The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  O’Callan pulled off his shirt and threw it to the ground. His hat followed, and he stood ready for battle. Ormond simply pushed his sleeves up on his muscular, tattooed forearms after tossing his hat to one of the sailors. He watched O’Callan as the little Irishman circled him warily.

  Suddenly, O’Callan charged and threw several fast punches that rocked back Ormond’s head. The soldiers cheered as the boatswain spat blood. Ormond shook his head, as though to clear his vision.

  “You little bastard,” Ormond swore. “I was gonna take it easy on you, but not anymore.”

  O’Callan grinned and rushed once more. This time, Ormond was ready.

  His longer reach nailed the sergeant square on the jaw and he dropped like a rock. Ormond got on top of him immediately and swung heavy rights and lefts as O’Callan did his best to wiggle loose from the larger man’s pressing weight. Some of the punches began to tell, as welts started to appear on O’Callan’s face to complement his freely bleeding nose.

  Ormond kept up his punches until he grew too tired to hit effectively. He stopped to take a deep breath, and suddenly O’Callan scooted free, leaping to his feet. He lashed out viciously and his heavy cavalry boot caught Ormond’s temple.

  It stunned the sailor, and O’Callan made ready to move in for the final punches. The crowd yelled wildly as Ormond regained his senses and once again waited for O’Callan to make another wild charge.

  “Tinch-hut!” Sergeant Major MacDonald’s voice shot into the scene like a carbine bullet. The yelling died instantly and the crowd stood at rigid attention along with the fighters.

  Colonel Patterson and Naval Lieutenant (j.g.) Johnston stood stiffly behind the sergeant major and surveyed the scene of battle. Colonel Patterson, frowning most disapprovingly, stepped directly up to the combatants.

  “Sergeant Major, return these men to their work. I’ll have a word with Sergeant O’Callan and his, er ... well, ahem, his opponent.”

  “Yes, sir!” MacDonald marched the disappointed spectators back to the wagons on the other side of the stables.

  The colonel inspected the disheveled O’Callan closely. “Your nose is bleeding, Sergeant.”

  “Is it now, sor? Sure an’ I thank ye fer pointin’ it out to me, sor.”

  “Your trousers are dusty and your shirt is torn,” the colonel continued, as if the news would somehow prove beneficial to the NCO.

  “Thank ye, sor. I’ll tend to them matters on the first opportunity,” O’Callan promised.

  “Excellent idea, Sergeant. Officers and noncoms should always look their best,” the colonel recited.

  “Yes, sor. Ye’re dead right about that, sor.”

  “Well, now, who seems to be at fault here?” Colonel Patterson asked, addressing the air above the two miscreants.

  “Meself, sor.”

  “It was my fait, sir,” Ormond interjected.

  “It looks as if the blame rests equally between them, sir,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Johnston speculated.

  “Very well,” Colonel Patterson replied. “I’m going to forget this disgraceful incident. However, I don’t want to see so much as a frown between the two of you in the future. One more altercation and you’ll be back in the ranks, Sergeant O’Callan.”

  “And you’ll be back in the fo’cs’le, Ormond,” Johnston grated.

  “How’s that?” the colonel inquired, puzzled. “The same as being back in ranks, sir.”

  A small smile touched Colonel Patterson’s lips as he nodded, then turned back to the fighters.

  “You are leaving on an important mission early on the day after tomorrow. The work you do will require cooperation and understanding between the two of you. I shall expect nothing less. Dismissed.”

  O’Callan saluted and picked up his shirt and hat. Then he walked dejectedly back to the wagons with Ormond.

  ~*~

  All the young boys in Halcon’s camp had grown ill at ease. It had been weeks since the warriors had left following the leader, Halcon, in search of honors and booty to be won from the white-eyes. So far, no word had come from them, other than requests for more men. It caused distress among the women and confusion to the children.

  Most restless of all was Halcon’s son, Da-soda-hae. Finally he could stand it no longer and called together all the boys of his own age group. They met in the early evening, a short way outside the village, and sat in a circle with Da-soda-hae addressing them.

  “The warriors have been gone for a long time and we don’t know where they are,” he began. “Maybe they have had great victories and gained many things to bring back to the People. Or maybe some are hurt or all are dead, and that is bad.”

  Another twelve-year-old stood. “I think things are bad. There has been no word from them. No ponies with loot taken from the Pen-dik-oye. Yes. I think things are bad.”

  “I agree,” Da-soda-hae acknowledged. “And if the men are dead or hurt, that makes us now the warriors. I think we should make medicine and be a warrior society now. It is time.”

  There were several grunts of approval from the other boys, then they all turned their eyes toward Da-soda-hae. It was an unspoken recognition of him as their leader. He did not fail to heed it.

  “Yes. We must pray and begin making our medicine bags even before our time. It’s as the People always do when most of the grown men are lost. We will fast and purify our spirits, then make our medicine bags. Then we will go to war and find the missing men. If they are dead, we will sing the death song for them and kill many white-eyes. Bring back much loot on our ponies. This will ease the tears of the women.”

  “After we’re back what are we to do?”

  “The Law will let us take women,” Da-soda-hae answered, a thrill of excitement coursing through his skinny chest. “My father told me of this, and said that it happened to the People, once long ago. The warriors were lost, and the young boys took the widows and the single girls and together brought forth new People, and this is why we are here today.”

  “It’s good,” the men-children acknowledged. Da-soda-hae made to speak again, then there came the sudden flapping of a desert owl set early upon its evening hunt. Da-soda-hae shrieked happily and pointed.

  “My brothers! It is a sign from Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain. See that she has shown us a little owl—a mochuelo—like us. She approves and names us. We are the Owl Warrior Society, and the mochuelo is our totem.”

  “It is good,” the boys intoned as custom required. “Let’s prepare the sweat lodge and dream what Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain wants us to dream. Our visions will tell us what to do.”

  From where she stood, outside the wikiup of her war chief husband, Niente observed the boys returning to the rancheria in a single file, faces blank and their demeanor solemn. She needed no special gifts to know the meaning of this procession. Her ebony eyes glittered as she watched the boys go about their holy tasks. Unlike many of the others, she did not begin to cry and wail loudly as the reason for the boys to be making medicine became obvious to everyone.

  Wagh! What good is this weeping and mourning? To gash oneself is to be made ugly for your husband when he comes home from the warpath, she thought. True, Halcon and his warriors had been gone a long time. Perhaps our beautiful son has indeed had a vision from Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain. It’s good if it is so. Only—her heart seemed to lie still as a rabbit hiding from the hawk—he is so young. It must be as it happened to the People once so long ago.

  Niente’s mother’s love and compassion tugged at her to reach out to her son, to stop him before he became obsessed with this vision he believed he had seen. Yet, she knew she dared not interfere. This was a religious thing, a man thing, not to be questioned by a mere woman, nor profaned by her touch. She contented herself to the role of observer.

  While the evening wore on, many of the women became convinced that their men had certainly met death along the warpath and began cutting their hair as a sign of mourning. Yet, Niente knew, their loins secretly stirred with antic
ipation as they prepared for the new young husbands they knew they would take before the next moon. In her own mind, even though part of her rejected the possibility of Halcon’s death, she felt a tendril of excitement as she watched these barely pubescent children and wondered which one among them would come to claim her as wife.

  Fifteen

  Da-soda-hae opened one eye slowly to take a glimpse toward the fort. No stir of activity came into his view of the post, so he allowed himself the luxury of dozing off for several more minutes. Then he jerked awake to continue his observations.

  He had so far done as Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain had told him to in his vision: he was to take his band near the place where the pony-soldiers lived, then hide himself in a place where he could watch. When the pony-soldiers came out he was to follow them and with his band kill them all. He had told the other boys of the new Owl Society and they had howled their approval.

  The young Apache had arrived at this watch post in the early hours of morning. After burying himself to his shoulders in the sand, he kept Fort Dawson under observation through one day and night. He had an army canteen that his father had given him long ago, hardly touched so far. He nibbled on dried venison when he felt hungry, though that wasn’t often. His father had trained him well; he could go incredible lengths of time without food. Reflections on his father made him sad, and he willed himself back into a light doze.

  Once again Da-soda-hae opened an eye and raised his head. This time he snapped fully awake. The front gates stood open and three wagons, escorted by a double file of cavalry, rolled out from behind the walls. He watched them until they disappeared over the horizon, then he slid out of the depression where he had lain hidden and scooted backward on his belly. Out of sight of the fort, he slid down into an arroyo where his pony stood hobbled.

  He untied the rawhide rope and mounted swiftly, turning toward the direction of the column of pony-soldiers. His vision had told him the white-eyes would go someplace and stop. That was where he and his friends would kill every last one of them. Grimly determined, he followed the easy trail all that day.

  The soldiers had done no real patrolling, so the precautions Da-soda-hae took had been unnecessary despite the wisdom. The troops plodded straight ahead until nightfall, when they stopped and made the usual bright and noisy camp. Saddle horses and draft animals were picketed on a long rope. At the directions of a fiery-haired, bowlegged soldier chief, a patrol went out to sweep the surrounding area.

  Suddenly Da-soda-hae had to recall all his father’s teachings about caution. It was only with a great deal of difficulty that he managed to avoid detection. Through his ordeal, he kept in mind the one who seemed to give orders to the others.

  He was the chief who yelled with great anger at the soldiers. Yet it wasn’t his voice that fascinated the young Apache. It proved to be a phenomenon that Da-soda-hae had never imagined in even his most distorted vision—the pony-soldier chief had a large amount of red hair sprouting from under his nose. It was even darker than that atop his head.

  After careful study of this enemy and careful consideration, Da-soda-hae did not feel that this place had been the one where Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain wanted the soldiers to die. So, he decided to watch them all that night and follow along the next day. Between bouts of dozing, his mind tried to perceive what message Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain had meant to send him through the pony-soldier’s red hair.

  ~*~

  “You’ve picked a good camp, O’Callan,” Lieutenant Johnston complimented.

  “Yeah. So long as none o’ Halcon’s Apaches decide to pay us a visit. I don’t like bein’ in the open among those heathen devils.”

  “Make you nervous?”

  “Ye might say as how it does,” O’Callan allowed. “Them savages knows every rock, cactus, and grain of sand out here. It’s their land. The only thing that stops ’em is walls. Good, stout palisades, with firin’ loops. If I had me way, this territory would be all cut up with walls.”

  “An ambitious undertaking,” Johnston remarked, distracted by a delightful aroma. “What’s that I smell? Coffee?”

  “Sure. is. Arbuckle’s finest Ariosa. Far some reason, Lieutenant, it always gives off a better aroma out here in the wilds. Much richer an’ in garrison where some belly-robber can foul it up with stale water an’ such.”

  “How much further to this Dog Leg Butte, Sergeant O’Callan?”

  “We’ll be at its foot before sundown tomorrow. Too late to climb, but there’s a nice place there, Painted Rock Crossing. It’s got walls,” O’Callan added meaningfully. “We can start up the trail to the top come daylight the next mornin’.”

  “I’ll be grateful for that.”

  “Why’s so, beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon?”

  “I’m anxious to set up our scientific equipment. It’ll be my first weather station.”

  “Hummm. An’ do ye know for certain it’ll work?”

  “It should. Provided we follow directions exactly.”

  “Sure an’ that’s a comfortin’ thought. If ye’ll excuse me, sor, I’ll go see to that coffee. I’ll bring ye back a cup.”

  “That would be kind of you, O’Callan.”

  “’Twould be me pleasure, sor.”

  ~*~

  The journey resumed the next day, and Da-soda-hae once again followed stealthily. He never lost sight of the wagons until the journey ended abruptly at another place where the white-eyes had built walls.

  “Welcome back to Painted Rock Crossing,” Mexico Schultz bellowed as he offered a hand to Lieutenant Johnston and Boatswain’s Mate Ormond.

  “I’ll have to speak the plain truth and say that bein’ the first sailors I’ve ever seen set foot here, ye’re mighty inter’stin’ company. It’ll be nice to hear some more of those sea tales of yours.”

  “Very pleased to be here again, Mr. Shultz,” Johnston returned pleasantly. “I understand arrangements have already been made for us to stay the remainder of today and all night.”

  “Sure have,” Mexico said. “And if yo’re goin’ up to the top of Dog Leg Butte in the mornin’, you’ll need ever’ minute of it to rest up yore animals.”

  “That’s what Sergeant O’Callan told us,” Johnston offered. “And we certainly mean to heed his expert advice. How far is Dog Leg Butte from here?” Mexico pointed to the huge, flat-topped mesa that thrust skyward over the top of the walls. “That’s it right there.”

  “Well! It’s not as far as I thought.”

  “Don’t let the distances in the desert fool ya, mister,” Mexico cautioned him. “The base of that butte is eleven miles from here. But the ground starts sloping up within a mile. C’mon over to the wall and I’ll show you. You can see where the trail up to the top begins.”

  Shultz led the naval officer up the rickety steps of the watchtower. He pointed wordlessly to an obvious change in the desert terrain.

  “Ya kin see it from here, easy enough,” he remarked. “But out there nobody kin really tell where the upgrade begins till his hoss starts breathin’ harder.”

  “I ... see,” Johnston nodded. “Thank you for the information.”

  “Yore right welcome. Let’s get on down to the waitin’ room for some vittles. There’s some good pop-skull waitin’, too,” Mexico added with a wink.

  The troopers and sailors had already begun to noisily attack the food. Loud talk and the clatter of tin plates filled the air when the two men got to the dining room. O’Callan and Ormond ate quietly, seated at opposite ends of the long trestle table. Mexico dished out generous platefuls for himself and the officer, then joined Johnston at the table.

  “O’Callan tells me yo’re keepin’ a check on the weather up there,” Mexico remarked.

  “That’s right. It’s a naval project.”

  Mexico shrugged, dismissing the idea as crazy. “There really ain’t much to take note of. It’s either hot or cold, dry or wet ... with a few combinations of that. Sometimes it snows.”

  Johnsto
n smiled at the usual lack of awareness on the part of an uninitiate. “We’ll be watching for more than that, Mr. Shultz. We’ll be taking notes on cloud formations, their speed, direction, as well as a strict temperature watch and wind recordings. All the information we gather up will be compiled with that of dozens of other stations.”

  “Seems right, uh, inter’sting,” Mexico remarked insincerely.

  “What we’re doing,” Johnston persisted, “is to find out if we can establish a pattern of weather. For example: Do certain wind conditions in the desert indicate something that’s happening—or more importantly—will happen on the coast, or out to sea?”

  “You want some whiskey, O’Callan?” Mexico called down to his friend.

  “I’ll finish me food first, Mexico,” O’Callan yelled back. “Then, after I see to the darlin’ animals, I might jest settle meself down fer a bit o’ sippin’ an’ talkin’.”

  “Hey! What the hell about us?” a cavalryman demanded, with scant consideration of rank.

  “Well, what about ye?” O’Callan shot back. “Ye see to yer gear an’ help with the critters, an’ then the lot o’ ye kin have a nip or two. As fer the sailors, I’ll leave that up to Boats and Lieutenant Johnston.”

  “That’s Mr. Johnston,” Ormond said hotly. “He’s a lieutenant jay gee. If you’re gonna talk to somebody, at least do it right.”

  “Jay gee? What in hell’s that?”

  “Junior grade, O’Callan. It’s a navy rank.”

  “In the army—” O’Callan began hotly.

  “It’s perfectly all right, Sergeant O’Callan,” Johnston broke in. “Let’s not have another squabble. The thing is, the title ‘Lieutenant’ in the navy is the same as a captain in the army. My rank, ‘jay gee’ is equivalent to a first lieutenant in your service.”

  “Oh ... I ... see,” O’Callan responded, nonplussed for once. “Junior, huh? By yer leave, junior, er, sor, I’ll go see to the horses and mules now.”

  ~*~

  The darkness prior to dawn added to the confusion and sharp cursing of the cavalrymen and the restless stomping of hoofs and creaking of wagon wheels as the little caravan once more formed up.