“Do you think Colonel Devore knows this?”
Hogg again smiled his slight smile. “By now? Depend on it.”
Stryker glanced at the dying Apache. “Ask him again where I can find Rake Pierce.”
“He won’t tell us, Lieutenant.”
“Joe, ask him, damn it.”
Hogg spoke to the Indian. The dying man closed his eyes and a thin, wavering chant escaped his lips like a mist.
“That’s his death song, Lieutenant. He’s all done talking.”
“So am I.”
Stryker drew his revolver and shot the Apache in the head. He turned away immediately. “Sergeant Hooper!”
The man came at a trot. “Pile the dead against the wall over there. They won’t stink until tomorrow, so we’ll camp here tonight. And bring the horses inside.” He glanced over at the Indian ponies. “Any worth saving?”
Hooper nodded. “Five mules, three cavalry mounts and a good-looking Morgan mare.”
“We’ll take those back to Fort Merit. Shoot the other ponies before we pull out in the morning.” He looked at Hooper. “How many did we kill?”
“Twenty-one, sir. All of them prime young bucks.”
“And the butcher’s bill?”
“Trooper Murphy dead. Trooper Rogers slightly wounded.”
“Lay out Corporal Murphy well away from the other dead. I will not have a brave Christian man lying among savages. We’ll take him back to the fort for burial.”
“Yes, sir.” Hooper waited.
“The soldiers can cook their supper and boil their coffee when you are ready, Sergeant. Don’t let them eat mule meat, it’s poisonous to white men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stryker nodded. “Very good. Dismissed.”
After Hooper left, Stryker turned to Hogg. “If Nana is out and raiding with Geronimo, I’d bet the farm that Rake Pierce is here. For a while at least, the Arizona Territory is where the gun business will be.”
“Like I told you afore, Lieutenant, if he’s around I’ll find him for you.”
Stryker’s fingertips strayed to his broken face, a gesture he was not aware of making. “I’ll cut him, Joe. I’ll rip his damned guts out and knot them to a pine tree while he’s still breathing.”
Aloud the scout said, “Yes, Lieutenant, I believe you will.”
To himself, he wondered who the real savage in this mad slaughterhouse was.
Chapter 6
“Lieutenant, you better come see this.”
Joe Hogg stepped into the circle of firelight where Stryker was sitting, drinking coffee. “What’s all the hooting and hollering about, Joe?”
“That’s what you better come see.”
Carefully, Stryker laid his cup beside him and wearily rose to his feet. The shouting was coming from the cottonwood beside the narrow creek that ran from somewhere inside one of the surrounding mountains.
As he walked closer, he heard Sergeant Hooper yell, “Hell, lads, once she’s washed herself out real well, she’ll be as good as new.”
“Sarge,” a trooper said, “I don’t think I want a white woman that’s been done by Apaches.”
“Hell, Henderson, you idiot,” Hooper snapped. “You’re going to screw her, not take her home to meet ma.”
The other men who were gawking at the naked redhead frantically washing herself in the creek laughed, and Hooper said, “Look at the tits an’ ass she’s got on her, an’ her not more than sixteen or seventeen I’d say. Damned little whore has been done by more than Apaches—lay to that, my lads.”
More laughter until it was instantly stifled by Stryker’s voice. “Sergeant Hooper, that will be enough.” He turned to Hogg at his side. “Joe, get her out of there and find a blanket to cover her. Her clothes must be around here somewhere.”
The scout stepped to the creek, but Hooper yelled, “Hogg, you leave that woman be.”
“Sergeant Hooper,” Stryker said sharply. “Do not ever again countermand my orders.”
“He’s a civilian,” Hooper snapped. “And I’m telling him to leave the woman be. I’m laying claim to the bitch.”
“Or what, Sergeant?” Hogg said, his voice low, quiet, significant.
The scout stood as still as death, his right hand close to his holstered Colt.
Hooper was reading something cold in the other man, something he had not seen before and did not like. Suddenly his voice wavered with uncertainty. “I said leave the woman be. She’s crazy, out of her bleedin’ mind.” He took on a wheedling tone. “Me an’ the lads only want to have a little fun, some quick in an’ out, you understand.”
Hogg’s smile was as dangerous as a flash of mountain lightning. “I said, ‘Or what, Sergeant?’ ”
Now Hooper was desperately seeking a way out. He glanced at Stryker, his eyes begging. Miles Hooper was not a coward and his army career had never been easy, but the old scout who had prodded him into a corner was a named revolver fighter and Hooper had never braced his like before.
The girl in the creek was still washing, but now she was singing in a high, reedy voice, a song without words or meaning.
It was in Stryker’s mind to let the scene play out and let Hogg settle it, but the habit of command overcame his dislike of Hooper. “Mr. Hogg, please do as I asked. Sergeant, we will take up this matter again when we return to Fort Merit.”
But to the lieutenant’s surprise, Hooper was not prepared to let it go.
“Damn you, Lieutenant, to the conqueror belong the spoils. The woman is mine by right of conquest and I want her,” he yelled. “Me and the other lads, we won the battle for you fair an’ square.”
“Battle? Is that what you call it?” Stryker said. “I would call it something else.”
Now it was Hogg’s turn to be surprised. He stared through the darkness at Stryker, again wondering at this strange, tormented man.
Then Hooper took a step too far, right into a hangman’s noose. “Stryker,” he said, “I want the woman. She’s nothing to you and you know a white man will never touch her now. But I will. Damn it, I can smell her from here and it’s driving me mad.” He looked over at the troopers who’d been watching him in amazement, their unshaven jaws hanging slack. “Bear me up in this, lads,” he yelled. “Is the woman mine by right?”
One man, Trooper Louis Ruxton, a hard-faced product of New York’s Five Points slums, said, “Aye, she’s yours right enough.” He looked across at Stryker, then at the men around him. “Hell, Lieutenant, after nearly two dozen Apaches that redheaded gal will be so stretched, she won’t even feel horny ol’ Miley slide in.”
If Ruxton expected laughter, he was disappointed. The soldiers stood silent, their faces grim. They were young and green, and although they feared their sergeant, they feared the lieutenant more. To the troopers his shoulder straps represented the awe-some authority of the United States Army and its government, a terrifying power they had no desire to cross. But if any had lingering doubts, Stryker now spelled out the consequences of Hooper’s action.
His tight voice revealing a barely suppressed anger, he said, “Sergeant Miles Hooper, this day of July seventeen, 1881, under Article 94 of the United States’ Uniform Code of Military Justice, you are charged with an intent to usurp or override lawful military authority, refusing, in concert with one other person, to obey orders or otherwise do your duty, creating violence and disturbance. The crime is mutiny and if you are found guilty you shall be punished by death or such other punishment as a court-martial shall direct.”
Stryker looked past Hooper. “Trooper Louis Ruxton, you are under arrest for inciting mutiny. You men, disarm him.”
Without waiting to see if his order was carried out, the lieutenant again directed his attention to Hooper. He held out his hand. “Your sidearm, Sergeant.”
Hooper, his face black with anger, took a step back, his hand going for the holstered revolver at his right side. “You go to hell, you goddamned scar-faced freak!”
Stryker, angry, was going
for his gun, but Joe Hogg stopped it.
His voice like ice crystals in the breeze, he said quietly, “Hooper, surrender your gun or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”
For an instant the sergeant thought about it, backed off, and slowed his hand above his Colt.
“Use your left, Hooper,” the scout said. He had made no attempt to draw his gun. “You’re making me nervous and when I get nervous bad things happen.”
Hooper lifted the revolver with his fingertips and passed it to Stryker.
“If Mr. Hogg hadn’t killed you, I would have,” the lieutenant said slowly, taking his time. He called over a couple of men by name. “Take Sergeant Hooper into custody with Trooper Ruxton. Hold them in the arroyo and guard them well.”
The soldiers leveled their carbines and motioned to Hooper to move. The sergeant cast one look of burning hatred at Stryker, then walked into the darkness, his captors stepping warily at his heels.
Hogg came closer and smiled. “Don’t have much luck with sergeants, do you, Lieutenant?”
“Seems like.” He nodded toward the creek. “Get the woman and cover her with something. She can sit by the fire with me where I can keep an eye on her.”
A few minutes later, the scout returned, cradling the woman in his arms. She was young, pretty and silent.
“How is she?” Stryker asked as Hogg settled her beside him.
The scout shrugged, saying nothing.
“Did she give her name?”
“She doesn’t talk.”
“The women at the fort will help her.”
“No one can help her, Lieutenant. Not now. Somewhere in what’s left of her mind she’s following the buffalo and she’s never coming back.”
Stryker looked at the woman, at the mane of red hair hanging over her shoulders in damp ringlets. “Were those her folks at the ranch?” he asked.
“Maybe. Or she was just visiting.”
“Joe, keep an eye on the arroyo. I want those two to face a court-martial.”
The scout nodded. “I’ll drift by there now and again.” He smiled. “I’d like nothing better than to put a bullet into Sergeant Hooper. Hell, I never did cotton to Englishmen anyhow.”
After Hogg walked silently away, Stryker picked up his coffee. It was cold. He shoved the tin cup into the coals of the fire, then looked at the girl again. She had assumed her old position, legs drawn up, forehead on her knees. He could hear her breathe.
The troopers had built a second fire a safe distance away from their mercurial officer and were frying bacon. The coyotes were yipping and somewhere, higher up the mountain, an owl asked its question of the night.
Stryker lifted his head, testing the air. He smelled desert bluebells in the breeze. . . . Were they real? Or was it only a remembrance of a time past . . . ? The fragrance of Millie’s hair . . . ?
She was sitting close to him. So close he could smell the musky, womanly scent of her.
Colonel Abel Lawson had graciously allowed his daughter to use his office for her farewells. But, since she was no longer betrothed to First Lieutenant Stryker, the proprieties had to be observed. There were two officers present, shuffling, grinning, embarrassed to be there.
“Yes, Steve,” Millie was saying, “Papa and I leave on the morning stage tomorrow.” She smiled brightly. “Then it’s on to Washington.”
“Washington,” Stryker repeated. “Yes, on to there.” Millie’s beautiful brown eyes lifted to his, then, quickly, as though burned, slid away. “I came to say good-bye, but, oh dear, I’m making rather a mess of things, aren’t I?”
“It’s never easy, Millie, saying good-bye.”
The two officers had moved to the window where they were apparently studying something of great interest in the deserted, dusty parade ground.
“I’m sorry, Steve, so sorry. My father has political ambitions and he has plans, great plans, and I am part of them. They involve a deal of socializing, meeting influential people . . .” her voice trailed away lamely. Then, “Beaucoup of that, I’m afraid.”
Stryker nodded. “I understand.”
But I don’t understand, Millie. My face is ruined but inside I haven’t changed. I’m still me, the man you wanted to marry. Did you fall in love with handsome features and a dashing mustache you once told me made your female heart go all a-flutter? Are you that shallow?
“You must think me very shallow, Steve, but I must do what I think is best for Papa and my country. I am not a stalwart soldier like you; I am but a weak woman and I must go where the winds of family blow me. You will go on living, Steve, and make a fine career for yourself as a cavalry officer. I just know you will.”
“Yes, you must do what is best for your family.”
Just tell me how I go on living when everything inside me is dead.
From the window, young Second Lieutenant McIntyre prodded gently, “Steve, the colonel said no more than five minutes.” He looked embarrassed but attempted a smile. “Tempus fugit and all that.”
“I must be going,” Millie said. Without looking at his face, she gave Stryker a brief, cool hug, then stood back from him. Her eyes misted. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry for everything.”
Then she was gone in a rustling flurry of green silk and snowy petticoats and only her perfume lingered, the desert bluebell fragrance of her hair. . . .
“Hey, Lieutenant, your coffee is bilin’ over.”
Stryker looked up at Joe Hogg. “Huh?”
“Your coffee, on the fire.”
Stryker saw his sizzling cup and grabbed the handle, dragging it from the coals. It was hot and he let it go quickly, shaking his scorched fingers.
Then he noticed that Hogg was holding a wincing Trooper Kramer by the ear.
“What are you doing with my soldier, Joe?” Stryker asked.
“Lieutenant, I’ve grown mighty tired of hearing this boy wheezing like an old steam engine. Me an’ him is going to search the creek for a frog an’ then I’ll cure him of his misery.” Hogg tugged the young man’s ear. “Ain’t that right, boy?”
Kramer, a towheaded youth of about twenty, did a little jig, his face screwed up against the pain in his tortured ear. “Mr. Hogg, I ain’t eating no damned horny toad, an’ you can take that to the bank.”
The scout squeezed Kramer’s ear harder. “You don’t eat it, boy. I done tol’ you that already.” Hogg looked at Stryker. “Lieutenant, do I have your permission to take Julius Wheezer here on a frog hunt?”
“Did you check on Hooper and Ruxton?”
“Yeah, they’re under guard and when I last looked Hooper was sleeping, or pretending to be.”
Stryker smiled. “Then good hunting, Mr. Hogg.” The scout dragged away the protesting Kramer, the scout assuring him that a cure for his asthma was imminent, and Stryker tried his coffee again.
He was impossibly tired. Around him firelight touched the crouching shadows with dull crimson and the troopers were noisily horsing around, working off the tensions of the day. Soon he would order them to their blankets. The detail would ride out at first light.
A soldier brought him a plate, fat bacon and pounded up hardtack fried in the grease. The man offered some to the girl, but she did not change position or even lift her head.
Surprised at how hungry he was, Stryker wolfed down the meal and was chewing on the last of the hardtack when Hogg reappeared with the suffering Kramer.
“Sit by the fire, boy, an’ do what I tell you,” the scout ordered.
He waited until Kramer squatted, the young trooper tense and uneasy about being this close to his officer, then handed him a small, lime green frog.
“Now pry the critter’s jaws open and breathe into its mouth,” Hogg said.
The frog croaked and Kramer wheezed, staring at the creature in his hand.
“Do as I tell you, boy,” the scout ordered. “Or I’ll kick your ass all over this clearing.”
Reluctantly, Kramer forced the amphibian’s jaws open and wheezed into its open
mouth.
“Get closer, boy, damn it,” Hogg said. “A few good breaths.”
Stryker smiled. “I don’t think Trooper Kramer has a good breath, Joe.”
“He does, Lieutenant. He only thinks he doesn’t.” Hogg stared down at the unhappy soldier. “Now get close, and give ’er a few good breaths.” He glared at the young man. “Unless you want me to pull that ear right off’n your head.”
This time Kramer did as he was told.
“Good,” Hogg said. “Now that asthma misery of your’n has gone into the frog.”
“What do I do with it, Mr. Hogg?” Kramer asked. The freckles across his nose stood out like ink spots in the firelight.
“You keep an eye on that critter, an’ if it dies afore sundown tomorrow, you’re cured fer sure.”
“Keep an eye on it? Keep an eye on it where, Mr. Hogg?”
The scout sighed. “Do I have to tell you every little thing, boy? Stick him in your pocket an’ check on him every now an’ then. But don’t sit on him an’ squash him. The critter has to die by its ownself.”
Kramer rose and shoved the frog into the pocket of his breeches. “Thank you, Mr. Hogg,” he said. “I feel better already.”
“You won’t be better unless the frog dies,” the scout said. “Now, you keep an eye on him until sundown tomorrow.”
After the young soldier left, Stryker stretched out by the fire and looked up at Hogg. “Do you really think the frog will cure him?”
The scout nodded. “If he thinks it will, Lieutenant, then it will.”
“While Kramer is watching his frog, you watch Hooper, huh?”
“Depend on it, Lieutenant.”
A few minutes later, the last thing Stryker saw before he drifted into sleep was the redheaded girl. She still had not moved.
Chapter 7
By Joe Hogg’s watch, it was 2:12 in the morning when rifle shots heralded the escape of Sergeant Miles Hooper.
Trooper Lou Ruxton he threw to the dogs.
The racketing echoes of the rifle were still tying tangled knots around the clearing as Stryker jumped to his feet and ran for the arroyo, gun in hand.
Stryker's Revenge Page 4
