“Oh, God!” the scruffy gallows-bait wailed. “Oh, please don’t let ’em do it, God. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want it to happen like that. Oh ... God!”
“Sure an’ he’s addressin’ the right feller,” O’Callan speculated aloud. “’Cause he’s gonna be meetin’ up with Him right soon now.”
They had already sounded retreat by the time he arrived, so O’Callan knew that Brannigan wouldn’t be in the orderly room. He talked briefly with the corporal of the guard and learned that the day’s scouting patrol had returned without cutting any sign of renewed activity by Halcon and his band. Stabling his horse, then, he crossed the parade ground to the NCO quarters where he found Brannigan seated on his bunk, relaxing over a deep swallow or two from his private bottle.
“I think I’m gettin’ on top o’ me little problem. But I’ll need some help from you, Jimmy boy.”
“Not me, bucko!” Brannigan protested.
“’Tis a simple thing I want o’ ye. I need the services of yer artistic clerk, Dillingham. I’ve some writin’ I need him to do.”
“Oh.” Jimmy Brannigan paused a moment, considering this. “If that’s all ye need o’ me sure. Take him and I wish ye the joy of it.”
Dillingham wasn’t too happy about being rousted out of the barracks and ordered back to work. “I’m getting tired of being a clerk,” he protested. “I volunteered for the cavalry so I could fight Indians, remember?”
“I’ll tell ye what, Dillingham,” O’Callan offered. “Ye do a real good job fer me an’ I’ll see if Brannigan’ll let ye go out on patrol with me. I’ll let ye keep comin’ till an Apache shoots at ye. Agreed?”
Dillingham smiled broadly, then nodded his head in excited affirmation. “Agreed, Sergeant. Now, what is it you want me to do?”
“Three things. I want ye to take the names of the hundred and fifty troopers who are goin’ to attend the party an’ divide them into fifteen groups of ten each. Then ye copy these names onto fifteen little dance programs.”
“Oh, I understand,” Dillingham chirped, looking at the fifteen names on the list O’Callan handed him. “Each of these ladies will dance with ten troopers. To avoid any embarrassment or favoritism, you’re going to direct who’s to dance when and with whom.”
“Uh ... ” O’Callan blinked at the clerk’s intricate grammar. “Ye’re an intelligent lad, Dillingham. I couldn’t had said that better mesself. It’ll be a pleasure to get an Injun to shoot at ye. The next thing is that I want ye to compose a nice invitation fer the fifteen ladies.”
“Let’s see,” Dillingham began thinking aloud. He scribbled away for several minutes then handed the result to O’Callan.
The Troopers of Fort Dawson
Respectfully Request
the Honor of Your Company
at the
Annual Regimental Troopers Christmas Ball
on Saturday, December Eighteenth Eighteen Hundred and Eighty
R.S.V.P.
“Perfect!” O’Callan enthused. “Only, what that’s R.S.V.P. on the bottom?”
“That’s French. It means “please reply.” All the really ritzy invitations have that on them.”
“Then have it we shall. Now start yer writin’ whilst I run over to the drum major and arrange for the music.”
~*~
Drum Major Schmidt sat in the corner of the sutler’s store drinking lukewarm beer in greedy gulps. He had undone the top button of his trousers, so his belly protruded unrestrained to contain all the brew he planned to pour into it. The fat of his jowls caused his lips to protrude in a perpetual pout that stuck out beyond the grandiose arch of his magnificent Imperial Austrian mustache. This was a night for sad reflections for Drum Major Schmidt—usually a nightly occurrence. His small blue eyes misted with tears as he thought of his dear, departed, mother, now long dead and buried in their far-off home in Tierhoff, Austria.
It always saddened him to think of the loss the world had suffered at the death of this musical virtuoso. Her grace and elegance, her impassioned delivery of any selection. Ach! So sad. He smacked his lips loudly and took another long pull of the foam-topped lager.
O’Callan sat down beside him and nodded politely. Then, without waiting for the formalities and without preamble, he spoke rapidly. “We’ll be needin’ some music fer the annual troopers’ ball, Schmidt.”
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Schmidt almost choked on his beer. “Zertainly not!” he barked. “I vill not be taking my band to der trooper party. Alvays dere is fight! Two years ago dey tear up der drum und bend two trompetes. Liebe Gott! Bist du ganzlich verrückt?”
O’Callan seemed unaffected by the pear-shaped Austrian’s explosion. “I said ‘ball,’ not party,” he replied soothingly. “There’ll be lady guests ... fer dancin’. A very nice affair.”
The big immigrant bandmaster looked at him disbelievingly. “Vot ladies? Dere ain’t no single, young ladies vitin a hundert mils of dis fort. Don’t lie to me, O’Callan.”
“Sure an’ I’m not lyin’, we have lady guests comin’ ... there’ll be a likker punch, instead o’ whiskey bottles ... ” he went on, his idea taking shape and soaring in his mind. “We’ll decorate the big room at the end o’ headquarters fer it, too. Full-dress uniform, Schmidt ... what do ye think o’ that?”
“You mean you really vant der music for to dance?” Schmidt asked, delighted.
“Exactly that! An’—an’ we’ll need ten numbers, plus a grand march an’ ‘Seein’ Nelly Home’—that’s traditional, ye know. Kin ye do it, Schmidt?”
W.A.M. Schmidt thought it over a second, a new light coming to his eyes. “Ja ... ja, chust might be. All right, O’Callan,” he replied at last, “—You leafe der music to me. Der regimental band vill profide a delightvul efening of entertainment for der troopers und, ah, ladies. But ... vere do you get dese ladies?”
Terry patted Schmidt on the shoulder. “You just leave that to me, bucko. I got it all figgered out.”
O’Callan returned to his troop orderly room to spend the rest of the evening sorting out the paperwork as Dillingham laboriously applied himself to his task. It was well after midnight before they stopped for the night. It would take, Dillingham estimated, another evening of hand-aching effort to complete all that the sergeant wanted done. But at least the invitations were ready, and Terry O’Callan didn’t go to bed until he had prepared his full-dress uniform for the next day.
Nine
Although Halcon didn’t know it, his revenge on O’Callan had already begun when he rode out of Mexico at the head of a force numbering twenty-six braves—bent on a sweeping raid that had Lester Wells as its finish point.
On a predictably uneventful Saturday morning, two weeks before the Christmas ball, it dawned cold and windy. A scud of clouds brought a promise of rain. O’Callan, dressed in his finest, made ready for a brisk ride through the morning air and thanked the Saints for the cold that kept him from sweating heavily and staining the thick wool of his full-dress uniform. He had already led his horse from the stable when a voice called out from above the main gate.
“Corporal of the guard! Post number two! Armed rider approaching fast!”
“Oh, hell,” groaned O’Callan, expecting the worst as usual after years of frontier service. “There goes me day of deliverin’ these invitations.”
His gloomy prediction proved to be only too true when the gate swung open to admit a galloping civilian.
Even before reining up in front of headquarters, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Apaches! For God’s sake, help us! Apaches attacking to the south.”
Terry O’Callan had managed to secure the top button on his faded field tunic he favored for patrol duty when “Boots and Saddles” sounded. Troopers scrambled across the parade ground to catch and saddle their mounts. The troop sergeants hurried toward the headquarters building. Sliding into his high-topped black boots, O’Callan joined them.
“This gentleman,” Colonel Patterson was saying as O’Callan entered t
he room, “Mr. Masters, has brought us news that Halcon is raiding again. He’s come up out of Mexico with rather a considerable force this time, I’m afraid. From what Mr. Masters says, I feel it necessary to send out a rather large patrol. I’ve chosen to detail all of C Troop, reinforced by twenty-five men from A Troop. You sergeants instruct your men to take full field equipment—you may be out for some time—and the quartermaster already has orders regarding an ammunition wagon and other essentials.”
There was a lot more to the briefing, yet only part of O’Callan’s mind fixed on it. His trained soldier’s ear made note of the location, terrain, and suspected number of hostiles. The rest of his thoughts ran to the cruel trick the fates were playing on him. If he delivered the invitations too late he was likely to be given a hard time. Perhaps even a refusal, as though it had been meant as an insult. A damned campaign against the Apaches right at this time was more than a men should be expected to endure.
~*~
“I jest wished ye’d make up yer mind, Whitlow,” O’Callan said, shifting his saddle. “All I heard outta ye fer weeks was leavin’ our darlin’ troop and gettin’ back to the luxury o’ civilian livin’. Yet ever’ time there’s a bloody patrol ye’ve got yer hand raised and volunteerin’ fer it.”
Whitlow looked across to his sergeant and shrugged. “I can’t explain it myself, Sergeant. I suppose I just wanted to get in as much soldiering as possible before I leave.”
O’Callan snorted derisively, then looked over to Charlie Bradley. “An’ what’s yer thoughts on the matter, Lance Carp’ril?”
Charlie shifted his chaw, a brown line of tobacco juice trickling from one corner of his mouth. “I think maybe ol’ Whitlow’s got more soljerin’ in his blood than he’s willin’ to admit, sarge. Leastways why’d he go and volunteer to come along with us as advance scouts fer the whole patrol?”
“He’s got no sense a-tall, that’s why,” O’Callan grunted. “Now let’s get a move on. We’ve been jawin’ here long enough.”
The patrol they scouted for had been out for three days. The first part of their duties had been a hard, dusty ride to the site of Halcon’s latest mischief. Once again, Whitlow had found himself burying the human aftermath of Apache ferocity. After they had interred the remains and held a service, Whitlow had sought out O’Callan and volunteered to accompany him and Charlie Bradley as the advance scouts. They had picked up a good trail and traveled fast, taking advantage of the Apaches’ haste. Only now the trail had cooled off and sign of the Indian raiders grew scarcer with each passing mile. The three soldiers had been reduced to a slow walk. They led their horses as they scanned the hard-baked desert ground for clues to lead them along Halcon’s trek.
“Why is it that we travel so encumbered, Sergeant?” Whitlow asked as they followed faint marks in the sand.
“Now what are ye talkin’ about, lad?”
“The contrast between our methods and those of the Apaches is growing more apparent to me with each passing day.”
O’Callan stopped and sighed. “Now jest what are ye gettin’ at, Whitlow? Why the hell don’t ye talk like ever’body else? Are ye tryin’ to say that there’s a big difference between us an’ the Apaches?”
“Why, yes, Sergeant. That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, o’ course there is! We’re civilized so’jers an’ they’re a bunch o’ miserable, heathen savages.”
“You may possibly be right,” Whitlow acknowledged. “But why is it that they can travel the same distances so much quicker than us?”
“Because Mr. Apache ain’t carryin’ nothin’ but what he kin tote on his person or his horse, that’s why!”
“Well, Sergeant,” Whitlow began carefully, “why don’t we travel the same way?—instead of using all these wagons and things.”
“Good Lord, lad. We’re Christian folk, we are. We got to have all them refinements to wage war. ’Sides, decent cavalry mounts would starve to death on the forage out here.”
“Why, Sergeant?”
“Because ... that’s why,” O’Callan said, fuming. “If I were an army officer, I believe I would call for some volunteers to fight and move lightly like our enemies.”
Whitlow ran a long-fingered hand through his sweaty blond locks as he tried to think out his idea. “By using those methods, I believe I could defeat any tribe of Indians.”
O’Callan laughed. “That shows how little ye know o’ this man’s army, Whitlow. The brass big-shots don’t like nobody thinkin’ up new ways to do things. It causes confusion in both the staff and the ranks, so they’re agin’ it a hundred percent.”
“Whitlow’s got a good point, Sarge,” Charlie piped up. “I used to ride herd from south Texas clean up to Abilene with less in my saddlebags than this army makes me take out fer a week’s patrol.”
“We do things the way we do ’em on account o’ the regulations,” O’Callan declared with finality. “An’ them regulations govern ever’thing.”
“Yeah, Sarge, but—” Charlie tried to say more but O’Callan interrupted.
“Ye watch yerself, Lance Carp’ril! Ye start arguin’ agin’ the regulations an’ I’ll bust ye back to the ranks and ye kin forget about that extry stripe and the two-dollar raise it’d get ye.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Charlie relented, winking at Whitlow.
The advance scouts continued leading the patrol, trying to scare up some Apaches. Uncharitably, the silent desert remained empty and Halcon seemed to have evaporated into a gas to be carried along invisibly by the dry, gusting winds of the area.
~*~
Sourdough Jack Beeson and his partner, Hard Rock Mike Hoxsey, worked their way diligently along a narrow arroyo that cut into the face of the Mogollon Rim. A briskly flowing icy creek washed over their well-oiled boots as they trudged upstream. Every few paces they would stop and break out their equipment, hauled protestingly by two burros. Then they’d lay their backs to heaving up shovel-loads of mud and gravel and running it through riffle box and pan.
Each time, they peered intently into the leavings, eyes sharp for the glint of that elusive element they so avidly sought. Each time they nodded in regretful agreement, dumped the residue, and moved on. They had been at it for days and the hours merged into one endless search. At last, Sourdough Jack glanced around a small eddy, a still pool created by a sandbar.
“Looks like as good a place as any to make camp fer the night, Mike.”
Hard Rock Mike ran thick, blunt fingers through his black beard and nodded agreement. His feet ached anyway, and he could do with a bit of the whiskey they had brought along for medicine.
“Fine by me, Jack,” he agreed.
“We’ll set up an’ then run a dozen or so shovels through, what say?”
“You’re callin’ the shots today, Jack. Makes me no never mind.”
Jack and Mike built a small lean-to and covered it with canvas and pine branches. A fire ring came next, then the burros were let out of their packsaddles and hobbled to graze on the sparse, brown grass that protruded through the rotted crusts of snow. The prospectors went to work with their riffle box, shovels, and pans.
An hour had passed in this enterprise when Jack, bent low over his shallow, wide-rimmed pan, shot upright. ‘”I’ll be goldanged! That’s it! Look. Lookie at this. It’s color, all right.”
Mike sloshed through the frigid water to his partner’s side and peered raptly into the fine silt in the bottom of the ridges on the sloped sides of the pan. He pursed his lips in concentration and studied the small, bright yellow pebbles trapped among the dross.
“I’ll be a son of a sow! That’s gold! We found it, Jack. By danged if we ain’t struck pay dirt.”
“Not much of it, though,” Sourdough Jack depreciated. “We’d best work this stretch a mite more and keep quiet about what we took outta here before we go filin’ a claim and bringin’ the whole world down around our ears.”
Hard Rock Mike glanced around at the barren, hostile country and allowed a
s how his partner might be right. “Good thing them Apaches has moved south fer the winter,” he observed. “Could get sticky if they was roamin’ here and a real bonanza got goin’.”
“You can say that again. Now, Mike, we gotta calm down and do this scientifical, you know. Might be there’s not more than a trace of color here. There’s time to get excited once we’ve filled our pokes.”
“You’ve got the right of it there. But I can taste those steaks, good whiskey, and willin’ women right now, Jack. I just know we’ve struck it rich. I feel it in my bones.”
~*~
A week passed before C Troop, its heavily laden men followed by the ammunition wagon, farrier’s rig, and an ambulance, lumbered back to Fort Dawson. Tired and dusty, their long patrol having produced only exhaustion of man and animal, they ambled through the main gate, bitter thoughts filling the minds of some. The patrol had only managed to increase the wear and tear on saddles, packs, and wagon wheels, not to mention the legs and buttocks of the men. The only lively part of the whole picture was Trooper Whitlow, who enthusiastically discussed at length his theory of adopting Indian tactics to fight Indians with anyone willing to listen.
“Dismiss the troops,” Captain Foster ordered when the fatigued men of C Troop assembled in front of the headquarters building.
Nothing could have sounded better. At least tonight there would be food without flies, sand, and ashes in it and a chance to wash off the accumulated grime of the fruitless journey.
“Me far some o’ that panther piss ye keep in yer locker, Jimmy boy,” O’Callan declared as the two NCOs walked gingerly toward the noncom barrack.
“Aye, an’ fer me, too, bucko. How’s yer plans doin’ far the trooper’s party?”
“Ouch, nah! Did ye have ta remind me? I’ll be havin’ to attend to the most important part tomorrow morning, I will.”
~*~
Working girls usually sleep late in a bawdyhouse, and Marietta’s in Lester Wells was no exception. It wasn’t until alter the noon sun passed its highest point that they broke their fast around the big table in the kitchen. The Mexican maid came in and whispered something in Marietta’s ear.
The Long-Knives 6 Page 8
