The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  When two hours had passed, the troopers on full alert, but with not a sign of a hostile force, Colonel Patterson, much to his own relief, announced that it was his decision that the attack was the doing of drunken bucks who had jumped the nearby reservation and were out to test their manhood. He gave the officers and senior NCOs the benefit of one of his well-known and often-repeated lectures on the innocence and childlike nature of the red man when fired on liquor rather than revenge. Then he had the men stand down and continued the inspection.

  Eleven

  Late Saturday afternoon, O’Callan called his escorts together and they changed into their full-dress uniforms.

  He inspected them closely before they loaded into the two wagons and rumbled out of the little post. They knew they were bound for Lester Wells, but not one of them suspected that their final destination was Marietta’s cote of soiled doves.

  As the wagons rumbled along the trail, a tall billow of dust behind them, the men were in high spirits, not at all troubled by the fact they still did not know the identities of their ladies. O’Callan rode at the front of the small column. A faint smile played across his lips and wiggled the fiery brush of his mustache like a mouse scenting cheese. It looked like everything was going his way. Only a few more hours and he would have accomplished the impossible.

  Sure an’ the sergeant major was right. Carry this off an’ he’d be in a better position to bargain over that blasted mule. Devil take that plague-ridden quartermaster and his accountability regulation. Weren’t the darlin’ officers always talkin’ about how the benefit of the doubt had to go to the commander in the field, rather than those rule books in Washington? Who better to determine what had to be done in the line of duty than the man who was there? Certainly not that fat-gut thief of a quartermaster!

  “Just a little while now, lads, an’ ye’ll be havin’ a ball worthy to remember fer all yer days,” O’Callan shouted back to the others, pleased with himself.

  ~*~

  From a ridge overlooking the road to Lester Wells, Halcon observed the departure of the wagons. His brows closed together in frowning thought. Were they being sent in to reinforce the town? Had the foolish acts of his glory-hungry braves tipped the pony-soldiers to his plans? It was a heavy responsibility. He chose to ride along, barely out of sight of the wagons, and see what their presence meant.

  By a stroke of fate, the rays of the late-afternoon sun chanced to highlight the glowing russet brush beneath O’Callan’s nose. “Ah!” Halcon exclaimed aloud. “The little pony-soldier with the burning hair on his lip.” His determination to keep with these wagons doubled. Wordlessly, he motioned his men to follow along. Perhaps now he would have his revenge.

  ~*~

  It was dark when the wagons returned to the post.

  The troopers inside the building looked expectantly toward the door when the escorts and girls entered. There were several surprised smiles, then a few leers, but the hardened glances of the burly escorts toned things down promptly. It was evident to even the densest soldier that there would be no hanky-panky that night. O’Callan nodded to Schmidt. The big Austrian bowed to the ladies, then turned toward his musicians and raised his fat arms to signal the downbeat. As the slightly out of time and tune strains of the “Triumphal March” from Aida filled the hall, couples formed up for the grand march.

  The ball had begun.

  As the evening wore on, O’Callan relaxed. The escorts watched their charges carefully, making sure that the dancing went smoothly. For many of the men, this was the first time they had been around women under any kind of social circumstances for years. For others it was their first occasion. Some adapted themselves graciously, dancing as gracefully as the heavy cavalry boots would allow and attempting to carry on polite conversation as they enjoyed the one dance they had been detailed.

  Others reverted to the discomfort and awkwardness of adolescents at their first dance. But they tried, and the girls—who were more used to receiving smacks on their backsides from these same men—appreciated the efforts that were being made on their behalf.

  Schmidt’s hastily assembled orchestra may have been out of tune, but what it couldn’t play well, it played loudly, for the occasion. O’Callan took advantage of his position and turned to Marietta, who was standing at his side. “May I have the pleasure o’ dancin’ with ye, Miss Mahoney?”

  Marietta blushed slightly. “Sure, O’Callan,” she managed, still disconcerted by what was happening around her. He swung her about the room several times, nodding to the girls and their partners approvingly.

  “You know, O’Callan,” Marietta remarked as they continued the dance, “if this wasn’t happening to me—to all of us right now—I’d never believe it. Why, those troopers of yours ... they seem like different people than usual. Like strangers.”

  “Sure an’ every man has his good side, machushla. But hush now and enjoy the dance.”

  ~*~

  Hard Rock Mike’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. They’d taken plenty of color from the little patch of creek bed he and Sourdough Jack had been working for a week now. Nothing like this, though.

  “A whole blasted canyon of gold!” Mike cried aloud. “We’ve done struck it rich!”

  “Ummm, maybe, Mike. I just ain’t all that sure there ain’t more where this come from.”

  “We gotta file now.”

  “Do we now? An’ have ever’ sand sifter this side o’ the Californey mountains swarmin’ in on us? Think of it, Mike. If we stake out our claims, ever’ one of ’em, then file, we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

  “Sure, sure. In the meantime, what’s to say someone else don’t stumble onto the real bonanza and leave us out in the cold?”

  “So we file on the lesser ones now, if that’s what suits you. The rest we check out better. Even then, there’s no guarantee the vultures won’t drop on us and grab up ever’thing in sight.”

  “You’ve a suspicious mind, Jack.”

  “It’s kept me alive a long time, Mike.”

  “Jake with me. We work a while longer. But not much more than another week, I’d say. This Mogollon Rim’s a big place. We could spend our life just lookin’. One week, no more.”

  “By then we’ll know. Trust me, Mike.”

  Mike scratched at his kinky black beard and wondered if his partner had gone around the bend a bit. Only one boot in the stirrups, sorta?

  ~*~

  It was all too strange for Halcon to understand. First the pony-soldiers had driven their wagons into town, but instead of organizing a defense of the place they headed to a large house on the far side of the village. There they loaded many pen-dik-oye squaws into the wagons and left, returning to the fort.

  Now, from the hill, he and his men watched in the winter cold. One of the fort buildings blazed with light, and shadows of the men and women blended together out the windows as they moved to the odd, dissonant wailing that the white men called music. And there was the high, shrill sound that the white man’s squaws made for laughter. All very strange. Even as he watched, he decided on a change of plans ...

  ~*~

  Everyone smiled and enjoyed themselves—except Sergeant Major MacDonald, who entered shortly before the intermission and stood open-mouthed by the door. He grabbed the nearest trooper. “Tell Sergeant O’Callan to get over here immediately!”

  The trooper responded quickly and O’Callan left Marietta with Nelson. “Good evenin’, Sergeant Major. I see ye decided to join us fer the soiree.” MacDonald ignored the salutation. “Goddammit, O’Callan!” he roared. “Have you lost your senses?”

  “What seems to be the trouble?” O’Callan asked, feigning puzzlement.

  “The trouble? You know it’s against regulations to bring prostitutes onto an army post.”

  “Calm yourself, Sergeant Major. We wouldn’t want our guests to hear that sort o’ talk, would we?” O’Callan took MacDonald by the arm and led him out to the porch. “These girls ain’t practicin’ their—ahe
m—trade, Sergeant Major. Each of ’em will dance with ten o’ the troopers, and that’ll be the only contact between ’em. At the end o’ the party, we’ll take the lovely lasses back in them wagons like we brung ’em out here.”

  MacDonald’s face reddened with anger and his voice grew hoarse with emotion. “You mean you used United States Army wagons and animals to transport these ... these ... bawds to Fort Dawson?”

  “Sure an’ that’s the truth of it. Although, I’ll be remindin’ ye, Sergeant Major, that tonight, at least, these ain’t ‘bawds,’ but ladies. We even built seats in the wagons an’ used blankets outta the barracks as paddin’ so their little behinds wouldn’t be bruised by the bumpy ride,” he went on, dismissing MacDonald’s spluttering anger.

  “You’ve really gone too far, this time, O’Callan. I’m going to see that you’re court-martialed and run out of the army.”

  “Now that wouldn’t be wise, Sergeant Major. It would be a scandal fer the regiment ... and I would jest reenlist at another post under another name. If ye stay calm, ye’ll see that there’s no harm to come o’ this. The party will be over in another two hours and we’ll have the girls bundled up and out of here ... Snug in their own little hoorehouse.”

  MacDonald barely controlled his desire to shout as he stared murderously into O’Callan’s face. He was too angry and O’Callan too intent on defending his cause to notice Trooper Whitlow—now less than a week away from his discharge—who had been standing near them for some time, taking a break from the ball to enjoy a smoke. Now, his attention was wholly upon this heated discussion between the raging NCOs.

  MacDonald’s breath came in labored gasps as he glared at O’Callan. Finally he could speak. “O’Callan, you damned fool! Colonel Patterson and his staff are coming over here to visit the party.”

  “Nothin’ to worry about, Sergeant Major. None of them know Marietta’s girls ... leastways, I don’t think they do.”

  “They’re bringing their wives, for God’s sake! They are all dressing up and coming over here to meet ... to meet a pack of ... harlots!”

  O’Callan looked past MacDonald and stiffened. “Here they come now, Sergeant Major.” Suddenly he took command. “Ye listen to me, MacDonald—it could mean yer stripes, too. All I want ye to do is bring ’em in like ye’d normally do. But delay ’em out on the porch fer a minute or two, got it? Carry on.”

  O’Callan went quickly back inside, leaving MacDonald fuming on the porch. Behind him, Whitlow extinguished his cigarette and headed for the door. The sergeant major turned and saluted the colonel as he and his wife stepped up on the porch. Whitlow stiffened to attention at the door.

  “Good evening, Harry,” the colonel said mildly. “How’s the celebration?”

  “Ah ... fine, sir,” MacDonald stammered, feeling weak.

  “I knew we could depend on Sergeant O’Callan,” cooed Drucilla Patterson. “He’s a fine noncommissioned officer.”

  MacDonald gritted his teeth. “Indeed he is,” he said nervously, wishing he had O’Callan’s throat between his hands.

  “The music is ghastly,” complained the quartermaster. “I hope the punch has a bite to it.”

  “We mustn’t criticize Sergeant Schmidt,” Colonel Patterson chided his staff officer gently. “He does the best he can possibly do with the talent and instruments afforded him.”

  “Yessir,” the quartermaster answered, unconvinced. “Why don’t we go in? We can’t stand out here all night.”

  MacDonald laughed weakly.

  “Well?” inquired Colonel Patterson.

  “Sir?”

  “Sergeant Major, we most certainly do not want to stand out here freezing all night.”

  “Oh ... to go in .. . Yes, sir.” MacDonald ground his molars together and opened the door, bawling, “Tinch-hut!”

  The room suddenly fell silent as the soldiers stood still and solid in apprehension. Drum Major Schmidt nodded once and raised his baton, swinging it in tempo as his musicians delivered a smart rendition of the two Ruffles and Flourishes allowed a colonel. The girls smiled uncertainly at the new arrivals. O’Callan ran his hand along his mustache once, then stepped up boldly to the colonel with Marietta on his arm.

  “Sir,” he boomed. “I have the honor to present my lady, Miss Mahoney.” Schmidt took it as his cue to begin the regimental song, “Bryan O’Hare,” and the officers formed a receiving line with their wives.

  Colonel Patterson bowed slightly to Marietta’s curtsey. “Charmed, my dear.”

  Drucilla Patterson beamed and took her hand. “I hope our dreary old post hasn’t been too much of a disappointment to you,” she offered.

  “It’s all very lovely, ma’am,” Marietta responded. “Much nicer than Lester Wells.”

  “I would love to visit you there,” Mrs. Patterson suggested.

  MacDonald strangled a gasp and his face reddened.

  “You would, ma’am?” Marietta asked, puzzled.

  Mrs. Patterson patted Marietta’s hand maternally.

  “Call me Drucilla. I think we of the army should become more involved in the affairs of the civilian community. Sort of share your life with you, if you know what I mean.”

  Sergeant Major MacDonald was seized with a sudden fit of coughing and had to excuse himself.

  Marietta shrugged. “Well, maybe we could use some of you on Saturday nights ... ” O’Callan skillfully maneuvered her away before the conversation took a more dangerous turn.

  The officers and their wives were slightly confused by the frightened expressions on the troopers’ faces as they filed past, introducing the other girls, but they put it off as social jitters. After all, troopers rarely had to go through a reception line.

  Quartermaster Butts had stationed himself at the near end of the line and was through greeting first. He left his wife with the others in the colonel’s party and headed for the punch bowl. He touched the cup to his lips hesitantly, doubtful of its quality. Then his eyes lit up. He drained the small crystal container and poured a second ... and a third. O’Callan joined him and the quartermaster poured two more, offering one to the short, carrot-topped sergeant.

  “Excellent punch, Sergeant O’Callan. Very reminiscent of one our own Sergeant Slocumb makes for our monthly Dining Out at the Mess.”

  “’Tis one an’ the same, Captain,” O’Callan admitted sheepishly. “I convinced him to do his very best fer the sake o’ the ball.”

  “Fine idea,” the rotund quartermaster beamed, helping himself to another cup. “Capital, I say.”

  Drucilla Patterson didn’t approve of the bold smiles a couple of the girls gave the younger officers during the receiving line, although she said nothing and continued to give each a pleasant greeting. As the reception line broke up, O’Callan signaled to Schmidt and the band began playing desperately as the dancing resumed. O’Callan was still occupied with Quartermaster Butts, speculating if this was the time to broach the subject of the mule. That left Marietta unattended at the time. Mrs. Patterson felt somehow reluctant to join the dancing and gladly relinquished her husband into the arms of the dark-eyed beauty.

  “You dance divinely, Colonel,” Marietta commented as they whirled around the floor.

  “Why, ah, thank you, my dear. You know, this gavotte reminds me a great deal of the mating ritual dance of the Agelaius phoeniceus—the, er, redwinged blackbird.”

  “Mating dance, eh?” Marietta began, then cut off further ribald comment that came to her mind. “My, you’re the bold one, Colonel.”

  When the dance was over, Drucilla Patterson tapped on the colonel’s arm. “Perhaps we had better go,” she whispered. “We seem to be making everyone nervous.”

  Each of the dancers had waltzed away to the far corners of the room to keep as much distance from the officers as possible. The result was that they were jammed together, leaving the main dance area empty and open. Colonel Patterson agreed with his wife, and smilingly, with a backward glance of regret to Marietta, led his party out the
door.

  Mrs. Patterson took a final look back and saw the dancers spread themselves out and once more occupy the entire floor. “My, my,” she mused. “We most certainly did make them edgy.”

  As the door closed behind the colonel’s party, O’Callan’s knees sagged and he leaned heavily against Marietta. “Hey! What’s the matter with you?” she demanded.

  He recovered quickly. “Nothin’, me lovely.”

  “I like your colonel. He’s sorta sweet. He was talkin’ to me about plants and bugs and things while we danced.”

  “Speakin’ o’ dancin’, c’mon. We’ve time fer a few more before the evenin’ ends.” He grabbed Marietta and spun with her into the crowd of revelers.

  ~*~

  The ride back to Lester Wells began normally enough. The soldiers breathed sighs of regret, while Marietta and her girls felt an inner contentment from the treatment they had all but forgotten existed for their likes. Soft moonlight and the warm, sweaty smell of horses made it an ideal ending for the evening. Then, when they neared the halfway point, close to four miles from the fort, Halcon decided to join the party.

  There was only a slight miscalculation in the war chief’s new plans to lay waste to the occupants of the wagons and use them as a guise to allow his men to enter the small desert community without raising an alarm: Standing regulations of the post required that any troopers outside the walls must be armed at all times. In addition to their sabers and sidearms, the escorts had along their carbines as well, lying on the floorboards of the wagons. This gave them an effective firepower not of sixteen troopers and sixteen frightened women, but of thirty-two armed persons, since prostitutes were, as a class, a hardier lot than the usual women. And while the average frontier wife and mother of Arizona Territory was ready and able to use a gun, her hardened sisters of the night could be a force to be reckoned with.

  The first shot of the Apaches’ ambush knocked O’Callan’s horse, squalling, from under him. Blood flew and, for a moment, the wiry little cavalry sergeant thought he had been hit. He struck the ground with a neat shoulder roll, mentally recording the damage done to the woolen finery of his dress uniform. Churning through the sand back to the first wagon, in a hail of bullets, he took stock and pronounced himself unharmed. He unholstered his pistol and tossed it to Marietta. His deeds were instruction enough for the other troopers, who did likewise—allowing the women the easier-to-operate and less-accurate weapons—while they dived into the depths of the wagons to come up firing with their Springfield carbines.