The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Quite right, Sergeant Olsen. Only, whose side shall we fight on, and whom shall we attack?”

  “Beggin’ the colonel’s pardon, sir, but those are white men down there, sir.”

  “Right again, Sergeant. And do you happen to see our Sergeants Brannigan and O’Callan among them?”

  “Well ... ah, no ... ah, sir. But from this range ... ”

  “We’ll have to wait a moment, then, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Down in the rancheria, many of the warriors had seen the size of the assault force and, realizing their short supply of ammunition, began to sing their death songs. Above the wailing, two tenor voices rose to the military party on the rim, loud and clear.

  Oh, Paddy dear, an’ have ye heard,

  Th’ news that’s goin’ round?

  Th’ Shamrock is by law forbid,

  To grow on Irish ground.

  “I—I believe that’s Sergeant O’Callan singing, sir,” Sergeant Olsen said, hesitantly.

  “You have a good ear, Sergeant,” Colonel Patterson commented, a smile beginning on his lips. “And I’ll wager that the one singing slightly off key is our Sergeant Brannigan.”

  An’ the color we’re to wear around,

  ’Tis England’s cruel red ...

  “It is, sir. I’d stake my life on it,” Bradley added.

  “Don’t release them arraws till ye see the real target, boys!” O’Callan ordered from below.

  “Pour it on the spalpeen bastards! Help’s on the way,” Brannigan urged.

  “That’s their voices, all right, but ... they’re comin’ from the Apache village, sir.”

  Colonel Patterson’s smile blossomed fully now that he felt satisfied his growing suspicions had been verified. “An astute observation, Sergeant Olsen. Very well, I think it’s time to commit our force. Have the regiment form in two ranks as skirmishers and draw sabers,” Colonel Patterson ordered.

  “Prepare to draw sabers,” ordered each troop commander when the command was relayed.

  “At the trot, forward, yo-o-o-o!”

  “Draw sabers!”

  “Forward at the gallop ... yo-o-o-o!”

  The crescent formation topped the rise in a thundering mass.

  “Trumpeter, sound the “Charge,” Colonel Patterson commanded.

  The clear, brassy notes of the “Charge” sounded, echoing across the meadow, and the troopers surged down the inner face, spreading out into a wider line, sabers sparkling in the sun. The warriors and their families in the village were treated to an awe-inspiring sight of a full cavalry charge as it swept around some two hundred feet below the rim.

  Twenty-Nine

  Relentlessly, the troopers closed with the attacking force, scattering the prospectors before them. O’Callan and Brannigan whooped and jumped up and down, waving their caps in the air. As the horses of A and C Troops thundered across the soft turf of the meadow after the fleeing men, B Troop swung away and headed for the wooded slope facing O’Callan. The men among the trees stared dumbly at them, motion arrested from the first notes of the bugle.

  “It’s the cavalry come to help us!” one man shouted.

  “Like hell they are!” cried another. “It’s us they’re attackin’.”

  “Run, boys,” a third prospector cried, his voice quavering in fear. “Run like hell!”

  Using the flats of their saber blades, the troopers battered down the frightened, demoralized miners and broke off any thought of a counterattack. Several of the more hardnosed prospectors stopped their flight to turn and fire at the approaching soldiers—to be blasted instantly into bloody ruin by a blazing fusillade from the rancheria and then ridden over as the cavalry advanced.

  Urged on by Jack Tolan, the men on the far side of the rancheria opened fire on the defenders once more.

  “Cavalry be damned!” Tolan shouted. “Let’s kill those savage vermin.”

  “Fuego! Fuego!” O’Callan screamed back.

  Bullets laced the trees. The men began to break and run. B Troop closed on them, grimly determined to end all resistance. Tolan spun away from the advancing soldiers and circled back toward the village. He saw the runty red-haired sergeant and brought up his rifle to take aim.

  “Quidado!” Mochuelito yelled, pointing toward the back-shooting Tolan.

  O’Callan turned in time to fire his Springfield from the hip. His big .405-grain bullet smashed into Tolan’s chest and drove him backward a step. The hefty prospector’s arms sagged, and he let loose of the Winchester. His mouth worked and two names came out, like a final, hopeless plea for forgiveness.

  “Laura! ... Tommy!” A gout of blood sprayed from his lips, and the rifle clattered on the ground a moment before Tolan’s corpse thudded in the dirt.

  “Thank ye, lad. I owe ye one,” O’Callan told Mochuelito, his words thick with emotion.

  The fight swirled away from the rancheria. Halcon approached, and O’Callan turned to him.

  “I bet ye never thought ye’d see the day the cavalry charged ta yer rescue, eh, Halcon?” O’Callan shouted jubilantly over the din.

  “It is strange,” Halcon replied through Brannigan.

  “There are many things about the pen-dik-oye that I don’t understand. This is but one of them. You’ve saved my people,” Halcon went on, placing a friendly hand on O’Callan’s shoulder, his words serious. “You and your coronel who watches birds make love. It’s a debt we shall find hard to repay.”

  O’Callan started to make reply, but then a platoon of troopers, commanded by a young lieutenant, swerved away from the action to ride into the village. All thought of polite answer to Halcon left O’Callan’s mind. He couldn’t believe what he saw. It couldn’t be.

  Yet, sure as life, it was. The young lieutenant leading those troopers was Trooper ... no, Saints preserve us, it’s now Lieutenant Whitlow. Grinning, the young man slipped from the saddle and approached the older cavalry sergeant, ignoring everyone except O’Callan.

  “How are you, Sergeant?”

  “Whitlow ... ” O’Callan’s eyes stared unbelievingly into the young officer’s face until his gaze moved down to the straps on Whitlow’s shoulders. The sergeant raised his hand in a slow, stupefied salute. “Ah, good afternoon to ye ... sor.”

  Whitlow returned the salute snappily. “I would imagine that this is quite a day for surprises.”

  He nodded toward Brannigan and Halcon, once again returning a salute as the equally stunned first sergeant finally rendered him the military courtesy.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Whit—er, sor. When did yer commissionin’ come about?” O’Callan asked.

  “A little less than a month ago, actually,” Whitlow answered. “Now I can believe it’s real, receiving salutes from the two of you. That’s something I wanted very much.”

  “Its amazin’ it is, sor, that ye got it done so fast.”

  “It generally takes longer, true, O’Callan. But when one has an aunt whose brother-in-law is a United States Senator, one is able to accomplish things rather quickly.”

  “Ah, so that’s the story then, hey, sor?” O’Callan said almost sarcastically. He’d had experience with politically pampered officers before.

  “Now wait a minute, Sergeant O’Callan,” Whitlow protested. “I passed the examinations—both written and oral. I studied the regulations and the tactics, and I had served honorably as an enlisted man. My efficiency marks were more than adequate ... Just ask First Sergeant Brannigan. He’s the one who rated me at my discharge.”

  “An’ that’s the truth of it,” Brannigan acknowledged. “Ye pulled yer share an’ then some, sor.”

  “I just couldn’t face being a student again, so I decided to reenter the Army. I felt I was capable of performing as an officer—if I could get the assistance of at least one good sergeant. So I applied for a commission. I studied hard, went before the board, and was approved. The only favor I asked of anybody was to cut down the time. And that was because I wanted to get back o
ut here and return to the regiment. I never applied for a soft staff position back East, and I never shall.”

  “Well, Lieutenant darlin’,” O’Callan said, softening, “there’s truth to what ye say, I must admit. An’ ye look jest fine in yer pretty new uniform with them straps atop o’ yer shoulders.”

  “I sorta feel like a proud father,” Brannigan beamed. “Doesn’t yerself, O’Callan? We were the ones that showed him the ropes. Come here, Halcon,” he switched to Spanish. “I want ye to meet one o’ our young jefes de guerra.”

  Halcon stepped forward and raised his hand, remaining silent. Whitlow followed suit, then turned to O’Callan. “Haven’t I seen him somewhere?”

  “Yer most vivid memory, sor, would be o’ Halcon an’ his lads givin’ us a lively time o’ it on that mail run.”

  “Of course!” Whitlow felt obliged to say something to Halcon. “I’m happy to greet you as a friend now. And I’m glad to see you are friends with Sergeant O’Callan, the fighting man I admire most in the whole world.”

  “D-don’t tell him that!” an embarrassed O’Callan pleaded with Brannigan, hoping to avoid further discomfort. Unfortunately, the words had already been conveyed.

  “If pony-soldier chief with the burning lip fought as fiercely every time, there’d be none of the People left in this land,” Halcon said frankly.

  Brannigan translated that, causing O’Callan to stare industriously at the ground, shuffling his feet in even greater cheek-reddening embarrassment. “That’s a lot o’ blarney,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well, we must git back to army business. Shall we report to our darlin’ colonel?”

  Brannigan made their farewells to Halcon. “Surely, Sergeant,” Whitlow declared, assuming command naturally. He and the two sergeants left Halcon and young Mochuelito.

  “Say, when we get a chance, I’d like to talk to the two of you about my idea of fighting Indians with a bare minimum of equipment, employing their own tactics against them.”

  “Right ye are, Lieutenant darlin’,” O’Callan enthused. “But first, let’s pick up around here and set things straight. Ye must always keep in mind that in the army there’s a time an’ a place fer ever’thin’ ... and ye’re time will be comin’, sor, don’t ye worry about that.”

  The trio walked up to Colonel Patterson and reported. “Glad to see you two are all right,” the colonel smiled. “What do you think of young Lieutenant Whitlow here? Quite a surprise, right?”

  “Yes, sor,” Jimmy Brannigan acknowledged. “‘Twas meself that rated him so high on his discharge, sor, if I kin make so bold as to say so.”

  “Quite right, Sergeant Brannigan,” the colonel beamed. “We’ve been trying to reach you two for a considerable time. The quartermaster-general’s department has been sending us down loads of correspondence regarding Sergeant O’Callan’s indebtedness to the government. And, of course, we’ve been responding in kind.”

  “I’ll be remainin’ in the army, sor,” O’Callan said in a defeated tone. “An’ I’d appreciate any effort ye might deem appropriate in aidin’ me to retain me present rank. I’ve always done me best, sor, honest, I have.”

  “Of course you have, Sergeant O’Callan. You’re a fine, loyal noncommissioned officer, and the army is fortunate to number you in its ranks.”

  O’Callan smiled broadly. He felt good being home and appreciated. “I’ll pay off me debts as best I kin, sor, an’ I’ll be cheerful in doin’ it, too.” He didn’t mention the nest egg of nearly two thousand in gold tucked in one saddlebag.

  “The matter is cleared up, Sergeant. An obscure paragraph in the regulations was brought to light, and all property and animals charged have been surveyed off the books with no responsibility devolving to you.”

  “Hunh! Does ... does that mean I don’t have to pay far ’em, sor?” O’Callan asked hesitantly, unable to believe it. Colonel Patterson nodded. “Oh, Colonel darlin’, how kin I ever thank ye enough, sor?” O’Callan exclaimed, seeing his world returned to him once more.

  “Don’t thank me, Sergeant. Your gratitude should be directed toward Regimental Sergeant Major MacDonald. It was his tireless research that found that loophole in the regulations. And I must tell you that he stayed up late many a night until he found it.”

  O’Callan stopped walking, astounded by this revelation. “Saints preserve us! Black Harry went to all that trouble fer me?”

  The expression on the colonel’s face grew strict and disapproving. “Although Sergeant Major MacDonald is not altogether held with much affection by other members of this regiment, I assure you he is a responsible and concerned noncommissioned officer, who discharges the duties of his important office with a great amount of vigor.”

  “O’ course he does, sor,” Brannigan said placatingly.

  “You are dismissed to the column,” the colonel commanded. “I’ll take your detailed report of this, ah, incident once we return to Fort Perdido.”

  A twinkle lighted the colonel’s eyes.

  “Ouch, naw, an’ they’ve even got ye doin’ it, sor,” O’Callan wailed.

  Brannigan, Whitlow, and several officers chuckled delightedly at O’Callan’s discomfort. They saluted the colonel and took their leave.

  Brannigan and O’Callan let Whitlow walk on their right, as was proper, while they went to join the column of soldiers that now formed up for the ride back to Fort Dawson with their prisoners. Charlie Bradley had been placed in charge of the captured prospectors.

  “An’ here’s another surprise!” Brannigan announced, with a wink, as he looked up at the cocky young trooper mounted before them.

  “Howdy, Sergeant,” Charlie Bradley said through a grin. “Glad to have you back home.”

  “Would that be our own Charlie Bradley with them two yeller stripes settin’ so proud on his arms?” O’Callan inquired, smiling around the lump that had suddenly grown in his throat. “When—how’d this happen?”

  “It was Sergeant Brannigan himself who put. in the papers before you two left on furlough. How’d you wind up here, Sergeant O’Callan?”

  “That’s a long story, lad,” O’Callan dismissed. The lump had returned. “Jimmy lad, all our little boys is growin’ up on us.”

  “Sure an’ it makes ye feel yer years, don’t it, Terry me boy?” Brannigan answered, his voice roughened with emotion. “One of ’em a brand new second lieutenant and the other a fresh-as-daisies carp’ril ... ”

  “ ... wit’ a proper yeller stripe on his britches now,” O’Callan concluded, his eyes growing misty. He sighed heavily. “Ye’re a real, fer sure carp’ril, now, Charlie Bradley. A fine noncommissioned officer, an’ I welcomes ye to our ranks.”

  “Thank you, O’Callan.”

  “Prepare to mount ...!” the order echoed down from the head of the column.

  “Faith an’ ’tis a fine thing to come home,” O’Callan sighed aloud, sticking his foot into the stirrup.

  “Mount!”

  “O’Callan!” a high-pitched voice called out.

  Mochuelito came at a run, forgetting his dignity as a mystic to jump up on the saddle of the dust-covered troop sergeant. He extended one hand, which held a necklace of bear claws, each set in turquoise and silver.

  “Desde ese tarde a siempre, tu eres hermano con migo.”

  “What’s the li’l nipper say, Jimmy lad?”

  “He says that from today on, you two are brothers.”

  O’Callan blinked at moisture that formed mysteriously in his eyes. He reached up and patted Mochuelito on the head. The boy put the necklace around O’Callan’s head and straightened it against his chest.

  “Thank ye, son. Though it ain’t exactly uniform o’ the day.”

  “Wear it, O’Callan,” Brannigan urged tightly. “At least until we’re clear o’ this place.”

  O’Callan surveyed the numbers of armed Apache warriors. “Right ye are, Jimmy boy. That I’ll be doin’. An’ again, thank ye, sonny.”

  Mochuelito slipped to the ground a momen
t before the next command.

  “Column of twos to the right ... for’ard ... yo-o-o-o!”

  The regiment moved out slowly on command and began its trek back to their garrison. A few silent Apaches stepped out from between the surrounding wikiups to watch as the pony-soldiers disappeared from their view. Only Mochuelito forgot himself enough to wave.

  ~*~

  The sun barely rested on the western horizon three nights later when the sentry on duty over the gates spotted the regiment approaching Fort Dawson. He listened to the distant clopping of hoofs as they drew nearer the gate. A smile creased his lips as he recognized Sergeant Terry O’Callan’s voice drifting out of the desert on the silent night air.

  ’Tis quite the life, wit’out a wife,

  In the Regular Army—O!

  THE LONG-KNIVES 6: APACHE GOLD

  By Patrick E. Andrews and Mark K. Roberts

  First published by Zebra Books in 1986

  Copyright © 2017 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

  First Smashwords Edition: November 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features The Warning Shot, painted by Don Stivers.

  You can check out more of Don’s work here.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

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