Piccadilly Doubles 1

by Lou Cameron

  Owns-the-Water ignored the insult. The tall Blue Sleeves was young and obviously knew nothing of Real People. Looking away, his eyes met those of Rabbit-Boss for a moment, and despite their enmity, the two Indians exchanged a knowing glance of amusement. Then Owns-the-Water remembered himself and looked away. Of course the miserable Digger knew Mojave were quite capable of defending their own property if they had to. Hadn’t they been taught often enough to stay away from certain small irrigated plots of what a stranger might take for open desert?

  Across the room, his finger back on the wall map, Lodge was saying, “All right, this fool map Fremont’s Expedition drew a few years ago isn’t too accurate in the first place, and a lot of it’s still blank in the second. We’re not going to figure out what Diablito’s doing out there to the southwest by jawing about it here at Havasu. How many men do you think you’ll need, Lieutenant Caldwell?”

  “Sir?”

  “Men. How many? Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said, goddamn it?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve been listening, but Captain, I just got here!”

  “So what? What do you think they sent you out here to do, peel potatoes? This is the Indian fighting army, Mister, and right now it looks like we have us some Indians who need fighting! I want you to muster a heavy patrol, bead it out, and round those rascals up!”

  “On camels, sir?”

  “Of course on camels. This is the Camel Corps, Mister. What’s the matter with you? Why are you standing there like a big-ass bird with that stupid look on your face? You surely don’t figure to go out after mounted Apache on foot, do you?”

  “No, sir, but, damn it, I don’t know how! Until this afternoon, I’d seen exactly one camel in my life, and that was in the Philadelphia zoo. High Jolly led me in from the steamboat like a kid on a pony, and my stomach still hasn’t gotten over it. I don’t know how to manage one camel, let alone a patrol!”

  Lodge nodded. “You’ll need Greenberg and his tame Digger here, of course. I can’t spare more than a dozen camels, so you’d better get Corporal Muller’s squad and … Yeah, that makes it you two, Muller, and eight troopers. You’ll want to take High Jolly along, so it comes out just right.”

  Greenberg said, “A corporal’s squad agin’ about a hundred Apache seems to be cuttin’ it a mite thin if you ask me, Cap.”

  Lodge said, “I didn’t ask you, Greenberg. Your job is to find the Indians. Lieutenant Caldwell and his patrol will do the rest.”

  He saw the look that passed between the scout and his new junior officer, and soothed, “We know most of the band consists of women and children. Diablito can’t have more than thirty or forty braves with him. Eight-to-one odds are acceptable this side of the Mississippi. Why, when Fremont rode against the hostiles on the other side of the Sierras in the late forties, he was outnumbered fifty to one and ... ”

  “Now hold on, damn it!” Greenberg cut in. “That squaw-killer Fremont made his Injun fightin’ reputation agin’ Mission Injuns who never wanted to fight in the first damn place! We ain’t talkin’ about Mission Injuns now, Cap. If that band out there is Diablito’s, we’re talkin about Apache!”

  Lodge shrugged and, turning to Caldwell, asked, “Are you afraid of those odds, Lieutenant? I suppose I could let you have another squad if it’s too big for you.”

  Matt Caldwell shook his head and insisted, “Captain, I’m in no position to lead one squad, two squads, or a blue-tail fly, mounted on camel! I keep trying to tell you, I don’t know how to ride the damn things!” Captain Lodge said, “You’d better start learning, then. You’re moving out in the morning. Tell High Jolly I said to pick out a gentle mount for you and, while there’s still a little daylight left, have him show you what he can over at the corral.”

  Caldwell frowned. “Are you serious, sir?”

  “Do I look like a man indulging himself in a joke, Mister?”

  “No, sir, but, well, I thought Lieutenant Gordon would want to be in command of the patrol, seeing as he’s been here at Fort Havasu the longest and ...”

  Lodge’s voice cracked like a whip as he cut in with, “You thought, Mister? When in thunder did they start asking second lieutenants to think in this man’s army?” Then, Lodge added in a gentler tone, “I know I’ve given you a hard row to hoe, Mister, but I’ve, got my reasons. I’ll expect you to move out at dawn. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, but may I ask a couple of questions?”

  “No, Mister, you may not. If you aim to learn to ride a camel before the sun goes down, you’d better get cracking!”

  The Unger party moved at a slow walk into the glowering eye of the setting sun. The dormant scrub of the wide flat they were crossing was turning an orange-dusted purple in the gloaming light, and the view out the arched canvas rear of the prairie schooner might have seemed attractive under other circumstances. Alfrieda sat on the tailgate, bare legs dangling, in the seat vacated by Freddy Dodd. It seemed a mite easier to breathe back there, but the sun was still hot and the girl was too dulled by the long, thirsty afternoon to notice the first star in the lavender eastern sky. Her little brother, Willy, moaned again from where he lay with his head across his mother’s cramped thighs.

  Alfrieda thought of offering to spell her mother with Willy again, but that would mean moving farther into the stifling interior under the sun-baked canvas top. She knew she was being selfish, and she knew she ought to be ashamed, but maybe if she just kept quiet, Jezebel would offer to hold Willy for a while. Alfrieda knew Momma wouldn’t ask the Negro maid to do it. Momma seemed embarrassed to have a servant, even though Poppa had bought the girl to help Momma, just before he’d gone out west to open his new store. Maybe, if Jezebel didn’t have sense enough to ask, Momma would order her to help this once. It wasn’t as if Jezebel had any choice, after all. What was it made Momma so bashful about making Jezebel earn her keep? When she grew up and had bond servants of her own, there’d be no shilly-shallying around about who did what in her house!

  Alfrieda half closed her eyes, picturing the house she was going to have someday, when the Right Man came along. The Right Man was still a little blurred in her fourteen-year-old mind, and it was only important that he be tall, handsome, and as nice as Poppa. But the House had been planned in loving detail, from the bright brass knocker on the front door to the rose-and-grape-covered arbor in the back garth. Her Momma had told her once that roses and grape vines were not practical on the same arbor, so Alfrieda had planned the rest of the house in the privacy of her own secret heart, and she was sure, when she met … him, that roses and grapes would twine together into a perfectly marvelous arbor that everyone in the neighborhood would admire, so there.

  Behind her, Alfrieda heard Jezebel murmur, “Let me hold the chile for a spell, Mizz Ernestine. You look purely wore out and that’s a fact!”

  But Ernestine Unger sighed and said, “It’s best not to move him, dear. Besides, there’s just no way to get comfortable in this awful wagon, and well be stopping soon. The boys said they’d make camp as soon as it started to get dark. Ramon said something about not wanting to move around too much at dusk. Snakes, you know.”

  Jezebel shuddered. “That Ramon’s a snake his own-self if you ask me, Mizz Ernestine. I swear, I still don’ see why you up an’ hired that uppity Mexican and the trashy white boy he hangs out with!”

  Ernestine warned, “Be quiet, they’ll hear you!” But Jezebel just shrugged and said, “I don’ care does they hear me or doesn’t they! Besides, they can’t hear what we-all say back here. They too busy up front talkin’ to each other about stealin’ you blind!”

  “Oh, come now, Jezebel, the boys aren’t plotting to steal anything from us.”

  “No, Mizz Ernestine? Then why they always got they heads together like a pair of hogs in the same trough iffen they ain’t bad-mouthin’ ahint yo’ back? How come that Ramon don’t drive the team from back here like a natural man? Does you ask me, it’s just an excuse to git off by themselves to talk ’bout us
!”

  “Pshaw! You know the mules have been balky since we left the river, Jezebel! Ramon says mules are likely to bolt in dry country if they smell water ahead, and he’s been walking all this way without a word of complaint.”

  “Without a word of any kind, you mean, Mizz Ernestine. That’s a mean-hearted Mexican and that’s the truth!”

  Ernestine pursed her lips and tried to sound firm. “I don’t want to hear any more of these suspicions of yours, Jezebel. I have enough to worry about between Willy’s fever and the way our money’s running out.”

  The maid-servant shrugged and looked away, confused as always about the way white folks carried on about their money. As a slave, Jezebel had a hazy knowledge of finances at best. Mizz Ernestine gave her a few coins from time to time, and Jezebel knew the price of such play-pretties as ribbon-bows and paper fans. Once back in Atlanta, Mizz Ernestine had given her some folding money and sent her to the market, but when she’d come back without the right change, Mizz Ernestine had allowed she’d been slickered by them sassy free niggers down to the market, and after that, Mizz Alfrieda had been sent along to oversee her shopping. A couple of times, Mizz Alfrieda had yelled and carried on at the free nigger at the produce stand and said he was a cheat. White folks were a pure caution when it came to counting pennies.

  Wrapped in her own silence, Ernestine Unger was aware she shouldn’t have voiced concern about money in front of a servant. But she was terribly worried about the way her Hansel’s money seemed to be slipping between her fingers along the way. She knew he’d sent more than enough to see her and the children across the Great American Desert. Her Hansel was a shrewd businessman who knew the price of everything, and he would have sent more if more was required. Hansel had said, in the letter that accompanied the bank draft, that he’d made careful inquiries about prices on the Overland Trail, and allowing for emergencies, he’d sent ten percent more than they could possibly need.

  She’d been foolish, she knew. Most of the money was gone, despite her best efforts to be a prudent, dutiful wife, and while she knew her Hansel would forgive her—Hansel always forgave her womanly weaknesses—Ernestine Unger was heartily ashamed of the way she’d managed the trip so far. The young men she’d hired said the supplies Ramon had bought for her from that Mexican on the Gila would last them the rest of the way to Los Angeles City. But there was the matter of their wages, and unless they made better time across this last stretch of desert than she had any right to hope for, she was going to have to make them wait for the last of their wages. Ramon was already acting sulky, since the medicinal brandy had given out, and if he insisted on any more money between here and the coast, she didn’t know how in the world she was going to cope with the matter.

  Out front, leading the team, Ramon and Freddy Dodd trudged on, eyes and hat brims down as they walked into the glaring sunset. Freddy was filled with nervous energy, but Ramon was tired and becoming insistent on ending the farce. He said, “Every step is taking us further from water, amigo. Why don’t we stop here and be done with it?”

  Freddy said, “It’s still broad daylight. I thought you said we’d wait till it started gettin’ dark?”

  Ramon replied, “The sun is taking forever to set. Besides,, who is there to see what we intend to do? We are miles from everyone here on this flat. Go back and get the six-shooter. Tell them we are stopping here.”

  Freddy pointed with his chin at the western horizon and insisted, “Listen, we oughta wait till we reach them hills up ahead. There’ll be water at the base of them hills and … ”

  “Pobrecito!” snorted Ramon, not even looking up from the dust of the trail, “Those hills you see in the distance are a full day’s walk from here! You do not wish to wait until we reach the far edge of this flat. You have lost your nerve!”

  “That ain’t so!” protested Freddy. “I jest want to wait a mite, is all. I jest don’t cotton to the notion of shootin’ folks in broad daylight out here in front of God and ever’body!”

  Ramon pulled the lead mule to a halt. “You don’t have to watch. I’m stopping here and sending you to gather greasewood for the campfire, eh?”

  “Come on, Ramon. Jest a mite further?”

  Ramon didn’t answer. Something whirred and thunked, and Freddy stared open-mouthed at the feathered shaft of the arrow that had taken Ramon just over the heart, as the Mexican dropped the lead rein and staggered sideways off the trail. A second and third arrow thunked into Ramon and he fell from sight in the greasewood, and then something hot as fire lanced into Freddy’s side and he gasped, “Jesus!” He half turned to run as three more arrows hit him, snuffing consciousness forever from his brain. From somewhere in the sunset’s glare, a gruff voice shouted, “Dikah!” and the Nadene broke cover.

  Inside the wagon, Ernestine and Jezebel exchanged puzzled glances as the shouted command of Kaya-Tenay reached them through the hot canvas. On the tailgate, Alfrieda frowned out at the apparent emptiness of the desert. Then, as if by magic, the startled girl found herself staring at the apparition of a running Indian!

  He was naked, save for a deerskin breechclout and knee-high moccasin-boots. His long black hair was bound with a twisted red bandana, and a white stripe had been painted across his face just below the wide-set, catlike eyes. Those eyes were fixed on Alfrieda as she suddenly, came unstuck and tried to pull her legs up into the wagon. The frightened girl moved a split second too late. Eskinya grabbed an ankle in one hand, pulled, and Alfreida Unger found herself sitting on the dusty trail, her thin cotton skirt around her hips, as the Indian jumped over her to catch the edge of the tailgate with his free hand.

  His right hand held a twelve-inch blade as he half climbed, half slithered over the tailgate, eyes cold and wary in the gloom. Both women screamed as they cowered from the young Nadene, and Eskinya froze, knife poised, to take the situation in at a glance. Then he pointed at Ernestine with’ the tip of his blade and asked in awkward Spanish, “Demelo usted tiswin! Demelo usted, umm ... wee-skee?”

  Jezebel gasped, “No tengo whiskey, senor!” and some of the urgency left Eskinya’s face as he asked, “Es verdad? No wee-skee? No tequila?”

  Ernestine asked, “For God’s sake, do you understand him, Jezebel?” and the maid-servant said, “A mite, ma’am. My momma was solt from Cuba, an’ he’s askin’ for drinkin’ likker in Spanish!”

  “Oh, God, we don’t have any whiskey left! What are we to do?” Jezebel murmured, “I don’ know, ma’am. I reckon they aim to rape us. Maybe, do we pleasure them a lot, they won’t scalp us afterwards.”

  Ernestine Unger swallowed the scream in her throat and hugged her delirious son to her breast. She was afraid to look at the savage, grinning lewdly at her from the rear opening of the wagon. She was trying very hard to wake up.

  Out on the trail to the rear, Alfrieda crouched in the dust, her bare feet and naked legs gathered inside the meager protection of her thin cotton skirt. A circle of Indians stood around her, staring down impassively.

  Alfrieda pasted a smile across her numb lips and husked, “How?” That was the way you were supposed to say hello to Indians, wasn’t it?

  None of the Indians answered. Most of them were dressed and painted like the man who’d pulled her from the wagon. A couple had on white Mexican smocks sashed at the waist. All carried spears. Most had short, thick bows either slung over a shoulder or carried loosely in their left hands. Two had rifles. None of the weapons seemed to be pointed at her, and the Indians didn’t seem interested in doing anything at all at the moment. They just stood there waiting, and Alfrieda wondered what they were waiting for. Was she supposed to do something? Were they waiting for her to make the first move?

  Alfrieda hardly breathed, while the Indians stared. Maybe if she was very still, things might stay that way for a while.

  Matt Caldwell clenched his jaws to keep his teeth from chattering in the pre-dawn desert chill. He’d assembled his patrol before sun-up, wanting to move out at sunrise and aware of the time
-consuming details of any military formation. The eight privates of Corporal Muller’s squad were dark blurs as they stood lined up for inspection. Across the parade ground, a camel bawled unseen from the corral as High Jolly fed and watered the mounts. The Muslim had said it was important to let them drink their fill in advance. High Jolly had never read the accounts assuring one a camel could last indefinitely without food and drink, and seemed to think they needed to be treated much more like flesh and blood than current remount regulations called for.

  Neither Digger Greenberg nor his companion, Rabbit-Boss, had seen fit to fall out for roll call and inspection. The burly quarter-breed, in fact, had threatened the trooper sent to wake him with bodily harm. The two scouts were awake, however, and Matt supposed they’d join the others in their own good time. Both the captain and the other lieutenant, Gordon, were still in bed. It was still an hour before first call.

  Corporal Muller had finished his roll call and asked the lieutenant, with a salute, whether he was ready ta inspect the men. It seemed an exercise in futility, but Caldwell knew it was expected of him.

  Caldwell started down the line, staring at the barely visible faces as if he expected to notice something worth commenting on. The troopers were dragoons, rather than cavalry, so no sabers were in evidence. Each man had been issued two dragoon pistols, a short-barreled musket, and a sword bayonet, along with canteen and cartridge boxes. The muskets and six-shooters were the same .44-caliber, making it possible to use the same paper cartridge and Minie ball in either weapon. This meant a pistol that kicked like a mule and an underpowered musket, but that was the way Jefferson Davis had wanted it, and in truth, there was a certain amount of sense to the idea. Supplies were uncertain on the frontier, and the dragoons, although expected to fight like infantry once they’d ridden to the site of a battle, tended to fire from their mounts and fight the Indians on the run. The bayonets came in handy as oversized daggers on occasion, but the nearly useless saddle muskets simply went along to satisfy someone back in Washington who’d doubtless had a friend or relation in the arms industry.