by Short, Luke;
The Ehrenburg House was a sprawling, one-story, adobe building located between two of the commission houses and facing the broad Colorado close to the ferryslip. The portion of the building at the left of the entrance held a small bar; to the right was the dining room, and beyond it the bedrooms. Mostly the hotel was patronized by passengers from the steamers and from the California-Arizona Stage Line who wanted a comfortable place to lay over before resuming their journeys east or west.
Dave entered the small lobby, which was deserted. He went across it and looked into the dining room, where he saw Lieutenant Overman, John Thornton, and a girl seated at one of the tables. A pair of drummers at a side table were the only other customers.
Catching sight of Dave, Lieutenant Overman beckoned him over and rose. Overman was a young, slim, fair-haired second lieutenant. His pale mustaches were full, and when he moved he did so with a kind of jaunty laziness. When Dave halted by the table with his hat tucked under his arm, Overman extended his hand. “Morning, Harmon.” They shook hands, and then Overman said, “Miss Frost, may I present Dave Harmon?” To Dave he said, “Miss Frost is heading for Whipple to join her father, Major Frost.”
Dave bowed briefly, military fashion, and Juliana Frost nodded and smiled. She might have been twenty-two, Dave judged, but she had the poise of a much more mature person. He guessed that she was not tall; her light summer dress of pale blue was in striking contrast to her deep brown-black, wide-set eyes. Her pale hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, schoolgirl fashion, by a bow of the same material as her dress, and Dave noticed that the golden tan she had acquired on shipboard had brought a faint sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her straight nose. Her smile, at their introduction, had been open and cordial.
“You’re up and about early, Harmon,” Thornton said. He was dressed in the same townsman’s clothes of yesterday.
“I’m on a recruiting mission,” Dave replied.
The lieutenant looked puzzled, then gestured to a chair. “Sit down and tell us about it.”
Dave sank to the chair, aware that Juliana Frost was regarding his eyepatch. He was used to people accepting his eyepatch in two ways, either with polite revulsion plus curiosity, or with sympathy and over-politeness. He preferred the former. However, there was a expression of real curiosity in the girl’s eyes now, as she spoke.
“Harmon—you couldn’t be the Lieutenant Dave Harmon who served under my father?”
Dave nodded. “Yes, with Reno. I knew your father well, Frost. I think you were in school in the East when I was with him.” He paused. “I understand you’re going with our wagons to Whipple.”
The girl looked inquiringly at Lieutenant Overman, who said, “Harmon’s a contract freighter for the Army, Miss Juliana.” Then to Dave, “Will you be going?”
“It looks that way. It’s the busiest time of the year and that always finds us shorthanded.”
Juliana smiled. “Maybe you’ll be able to tell me the truth about Papa’s tall stories.”
“I wouldn’t spoil it for him,” Dave said, and smiled in return.
“What’s this mysterious recruiting you mentioned?” Overman asked.
“For a burial detail,” Dave said. “I assume your men reported to you what happened last night.”
Lieutenant Overman nodded as Juliana asked, “What did?”
“Two men were killed by Lieutenant Overman’s troopers. They were trying to break into my warehouse.”
“Was killing them necessary?” Thornton asked.
“Why, if a man shoots at you, you shoot back,” Dave replied easily.
Lieutenant Overman said quietly, “How do you read this, Harmon?”
Dave shrugged. “You can read it two ways, Lieutenant. The two men could have been some of the scum that’s always floating around this town. They’ll steal anything that isn’t nailed down. Maybe a case of rifles was the first thing they happened to lay hands on.” He paused. “Or you can read it this way—that the rifles were really what they wanted.”
Thornton said, “My guess would be the first. They saw a clever way to loot your warehouse. After all, it’s full of everything from trade goods to whiskey, isn’t it?” At Dave’s nod, he continued, “Besides, a case of rifles is just as salable as a barrel of sugar.”
“But what if they were specifically after the rifles all the time? If they couldn’t take them from a warehouse, they might make a try on the road,” Dave suggested.
“Let ’em try,” Overman said grimly. “That’s what we have soldiers for.”
“How big an escort will there be?” Dave asked quietly.
Lieutenant Overman flushed a little. “Seven men, including myself. With your freighters, Thornton, and yourself, that represents some firepower.”
Dave stood up. “If they’re good men, it does.”
Lieutenant Overman rose too. “We didn’t come all the way from Fort Mohave to be bluffed by this mining riffraff,” he said grimly. “You’ll get your burial detail, Harmon. When do you think we can leave for Prescott?”
“Day after tomorrow morning. Early.” Now he turned to Juliana. “I hope you have a wide hat, Miss Frost.”
“We have a covered ambulance for her and Mister Thornton. I don’t reckon they’ll get too sunburned,” Overman said.
At that moment the girl came in with a tray holding their breakfast of melon, toast, steaks, and coffee.
“Stay for breakfast, Harmon?”
“I’ve had mine, thanks.” He bowed again to Juliana, turned, and walked out.
Lieutenant Overman waited until the girl had distributed their plates and left, then he said, “If you’ll both excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll attend to the burial detail.”
The ferry on the California shore of the big river, opposite Ehrenburg, was loading a spring wagon and team driven by an old man. The ferry, some forty feet long and railed at the sides, was a rope ferry propelled by the current of the river. The ferryman, a dour German of middle age, wearing a ludicrous-looking Mexican straw hat, moved back to the line preparatory to casting off.
The old man called from the wagon seat, “There was a couple of riders behind me, Herman. Reckon they’ll want to cross.”
The German nodded and, in a matter of minutes, the two riders approached, dismounted and led their horses onto the ferry. Then the German cast off.
Both riders seemed talked out; they chose opposite rails and did not talk with the ferryman or the old man. Nash Kirby, at the upriver rail, was a squat, bearded man with sun-blackened cheekbones and pale gray eyes. He wore sweat-stained range clothes and scuffed half-boots. His companion, Telesfor Roybal, was a Mexican dressed in much the same fashion as Kirby. Both wore guns and both had rifles in their saddle scabbards. Both men were dripping wet with sweat, as were their horses.
When the ferry reached the Arizona shore, the old man drove off, heading for Ehrenburg’s main street. Kirby and Roybal mounted, but instead of going into the town, they turned upriver and followed a trail that led through the lush willow and cottonwood growth of the river bottom. Roybal rode in the lead.
A ride of ten minutes in the broiling sun brought them to a motte of tall cottonwoods, and in a clearing in this motte they came to a campsite. It seemed to Kirby to be quite a large camp; according to the count of blanket rolls scattered around the ashes of the dead fire, at least ten men slept here. A ground sheet thrown over a rope stretched between two trees provided a makeshift tent, and it was toward this that Roybal pointed his horse.
Dismounting, the Mexican ducked into the tent and emerged immediately. Following him came a lean, red-headed man of perhaps thirty, who, although just aroused from sleep, was as alert as a cat. He observed Kirby, who had dismounted, and immediately he smiled. He had a raffish and impudent face that was burned a deep red. And now, as he walked toward Kirby, he strapped on the shell belt and holster which he had in his hand when he came out of the tent. He was called, almost inevitably, Brick, and his last name was Noonan.
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br /> As he approached Kirby, he spoke. “Well, Kirby, you made good time.”
“After hearing Roybal’s story, I thought I’d better not miss it.” He looked around him. “What the hell are you doing camped in this backbrush?”
Although these two hadn’t seen each other for some years, they did not shake hands. The amenities were a matter of indifference to both men. Now Kirby regarded Noonan with some care. Noonan was dressed in an odd combination of Mexican charro pants, calico shirt, and highly decorated Mexican boots.
“I’m staying away from the soldiers, Kirby. You can’t ever tell when one of the troopers may spot his old sergeant.”
Noonan walked over to a canteen hanging from a low cottonwood branch, drank from it, then moved over to offer it to Kirby. He accepted and drank from it too, while Noonan kicked a blanket roll flat and sat down. Roybal, who had been watching this, came over now, took the trailing reins of Kirby’s horse and led both horses back into the trees, where a picket line holding two horses was stretched.
Noonan and Kirby seated themselves on the blanket, sitting cross-legged and facing each other.
“I’m surprised you came,” Brick said.
“I’m surprised, too,” Kirby answered. “I don’t like running with a bunch.”
“This time we need a bunch,” Brick said.
“Let’s hear all of it.”
“Thirty crates of Army rifles, five to a crate,” Noonan said. “Across the border they’ll bring a hundred dollars apiece.”
Kirby wasn’t impressed. “That’s what the Mex said. Where are they?”
“Harmon’s freight yard. They’re headed for Fort Whipple.”
“Along with a troop of cavalry, I reckon.”
Noonan smiled faintly. “I don’t reckon, Kirby. They have a detachment from Fort Mohave of six men and one officer. When I join them they’ll have seven men and one officer.”
Kirby looked puzzled. “When you join them? What do you mean?”
“Remember I was in the Army?” Noonan asked drily.
“What does that prove? So was I.”
“But you didn’t keep your uniform.”
It didn’t take Kirby long to catch on. “Deserted, eh?”
Noonan nodded. “That uniform has come in pretty handy. It will this time, too.”
Kirby was silent a moment. “Think you can get away with it, Brick? What if they ask you about names? Like who your officers are?”
“This detachment came down from Fort Mohave. I know the names of enough officers in Fort Whipple to get by.”
Again Kirby was silent, then he said, “It’s a hell of a chance, Brick.”
“I’ve been taking chances all my life. So have you. What I want to know is, can you run this crew if I’m with the wagons?”
“I run a bigger bunch than this, if you remember.”
“Then what do you say?” Brick demanded.
Kirby shrugged. “It’s up to you, son. Getting caught will be pure hell.”
Noonan smiled faintly. “They’ve got to find me out first.”
“Then what do you plan to do?”
“Hit ’em on their way to Whipple. We’ve got the men to clean ’em out.”
“How many?”
“Fifteen, with you.”
Kirby nodded judiciously. “How you going to split this, Brick?”
Noonan grinned. “There can’t be any split, Kirby, until I deliver the guns.”
Kirby eyed him steadily. “You mean thirteen men are trusting you to go into Mexico and come back with the money?”
Noonan’s grin was still there. “They’ll go with me, Kirby. You, too. If you want your cut.”
“And how much is that?”
“I keep five thousand, and the rest is split equally.”
Kirby slowly came to his feet and said mildly, “Hell, why did you bother me with that kind of money?” He started toward his horse.
“Wait, Kirby!” Noonan said.
Kirby halted. “You’ll get a thousand of my share besides,” Noonan said.
Kirby said gently, “I’ll get two thousand, Brick.”
Noonan flushed and hesitated only a moment. “All right. Now sit down.”
Six days out of Camp McDowell and roughly a hundred miles east of Ehrenburg, Lieutenant Joshua Miller led a ten-man mounted detail with supply wagon westward across the Harquahala Plains. He was in pursuit of a band of Apaches who had raided a mine near Mount McDowell, and had killed and mutilated seven miners before heading west. This was Second Lieutenant Miller’s first field command.
Lieutenant Miller came into his command by an odd series of circumstances. He was slight of frame, sandy-haired, bookish by inclination, and perhaps, because of his size, more aggressive and demanding than his fellow officers. The new commanding officer at Camp McDowell was Major North, a Civil War veteran straight from a desk job in Washington. Lieutenant Miller’s last post had been the Presidio in San Francisco, where his last assignment had been the writing of his regiment’s history. Neither man had ever served in the Indian West.
Camp McDowell, like many of the Western posts in this year, was not only undermanned, but nearly every trooper except the sick and the housekeeping detail was in the field against the rampaging Apaches. Major North, with few officers from which to select, chose Lieutenant Miller to lead this detail. He had thought it likely that it would be a fruitless chase, but to appease the miners, the newspapers of the territory, and the fearful civilians under his protection, he had to make the gesture of pursuing the Apaches. Accordingly, again because of the manpower shortage, he was forced to rob the guard house, the commissary, the quartermaster, and the blacksmith’s shop of men to make up the detail. Of the ten men, only one was a noncommissioned officer, Corporal Ira Chasen.
In the month that Major North and Lieutenant Miller had been in Camp McDowell they had both acquired an abiding hatred for the Apaches. They had both heard from eyewitnesses of the nauseating atrocities committed by the Apaches, and both burned with a zeal to avenge them. Major North’s dislike of the Apaches extended even to the Indian scouts employed at Camp McDowell. He was convinced, against all contrary evidence, that they were devious and treacherous, and that they would gladly lead any detail into an ambush if given the opportunity. Major North, however, did not give them the opportunity, and that was the reason why Lieutenant Miller on this blazing morning was without a scout.
Since there had been no rain and no wind, Lieutenant Miller and his detail had no trouble following the trail of the Apaches, who apparently were so contemptuous of pursuit that they had not even bothered to try to hide their tracks. This fact was noted by Lieutenant Miller, and it so angered him that he was willing to take Major North’s orders literally. Those orders were to capture the Apache murderers and, if they did offer to fight, to exterminate them.
Lieutenant Miller estimated that the band of Apaches numbered seven, and so far as he could tell they had no extra horses with them. Since his detail had rations for two weeks and since their horses, in Lieutenant Miller’s opinion, were bigger and better fed than the usual Apache pony, it was simply a matter of time before they overtook the Indians. The lieutenant had reasoned that the Apaches would lead him to water because they needed it themselves, and his six-day pursuit had proved the correctness of his reasoning. How they knew where the water was on this seared desert of sand, rock, and mesquite, Lieutenant Miller didn’t know, but if he followed their tracks long enough he knew he would come to water.
Because of the flat, treeless desert plain where a man could see twenty miles in any direction, Lieutenant Miller did not bother with flankers. Yesterday at sunset he had seen a plume of dust against the distant blue of the Harquahala Mountains, and he had guessed correctly that he was overtaking the band of Apaches. Accordingly, because there was a moon later and tracking by its light was easy, he had decided on a night march after an hour’s rest. By morning he knew that the Apaches had decided on a night march, too, since there had bee
n no sign of a camp and no Apaches.
By midmorning Lieutenant Miller began to worry. They had hit no water during the night and there was precious little left in their canteens. Some of the detail, against orders to go sparingly on the water, had even emptied their canteens. The horses, long without water, were more weary than their riders. However, Lieutenant Miller, secure in his knowledge that the Apaches and their mounts needed water, too, clung stubbornly to the trail of the Indians.
Corporal Chasen was flanking Lieutenant Miller this morning, as he had done for the last five days. He was a burly man, as befitted a blacksmith, with dark brows as thick as mustaches, over eyes of pale gray. A slow, taciturn man, he carried his rank lightly and was liked by both officers and enlisted men. His rank entitled him to ride beside his lieutenant, free of the dust churned up by the horses. In spite of his taciturnity, this morning he seemed eager to talk, mostly about the shape the detail was in. When he asked the prime question, the lieutenant was prepared for it.
“Lieutenant, you reckon we should turn back before we get in any deeper?”
“We’re as deep as we can get, Corporal,” Miller said flatly. “We’re sixteen hours from the last water. I don’t think we can make it back.”
The corporal said stubbornly, “At least we know where water is back there, Lieutenant. We don’t know if there’s any ahead.”
Now Lieutenant Miller spoke sharply. “We’re very sure there’s water ahead, Corporal, and that those Apaches are heading for it. When we come across the first foundered Indian pony, I’ll turn back, but not before.”
They never found a downed Indian pony, but by afternoon they found water in this heat-blasted plain. It wasn’t much, and they had to dig for it, just as the Apaches had. But it was there. The process of watering the detail and the men and filling canteens and waterbags was a lengthy one, and Lieutenant Miller decided to camp. Both men and horses needed a rest and in their present shape they would be worthless if the pursuit was continued. However, a day’s rest and food would fix that, and stubborn Lieutenant Miller decided to continue the chase next morning.
