They Came To Cordura

by Swarthout, Glendon

  “You lie, damn you!” he exploded. “If there is one piece of truth in your insect soul I want it! You lied, didn’t you? It isn’t true!”

  Trubee gasped for breath. “Majer, sir, if you say so it is, an’ if you say it ain’t, it ain’t!”

  Thorn dropped him.

  “I been in twenny-three years,” Trubee said coughing. “I know my place. I been busted three times. When a officer puts words in my mouth I let ‘im. An’ I don’t see I’ve give you proper cause to lay han’s on me.”

  In the button eyes Thorn saw hatred, but worse than that, calculation. The man was treacherous to the core. His bite would poison. Sweated by emotion, shaken by disgust at himself, he turned away from Trubee, barely managing to dismiss him and to say it was time Hetherington and Renziehausen were relieved.

  He stood for a while helpless with failure. The thing was over. From five men he had learned nothing.

  A round from the Villistas slammed into the jefferys, angling off with the drone of a hornet, and brought him to himself. The report of the rifle was cradled by the canyon walls for a full minute. In the ensuing silence he heard the stamp and snuffle of the tied horses. The two youngsters came in, whispering as they made their blanket rolls into a double bed. The sweat cooled on him. The night was chill. He hunched closed to his fire and finally forced himself to his task.

  Wilber James Renziehausen, 396543, Private, F Troop, 12th Cavalry, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty, in action involving actual conflict. On 16 April, at 05.46 hours, during an attack by Provisional Squadron, 12th Cavalry, upon Villista forces holding a ranch called Ojos Azules near Cusihuiriachic, Mexico, F Troop, charging down the main road, found its progress halted by an adobe wall twelve feet in height which bounded the ranch on the west. There was no possible access to the ranch, nor to the central enemy position, the roof-top of the casa grande, or main house, from the west except through a massive wood and iron gate in the wall, barred from the inside. Attempting to reconnoiter over the top of the gate, one member of F Troop was killed instantly. At this point, acting entirely on his own initiative, Private Renziehausen stood in his saddle, climbed over the gate and leaped to the ground inside under heavy, close-range fire from the more than 30 Mexican rifles on the roof-top. Two Mexicans appeared behind him. The first, who fired at him point-blank, he killed with his pistol. As he grappled with the second, a hand-grenade thrown from the roof-top exploded, riddling the Mexican, whose body had served him as a shield. Still under fire, Private Renziehausen then unbarred and opened the gate, permitting F Troop to enter mounted. As a result of Private Renziehausen’s courageous act, one reflecting the best traditions of the cavalry service, the full weight of F Troop was added to that of D Troop, attacking on foot, and the enemy position on the roof, the heart of Villista resistance, was reduced. Signed and sworn to, 18 April 1916, Thomas Thorn, Major, Cavalry, Awards Officer, Punitive Expedition, U.S. Army.

  Trying to re-read what he had written he could not see well. Removing his glasses he found the lenses dirty and while cleaning them with his shirt-tail found also that when they had been knocked from his nose by a pine branch dust had got between the layers of tape in the knot which held bow to rim and the tape was loose. With his pocket-knife he cut off the hanging end and pinched the remaining layers together. Near-sighted, he had worn glasses as long as he could remember. Anything beyond ten feet lost sharpness, beyond a rod or two was quite blurred, but the glasses gave him complete correction and the strength of the lenses had never had to be increased. He put them on again and sat for a long time. He did not hear the occasional rounds fired across the canyon, the dull thump of what must have been Mausers answered, later, by the crack of Springfields. He did not want to talk to himself in his notebook. He did not want to think about the plight of his party or how to get them out of it. It seemed to him that he must arrive at a different definition of courage, to isolate it from goodness and morality and consider it by itself, an independent factor in the arithmetic of men. The only denominator possessed in common by the five men of the detail was their heroism. Was it conceivable that a man might be at once treacherous and brave, shiftless and brave, vicious and brave, dishonest and brave? Or the converse, be faithful, conscientious, gentle, honest, and cowardly?

  He signed Renziehausen’s citation, tore out the page, folded and put it away in the oilskin envelope. He should write the other two, for Chawk and Trubee, now, tonight, for if there were fighting tomorrow he might not live to write them. Neither his life nor their citations would be a great loss. So harsh had been the impact of the interviews upon him, so repugnant to him were the characters of the pair that at the moment he did not care whether what they had accomplished went down in military annals or not. It was, in the end, for him to decide. He had not thought of that before. He should have. What he determined to give he might also determine to deny. His authority, in this matter at least, was absolute. If by their behavior subsequent to Ojos Azules he became convinced neither Chawk nor Trubee was worthy of the Medal, he would not write their citations. He would weigh their conduct carefully henceforth. He would put them on the scales when they reached Cordura and let the balance fall where it might. But if they did not reach Cordura?

  This possibility renewed his confusion. He scribbled one line on a blank page of his notebook.

  Judge not, lest ye be judged.

  He then crossed it out, buttoned book and pencil into his shirt pocket, looked at his watch and discovering it time for change of guard went to wake Lieutenant Fowler.

  The junior officer was not asleep. Crawling out of his blankets he said he would like a word with the Major. Thorn followed him back to his own fire.

  Fowler had evidently been planning what he would say, for after sprucing up his hair and moustache and putting on his hat he made what was almost a formal speech. He said that he had been deliberating the total effect of the award of the Medal of Honor upon his career as a regular officer. While he was grateful to the Major for putting the machinery in motion, he had decided to stand upon his privilege as an officer by requesting that his case be removed from consideration, or if it was obligatory some recognition be given, that he be recommended for a lesser decoration such as the Distinguished Service Cross.

  Thorn asked why.

  The Lieutenant replied it was a service maxim that career officers should make themselves as inconspicuous as possible, particularly junior officers. Too outstanding an exploit too early would make one a marked man, a sure victim of the jealousy of his superiors.

  Damningly aware, in view of his reflections only moments before, of his inconsistency, Major Thorn kept his response brief. The request was refused because he had neither right nor authority to grant it. Once he had judged a man worthy of the award and written a citation, endorsement was up to General Pershing and approval to Congress. There was certainly no precedent for allowing a man to accept or reject a decoration and he did not intend to set one.

  Fowler stood stiffly, almost at attention. He granted the Major’s argument, but between officers and gentlemen could there not be arrangement that the citation would never reach channels?

  Thorn said absolutely not. He picked up his rifle, remarking that they were due for guard.

  He had one other reason, Fowler said, under visible strain. He thought it very unnatural and unlikely, and he was convinced anyone else would think it unnatural and unlikely, that there should be four potential Medals of Honor in one engagement.

  “Mister,” Thorn said, using the old form of address for the first time, “we are on guard.”

  He turned and went through the pines towards Sergeant Chawk’s post. He found Trubee there, and the two conversing. He chewed Trubee out in no uncertain terms, saying any man with twenty years’ service should know better than to leave his post. Trubee protested that his leg was beginning to stiffen up and he needed to move around and besides, “them Mixicans was tucked in for the night�
��.

  That was neither here nor there, Thorn said; he had given an order and the next time he was disobeyed there would be trouble. He told the two they were relieved, Trubee left. Thorn thought Chawk had also gone, but became aware after a minute that the other still hulked near him.

  “Well, Sergeant?”

  A Villista bullet came up at high velocity from the canyon mouth, struck a pine and thudded downward into the ground behind the two men. Before the report reached them Chawk snapped off an answering shot towards the far-away fire.

  “I been astin’ an’ I mean to keep on astin’, Major. You brought us in here. When you plan to take us out?”

  “That is my business.”

  Chawk bolted his weapon, moved closer. A twig broke underfoot. “It’s mine, too, bein’ the rankin’ non-com. I have to figger what this outfit can do. The shave-tail tells me you aim to sit here.”

  “Lieutenant Fowler had no right. . . ”

  “I’ll put a bee in yer bonnet. These heroes won’t be worth a damn on a daylight ride-out. Them young pups can’t scarcely button their pants an’ Trubee’s got ailments. Young George Armstrong is a bit too jumpy. That’s the way I size this bunch up. You want my advice. . . ”

  Thorn had had enough for one day and night. “I don’t,” he said hotly, his voice carrying. “Chawk, you are used to dealing with lieutenants. You are now under an officer of field grade and you will have to change your methods. I don’t need tactics from enlisted personnel. I may take us out and I may not. In any case, it will be my decision, not yours, and. . . ”

  “This ain’t garrison,” Chawk interrupted. “This is field, an’ I got no notion of sittin’ here till we starve. You don’t take us, mebbe I will.”

  “Not while I’m alive to give orders,” Thorn said.

  “An’ that can mebbe be arranged, too.”

  Thorn brought his rifle across his waist. In the pitch dark he could make out the looming outline of the non-com.

  “Chawk, you are relieved.”

  The giant hawked loudly, spat, and moved away.

  Another twig snapped. Thorn whirled.

  “Fowler, sir. I overheard.”

  Thorn took a deep breath. “Lieutenant, you hear and talk too damned much. What I discuss with you I expect to be kept in confidence.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fowler did not leave. “You still intend to remain where we are tonight?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I must tell you something, sir. I know about Columbus. Most of the officers do. Furthermore, I suspect one of the men does: Trubee.”

  Major Thorn felt the strength flow from his legs as surely as though he had blooded himself badly with an axe.

  “Why?”

  “A remark he made this afternoon.”

  “What?”

  “He said he was surprised you had the guts to draw his boil.”

  “He did?”

  “I felt you should know this. I don’t think he’s told the others, but if Chawk were to find out, in these circumstances, there’s no telling what he might do.”

  He could not keep triumph out of his tone, but the Major was past noticing.

  “Let us take our posts,” was all he said.

  He reached the edge of the jeffreys and sat down heavily.

  He should have had them stretch and tie shelter-halves between trees so that if it rained they might catch a little water.

  Being in the box canyon at night was like being at the bottom of a well. High above hung the bucket of a quarter-moon. It was as though if a man shouted for help a great windlass would be turned and a rope lowered and he would be hoisted to the safety of the stars.

  He was weary.

  From where he sat he could see fitful fires at the canyon mouth, that on the western hill, that on the rock rim to the north. Probably the Villistas pulled guard one at a time, dozing, rousing, letting off a shot at the pine clump below, dozing again.

  Over the north rim, another day’s ride only, thirty or forty miles at most, was Cordura.

  To have a showdown with Chawk or not to have a showdown.

  To take them out or not to take them out.

  Thomas Thorn, the horse Hamlet.

  He should wake the Villistas. Positioning the Springfield over his knees he sighted on the fire at the canyon mouth. The steel of barrel and trigger-guard sent cold into him and he shivered and lost sight picture. Suddenly, hidden by darkness, wholly unnerved by the junior officer’s words, he lowered the rifle, stock to the ground, and clutching it in his hands bent his head to lean hard against it, closer to tears than he had been since boyhood.

  You have no right to fire.

  You are no longer a soldier.

  The rest of your life will be a stranger’s sojourn.

  It could not be kept. Pershing, Rogers, Ben Ticknor first, now Fowler and most of the officers. Among the men, Trubee, if he knows, may be only the beginning.

  Something is rotten in the state of Chihuahua. You are.

  Chapter Nine

  LIGHT crept into the canyon as a ground wind ruffling up from the south stirred the short grass along the floor and fanned cold in the faces of the men and the woman who stood or knelt in the edge of the jefferys. Nothing moved on the heights. The bodies of the three riders killed during the pursuit had been taken away under cover of darkness. Except for the soughing of the wind in the pines there was no sound and each let himself hope the Villistas had withdrawn. Red of day-rise licked down the rock scarp to the north. Then all seven of the party threw themselves to the ground as a fusillade of fire was let loose upon the position, scything branches and needles, for a full minute making of the canyon a roaring muzzle. It was a typically Mexican way of informing the Americans they still had company and the company had plenty of ammunition. It ended with echoes rocketing back and forth between hills and yells indistinct and in the center of the pines horses screaming. The troopers ran to the animals. Nicked by a ricochet, Hetherington’s mount was bucking wildly and had kicked Trubee’s. It took some time to get them quieted down and held so that the blood flow from the nick could be stanched. While nose-bags were put on with another half-feed of corn Major Thorn examined the first swelling on the left pastern joint of Trubee’s horse. There were no broken bones but the animal might well be lamed beyond running. To the troopers, gathered around, the meaning of the mishap was clear: weakened though they were by lack of water, all mounts had been in condition for an escape attempt during the night, and today one of them might not be. This knowledge set jaws and stilled talk as the fire was built up and a breakfast of cowboy bread made. The Geary woman sat by herself chewing on some jerky, strips of beef dried and salted; she had evidently used up her eggs and potatoes, a lucky thing for her with the men in their present mood. When they began to boil the last of their coffee Thorn did not object, but taking a piece of hard bread and his binoculars went alone to the perimeter.

  Moving from point to point around the edge of the jeffreys, he spent the entire morning studying the Villista positions. Twice, exposing himself thoughtlessly, he was fired on, one slug missing him by so little that he felt the lash of air at his cheek. He observed mechanically, his mind storing up information yet as reluctant as the day before to come to conclusions. He could not see the position high behind them, to the east, but an occasional plunging shot came from it. The other two on the heights, that to the north on the rock rim and that on the hill opposite, seemed to have no more than three men who remained behind crags for the most part. As they edged out to fire, sun flashing from their rifle barrels, he could take count by differences in dress. During the morning, Arreaga, identifiable by the red-banded hat and greaved leggings, appeared on horseback at the skyline, dismounted, and clambered down to the men at both places, presumably to get their observations of the Americans. Later he heard far-away reports, which might have been the Mexicans hunting meat. Shrewdly Arreaga had concentrated his main strength at the canyon mouth where two stands of bull pines faced each othe
r twenty rods or so apart. A rider loped from one to the other. Watching longer, Thorn saw sombreroed figures moving among the bulls. He recalled guessing the number of pursuers yesterday at around thirty. With nine on the heights, that left about twenty divided between the two pine stands, having clear fields of fire up the canyon. From the jefferys to the mouth a party would have to ride close to five hundred yards and then through the chute and then another three hundred yards to be out of range. The element of surprise, as at Ojos, would be negligible. Inaccurate as always the Villista fire might be, but it would surely bring down most of the animals. The unhorsed would have no cover. These were facts, not conclusions.

  Along the perimeter Major Thorn was conscious of the men’s changed attitude. The night’s lost opportunity was blown up by hindsight, and instead of the Mexicans, they blamed him for their predicament. When he passed them, Chawk and Trubee, cursing something together, probably him, stopped in mid-oath. Lieutenant Fowler kept his back turned. Renziehausen approached him. He had his campaign hat pulled down nearly over his eyes in an attempt to hide the dressing at the side of his head. He had not slept much, he said, his head down, because he could not figure out how a rubber ear could be fastened on. Thorn said he understood the sergeant similarly wounded in the Philippines had carried with him a small can of special wax which, when heated each morning and applied to the edge, would set quickly and keep the member firmly in place all day. His freckled, dirty face pulled with doubt, the boy thanked him and Thorn gradually made his way around to the rear of the clump. While he was trying to see up the hill the pines swished behind him and Adelaide Geary appeared, a cigarette in her hand. He continued to try to get the up-hill position in the binoculars. Finally he lowered them.

  “Why do they waste so much time on us?” he asked her. “We are not worth it.”

  “I’ll grant that,” she said. “But they’re waiting for a sure thing, and time isn’t important to a Mexican.”