taylor back. We are what we are, me grandmother used to say, an’ we must do what we must do. If ... if it’s any consolation to ye, I’m ... ah, sorry for you an’ for Taylor, too. Under some other situation—” O’Callan broke off, unaccustomed to making such candid revelations to subordinates. “Ah, the Devil take it, Whitlow. Ye’d a made a damn good soljer if ye’d a mind to it. Good night now and sleep well.”

  Trooper Whitlow didn’t sleep well that night. Voluntarily, he kept solitary watch over the several gunny-bags that contained Trooper Taylor.

  ~*~

  Halcon didn’t sleep either.

  High atop a small mesa, he looked down on the camp of the pony-soldiers and scowled. Seven, maybe by now eight, of his too-few warriors had died at the hands of these bluecoats. Perhaps it would be wise to pull back, go into Mexico and wait for others to join him. The Moon of Cold Hunger—December—was growing near. Mierda! To start a raid and have to end it so soon. All because of the little pony-soldier with the burning lip. But they did have a few scraggly cattle, some more horses, and better weapons. Swiftly his mind saw the raid in another light.

  Da-soda-hae would soon be old enough to ride with them on raids. It would be well that his son had a good example before him. Maybe they should raid a little longer. He would send for more warriors. Then they would attack the pen-dik-oye again. And maybe, just for luck, they might even attack the pony-soldier great wikiup with the tall spiked fence. To show the way to the younger ones coming to manhood. Yes. That was the way to do things.

  The last notes of taps sounded over the open grave in the small cemetery outside the walls of Fort Dawson.

  “Present ... fire! Present ... fire! Present ... fire!”

  As the last volley blasted into the sky over the coffin of Trooper Taylor, the regimental chaplain dropped a few sprinkles of dirt onto the lid as the men of Taylor’s troop removed and folded the flag. Taylor might have lived a braggart and a thief, but he had died a soldier, and the honors were due him.

  “Dis-missed!” ordered Sergeant Major MacDonald, and the men filed back inside the walls.

  “O’Callan!” Harry MacDonald called to the line sergeant as they entered the gate. “The quartermaster sergeant wants to talk to you about the horse and that mule.”

  “Now why would he be wantin’ to do that? It was in the line o’ duty I lost those animals and it is in the line o’ duty I’ll be makin’ me report o’ the incident.”

  “Oh, I think he has something else in mind,” the sergeant major hinted darkly.

  “An’ jest what would that be, Sergeant Major?”

  “You’ll see ... you’ll see, O’Callan. An’, by the way, your name has been coming up quite a bit around headquarters lately.”

  “Something else I’ll see about later, no doubt.”

  “I’d bet money on it, O’Callan.”

  “An’ I’ll wish ye no bad luck at gamblin’. I bid ye a good afternoon, Sergeant Major. Funerals always make me thirsty.”

  “Jim Brannigan won’t be of any help to you, O’Callan,” MacDonald told him cheerfully. “He don’t know any more what’s in the wind than you do.”

  O’Callan shrugged. “Then I’ll just drink his likker an’ the hell with his advice.” He turned on his heel and left the grinning sergeant major watching him disappear into the crowd of soldiers.

  Six

  For Sergeant Terrance O’Callan, the week passed on routinely enough.

  Two large patrols went out from Fort Dawson and managed to convince Halcon of the wisdom of his thoughts about dipping down into Mexico. He would, he decided, gather more dissidents and return to fight another day. For the time, at least, peace had returned.

  No more mention had been made of the horse and mule O’Callan had sacrificed to bring in his beleaguered patrol, and in fact, the only problem he had was the Arizona weather. It froze men at night and roasted them in the day. The scorching sun beat relentlessly down on Fort Dawson, seeming oblivious of the fact that it was the end of November. But then, he told himself, he hadn’t expected frontier service to be comfortable anyway.

  O’Callan surveyed the hot, dusty scene of a troop riding exercise from the luxury of the shade afforded by the stable doorway. A chill breeze through the stalls took some of the gloss off this privilege of rank, though O’Callan put a good face on it and continued his scrutiny of the troopers. Suddenly his sharp eyes caught a mistake in the drill.

  “Upson, has yer butt turned to biscuit dough?” he bellowed at the hapless man. “Ye sit that nag like a sack o’ dog turds. Shoulders back, head up, eyes front, goddamn yer black Ulsterman’s soul!”

  Only a few moments later, another trooper, Miller, turned left instead of right and the formation disintegrated into milling confusion. O’Callan released a string of blue oaths. His loud reprimand to the careless trooper and his Irish-accented profanity drowned out even the pounding of the horses’ hoofs.

  He was growing bored with the drill routine when unexpected relief came in the form of Lance Corporal Charlie Bradley.

  “First Soldier wants to see you, Sarge.”

  “Thank ye, Lance Carp’ril Bradley. Sure an’ it’s glad I’ll be to see him instead o’ these miserable rejects from the infantry.” O’Callan turned and yelled to his senior corporal. “Munsey, take charge.”

  “Right-o, Sarge.” Munsey stepped lively. He was more than glad to take over O’Calla
n’s place in the shade.

  C Troop’s orderly room was a dark, cool adobe affair occupied by First Sergeant James Brannigan and his clerk. A little room off to one side served as an office for the troop commander. It was rare, however, that he was ever there. Congress being what it was at the time, there had been no changes in troop strength in the orders O’Callan had brought back from Painted Rock Crossing the week before. Their cavalry regiment was badly under strength and spread out over a good portion of north-central Arizona Territory.

  O’Callan removed his hat and stood appreciatively in the coolness of the room. His short-cropped red hair bristled wildly in contrast to the graceful sweep of the big mustache that adorned his upper lip. “What’s so important, Jimmy?”

  Brannigan gave him a worried look. “Ye’d better tell me, Terry. All I know is that the sergeant major wants to see ye.”

  O’Callan arched his bushy eyebrows. “The regimental sergeant major?”

  “An’ what other sergeant major have we at Fort Perdido?”

  “Dammit, man, now they’ve even got you callin’ our darlin’ home by that name,” O’Callan complained in good humor. He sat down on the beat-up chair by Brannigan’s desk and rubbed his hand across his huge, red mustache. “Ye’ve touched on the very reason why I never like to be near regimental headquarters when the regiment is split up. The sergeant major has only half the noncoms to give his whole, undivided attention.” He stretched out his short, skinny frame and sighed loudly.

  Brannigan looked sympathetically over at his old friend. “Could it be about the animals ye lost on the mail run this week past?”

  Anger flared up in O’Callan’s eyes. “Lost! Taylor lost his horse when he got shot. An’ that damned mule was part o’ me strategy fer savin’ me patrol.”