The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “He’s a little early, ain’t he?” she inquired. “Who is it?”

  “El chaparro con el mostacio rojo,” the chubby maid rattled in Gatling-gun Spanish.

  Marietta got up grumpily. “Now what the hell does that O’Callan want at this time of day?” She paused, then laughed to herself. “I know what he wants, but it’s too damned early.” She went into the parlor and stopped short at the sight that greeted her.

  “So this is what you look like sober, O’Callan?”

  O’Callan stood stiffly in the parlor in his full-dress uniform. The horsehide-covered helmet with the huge brass eagle on the front sat squared away and proper on his rigid head. The yellow horsehair plume streamed down from the shiny pike on top and cascaded over the back of his tunic collar. One white-gloved hand held the handle of his saber and the other contained several envelopes tied up in a yellow ribbon. He bowed slightly as Marietta entered, her face forming a quizzical expression.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Mahoney,” he said solemnly.

  “What are you up to, O’Callan?” She stood with both hands on her ample hips, her Mexican-Irish blood beginning a slow boil with the suspicious thoughts in her head.

  He ignored her directness. “I would like to present you and your ladies with these invitations from the men of Fort Dawson.”

  Marietta laughed. “I can just imagine what they’re invitin’ us for.” She took the bundle dubiously, then cut her laughter short as she realized the trouble someone had gone to in their preparation. She opened the one addressed to herself.

  “Hey! Are you serious? These are invites to a Christmas ball.”

  “Yes, miss,” O’Callan answered trying to keep the conversation on a polite and formal basis. “It will be my pleasure to act as your escort, Miss Mahoney. Yerself an’ I are to serve as the chaperones.”

  Marietta laughed again, this time louder and longer. “You want me to chaperone with you?” She laughed again for several moments before she was able to get control of herself. Then she turned serious and eyed O’Callan menacingly. “All right, O’Callan, just what’s your game? And you’d better tell me the truth.”

  Terry O’Callan removed his helmet and cradled it stiffly on his arm. “Miss Mahoney, I assure ye that these invitations are fer an official ball at Fort Dawson. The ladies of yer establishment are invited to dance, Miss Mahoney, an’ that’s all.”

  “Dance, O’Callan!” Marietta interrupted, beside herself with the humor of the situation once more. “Vertically ... or horizontally?”

  Ignoring her ribald remark and third fit of laughter, O’Callan plowed on through the pat speech he had practiced all the way to town. “The event is sanctioned by our darlin’ colonel for the celebration of Christmas an’ the relaxation o’ regimental personnel with the rank o’ lance carp’ril or trooper.”

  “By God, O’Callan, a dance at Fort Perdido?”—O’Callan winced at the use of the derogatory name—“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” Marietta said carefully.

  “We believe him.”

  Marietta turned to see some of her girls peeking out from behind the curtain that led to the back of the house.

  “I thank ye fer yer kind support, Kathleen,” O’Callan offered.

  “How did you remember my name?” Kathleen asked as she stepped out from behind the curtain smiling. “You’ve never once been here sober.”

  “Never ye worry now, miss,” O’Callan hurried on. “Yer name is on one of the invitations as well as yer dance program.”

  “A ... dance program, eh?” Marietta interjected. “You’ve got things pretty well organized.”

  “That’s correct, Miss Mahoney. There’ll be a grand march in which the ladies will participate with their escorts, who will pick them up here at six-thirty that evenin’. Then there’ll be ten dances, and each trooper present will have the opportunity of one dance with one lady. Naturally, there’ll be refreshments and an intermission. At the end of the ball, the escorts will bring the ladies back here. Transportation to be furnished by the regiment, o’ course.”

  Marietta strode across the parlor and plopped herself down on one of the worn but gaudy sofas. “It’s all very nice, O’Callan, but we can’t go. You’re holding the dance on a Saturday night and that’s our busiest time of the week.”

  “We must hold the ball on Saturday,” O’Callan insisted. “That’s the one day o’ the week that most o’ the troops will be in garrison. Our patrol and security commitments are lightest on that day.”

  “Them miners would tear this town apart if they came in on Saturday and found us closed,” Marietta protested. “To make matters worse, this is Wednesday and the ball is this Saturday. Just how do you expect us to get ready in time?”

  O’Callan seemed a bit embarrassed by this. “Twas the fault o’ that heathen renegade, Halcon, that I didn’t bring these around as I had planned more’n a week ago. He’s raidin’ again an’ we was in the field all these days. As to fixin’ yerselves up, surely there’s a seamstress amongst the lot of ye or a lady or two of the town who ye might see about it? Ye must be knowin’ that if it weren’t fer yerself, there’d not be a town here, Miss Mahoney. As for your worry about them miners, I’ve already taken the liberty ta send word to ’em that yer house would be closed this Saturday.”

  “You what?” she shrieked, leaping to her feet. “How dare you, O’Callan! You’ve got no right doing that. I’m gonna report this to Colonel Patterson.”

  O’Callan knew it was time for his bluff and he played it calmly and coolly. “Would ye like yer establishment placed off-limits? Ye’d best recall that me darlin’ colonel is the law around here.”

  “Did Colonel Patterson say he would do that to us? Hell, why would he pick on some gals he’s never laid ... ah ... eyes on before?”

  “Me commandin’ officer is very concerned with the welfare of his troops in this savage country. He thinks that they should have the opportunity to behave as gentlemen from time to time.”

  Marietta sighed. “O’Callan, you’re being unfair. You know the military can pressure me into most anything.”

  “I was hopin’ ye’d consider this a simple act of social courtesy, Miss Mahoney.”

  Marietta shook her head helplessly. “You win, O’Callan. I’ll pass out your invites and we’ll be ready on Saturday.”

  O’Callan bowed stiffly. “The escort will arrive here Saturday evening at approximately six-thirty o’clock. Good afternoon to ye, Miss Mahoney.” He marched to the door in a slow cadence and turned dramatically, setting the plumed helmet on his head with an exaggerated gesture. Then he boldly winked at Marietta.

  “Get the hell outta here, O’Callan!” she muttered sullenly.

  Ten

  Thursday, immediately after retreat, O’Callan stood in front of the fifteen troopers he had assembled in back of regimental headquarters. Although they came from different troops and had varied backgrounds, they all shared one important similarity: They were the biggest and toughest of Fort Dawson’s troopers.

  “Stand at ease, lads,” O’Callan ordered with a friendly smile to the suspicious soldiers. “Ye look jest fine. Ye’re a credit to the regiment and it’s easy to see that ye’re reg’lar army.”

  “What’s up, Sarge?” asked Trooper Swensen suspiciously. “Ya didn’t talk so nice to me when ya had me lashed to that wagon wheel fer that ruckus in town.”

  O’Callan walked up to him, all smiles. “Swensen, me boy, I did what I did fer yer own good. Ye’re a spirited lad, an’ that’s no lie, but ye need calmin’ down now an’ again. I’ve always had a soft spot in me old heart fer lads with spunk. Ye’re all spunky an’ that’s why, I’ve chosen ye fer this special detail.”

  Mason of B Troop was outright distrustful. “Sergeant O’Callan, this is startin’ to sound like a recruitin’ pitch. If you got some crap detail for us, let’s get on with it. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.” The others voiced their agreement.

  O’Callan held up
his hand to quiet them down. “Lads, ye’re gonna love me fer what I’m about to tell ye. Ye’re each an’ all to to serve as escorts fer the lovely ladies that are gonna grace the Christmas party this Saturday night.”

  The troopers looked at each other doubtfully, but with growing wonderment. A couple smiled. Then they listened intently as O’Callan explained the invitations, the dance programs, and everything connected with the evening—except the identities of the ladies.

  “It’ll be up to each and every one o’ ye to see that all yer friends and trusted comrades act as gentlemen and that nobody tries to dance out o’ turn or too many times,” O’Callan concluded. “Then after the dance, we’ll escort the ladies back and conclude a memorable and lovely evenin’ o’ socializin’. Are there any questions?”

  “Yeah, Sarge,” Mason began. “Who are these ladies?”

  “Mason, ye’ll find that out when the time comes. Just remember to mind yer manners or I’ll spread-eagle ye across a wagon wheel like I did Swensen—with the hub right in the middle o’ yer back.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Mason responded sullenly. Then he brightened. “But, ah, thanks for putting me on this detail.”

  O’Callan dismissed them, then went happily to finish his arrangements for the music and refreshments.

  Drum Major Schmidt was transported! He spent his time preparing Strauss waltzes and light-hearted gavottes by Mozart. His makeshift band of trooper-musicians sweated under his exacting direction, but played with a will. Satisfied at this show of sincere effort, O’Callan left the band room, his head nodding to the rhythm of “The Merry Widow.”

  His next stop was equally satisfying. Somehow, O’Callan had dreaded this part of his plan. The reaction his revelations elicited from Sergeant Major MacDonald more than compensated for his misgivings.

  “Everything is in readiness far the troopers’ ball, Sergeant Major. An’ by the way, I’ll be needin’ the services of an assistant; if ye’ve any suggestions as to who might be best, I’d be appreciative.”

  Harry MacDonald’s face went blank with consternation. “It’s good to hear you are ready, O’Callan. The colonel and his lady will be pleased. But ... only one assistant? Surely you’ll need half a dozen?”

  “No, thank ye, Sergeant Major. One assistant is all that I require. By the way, if ye decide to drop in an’ visit the lads, the uniform will be full-dress.”

  MacDonald repeated the two words slowly and deliberately, the astonishment undisguised in this voice. “Full ... Dress?”

  “Right ye are. I thought it would add something to the occasion to have the lads decked out in their finest the army provided fer ’em to wear.”

  MacDonald regained his composure. “You don’t think those men will avoid fighting simply because they’re in full-dress uniform, do you?”

  “That’s a very important part o’ me plan,” O’Callan hinted. “Well, top o’ the evenin’ to ye, Sergeant Major. I’m on me way to supervise the decoratin’.”

  Although the party remained two days away, the decorating had already gotten under way when O’Callan arrived at the room set aside for the occasion. Any man who had served a reasonable time with the regiment was well familiar with the faded streamers and bunting that were being draped around the room. They were hauled out of a small crate in the quartermaster’s office on every festive occasion. The cover on the refreshments table was made of two sheets some of the officers’ wives had sewn together for a New Year’s Eve party five years before. And, with tablecloths so scarce on the frontier, the makeshift covering stood a good chance of serving for five more.

  The real attraction of the decorations was the punch set itself. It had been donated to the regiment by a surgeon’s wife when she and her husband had left the service for the greater financial rewards of civilian practice. Although it was government property in the legal sense, Mrs. Patterson kept it in the colonel’s quarters. She would never trust a bumbling quartermaster sergeant to handle the delicate bowl and cups, not after the time the crystal ladle had been broken during one of the regiment’s moves. This accounted for the rather unusual sight of an officer in full-dress uniform getting his lady’s punch into a delicate cut-crystal cup with the aid of a heavy, galvanized government-issue mess ladle. But one had to improvise on the frontier.

  O’Callan strutted around the hall, inspecting this and that. He made suggestions for hanging some of the bunting from the bare rafters and checked on progress of assembling the corral planks that would form a bandstand at one end. The punch set brought back fond memories of his first Sergeant’s Mess—a formal affair held annually to aid in the ages-old concept that there was something a cut above the average that separated the common enlisted men from the noncommissioned officers who led them. Regardless of the stately, ritualistic nature of the Mess, O’Callan recalled, it had always ended in a drunken brawl. But for the troopers’ party, God willing, that would not be the case. He complimented the workmen and left at last for his bunk.

  ~*~

  A graying master sergeant entered the office of General Hayes, located at the War Department in Washington. He cleared his throat in a diplomatic way to gently awaken the short, pudgy man behind the desk. In his hand he held a sheaf of papers.

  “Your pardon, General, sir. This came within the hour from Admiral Standis. It’s the list of proposed military posts and terrain features which the scientists have decided upon for the weather stations. I’ll—I’ll leave it here for your consideration, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Umh ... Have you any idea of how involved this whole project is becoming? No, I suppose you do not. I’ll attend to it later.”

  After his nap, the general leafed through the pages of the report. He frowned at the number of sites proposed to actually be placed on military installations. Damned nuisance. But that, he consoled himself, was the navy way. Some recommendations he approved of. Then he came to a strange name. General Hayes frowned and rubbed the back of one hand against the thick muttonchop sideburns he still wore in defiance of modern style. Nothing came to him. He rose and walked to the door of his office. He opened it and called to his aide.

  “Captain Larkin. Where in hell is Fort Pickering?”

  “Right on the border between Arizona Territory and Mexico. Things are getting sort of hot there between the Mexicans and us right now,” came the immediate reply.

  Hayes liked Larkin. He had a steel-trap mind. No shilly-shally with that youngster. No, sir.

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Back at his desk, General Hayes drew a thick line through the suggested location at Fort Pickering. The admiral would simply have to find another place out there in that godforsaken desert to put his weather station.

  ~*~

  Saturday morning, three of Halcon’s young warriors unknowingly conspired to spoil O’Callan’s carefully laid plans. In an impetuous act of personal honor, they not only came close to undoing the red-haired cavalry sergeant, but they earned the wrath of their leader as well. The last thing Halcon desired to have happen was anything that would tip off his enemy that he might be anywhere in the vicinity—and most particularly anything that might give the pony-soldiers the idea his intended target was the town of Lester Wells.

  What the braves did was simple enough. They rode in close to the walls of Fort Perdido, yipping and firing their out-of-date weapons. Their timing could have been better, though. Not only was it Saturday, the one day when most of the regiment gathered in garrison, but they had selected the hour set aside for the weekly troop inspection.

  Bullets thwacked into the solid palisade of Fort Dawson’s northern face, bringing a sudden, shocked look of frank disbelief to the face of Colonel Phillip Patterson as he stood among the ranks of A Troop, inspecting the men. He glanced doubtfully at A Troop’s commander and opened his mouth to say something when the voice of the guard sang clear from atop the gate.

  “Corporal of the guard! Post number two! We’re under Indian attack!”

  “
How many hostiles?” Colonel Patterson demanded before the duty NCO could respond.

  There came a prolonged pause, while the colonel feared the worst from a long counting period. Then the unbelievable words were delivered in a doubtful tone of voice. “T-two, sir ... No ... three!”

  “Son of a bitch!” the post adjutant growled. “Ah, sweet Ja-sus!” O’Callan grumbled aloud, down the ranks with C Troop. “There goes me fine party I’ve laid on.”

  Even as the officers hurried to the ladder that would take them to the parapet, the guard gave a running account. “They’re turning off, sir ... They’ve pulled out of rifle range ... Oh, shit! Here they come again!”

  The young Apaches made three more charges at the post while inside the troopers made ready to sally out when the main body arrived. The first two of these charges were to insure that the honor of all three of the warriors had been satisfied and the last to propitiate their gods. Then they sat out of rifle range, yelling insults and plunking shots into the sand fifty yards short of the wall. One pulled his breechcloth aside and wagged his genitalia like a battle ensign.

  “I’ll get them the hell away from here,” announced the ordnance sergeant. He issued quick orders and the fieldpiece used for firing salutes was wheeled up a low dirt ramp and horsed into position at the wall. He requested permission from Colonel Patterson to open fire and received consent to use one round of canister.

  Gray-white smoke, tinged with orange flame, bellowed from the cannon’s mouth, and the ground around the braves erupted in a shower of dust as the small pieces of shot tore into the rock and sand. One horse screamed in agony as its flesh ripped open, then threw its rider. His thoroughly frightened companions scooped him up and they rode away, howling as much in fear as in imprecation at this unexpected turn of events.