The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  It wasn’t, to say the least, exactly as Halcon had planned it.

  Using the doubtful cover of the thick-sided wagons, the troopers poured accurate fire into the flashes of the warriors’ weapons. Arrows thudded into the high wood walls, to be ignored by all but two of the girls who shrieked and loosed off a couple of wild rounds each time one struck deep into the stout oak.

  Closing on the two army vehicles had become impossible, Halcon believed. He made arm signals to his braves to encircle the target and urged them to keep firing. From the halted wagons, he heard a high voice shouting encouragement to the soldiers.

  “Pour it on ’em, men!” O’Callan bellowed. “Keep the heathen spalpeens’ heads down.”

  Suddenly Halcon saw some of the younger braves break cover and rush to their mounts. They whipped them to a gallop and dashed down on the wagons, intent on smashing all resistance. Carbine barrels bristled as thick as arrows from the sides, and O’Callan’s voice could be heard over the hoofbeats.

  “Steady, lads! Steady now. Hold it until they’re right on us. That’s the boys ... now!”

  A controlled, professional volley roared out, the lances of flame from the muzzle blasts nearly touching the flanks of Apache ponies. Three hostiles fell to the ground, lifeless, as the others whirled to avoid certain death. “Reload!” O’Callan’s voice commanded. Halcon felt sick.

  Another charge, joined now by others who felt their honor demanded it, came from over a small rise, giving the attackers an advantage of concealment until the last seconds. Two fast volleys slowed them, but failed to check their advance. The angry, crackling snarl of pistols added new menace to the heavier boom of .45-70 carbines. Five or six ponies went plunging around the wagons, riderless.

  “Up!” Halcon shouted. “Up and after them!”

  Now men rose from the sand and charged from the other side on foot. O’Callan noticed them in time and directed fire toward the attacking warriors. Halcon himself commanded this last-chance assault, and he howled with rage as he saw—at close range—who once more stood in the way of total victory. At that instant, a bullet grazed his side—drawing an immediate flow of blood—and he saw through a wave of dizziness that it had been fired by the burning-lip pony-soldier. He ordered a retreat; soon the ground around the wagons was littered only with dead men and horses.

  O’Callan had finally begun to believe it was over and had started to rise when the stinging bark of a derringer blasted off beside his ear.

  Twelve

  Following right on the bark of the .41 Remington came a thud as an Apache’s body fell into the wagon box.

  “He was pretendin’ to be dead, O’Callan,” Marietta said simply in a strained voice.

  “He’s not pretendin’ now, machushla,” O’Callan replied, eyeing the small pistol in her hand and swallowing deeply as he realized how closely death had stalked him.

  Marietta’s features had paled, and in the moonlight she looked to be an alabaster statue. Despite the ordeal, O’Callan thought for a moment that he had never loved any woman so dearly, save his sainted mother, now departed.

  “Ye did well,” O’Callan told the troopers and soiled doves in a gruff voice. It helped, top, to dispel the strange sensation of gratitude and affection he felt toward Marietta.

  At once, the soldiers and girls began to babble.

  “We got a ways to go, yet,” O’Callan reminded them. “What with this attack, we’d proper-like ought to head back to Fort Dawson and file a report.”

  Though everyone had been shaken up, now they expressed their anxious desire to go on to town. As they made ready to leave, after O’Callan had stripped saddle, bridle, and pad from his dead mount, a patrol came thundering up, led by Lieutenant Claymore.

  “We heard firing clear back at the fort, Sergeant. Is there any sign of hostiles?”

  “Only the dead ones ye see there, Lieutenant. Ever’thin’s fine now. Ye can just take the boys back to the fort.”

  “We’d better give you escort,” the officer pressed. “Never can tell with these gawdamned Apaches ... uh, pardon, ladies.”

  O’Callan affected to study on this for a moment. “Very well, but only to the town limits.” He thought quickly. “No need worryin’ the good folks of Lester Wells when the danger’s all passed.”

  “Good thinkin, Sergeant,” the young lieutenant agreed. He turned to his own NCO. “Sergeant Malcomb, form a column of twos around the wagons for escort duty to Lester Wells.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stewart Malcomb rapped out. Then his face took on a wide, knowing grin as he recognized the ladies to be escorted. Damn that O’Callan, he thought. Only he could come up with an idea like this. And only he could get away with it.

  From there on, the ride went smoothly. The patrol halted at the edge of town while the wagons rolled quietly on to Marietta’s establishment. O’Callan grumbled half to himself as the trooper escorts helped the girls down from the high wagons.

  “I’ll have to be makin’ a report on this damn ambush. Sure hope nothin’ comes out of all ... this.”

  “Relax, O’Callan. It was a fine thing. We’re excited, sure,” Marietta told him. “After all, one doesn’t go to a fancy dress ball and get ambushed by Apaches every night. But it was a darlin’ thing you did.”

  They stood side by side at the door as the troopers escorted the girls inside. “Now mind,” O’Callan warned, “no stayin’ far a more intimate goodbye.”

  Suddenly Marietta turned to him and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him. “Thank you, O’Callan. That’s the first time I’ve been treated like a lady in fifteen years.”

  Several of the girls also kissed his cheek and thanked him as they went in. The escorting troopers smirked. When the grinning cavalrymen remounted the wagons to head back to Fort Dawson, the inmates of Marietta’s—and the proprietress—leaned from windows and doorways, waving fond farewells. The detail picked up the escort on the way. Throughout the trip, O’Callan fretted about the result of the ambush.

  “O’Callan,” the lieutenant remarked as they neared the gates, “I suppose you’ll be made a hero, defending the ladies like that and holding off a band of Apaches the way you did. You’re a lucky devil, you are.”

  “Sure ... sure, Lieutenant, sir. But ’tis only bad luck I fear is me lot, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir.”

  Once back at Fort Dawson the animals were stabled and the wagons turned in. O’Callan walked slowly over to the NCO quarters. He turned as he heard his name called. MacDonald and Brannigan were both waiting for him in the shadows on the sutler’s porch.

  “Congratulations, O’Callan,” MacDonald gusted out. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you pulled it off beautifully.”

  “Ye were damned clever, Terry,” Brannigan added with a smile. “An’ savin’ the, er, ladies from that ambush without takin’ no casualties only makes it the better. That was really the luck o’ the Irish.”

  “Whew!” O’Callan burst out, relieved. “In that case, I’m gonna git me a bottle and finish this night off drunk.”

  “Mind if I get a jug and join you?” MacDonald inquired.

  “Glad to have yer company, Sergeant Major.”

  “Call me Harry. We’ll keep this on a friendly basis.”

  “Now that’s right nice, Harry.” O’Callan smiled.

  “You did such a good job with the party an’ all, that I just might find another challenging task for you,” Harry MacDonald suggested.

  “What ... ah, what sort o’ task?” O’Callan asked suspiciously.

  “Well,” MacDonald began. “What do you think of the navy?”

  “The navy is it? Faith, now, an’ I don’t think I’ve ever given the navy a second thought in all me life.”

  “Really?” MacDonald asked. “That’s amazing. The U.S. Navy is one of the finest in the world, they tell me.”

  “Is that a fact?” O’Callan jibed.

  “I was thinkin’ that perhaps you and I could have a little talk about
the navy,” MacDonald prompted.

  Brannigan lit his pipe and smiled to himself as he watched them walk away. “Sure, Harry,” O’Callan’s voice drifted back to his first sergeant, “—But before we talk about the navy, I’ve been wantin’ to talk to ye about that mule ...”

  O’Callan’s voice slowly diminished as Brannigan watched them disappear in the darkness toward the NCO quarters. Whatever Harry MacDonald had in mind, Brannigan reflected, he’d lay odds Terry O’Callan wouldn’t like it one little bit.

  Thirteen

  Stiff, and ramrod-straight, Sergeant Terrance O’Callan sat on the outer edge of one velvet-covered settee in the parlor of Marietta Mahoney’s bordello. He had ridden into Lester Wells at midmorning. Chary about visiting the establishment before noon, he naturally whiled his time away at Lester Hays’s saloon. To the astonishment of all on hand, O’Callan had sipped nothing but straight sarsaparilla. Then, having given the ladies of the evening time to dress and consume breakfast, he headed in their direction.

  “Come now, Terry me boy, don’t try to make me believe you’ve come over at this time of day for the usual distractions to be had here. There’s something bothering you.”

  O’Callan’s resolve had brought him this far, only to find his tongue and wit failing him. He swallowed heavily and tried to broach the subject uppermost in his mind.

  “Sit back, Terry,” Marietta urged. “I’ll send for coffee for the both of us.”

  “That would be lovely, Marietta,” the fiery-haired sergeant managed to croak.

  “You sound like an adolescent school boy who’s just discovered that painful protrusion in his trousers is attached to himself,” she teased. “Loosen up, O’Callan.”

  “Well, Marietta ... well, the truth to tell, I have come on a matter of some small importance ... ” Again O’Callan drifted off for lack of resources.

  “Not another social whirl, like the Christmas ball, is it?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Er ... well, ’tis about me future I’ve come to talk with ye, Marietta.”

  “Your ... future? Are you in trouble with the colonel again, Terry?”

  “Naw, naw, not a bit o’ that, mind. It’s me retirement that’s on me mind.”

  “You mean your plans for becoming a saloonkeeper?” O’Callan nodded and Marietta continued. “What is it you feel I can help you with?”

  O’Callan swallowed painfully and leaped recklessly into the breach. “I’ve been considerin’ what it is that makes such a life not only desirable, but possible. Not meanin’ the runnin’ o’ the place so much, but …”

  “What is it then?” Marietta was fast becoming exasperated. Getting something out of Terrance O’Callan was like prying a gold nugget from a stone.

  “It’s come to me mind that ... that any self-respecting gentleman saloonkeeper would naturally be expected to have a lovely and faithful helper in life. A paragon of housewifely duties and social graces. Someone … awh, the Devil take it.”

  “‘Someone’ what, O’Callan?”

  “Well, er, someone like ... like yerself, for instance.”

  For an instant, Marietta’s expression went slack. She couldn’t believe what she had heard. Or had she heard what she thought?

  “Is that some sort of proposal yer makin’, Terry?”

  O’Callan flinched as though someone had jabbed him with a saber point. His expression slipped from surprise to one of contrition. “Oh, no. No, not at all. At least ... uh, not at this particular time. Why, Saints Above, I could never dream of such an undertakin’ now. There’s still the question of that mule hangin’ over me head.

  “Until that is resolved, me dear Marietta, it’s gamble enough as to whether or not I’ll ever be able to amass enough savin’s and retire while still alive and in one piece. ’Twould be folly to consider committing meself to the support of another as well.”

  “Then why, in the name of all that’s holy, did you bring up the subject?”

  “I sort of wanted to lay it out to ye, let ye pick at it a bit and maybe suggest to me some way to go about it all.”

  “Terry, ye’re a fine lad. A man of considerable tenderness and understanding. I’ll not deny that I have a certain fondness toward ye. After all, it’s been more’n fifteen years since anyone treated me like a lady. You’re gallant and brave, considerate and sober ... uh, no, I’d better not add that last. All the same, what I’m tryin’ to say—this is one problem you have to solve for yourself. When the right times comes, and the right woman, you’ll know what to do. I’ve faith in you.”

  “Sure an’ I wish I had as much.” O’Callan rose, stiffly, adjusting the creases of the clean, dark-blue tunic of his service uniform. He spoke coolly, formally. “I’ll not be troublin’ ye further on this matter, then, Miss Mahoney. Good day.”

  Marietta put the small, soft palm of one hand on the center of his chest. “Since when has it gone back to being ‘Miss Mahoney,’ O’Callan? Have you no feelings at all?”

  Struck by a sudden realization, O’Callan went slack-faced. “I had no desire to offend ye, ah, Marietta. I never thought ye’d ... ye’d—”

  “That I cared, Terry? Is that it? Lord love you, Terry. Of course I care. You put happiness back in my life, if only for a few hours, and you saved my life. All in one night. How could I not care?”

  Uncharacteristically, O’Callan blushed. “As I recall, Marietta, ’twas you who saved my life. But what does it matter? Uh ... may I, now that we’ve cleared the air a bit, may I be so bold as to request another visit, Marietta?”

  “It is courting me you’re thinkin’ of doing, O’Callan?”

  The flustered cavalry sergeant turned crimson once more. “Well, uh ... well, uh ... ”

  Marietta took one of his big, tough hands in both of hers. “I’d be right put out if you didn’t.”

  “Ah, bless this day! Ye’ve lifted a burden from me heart, ye have.” Impulsively, O’Callan reached out. Marietta came into his awkwardly held arms and hugged him robustly. Nervously, like prepubescent sweethearts, they kissed. After the embrace ended, O’Callan bid farewell and left for Fort Dawson in a haze of euphoric enthrallment.

  ~*~

  “Stable detail, Terry me boy,” First Sergeant Jimmy Brannigan called from the doorway to the company orderly room.

  “Not to worry, First Sergeant,” O’Callan replied cheerfully. “I’ll set me fine lance carp’ril, Charlie Bradley, on it.”

  O’Callan’s return to the post had been accomplished in the same light-hearted mood with which he had left Marietta’s place. Now he crossed the parade ground with brisk strides and summoned Lance Corporal Bradley.

  “Now ye listen close to me, Lance Carp’ril,” O’Callan commanded intently. “I want ye to have yer detail finish up here and leave the stable as clean as ye found it this mornin’.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll be in to inspect it tomorrow, right after reveille, an’ I’ll expect to see things spick and span. An’ ye kin dismiss yer detail as soon as ye’re satisfied they’ve done a proper job of it.”

  O’Callan walked from the stables and sighed happily at the sight of the rapidly setting sun. Fort Dawson was taking a deep breath and winding down after the afternoon’s stifling heat. For an honest soldier it was that particularly lovely time of day. between retreat and taps when he could finally set his carbine in its rack and hang his haversack on the wall peg by his bunk. Then he could stroll down to the sutler’s for a drink or two with trusted friends if he had a mind to. Sergeant Terry O’Callan was of that ilk.

  Terry sauntered across the post in a good mood. He wasn’t tapped for the mail run and Whitlow had finally left to take his discharge, making that problem solved at last. He nodded to the sutler and wordlessly ordered his whiskey. He was handed a clay jug and a tin cup after signing a chit; then he wandered over to the tables reserved for sergeants and sat down beside Brannigan.

  “There we are,” O’Callan observed, filling the cup.

&nbs
p; “The first drink of a weary day,” Brannigan responded.

  “Fer me, mebbe,” O’Callan declared. “But fer a first sergeant with his own darlin’ desk where he sits unobserved most o’ the day, I doubt it very much.”

  “Well,” Brannigan mused. “I do have me chances fer a nip or two durin’ the day, an’ that’s a fact.”

  “Ouch, naw, then perhaps ye’d be good enough to share your bottle with me, bein’ that my day was drier than yer own.”

  “Was it now? Since when has it been dry in Lester Wells? As I recall, that’s where ye spent the better part of the day, leavin’ only the afternoon for seein’ to the troop’s horses. Would ye be tellin’ me that an old soljer with twenty years in the cavalry don’t have a bottle hidden away in the troop stables?”

  “I’ll not be tellin’ ye anything,” O’Callan answered through a grin.

  “Well, would ye be tellin’ me about that conversation ye had with Sergeant Major MacDonald?”

  “Now which one would that be? I’ve had several long talks with Black Harry.”

  “The one right after the Christmas ball. Ye know, man, right before young Trooper Whitlow finally left us.”

  “I don’t know that I kin recall such a’ occasion,” O’Callan evaded.

  “Are ye daft, man? The talk about the U.S. Navy.”

  “Oh, that? ’Tweren’t much of a conversation, Jimmy. He only asked me how I liked the navy. An’ I tole him I didn’t know nothin’ about goin’s on in the sea. He said, ‘well then ye don’t dislike the navy, O’Callan?’ I said no, an’ that was that.”