“Still and all, Terry, ye must admit it was a government mule. The horse they might overlook, but not that mule.”
O’Callan nodded his head. “They wouldn’t take the price of a mule out of the miserable pay they give me,” he appealed. “Would they?”
“There’s only one way to find out about all this,” Brannigan suggested. “Ye’ll have to go see the sergeant major.”
“That’s the truth of it,” O’Callan agreed. “I’ll have to face up to it, no matter what.”
“That’s the spirit, Terry,” Brannigan cajoled. “Ye kin knock an Irishman down, but ye can’t keep him there, right?”
“Right ye are, Jimmy.” He stood and set his hat squarely back on his head, according to regulations. “We’ll have a look at old Mr. Sergeant Major and see what he wants with me. See ye later, Jimmy boy.”
“Good luck, Terry. If they bust ye down I hope it’s not past carp’ril. I’d hate not bein’ able to drink with ye until ye’ve soljered yerself back up to noncom rank.”
O’Callan’s eyes widened and his mouth flew open, yet his tone remained bland. “That’s a nice thing to say. Yer manner of phrasing yer good wishes leaves me speechless.” Then the voice changed, became warm, friendly. “I’d miss not drinkin’ with yerself as well, Jimmy.”
Sergeant O’Callan left the orderly room and crossed the baking parade ground to Fort Dawson’s only permanent structure, the regimental headquarters. It had originally been a tacked-onto, one-storied, adobe building. With the arrival of Colonel and Mrs. Patterson, it had been covered with clapboards that gave it a crude semblance of a New England cottage. It was completed with an added-on, high-peaked roof and shutters that were little more than ornament, finished off by window boxes in which Eastern strains of flowering plants struggled to survive against the arid bleakness of the desert terrain.
This had been the brainchild of the colonel’s lady—Drucilla Smythe Patterson—who longed for the familiar sights and sounds of her native New Hampshire. Besides, she maintained, the bright white building with its faded blue shutters gave more of a homey atmosphere for the comfort of those “poor soldier-boys.” Approaching, O’Callan winced, as he always did upon sight of it. The structure served both as the offices of the regimental staff and as the living quarters of the regimental commander and his wife.
As O’Callan’s eyes adjusted to the glare reflected by the white building, he saw Mrs. Patterson watering her dying plot of flowers at the side of the building. They fared even worse than those she nurtured in the incongruous window boxes. If anyone knew what was going on at the post, however, it would be Drucilla Patterson. O’Callan changed his direction and walked up to her, tipping his hat politely.
“Good mornin’, Mum.”
She looked up and beamed at him. “Good morning, Sergeant O’Callan. It’s so nice to see you.”
“Thank ye kindly, Mum. It’s nice to see yerself as well. I’ve some business with the sergeant major and happened to be passing by. Yer flowers look lovely.” He gritted his teeth to say that one.
“Do they? I have so much trouble growing them in this awful desert.”
“They certainly seem to be thrivin’,” he lied.
It was well-known in the regiment that Drucilla Patterson couldn’t grow bluegrass in Kentucky, let alone flowers in a desert. O’Callan pretended to study the little garden with interest.
“I have some business with the sergeant major,” he said again, forcefully.
“Perhaps if I watered them more,” she remarked thoughtfully. “What do you think, Sergeant?”
“Maybe if ye watered them less, Mum,” he suggested. “The water here tastes sorta peculiar, if ye know what I mean.”
Her eyes lit up. “Why, Sergeant O’Callan? That’s one thing I haven’t tried. That sounds like a very good suggestion.”
“Thank ye, Mum. I’ve some business with the sergeant major, so I’d best git over to his office. I wonder what he wants with me?” He emphasized the last sentence.
Drucilla Patterson continued to glance worriedly over her scraggly flowers as she answered him absent-mindedly. “You’re to be in charge of the enlisted men’s annual Christmas party.”
“Thank ya kindly, Mum,” he said fervently. “I’ll be reportin’ to the sergeant major now.” The relief O’Callan felt turned to joy, and he had almost a little dance in his step as he walked up the stone stoop of the headquarters portion of the building and entered jauntily.
Sergeant Major Harry MacDonald, senior noncommissioned officer of the regiment, had first met Colonel Phillip Patterson back in 1860 when the colonel had been a shavetail. Lieutenant Patterson had taken a liking to the quiet, dark young soldier and had him appointed as lance corporal to test his capacity as a noncom. MacDonald had taken to the challenge as naturally as his true soldier’s instinct directed him. A friendly but militarily proper relationship had developed between the two men. MacDonald rose through corporal to earn his sergeancy serving under Phillip Patterson.
When the Civil War began, Lieutenant Patterson had found himself with a quick promotion to captain in the expanded army. He brought along MacDonald as first sergeant of his new company. Their many years together had finally reached its zenith when Colonel Patterson was promoted into the command position of this regiment. No one was surprised when Harry MacDonald was appointed as the regimental sergeant major.
In short, the colonel and the sergeant major had grown up together in the army, and to trifle with Sergeant Major MacDonald was to trifle with Colonel Patterson. Every member of the regiment, including the officers, tiptoed lightly around the bulky, dark eyed noncom. O’Callan was no exception.
“Good mornin’, Sergeant Major. Me first sergeant tells me I’m to report to ye.”
Sweat beaded on MacDonald’s bald head. His heavy eyebrows clamped close together in an angry frown. “What took you so long, O’Callan?”
“I passed the time o’ day with Mrs. Patterson, Sergeant Major. She asked me advice about growin’ flowers.”
MacDonald was unimpressed.
“I suggested that she not water ’em so much,” O’Callan continued nervously.
MacDonald ignored his remark. “You wanted to talk to Mrs. Patterson about why I sent for you and not about her miserable flowers, didn’t you, O’Callan?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“And since you’ve talked with her you know why you’re here.”
“Now, that’s the truth of it, Sergeant Major.”
“There’s one thing—just one—I want to emphasize. The idea of these annual parties for the privates is the colonel’s. He thinks it makes them feel like they’re important to the regiment.”
“And right he is,” said O’Callan cheerfully, getting into the spirit of the thing.
“The only problem is Drucilla Patterson. She agrees that the Christmas parties are a good idea, but she doesn’t like them to deteriorate into drunken brawls.”
O’Callan chuckled. “That’s impossible, of course.” MacDonald’s expression didn’t change. “Your orders are to plan and direct the annual troopers’ Christmas party and see that it doesn’t end up in a big fight.”
O’Callan shifted his feet uneasily. Ruefully, he recalled his thoughts while on the way to Painted Rock Station to get the mail. He’d actually pitied the poor sods who would be stuck with this duty. Ah, well. Sure an’ who would pity him? He carefully phrased his reply to Harry MacDonald.
“I’ve got all the respect in the world for Mrs. Patterson and her wishes, Sergeant Major. But ye must remember that there’s probably a murderer or two amongst our darlin’ troopers. An’ the rest of ’em ain’t exactly the cream o’ society. The only way I can avoid trouble is to not allow any likker. An’ if there’s no likker, then the troops won’t come. Mebbe we should call the whole affair off?”
MacDonald turned to his paperwork, indicating the conversation had ended. His final remark crackled in the air like heat lightning.
�
�There will be an annual regimental troopers’ Christmas party, three weeks from this Saturday. There will be liquor. And there will be no fighting. Dismissed, Sergeant O’Callan.”
“Good mornin’, Sergeant Major.” O’Callan turned and walked toward the door.
As much as he loved a fight, with tongue or fists, this was one battle he sensed he had lost long before he had even known it existed. When he reached the door, MacDonald called out to him:
“It would be a good idea if this party is a rousing success, O’Callan. I understand the quartermaster hasn’t made out the final paperwork on that mule yet.”
Oh, Christ and all the Saints! O’Callan’s mind shouted to him. And there’s the nicest piece o’ blackmail to come down in a long time. He walked back across the small garrison area to C Troop’s orderly room, nodding unseeingly to the greetings of acquaintances as his mind clouded up with this new and difficult task. The expression on his face alarmed Brannigan.
“What did they do to ye, Terry? Is it a private yer gonna be?”
“Worse,” he admitted sadly. “I’m in charge of the Christmas party.”
Brannigan was relieved. “Is that all? An’ ye come walkin’ in here like yer immortal soul had been condemned to hellfire for all eternity.”
O’Callan sat down heavily. “It might as well have been. Mrs. Patterson don’t want no donnybrooks. An’ it’s to be me duty to see that there are none. Sergeant Major MacDonald was very emphatic about that.” A whistle of surprise escaped Brannigan’s lips as he struck a lucifer. “Well, that’s an impossibility, bucko,” he declared as he lighted his pipe. “That party has always been a small riot.”
“I have a strong suspicion that the outcome of this affair is going to determine the official disposition of that damn-blasted mule,” O’Callan speculated, idly picking up a report off Brannigan’s desk. “In fact, the sergeant major as much as told me so.”
He studied the report. As he looked at it, his brow puckered in effort to make out some of the more difficult words, but he had genuine appreciation for the neatness and artistic quality of the handwriting.
“Say, this is a nice handwritin’. Whose is it?” Brannigan indicated the clerk sitting over at the corner table. O’Callan raised his voice.
“Ye’ve a nice handwritin’, lad.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Brannigan sucked on his pipe. “Nice enough for social writin’, eh? That’s Trooper Dillingham, our new clerk. He used to be assigned to the war department itself, back in Washington, D.C.”
“Was he, now?” O’Callan remarked, impressed. “And the brave lad volunteered to come out west and serve in a frontier regiment.”
“Sure an’ the true heart of a soljer beats in that lad’s breast,” O’Callan said approvingly. “But how come I’ve never seem ’im before at troop drill?”
Brannigan chuckled conspiratorially. “I grabbed him off the same day he arrived. He’s been workin’ here all this time.”
“Is that a fact?” O’Callan came back. “Don’t you feel yer desire to have pretty paperwork is deprivin’ this lad of his opportunity to learn cavalry soldierin’ firsthand, so to speak?”
“You’re right, Sergeant,” Dillingham piped up from his corner. He ran long, pallid artist’s fingers down one untanned cheek so entirely free of fuzz that it had never seen a razor. Intense blue eyes glowed hotly as he went on. “I came out here to fight Indians and I’ve yet to see one.”
“See, Jimmy? Was I right or was I right? Though it is interestin’ what ye said about social writin’, Brannigan.” O’Callan rose. “Well, I must get started with me new duties. There’s the party three weeks Saturday night.”
“Have ye any idea what ye’re gonna do?” Brannigan asked.
“Sure there’s a lot o’ rough edges yet to be worn down an’ I’ve no central idee as yet,” O’Callan drawled and winked. “Let’s just say I’m off to a good start. An’ since I’m now on detached duty, I believe I’ll detach meself into Lester Wells an’ put me mind to devisin’ this plan in a proper atmosphere. Would ye be fer joinin’ me, Jimmy boy?”
“Truth to tell, I’d love a nip right now and it would be fun to watch ye havin’ to work for a change. But I’ve lots to have Dillingham here get out before retreat formation, so I’ll pass. Good luck ta ye. An’ keep away from them hoores.”
O’Callan looked offended. He raised his right hand, palm outward, as though giving an oath. “Jimmy lad, when was it that ever ye saw me enter that establishment without me very best friend on this earth along? When have I dared to go without ye to be sure an’ drag me back before reveille? Why, when I paid off me promise to Bradley and Whitlow, by takin’ them to that palace of slippery silk purses, didn’t I even invite ye along?”
“Devil take ye, Terry. Next ye’ll be to describin’ the steamy earthly pleasures that await a lonely soljer in Marietta’s place an’ I’ll be for abandonin’ me duty and scurryin’ off to dip my wick along wit’ ye.”
“At least,” O’Callan added as he went out the door, “we’ve not that heathen devil Halcon to reckon with any more.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, bucko,” his friend shouted after him.
Seven
Jimmy Brannigan turned out not to be the only one giving thought to raids in the vicinity of Fort Dawson.
After being chased into Mexico by the wide-sweeping action of the two patrols, Halcon and his surviving warriors spent a few days hiding among the rocks of Canon del Diablo—the Devil’s Canyon. They ate kangaroo rats, grubs, and the meat of one stringy cow they had driven from the Olsen ranch. The other cattle were being kept in a small box canyon with adequate supplies of grass and water, for sale to the Mexicans. Although decidedly substandard fare in the eyes of a white man, their diet was typical of the sparse food available to the Apaches in winter.
They didn’t get fat on it, but again, they didn’t sicken or lose their strength either. Word had gone out for other reservation jumpers to join in a grand raid against the pen-dik-oye. The message traveled quickly enough, but the recruits proved slow in coming in. Halcon brooded for long hours on the little pony-soldier with the burning hair on his lips. He thought also of this exile from the warmth of his woman’s arms, the comfort of his wikiup, and their son’s happy face.
Although it was a self-imposed exile, born of his fierce pride and determination to set an example for the boy, now nearing manhood, it chafed at him all the same. The pony-soldiers had cost him too many men to go on with his raiding, yet his pride prevented him returning to the Dolores Range and home. He called silently for a curse of the Thunder God to fall on the little man who had been so brash as to attack when he was clearly outnumbered. He should have sung his death song and made ready to die bravely, as was proper and befitting. Someday they would have to meet and decide this thing. O’Callan’s—though the war chief did not know that name—audacity and courage had won the day for him, but the final reckoning would be in hand-to-hand combat.
Such considerations gave some measure of ease to the turmoil that drove Halcon through the frigid nights and arid days while men slowly came to join his cause. And his thoughts turned likewise to the small settlement of Lester Wells—O-hopki-nan, as it was called in Apache—not far from the fort. If enough men came in, given perhaps a week’s time, they would ride back across the border, strike at the small town, and burn it to the ground before the bluecoats could arrive. That would put the insult back on the pony-soldiers, where it rightfully belonged.
~*~
Seven miles north of Fort Dawson, the monotony of the desert view was broken by the shapes of several weather-worn, wooden-and-adobe buildings that jutted out haphazardly from the flat horizon. A large, round water tower, painted barn red, stood on low, awkward stilts, filled by a steam-powered mine pump converted for the purpose. Two buildings on the main street stood nearly three stories in height, counting the tall central attics and false fronts they bore. Then came the usual cluster of mud-plaste
red adobe shacks, a few outhouses, and a pig shed. This collection of down-at-the-heels buildings was called Lester Wells by the people in them. The rolling swale of the desert obscured the town from view at Fort Dawson, but not from the minds of the troopers.
The town had no other purpose than to serve as a place of diversion for soldiers, miners, and passing saddle tramps. The only law in the settlement was administered by Marshal Leroy Hays. In addition to his duties as lawman, he also owned the largest of the town’s five saloons and served as a sort of mayor, banker, and justice of the peace.
It was to the front of Hays’s establishment that Terry O’Callan directed his broad-chested bay. Reining in, he swung from the saddle and secured the animal with the prescribed regulation army tie-off. For a moment he thought sadly about the army tradition and personal ambition of many regimental commanders that ensured that the troopers had matched animals. Not so Colonel Phillip Patterson. Bays, blacks, and grays appeared in random order among the companies, with no attempt at uniformity. O’Callan sighed heavily and patted the tall horse’s thick neck. He stepped onto the boardwalk and tipped his hat politely to a passing matron.
That boardwalk was a matter of pride to Lester Wells, O’Callan knew, and to Leroy Hays in particular. It covered the length of the three establishments owned by Hays—a restaurant, his saloon, and the city lock-up, which also served as an undertaking parlor and used-furniture store. It had the distinction of being the only plank walk in Lester Wells. Sergeant Terrance O’Callan scuffed the dust from his trouser legs, shirt, and hat, then stomped his boots to rid them of their coating. His heavy, blunt-knobbed cavalry spurs gouged into wood as he did it. He saw the deep marks, winced, and entered the batwing doors.
“Top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Charlie,” he greeted the bartender. “I’ll be havin’ three fingers o’ yer best, if it please ye.”
“Why, if it ain’t Terrance O’Callan, pride of Erin’s sod and C Troop’s barrack. Are ya by any chance,” Charlie suggested with a twinkle in his eyes as O’Callan walked to the bar, “lettin’ the Irish Sickness affect yer attention to duty?”
The Long-Knives 6 Page 6
