The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Brannigan prepared the slips of paper with their names and the dimensions of their claim, which he placed in tin cans at each pyramid. O’Callan hummed snatches of old Irish ballads while he labored in the watery sunlight and thin air. Then they settled down to the drudgery of unloading and setting up equipment. All the while, much to O’Callan’s annoyance, Brannigan continued to worry and think too much. “Are ye sure this is the right spot, Terry?”

  “Of course. We don’t want to share with anyone, do we? We’re all alone here.”

  “That’s what worries me. If there was gold here, sure an’ some other prospectors would be workin’ claims.”

  “Unless we’re that much ahead o’ ’em by comin’ late. You’re worryin’ again.”

  “An’ what about that big overhang up there?” Brannigan inquired, pointing to a large outcrop of dirt and trees that hung suspended over their heads some quarter of the remaining distance uphill from them. “We could be workin’ away down here one day and that let go—bury us alive—no one’d ever find us.”

  “There’s naught to worry from that,” O’Callan assured him. “See them tree roots an’ brush an’ such? It holds that like a big net. Why, it’d have to be the Lord’s own Great Flood to jar that loose. If there was any danger o’ that happenin’ while we’re here, ye’d see old Mr. Noah up the hill from us, a-buildin’ his ark.”

  One little detail escaped Jim Brannigan, however, and O’Callan’s stubbornness wouldn’t let him admit to the error once they had settled in.

  The creek was a good hundred yards below where they had set up their rocker-type riffle box. When in operation, they were forced to carry water to it by buckets, on a makeshift yoke. That all they washed through it was mud didn’t begin to deter O’Callan the first week—not until it became increasingly apparent that each of the prospectors who happened to pass their way paused to take in the activities and then departed with a sound distinctly like a snigger. Another day of fruitless labor could have caused them to move on. Then nature took a hand in the game.

  On the morning of their eighth day working the claim, an unusually quiet dawn, O’Callan crawled from their low snug tent into a world of swirling white confusion.

  “Snow!” he cried out. “Mother o’ God, ’tis snow ... an’ in the first week o’ March at that.”

  “Ye’ll see worse than this around these parts, from what I’ve been told,” Brannigan promised darkly.

  Breakfast was a cold, soggy experience. Despite the canvas windbreak O’Callan strung and Brannigan’s efforts with a larger than usual fire, their food congealed on the tin plates while silently falling flakes formed white cowls and mantles on the two men huddled in their blankets near the flames. Another hour with no let-up convinced O’Callan that they had to take some direct action or become snowbound and eventually freeze to death.

  They gathered up their loose gear and bedrolls, threw it all onto a packsaddle on the mule, and saddled their horses. Brannigan suggested they leave their slow-moving, stubborn burro off with the Llewellyns, an idea to which O’Callan readily agreed.

  Morgan Llewellyn greeted them warmly. “I was so worried about you boys out there alone. Come in. The tent’s warm and Grandpaw has coffee on. You’re gonna stay out the storm with us, ain’t ya?”

  “Uh,” O’Callan began, then caught the glare in Brannigan’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, darlin’, no. No, we ain’t. We’re sort o’ missin’ the lights o’ town an’ figgered to go on in to Slaughter.”

  Morgan pouted. Old Alf Llewellyn rose partly from a camp stool to greet the visitors, offered coffee, and listened to their plans. He sucked noisily on a pipe and blew smoke rings while he considered their notions.

  “You could get caught on the trail. Freeze solid as ice till this blows over.”

  “We’re aware of that, Mr. Llewellyn,” Brannigan replied. “Fact is, that canyon’s a regular drift-catcher. We were more worried about stayin’ than goin’.”

  “Ya find any color up there?”

  “A bit. Some small nuggets, nothin’ o’ any size,” O’Callan declared. “Not even enough to fill a poke, truth to tell.”

  “That’ll go fast in Slaughter,” Morgan inserted. “How long’ll a storm like this last?”

  Alf Llewellyn pondered a moment. “Two, three days. Four at the most.”

  “There, ye see? We’ll be back before our poke’s empty. I can promise,” O’Callan offered brightly.

  Half an hour later, the pair pointed their mounts down canyon, toward Slaughter. By the time they reached the tent-city boom-town, the snow had melted in a sudden warm front, which brought an updraft of desert air. It turned the alabaster flakes into a steady, desultory downpour of icy rain.

  O’Callan listened listlessly to the spatter of fat drops on the brim of his hat and the sucking sound of the viscous mud that clung to their horses’ shanks as they sunk hock deep. He snorted in disgust as they plocked down the greasy main street of Slaughter.

  When they dismounted and tied their horses in front of Casey’s saloon, they both resembled shipwreck victims. Water streamed from their hats and the hems of their rain ponchos, also from the sadly drooping ends of O’Callan’s usually bold mustache. Their boots made wet, squishing sounds and liquid ran out around the stitches. Brannigan tried to stifle a wracking sneeze, and O’Callan’s voice croaked when he ordered them a bottle of whiskey at the bar.

  Service came quickly. The cold, miserable rain, rather than heightening business, had left the saloon nearly empty. Sean Casey was soon able to join the two cavalry sergeants at their table. “Well, could it be you struck it rich so soon, boys?”

  “Save yer Dublin humor for later, Casey ... ” O’Callan paused to sneeze. “—Else ye want a fight on yer hands. We been damn near froze to death, an’ damn near drowned, on top o’ bein’ near to starved from the outset. Then ye come along an’ want to make funnies.”

  Casey spread his hands wide, disclaiming any mean intent. “No offense, gentlemen. It’s just that I wonder if ya’d both seen the light an’ were ready to take honorable employment as bouncers in one o’ my three establishments.”

  “Three?” Brannigan blurted. “I thought ye had two places, Casey.”

  “I bought another one while ye were gone, Brannigan. A small place. Seems it hadn’t fared so well since a pair of wild Irishmen busted the joint up a couple o’ weeks ago. I need a barman and a bouncer.” He gave them a broad, knowing wink.

  “We thank ye fer the kind consideration o’ the likes o’ us, Casey,” O’Callan demurred. “But we got us a nice little claim staked, and we’re sure o’ hittin’ pay dirt any day now. Fact is, we got some in our poke already. So ye’d best be searchin’ elsewhere.”

  “Three places are too much for one man to handle, O’Callan. I might be open to an offer to buy—from the right people. Didn’t ye once tell me ye had ambitions to become a gentleman saloonkeeper?”

  “That I did, that I did,” O’Callan replied wistfully. “But the saloons here about aren’t exactly what I’ve got in mind fer meself—no offense intended. I want a hardwood bar, rubbed and polished so slick that a fly can’t stand up on it. I want a solid brass rail around it an’ spittoons o’ brass as well. I want a plate-glass window an’ a lovely paintin’ o’ a fine-bosomed lady hangin’ over the bar. That, Casey, is me idea of a saloon. If ye don’t mind, we’ll just stay long enough to escape the worst o’ this storm, then it’s back to work again.”

  Half an hour each of soaking in hot tubs of water, bellies liberally dosed with hot toddies, coaxed the chill from their bones. Freshly barbered, shaved, and dressed in warm, clean clothes, their stomachs comfortably stuffed with bear steak, baked yucca root, and cornbread, O’Callan and Brannigan presented themselves at the door to the Carter sisters’ “Lodging House for Refined Young Ladies.”

  A second floor, like the first, of wood had been added, although tent canvas still formed the roof. Sounds of pleasure from inside spoke well for the popularity o
f the establishment. The door was opened by the bordello’s towel boy, a short, slim youngster with big, limpid eyes and a knowing, secret smile.

  “An’ a good evenin’ to ye, Timmy. Would the ladies o’ the manor be in?”

  A big grin split the overly-aware thirteen-year-old’s face, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “You sure talk funny, O’Callan. But if ya mean the Carter sisters, they’re in the parlor. You know the way. Gotta go now, lotsa business tonight.”

  “Tell me, Timmy,” O’Callan teased, his raised voice arresting the boy’s hurried steps down the hall. “Do ye ever sample some o’ the wares fer yerself?”

  A wistful, gamine smile played about the young man’s lips. “That’s between them an’ me, ain’t it?” He hurried on as O’Callan and Brannigan entered the parlor, chuckling.

  “Terry O’Callan! Jim Brannigan! You boys are a sight for these eyes,” Agnes Carter burbled. “Come in, come in and sit a bit with us.”

  “Ye’re quite a sight yerself. Both o’ ye.” O’Callan’s words weren’t an exaggeration. Although not twins by two years’ difference in age, Agnes and Bernice Carter dressed and looked very much alike. And what there was to look at was most pleasing indeed. Barely past their mid-twenties, they had narrow, hand-span waists, above generous, flaring hips. Their contours ran in graceful lines upward to bountiful, inviting bosoms, daringly revealed by the deep décolletage of their blue satin gowns. Long, slender necks supported nicely formed heads, crowned by glossy, blue-black hair that contrasted their milk-white complexions. Every opportunity to gaze upon them left O’Callan dizzy with rapture. When they were seated with the sisters, in love seats opposite each other, separated by a low maple table, O’Callan studies his favorite, Bernice.

  Perhaps, he thought, their features were a smidgen too generous. Like too much of a good thing. Like her sister, Bernice’s lips seemed a little too full, her mouth somewhat wide and on the large side. Her eyes, although pleasant to look deeply into, might be set a fraction too close together, so that they seemed to cross slightly over the bridge of her nose—which could be called a tiny bit large, overly patrician. Yet, taken all together, these bouncing, healthy young females were a delight to behold.

  The other girls, those without customers for the moment, twittered around them while the quartet went through the social amenities of a drink and gossip to bring each other up to date on their respective activities. Then it was down the long hall for the two couples, hand in hand, to the adjoining bedrooms with the wide, soft beds and inviting sensual thrill of satin sheets. It was a night to remember, well worth the money that it drained away from them, blissfully, painlessly.

  A day after leaving Slaughter and the Carter sisters far behind, still in the euphoria of their halcyon night, O’Callan and Brannigan avoided being dragged into painful confrontation with reality until they rounded the bend into the canyon where their claim had been staked. They jerked their horses to a standstill, eyes staring wide in disbelief. In their absence, the calamity of all calamities had occurred.

  “Holy Ja-sus!” O’Callan cried when he found his voice. “Could it be we’re in the wrong canyon? It’s all gone, disappeared.”

  “Ye an’ yer Great Flood, O’Callan. ’Twas a mudslide, an’ now we’re wiped out. Our claim, all our equipment. Under tons o’ mud they are.”

  ~*~

  Slithering stealthfully through the desert flora, I discovered much to my surprise that I had come upon a drumming ground. What marvelous fortune! I thought to myself. Now I may observe these timid, crafty feathered creatures in the very act ... Colonel Phillip Patterson looked up from the rows of neat precise words he was penning onto thick paper as a knock sounded a second time.

  “Yes? Come in.”

  “Good evening, sir,” the young officer standing in the open doorway to the office greeted his commander.

  “Ah, yes. Good evening, Lieutenant ... ah, Claymore, isn’t it? Take a seat.”

  “I trust I’m not interrupting anything important, sir.”

  “Well, I was working on this utterly exciting report for the natural history people. On the mating habits of the ground cuckoo, you know. Would you like to read part of it?”

  “Ah, er, oh, yessir! That is, ah, perhaps another time ... when you have it completed. Much more, ah, exciting that way, I’m sure. I came with a matter of considerable importance I wished to discuss with you, sir.”

  “Fine. Fine. Go right ahead, my boy.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the tactical situations involved in fighting the Apaches, sir. Since we are dealing with trained, disciplined troops in the field, once we close with the enemy our concentrated fire is able to defeat them in almost every instance. But the main problem seems to be in coming to grips with the slippery devils, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”

  “Excellent! You’ve come right to the head of it, Claymore. You’re an outstanding observer and have the makings of a brilliant tactician.”

  “Thank you, sir. But, well, sir. If you’ll forgive me, sir, knowing the problems is only partway toward solving them, sir.”

  “Quite right, quite right, Claymore. You’re more astute than most of the officers in this command. I think I’m going to put you in for captain. Go on.”

  “Well, sir, I have this little idea I’ve been thinking about ...”

  Over the next half-hour, Claymore outlined a plan for training one troop of cavalry to travel light, live off the land, and to track as expertly as the Indians themselves. It was concise and detailed. The lieutenant suggested certain troopers and NCOs to form the unit—which would be lead, naturally, by himself—and illustrated with examples of how the Apache warriors they had pursued in the past eluded capture by traveling light and fast. At the end of his presentation, Lieutenant Claymore sat back, a small smile of smug satisfaction on his rosy young lips.

  “Your plan seems well thought out, Lieutenant.” Claymore had the grace to flush slightly and nod his humble acceptance of his colonel’s compliment. “And it was marvelously organized. But ...” Colonel Patterson shook his head sadly, sighing heavily. “I’m afraid it isn’t at all practical.

  “The Apache is a wild creature. A noble savage, if you will, whom I have confronted recently, face to face—in the person of the war chief, Halcon—and I find them to be admirable physical specimens ... of primitive man. There’s where the problem lies. Our troopers aren’t like the Apaches. They are the products of a thousand years of civilization and refinement. They could never learn to live as the Indian aborigines do—to eat grubs and ground rats, snakes, and the flesh of their own mounts when they’ve ridden them into the ground.

  “An Apache boy begins to run each morning from the age six or seven. He increases the distance until by the time he reaches manhood he runs some twenty miles every morning of his life before breaking his fast.” Colonel Patterson removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “To attempt to train troopers to do the same, men who have spent twenty-two or -three years of semi-indolence upon this mortal coil, is doomed to failure.

  “And, if you are about to suggest that we use ‘friendly’ Apaches to track and capture other Apaches,” the colonel continued his lecture, “I sadly fear it would never work either. Oh, I know, Nelson Miles had some success at doing that. But that was years ago and not on an, ah, permanent basis. The poor, benighted savages would surely languish and die as a result of the confinement—and the refinements—offered on our post. Or perhaps they might betray conventional forces into the hands of their wild brothers.” The colonel stood and paced the floor, hands behind his back.

  “It’s a brilliant idea, Lieutenant Claymore, as I said. But hardly practical.” Colonel Patterson studied his ambitious junior officer closely. “By the way, how did you ever conceive of this plan?”

  Faced with this attitude on the part of his commander, Lieutenant Claymore was more than willing to give credit where it was truly due. “Well, actually, ah, sir, it was ... ah, Tro
oper Whitlow ... before he had his enlistment terminated.”

  “Ah, yes, Whitlow. Harry MacDonald told me something about Whitlow’s scheme of creating an irregular troop of foragers. Sort of like that Rebel chap, eh? Morgan, was it? Yes ... Morgan ... no. Mosby. That was his name. Oh well, if all our privates were gifted tacticians, we’d have an army of Napoleons, wouldn’t we, Lieutenant. Then there wouldn’t be any need for officers—if you catch my meaning. Good night.”

  “Ah, yessir. Ah good night, sir.”

  “Don’t forget, Lieutenant.”

  “Forget what, sir?”

  “The report ... on the birds. You expressed a desire to read it when I completed it. I’ll have it on your desk tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Unnnnh! Ah, thank you, er sir. I can’t tell you how delighted I am.”

  “The pleasure is entirely mine, Claymore, entirely mine.”

  Twenty-Four

  A day and a half of digging only emphasized the futility of the efforts O’Callan and Brannigan had made toward trying to recover some of their equipment from the mudslide. The Llewellyns came by. Alf offered his expert opinion that it would be futile to continue. Morgan flirted outrageously and Brannigan scowled. After their departure, the effort went on. Stubbornness prevented O’Callan from admitting defeat.

  At mid-afternoon, Terry O’Callan stopped his labors and leaned on his shovel handle to wipe his brow. Following the freak snowstorm and later rain, the sun had come out with a vengeance. Loath to return to his fruitless task and thirsting like a tormented soul in Hell for a long swallow of Sean Casey’s fine rye, O’Callan let his gaze rove over the immense damage done in the slide.

  His eye flicked upward to where the huge overhang had once sheltered them from the occasional showers. Silently he cursed it. For now it lay all about him, more than hip-deep over everything. A bright glint in the vein of rock exposed by the slide arrested his motion, then he lost it. His gaze moved on past to encompass the remainder of the hillside.