by Short, Luke;
The shaking seemed to have brought Reardon to his senses, and he shook his head as if rousing from a dream and looked at Adams with blood-shot eyes. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
Then Trooper Adams’ temper really flared. “You damned drunk!” he said savagely. “You’re killing us both! Our water’s almost gone. So’s our food. The men are depending on us, and here you are in the middle of nowhere so drunk you can’t walk.”
Reardon shook his head again. “Let me sleep it off, sonny.”
“You’ll die!” Adams yelled at him. “Pour your booze on the ground. Then walk it off or I’ll leave you!”
Sweat, both from heat and from fever, was pouring down Reardon’s face, but his hand clamped protectively over the canteen. As Adams watched him, Reardon’s eyes glazed over and he toppled over on his side. Adams looked at him for a long moment in helpless wrath. How far did his obligation to a fellow human being go? It wasn’t Reardon’s fault that the snake had bitten him, that his leg had been cut, but neither was it Adams’ fault. It was clearly Reardon’s fault that he now lay in a drunken stupor and probably would lie in one for the rest of the day and night, and start in again tomorrow. Only the Lord knew if, when he awakened, he would be too sick to move.
Trooper Adams’ shrewd instinct for survival spoke to him now. What do I owe him? he thought. My life? Although he had told Reardon that ten men’s lives depended on him, this fact did not figure in his decision now. He was going to stay alive if brains, courage, and endurance could stave off death. Nobody, least of all a sodden trooper, was going to interfere with that. He would leave Reardon with the food and drink that he was carrying. If Reardon could survive, well and good. If he couldn’t, Adams was not going to die with him.
Trooper Adams got to his feet, toed Reardon roughly with his boot, and said harshly, “I’m going.”
Reardon didn’t answer. On an impulse Adams couldn’t explain, he reached down, picked up Reardon’s hat and put it over his face; then he turned and started north.
He had walked perhaps fifteen yards when an alien sound caused him to halt and turn to look back at Reardon. What he saw was Reardon’s pistol cocked and pointed at him.
Trooper Adams simply fell to the ground in the low greasewood as Reardon’s gun went off. Adams was clawing open the holster of his own gun when a searching shot close to him whistled through the mesquite. Pulling out his gun and rolling over on his belly, he peered through the sparse brush and made out the outline of Reardon’s body. He sighted carefully and pulled the trigger. An awful grunt following told him that he had hit Reardon.
He lay there for an interminable minute, then rose and cautiously made his way to where Reardon lay. He halted, saw that his bullet had caught Reardon in the chest and that he was unmistakably dead.
Trooper Adams, in a kind of trance, stared at the body, examining his own feelings. He had killed Reardon in self-defense, but who would believe him? Then the thing to do when he reached help was to say that Trooper Reardon had died of a sunstroke. Coldly now, Adams calculated on the best way to dispose of Reardon’s body. He couldn’t bury it, and there were no rocks around to pile upon it. What did it matter, he wondered. What did he owe to Reardon’s memory? Nothing. The man had tried to kill him.
Trying not to look at Reardon’s face, Adams slipped the two remaining canteens off Reardon’s body and over his own, and took Reardon’s bread and bacon. Then he set out north, a calm and resolute young man who had survived again. Only once did he look back, and he saw the vultures overhead sweeping in long descending spirals before their rendezvous with Reardon.
Reardon and Adams hadn’t been gone from camp a day before Lieutenant Miller realized that something would have to be done to keep up the morale of his men. Their ordinary chores, such as mounted drill, keeping their horses groomed and their equipment in shape—in fact all the duties and occupations of a trooper—were lacking, since the reasons for doing them were gone. Cooking assignments were negligible. Policing the camp took fifteen minutes. When the latrines were dug, that ended the duties. The men contrived to manufacture some shade with their ground sheets and blankets and simply lay listlessly under them on the supply wagon through the blazing day.
That evening Lieutenant Miller called Corporal Chasen over to his tent, which was out of earshot of the other seven men. Chasen saluted and Lieutenant Miller said, “At ease, Corporal. Sit down.”
Chasen obeyed, although reluctantly. When Lieutenant Miller was standing, Corporal Chasen towered over him and it gave him a psychological advantage that bred confidence. Seated, he lost this advantage.
“Notice the men today, Corporal?”
“Notice how, sir?”
“Once the camp was cleaned up, they just drowsed in the shade, playing cards, talking, and sleeping.”
Corporal Chasen frowned. “There isn’t much else they can do, Mister Miller.” Usually Chasen addressed Lieutenant Miller as Lieutenant, a subtle form of flattery since only a first lieutenant was entitled to be addressed as one. A second lieutenant was normally addressed as “mister.”
Chasen’s form of address now did not escape Lieutenant Miller, and it irritated him. “If there’s nothing else to do, we’ll make something else. We may be here ten more days, Corporal. I’m not going to have men under my command sleeping or yarning the day through.”
“What did you have in mind, sir?” There was a wariness, almost dread, in Chasen’s tone of voice.
“Tomorrow you’ll take out a search detail of three men, Corporal. I want you to circle the camp, always keeping it in sight, but just barely. The other two men will just barely keep you and each other in sight.”
“And what are we searching for, sir?”
“Rocks.”
Corporal Chasen was quiet a moment, then asked slowly, “What do we do with the rocks, sir?”
Lieutenant Miller ignored this. “When any of you find a suitable amount of rock, you’re to return to camp.”
“With the rock, sir?”
“A sample. The rock has to be the size that a man can carry.”
Corporal Chasen nodded and asked, “What will the rock be for, sir?”
Lieutenant Miller evaded the answer again. “While you’re searching, I’ll have the remaining three men digging out this seep. The rock is to wall it up and make a well.”
Corporal Chasen frowned. “We’re getting more than enough water now, sir, especially with the horses and two men gone.”
Lieutenant Miller’s normally aggressive features settled into even more aggressive lines. “Corporal, you’ve had the point explained to you and have missed it. I want to keep my men active and in good condition. I want them exercising their muscles. You understand that now?”
“I understand, sir.”
Lieutenant Miller continued. “If we have the well finished before help arrives, then we’ll build a stone corral, even if it’s to hold horses for only one night. These men will be kept busy every waking hour. You understand that, Corporal?”
Corporal Chasen nodded. “It’ll be murdering work in this heat, sir.”
“But work it will be. That’s all that will save the sanity of these men—work.” He paused. “Choose the men you want to take along with you, and start as soon as there’s enough light to see by.”
Corporal Chasen assembled the six men, who squatted in the shade of two ground sheets tied together while they listened to him.
It was fat Wilson, from under whose nose the Apaches had stolen their horses, who spoke first, and angrily. “What in hell does he want this seep rocked up for? It ain’t on any road or trail and never will be.”
“It’s just made work,” another man said angrily.
Corporal Chasen answered him mildly. “It’s meant to be, boys. It’s meant to be. You’re all getting soft and you’re idle, says the lieutenant.”
There was a muttered obscenity from Wilson about what the lieutenant and all officers could do, and Chasen blandly agreed. Then he said, �
�Wilson, you’ll come with me along with Ryan. The rest of you will stay here and dig out the seep and take turns cooking.”
Next morning Chasen, Ryan, and Wilson, heavily armed, set out on the search for suitable rock, while the remaining three men began excavating the seep with their mess tins. Lieutenant Miller read and slept while the excavators muttered curses and obscenities. To all six men this job was a senseless cruelty. It was as if they had been ordered to build a twenty-foot-high castle out of sand on some remote beach just so it could be washed away by the next tide.
If Miller had put it squarely to them that this was a game to keep their hands and minds occupied and had then joined in the game himself, they might have gone along grudgingly. But to hear their officer snoring in the tent while they labored under the blazing sun in their sweat-drenched uniforms was almost intolerable.
At their midday break for food the lieutenant was awake but aloof. He never left the shade of his tent. An hour later, when Chasen and his sweat-drenched search party trudged into camp, Chasen had to rouse Lieutenant Miller.
“Sir, we found the rock.” He tossed a melon-sized piece of rock at Miller’s feet.
Lieutenant Miller yawned. “How far away, Corporal?”
“We figured about two miles, sir.”
“Good.” Lieutenant Miller’s face expressed real pleasure. “How do you propose to transport the rock, Corporal?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, sir,” Chasen said sullenly.
“Well, think about it now.”
“The horse packs we brought in the wagon?” Chasen asked.
Miller nodded. “And slung over a rifle, a man at each end.”
“Two men couldn’t lift a pack full of stones.”
“Then carry as much as you can. Get something to eat before you start out, Corporal.”
Corporal Chasen and Troopers Wilson and Ryan had the usual noon meal of bread, bacon, and dried apples that were tough as a mule’s ear in spite of their soaking. The excavating crew were already at work again in the blazing sun tearing rock off the pit. While he was chewing stoically, Corporal Chasen, even though slow of wit, made an observation.
He had his noon smoke, rose, and went over to Lieutenant Miller’s tent. Miller, stripped to the waist and sweating, was sitting cross-legged, writing his daily report. At Chasen’s approach he paused and waited for Chasen to speak.
“Sir, I’ve just had an idea,” Chasen said.
“Tell me.”
“We’re digging enough rock out of that seep to wall it,” Chasen said.
Lieutenant Miller looked at him pityingly and then gave a soft groan. “You still don’t understand, Corporal. Maybe we could use those rocks and have the seep walled up by night. What would the men do tomorrow?”
Chasen said with a touch of surliness in his voice, “After the day they’ll have put in, I reckon they’ll rest tomorrow.”
“They’ll rest during the night, Corporal,” Miller said tartly.
Corporal Chasen regarded him in a long and barely respectful silence, then he said, “Another thing, sir. Three men hauling rocks doesn’t make any sense. If you want rocks you should detail one more man to haul them. It’ll take two to a pack. Or if you want the well dug deeper, you should take a man off a hauling detail and put him on the digging.”
Lieutenant Miller pondered this a minute, then smiled faintly and said, “Good idea, Corporal. Take Schermer off the digging detail and put him on the hauling.”
“Yes, sir.” Corporal Chasen saluted and went back toward his men. He was seething with anger, but he was too good a soldier to let it show in his face. Curtly he summoned the German-born Schermer to join them. After sorting out two of the stoutest, newest horse packs, or aparejos, which were simply two large canvas pouches joined together that could be thrown over a horse’s back if the country got too rough for a wagon, the detail set out across the desert. The whole flat, seemingly endless, blazing landscape shimmered in the sun, and it was only Corporal Chasen’s tracking that guided them to the rock bar thrust up just above the floor of the desert. When they reached the rock bar and fell exhausted to the ground, they found the rocks so hot they could not lie on them. There was nothing to do but load as quickly as possible and get back to camp. The handling of the rocks was a minor torture, for they were so hot that they could be held only for a second or so before the heat burned through their gauntlets.
The first mile of their return they found that both pairs of men had been over-optimistic about the load they could pack and consequently they jettisoned a part of their load. By the time they reached camp and unloaded they were dizzy and sick from their labor. They rested a few minutes in the shade and then, goaded by Lieutenant Miller’s silent surveillance, they set off again.
When it came time for the evening meal, every man in camp save Lieutenant Miller was too tired to eat. They lay on the ground drained of all energy, too exhausted to argue or even to talk. When blessed darkness came, they rolled into their blankets.
To a man, they watched Lieutenant Miller’s small tent. He had directed the cooks to save their bacon drippings, and out of them, by twisting a short length of rope into a wick in a tin cup, he had made himself a lamp of sorts. His was the only light save the stars, and the only sounds were the exhausted snoring and the measured tread of the weary sentries. Chasen, watching the light, hated Lieutenant Miller as he had never hated a man before.
“Corporal.” He heard this whispered behind him, rolled over, and saw that Wilson had thrown his blanket down beside him. Chasen was still unforgiving toward this thick-set, cynical, and aggressive trooper who had spent a third of the time since Chasen had known him in the guardhouse or doing punishment for insubordination. Chasen’s grunt of acknowledgment held no welcome.
Now Wilson whispered, “The lieutenant’s gone crazy.”
“He don’t think so,” Chasen whispered back.
“We going to do this tomorrow?”
“So he said.”
“I got blisters on my feet a half-inch high.”
“Cut off your shirttail and make bandages out of it,” Chasen whispered angrily. His own calloused feet were sore to the point of blistering.
“If we got to do this, why don’t we do it at night?”
Chasen’s double-word answer, “The lieutenant,” brought a grunt of disdain from Wilson.
“By God, I’m going to report him,” Wilson said.
“You better hope you got grounds,” Chasen muttered.
There was a long silence and then Wilson spoke again. “I’m reporting sick tomorrow.”
“Go ahead. See where it gets you.”
“By God, I will!” Wilson whispered vehemently. “They can’t do this to a man!”
“Where have I heard that before? Now shut up,” Chasen said.
Next morning Wilson was not allowed by Miller to report on sick call, and the same torturous day began. As punishment to Wilson for dogging it, Corporal Chasen and Schermer were allowed to change places with the digging detail. Wilson and Ryan were kept on the rock detail.
The only variation from the routine of the previous day was that Lieutenant Miller made a visit to the rock bar. Here in the furnace heat he watched the men gingerly load the fire-hot rocks into the aparejos. After yesterday’s experience, each of the rock-hauling crew had cut out a couple of swatches from their blankets and used them as pads over their gauntlets to shield their flesh when they picked up the rocks. However, bandages couldn’t help Wilson’s feet; his blisters had broken and his soles were cracked and bleeding. Observing Wilson’s painful hobble, Lieutenant Miller only commented cheerfully, “They’ll soon toughen up, Wilson.”
Wilson did not bother to answer, and Lieutenant Miller, apparently satisfied that his troopers were working, returned to camp, stripped again, and went to sleep. That evening at supper the men were more exhausted than they had been the night before, and Corporal Chasen had to warn them that however tired they were they must eat to keep up their streng
th.
After they had eaten, Corporal Chasen put a pinch of tobacco that he was hoarding carefully into his pipe, lighted it, and then contemplated the camp. There was a mound of gravel and rock beside the seep, which was now excavated to a depth of five feet. Beside this mound was another mound of rock, higher and broader. The useless labor represented there sickened Chasen and he wondered how much taller the mounds would grow. Unless help came within the next few days a sizable piece of desert real estate would have been transported two miles for no reason at all. The only good that had come of digging out the seep was that they now had more water—more than they could use.
“Corporal Chasen!” It was Lieutenant Miller’s voice, and Chasen rose and made his way toward Miller’s tent. As he passed the tarpaulins he saw that the two men who had drawn early morning guard duty were deep in the sleep of exhaustion. Wilson, now that the sun was almost down, was sitting off by himself, moodily contemplating the vast reach of desert before him. His wrists were on his knees and his hands hung down from them like two chunks of tender meat. It seemed odd to Chasen that only Wilson’s feet had blistered so badly; then he remembered that for many months Wilson had been the quartermaster’s clerk and his only job was to sit at a desk and count and make a note of supplies issued.
Corporal Chasen halted before the tent and saluted languidly. “Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Miller had been reading his report book and now he looked up. “Corporal, I went over our remaining rations today. I think we’d better cut down.”
“They’re pretty thin now, sir, for men doing hard work. If we cut down on rations, we’ll have to cut down on the work, sir.”
“Have to?” Miller’s tone was cutting. “Are you giving orders, Corporal?”
Chasen felt his face go hot. “I meant to say we should cut down, sir.”
