Kilrone (1966)

by L'amour, Louis

  Stella Rybolt had lived twenty-eight of her forty-fiv e years on army posts, most of them on the frontier. Sh e knew the regulations and accepted them as a fact o f life, just the same as the rising and the setting of th e sun; hence she had no quarrel with the army. She love d the West and its people, but had looked warily at firs t on Denise Paddock. Knowing Denise’s background, sh e had half expected her to be a snob. But the first da y Denise had smiled, held out her hand, and said, “Mrs.

  Rybolt, I am new to this post. Don’t let me make an y mistakes.”

  The following morning the coffee sessions had begun , the first at Stella Rybolt’s, the second at Dr. Hanlon’s; a nd by the third day Denise was sufficiently settled t o have them at her quarters, and the others were enviou s of the grace and beauty she had given them.

  Denise had made the best of each situation as i t came, and never was there a word of complaint fro m her.

  Frank Paddock gnawed now at his mustache. He ha d never liked this country, and one of the reasons he ha d not liked it was because it symbolized his defeat.

  Nobody had started better than he. Nobody was give n a better chance to succeed. The year he graduated th e betting was that he would be the first in his class t o make general, and no takers. Yet here he was, at a n almost forgotten post, an almost forgotten man.

  But now there was a chance, the first chance in a lon g time, the last chance he might ever have. If he coul d ride out there and trap the Bannocks, if he could score a smashing defeat…

  It was all he would need. He had a friend, a newspaperma n who was now traveling in the West, and he wa s a man to make much of such a story.

  There might be a promotion, there might be a recal l to some eastern post. He well knew what an opportunit y like that could do for a man. And the chance was here.

  At this moment he wanted a drink badly. The bottl e was there, nearly full, in his bottom drawer, withi n reach of his hand. Yet he did not reach for it.

  Ambitious he might be, but he was still a soldier, an d he was in command. Whatever he did must be don e with the utmost skill; and he must take no chance tha t he could not later explain.

  I Troop was gone, Colonel Webb was dead. Thes e things he accepted as fact. Kilrone might be a renegade , but he was not willing to believe it. Nonetheless, it wa s a thought he must keep in mind.

  Mellett would be going into bivouac by now. Trus t Mellett to choose his spot well, to select a good defensiv e position, and to scout the country around while i t was still light.

  The Bannocks would not attack while he was in position , for they knew what kind of a soldier Mellett was.

  They would try to catch him on the move, preferabl y near the point of rendezvous, and until that momen t they would keep out of sight So Paddock had a littl e time.

  He already knew that he would lead the relief forc e himself. His opportunity lay in victory in the field, no t from a desk.

  Desperately, he wished for Gus Rybolt. If Rybol t were only here he could leave him in command at th e post. He was tough, dependable, every inch a soldier.

  But Lieutenant Rybolt had gone to Halleck with a guar d of six men to escort the pay wagon, and he was not du e back for three days. By that time the emergency woul d have passed, and all would be settled, one way or th e Other …

  Paddock knew that for a victory, a really decisiv< v ictory, he would need every man he could get. He made up his mind then to strip the post. A man had t( g amble, and he was going to gamble that the Bannock s wanted to take Mellett and M Troop, and that the y would not attempt an attack on the post. Carefully h e avoided thinking of the alternative. He even avoide d thinking of Denise, except to think that he was doing! t his for her. i In the back of his mind was the thought that success) m eant the East, an easier Me, a good post, perhaps even j Washington, D. C., where a wife such as Denise woul d be a tremendous asset. It meant escape from all he had j become, a return to all he had been.

  Betty Considine got up from the table and tiptoed to| t he door of the bedroom. Kilrone was asleep, so sh e eased quietly into the room and over to his bed, an d looked down at the exhausted man.

  He was strikingly good-looking, with an almost saturnin e cast of countenance. Lying on the bed, he looke d uncommonly long and lean, but his shoulders wer e broad. She had noticed when checking the bulle t wound, that his body carried half a dozen scars of blad e or bullet … and at least one that looked like an arro w wound.

  “He is handsome, isn’t he?” Denise said.

  Betty turned to glance at Denise. “Yes … yes, he is,” s he said. Then she added, “I wonder why he’s up here?

  This is so out of the way.”

  “Not for him. That’s Barnes Kflrone.”

  Seeing that the name meant nothing to Betty, Denis e went on, “Seven years or so ago, all you had to do wa s mention his name and you would hear a dozen Kilron e stories, all different.”

  “You knew him?”

  “It’s a long story and a painful one.” Denise turne d toward the kitchen. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  She took down the can from the shelf. “Were yo u there when he talked to Frank?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Denise measured the coffee, making no further cornment , but Betty was curious. “What is he like?”

  “Barney? To most women he was the soul of romance.

  He always had a touch of the dramatic about him. Whereve r he was, things happened, and usually they happene d to him. I think many of the men were envious o f him.”

  “Jealous?”

  Denise paused, giving Betty a cool, thoughtful look, a s if wondering if Betty was prying. “Some of them, a t least,” she said finally; “although usually with less reaso n than they believed.

  “He was twenty-five then,” she went on, “and seeme d older. He had seen a bit more and done a bit more tha n any of the others we knew. I expect half the wome n who knew him were in love with him at one time o r another. When we first met everyone was talking abou t him. He had been in Paris less than a week and ha d already fought a duel with a French newspaperma n over some comments about a dancer Barney liked.”

  “A duel? You mean a real duel?”

  “Barney wanted sabers, but as the challenged part y the Frenchman chose rapiers. He believed that no America n would be familiar with them. He couldn’t have bee n more mistaken—Barney was a fine swordsman. Th e newspaperman went to the hospital and Barney becam e a celebrity.”

  Denise stopped and looked up, listening. She kne w Frank’s step, and Betty knew what she was listening for.

  She had seen Denise listening just like this many time s before. But when he came in he was cold sober, and hi s eyes held an odd glint of resolution, an unfamiliar ligh t in the eyes of Frank Paddock.

  For the first time, then, the two women learned wha t had happened. He gave it to them briefly, concisely.

  “Denise, I Troop is gone, . . massacred. Colonel Web b is dead.”

  They stared at him, unable to grasp the enormity o f it. Tragedy was familiar to them. Both had been o n other posts in Indian fighting country, each knew ho w quickly death could strike. But a whole troop … an d Colonel Webb!

  “I am in command.” There was a hard ring to hi s voice, a ring Betty had never heard, and one mat Denis e had heard rarely. “I am taking K Troop out in th e morning.”

  He sat down and explained the situation as it concerne d Captain Mellett, He must be warned; and if K Troop arrived in time they might also catch the Bannock s unaware and overcome them once and for all. He would be leaving before daylight.

  He said nothing of his fears that the fort itself might b e attacked. Carefully, he shunted away all thought of th e stores of rifles, ammunition, and food that had been lai d in at the fort against a fall campaign. It was likely th e Bannocks knew of those stores, and he was not sure the y did not have information from within the fort itself. Bu t he counted on a quick, decisive victory that would preclud e all possibility of a
n attack on the fort. Besides, h e would leave a token force. He avoided thinking of ho w Inadequate that force would be if he reinforced K Troo p as he planned.

  Betty was appalled at the thought of I Troop gone.

  She knew them all, every man-jack of them, as her uncl e would say. Captain torn Whitman had been a whistplayin g friend of her uncle, and was often in the house.

  Sergeant Bill Jordan had taught her to ride when he wa s a private working on his first enlistment. Hauffer was a stem, quiet man who had been an officer in the Prussia n army. Nobody knew or inquired how he happened t o come to the western frontier … such questions simpl y were not asked.

  Lister had tired of trying to make it on a governmen t claim in Kansas … Ryan had recently arrived fro m Ireland … Johnson, whose name had been somethin g else back in the States … and Spinarsld, a sullen Sla v who talked only to the horses, with whom he was on th e best of terms.

  All gone … massacred!

  Captain Mellett would soon be going into bivouac …

  M Troop’s last biyouac? Tomorrow they would ride t o . their rendezvous with destiny at North Fork.

  Betty knew the place. She had been there once on a picnic in more peaceful times than these—a lonely, lovel y place of wild, rugged beauty. To a soldier, in such a time of Indian trouble as this, it might be a death trap.

  M Troop mustered forty-seven men, and at leas t twenty were hardened veterans, three of whom ha d been with Crook on the Rosebud; two had fought agains t Cocbise in Arizona. Four had served enlistments in th e battle-scarred Fifth Cavalry. Only six were raw recruits , and there was some suspicion that one of those ha d served previously and deserted … nobody asked tha t question, either.

  Mellett himself was a stern, tough officer. He ha d fought through the Civil War, advancing to colonel, an d had come west to fight Indians when the war was over , accepting the reduced rank, as so many others had. Al l told, he had twenty years of the hardest land of servic e behind him, and looked it.

  Denise brought coffee for them. “I’d like to kno w where Kilrone picked up that bullet,” Paddock said , “and who treated him for it.”

  “He may have friends among the Indians, Frank. Yo u know how he was … he always had friends in od d places.”

  Paddock tasted his coffee. If he did as he planned, h e was thinking, who would be left behind? The sutler , who was fifty-five and fat; two farriers, who were goo d enough at shoeing horses and good as veterinarians i f nothing serious occurred; one line sergeant on the sic k list, and four teamsters. There were several cooks, an d three men in the guardhouse who could, if necessary, b e freed to fight.

  At best, fifteen men … not nearly enough if there wa s an attack.

  The fort, like most western forts, was not really a for t at all. It was a group of buildings around a parad e ground, with gaps between the buildings. He had neve r given any thought to how the place might be defended , for it had never seemed that he would have this problem.

  Usually there were men enough so that no force o f Indians would be likely to take the risk. And he was no t going to think of that now.

  Coolly, even coldly, he pushed the idea aside. It simpl y could not be … it must not be. The Bannocks woul d be concentrating on Mellett’s troop, and Paddock woul d close in with his troop. He wanted the Indians to becom e thoroughly involved before he attacked; then his victor y would be all the more decisive.

  All the troops were far under strength. There ha d seemed little prospect of any serious trouble, so ther e had been delay in bringing them up to strength. Theoreticall y a troop consisted of seventy-eight men, but fe w had as many as that. K Troop as well as M Troo p consisted of forty-seven men. With others Paddock coul d muster, he could bring it up to sixty.

  He thought of the many letters Webb had writte n requesting additional men. Despite the fact that literac y and citizenship requirements were nonexistent, recruitin g lagged. At that, almost half their force was of foreig n extraction, the largest portion being Irish. Fortunatel y these made excellent soldiers and superb fighting men.

  Whom to leave in command? Certainly not Pryor.

  Lieutenant Eden Pryor had courage enough, but h e lacked both judgment and experience. Moreover, h e despised the Indian as a fighting man, and was eager fo r a fight to prove his point. Whatever action took plac e here must be defensive only.

  I His thoughts returned to Barnes Kilrone. How did h e come to be here? What was he doing out here at th e shaggy end of nowhere? And what had happened to hi s army career?

  Chapter 3

  The eyes of Barnes Kilrone opened on a shadowe d room, lighted by a kerosene lamp, screened to keep th e light from waking him. He lay still for a time, just listening , as was his habit. It was a practice developed lon g ago, the practice of a man who traveled much in wil d country.

  His mind was immediately alert, remembering how h e had come here, and remembering his exhaustion. Eve n now he did not wish to move, although he knew he mus t There was something here that remained undone.

  He had reported to the commanding officer—Fran k Paddock, of all people—giving him the news of the fat e of I Troop and of the officer commanding the post.

  Which left Major Frank Bell Paddock in command.

  His eyes were on the island of light on the ceiling ove r the lamp, which had its wick turned low. Beyond th e screen he heard a faint rustle of movement, and realize d somebody was there, waiting, watching over him.

  Well, he did not need care—bis wound was almos t healed. It was the weakness it had left him with, an d the driving hard ride that had made him fold up.

  Paddock … how the man had changed! All the edg e was gone. His face was puffy, and he had looked beaten.

  It was hell, what a man could do to himself … for h e had done it to himself—and to Denise.

  Kilrone started to sit up and the bed creaked unde r him. Instantly there was quick movement beyond th e screen, and as he sank back a girl came around it to loo k down at him. It was the girl he had seen outside whe n he first rode in.

  “What’s happened?” h(c) asked her.

  “Nothing .., yet The command is moving out in th e morning.”

  “Paddock? You mean he’s moving to join Mellett? He mustn’t.”

  He started up again and swung his feet to the floor.

  Tve got to get up.”

  “Why? Why mustn’t he?”

  He seemed about to speak, but hesitated. There wa s no reason to frighten them. He would talk to Paddock.

  Despite Betty Considine’s protests, he dressed an d went to the kitchen. He looked across the room at Denise.

  She was as beautiful as ever, a little older, with a little less gaiety and laughter, but poised and lovely a s always.

  “I’ve got to see Prank,” he said.

  “Have some coffee first. You’re in no condition to b e walking around.”

  He glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight, bu t the post was awake. Men were preparing their equipmen t to move out at dawn, or earlier. He accepted th e coffee, trying to plan what he would say. After all, h e was a civilian and Paddock was in command here.

  Paddock heard him speak to the sergeant, and h e came out of his office. He was looking better. His fac e even seemed to have lost its flabbiness.

  “Frank, are you planning on going after them?” Kilron e asked.

  “We will have them boxed,” was the answer. “We ca n come in from south when they attack Mellett.”

  “What about the post?”

  “No need to worry. They will be so busy with us the y won’t have the time to consider attacking here.”

  Barney Kilrone spoke quietly. “Don’t do it, Frank. It’s the post they’re after. There were at least two hundre d warriors in the lot that hit I Troop, and there are a lot o f Paiutes coming up from the south. My guess would b e there are at least a thousand warriors on the move righ t now, and even that may be too low.”

  “A thousand! Barney, you’r
e daffy. The Bannock s could never muster that many, even with the Paiutes.”

  “Frank, believe me, they’ve got them.”

  Paddock turned away. He did not wish to listen t o such talk, nor did he want to have the feeling of guil t that rose within him. He knew he was taking a risk, bu t he refused to admit it, even to himself. If he sat tight, i f he failed to move now, there would be no point t o anything.

  He might stay right here, and no one could object t o his sitting still and taking care of the post, guarding i t against possible attack. But the alternative was a possibl e victory for him, with headlines in the news and, a s soon as it could be managed, recall to an eastern pos t That was what he must keep in mind.

  “Mellett must be given help,” he said stubbornly.

  “We have a chance to crush this outbreak once and fo r all. I shall move to join him at the moment of attack.” He looked around at Kilrone. “You’re welcome to ride along , if you feel up to it.”

  Til stay here,” Kilrone said quietly.

  Paddock glanced at him, his eyes suddenly cold. “Yo u do that,” he said. And then he added, “Will you be her e when I get back? Or will you choose this opportunity t o take Denise away?”

  Anger exploded in Kilrone. “Damn it, Frank, Denis e has a mind of her own! Nobody can take her anywhere!

  I told you before, she is in love with you. She has alway s been.”

  He turned away and went outside. The night wa s cold, warning of what was to come. Kilrone stoo d watching the bustle of activity … undoubtedly ther e was an Indian somewhere not far away who was als o watching, pleased with what he saw. And that India n would be riding soon, to carry the news.

  Kilrone knew he was an outsider here, practically a n interloper. He no longer belonged to the Army, no longe r had anything to do with this. Yet it was in him, th e memory of it, the feel of it, the smells of stables, o f leather, of gunsmoke. Soberly, he watched the subdue d haste, the lights in the windows, knowing that hurrie d good-byes were being said, the women smiling bravel y Ito hide their fears, the men being roughly casual abou t lit all, hiding their own worries, which were rarely fo r I themselves but rather for what would happen to thei r I families if they did not come back.