by Short, Luke;
They presently reached the ridge and started up it single file, Ward in the lead. There was whispered cursing occasionally, but the climb was reasonably silent. Just below the ridge, the troopers deployed in a skirmish line, and the signal was given to advance.
They achieved the ride and were a third of the way down it when a horse up canyon nickered. It brought the old man to his feet yelling, and the whole camp seemed to boil up.
“Charge!” Linus called, and it was inevitable that some trooper should mistake the command and fire. The whole skirmish line was in a pell-mell run down the slope, and Linus saw the old man call out and streak for the horses. Ward was almost on the canyon floor now, and alone, for Mack had stopped for a bead on the old man. The shot was wild and now Ward hit the canyon floor. The old man, seeing him, was a swerving shadow now, coming at him, and Ward raised his pistol and fired. The old man fell and rolled and was up again with the false fall of a tumbler, his knife glinting dully in the faint light as it raised.
Ward’s second shot knocked him flat and he heard Mack’s brass voice yelling, “The far slope, the far slope!”
Three crouching figures were zigzagging up the opposite ridge, pausing to snap shots from their carbines at the detail. Now Ward saw Linus lift his pistol and fire. One of the figures slowed, moved, and silently folded against a rock. The others vanished completely. An Apache woman running blindly in front of the troopers who were firing up the slope crashed into Linus and sent him to his knees, but he had presence of mind enough to call, “Mack, head him off for the horses!”
A trooper tackled the fleeing woman and brought her down. A second woman was keening shrilly, and a baby she was holding started to cry. Mack pounded past Ward, picking up another trooper and heading for the horses, and Trooper Ennis started to climb the far slope, thought better of it, sighted on the downed Apache, and fired. The body stirred and was motionless.
It was all over. Linus kicked the fire alight and saw a recumbent figure on the ground beside it. He toed it gently and the figure came out of its blanket into a sitting position. It was an Apache buck past middle age, and he looked proudly at Linus.
Linus, his eyes shining with excitement, said, “You don’t like to fight and you don’t like to run. Good ’Pache.” He heard Ward approach and turned and said, “Is he sick?” and did not wait for an answer as he wheeled away to look at the other prisoners. Troopers were pushing a woman and her baby toward the fire. An old woman followed her. A pair of troopers were arguing whether there were two or three men who got away, and decided it was two, while Linus was counting his men.
“Grady and Bord!” Linus called. “Get the horse-holders!”
Sergeant Mack and Baltizar came back now each leading only two Apache ponies and Mack said dolefully, “We was too late, Lieutenant. Two are gone.”
Linus ordered the horses picketed closely, put out guards, and then turned to the captives, while the remaining troopers threw themselves on the ground to talk over the fight.
Back up the canyon came the call of an owl, and it was answered immediately from the ridge to the west. Ward saw the Apache buck turn his head and listen, his face inscrutable.
Linus heard it too, and he said, “Well, they’ll get word to Diablito. How much time have we got?”
“We can rest an hour here,” Ward said.
Linus nodded to the buck. “Open up on him. Ask him why he wouldn’t fight.”
Ward did and got the reply that he was sick, had nothing against the white man, and that he had been brought here against his will. As the Apache talked, Ward looked at fie Apache woman, no more than a girl, sitting off by herself with her baby. He thought, She’s the one, and presently left the buck and went over and kicked the fire into brightness.
The Apache girl stared at him sullenly, her eyes bright and bitter and secret. She was not afraid, Ward knew; the reservation life had taught them what to expect of the Army in the way of treatment. There was a way to go about this, though, and he said in the slush-mouthed Apache tongue, “The sick man looks part Mexican.”
“His mother was,” the girl answered. “He is my father.” Linus, listening, regarded Ward expectantly, but Ward spoke to the girl again, not approaching her, trying to make the conversation casual and offhand. “Were all these men sick, your father, the two who got away, and the two dead?”
“Our horses were no good.”
Ward was silent a moment, wondering if this was the time to take the chance on the question that had been haunting him since noon. He decided it was, and he asked, “Were they angry that a woman went ahead with the warriors, while they had to watch the women and babies?”
“Yes. They could do nothing, because the woman was part of Sal Juan’s band, and they were not.”
A cautious elation touched Ward; his guess that he had mentioned to none, not even to Linus, was verified. He said now, “How is the white woman looking? It is different than what she knew before.”
“They told me at first she was proud,” the girl said. “Now she works hard.”
Ward looked down at the fire, his face immobile. “Has she been taken as a wife?”
“No. She is too strange, they say.”
Linus’ patience broke and he asked, “What’s she saying, man?”
“She said Mary Carylyle was in the band that went on ahead, that she’s well and not married.
Linus whistled in exclamation and looked thoughtfully at Ward. “You knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you offered to come!”
Ward nodded, and Linus grinned, rising. “Next time, maybe we’ll make it.”
The horse-holders came in now and Linus gave orders for an hour’s rest, the sentries to be relieved in half an hour. The Apaches moved together around the fire, and the troopers, dog tired, scraped hollows in the ground for their hips and shoulders and slept blanketless.
The soft talk of the Apaches came to Ward as he sprawled tiredly on the ground and pulled his blanket around him, letting the ache of weariness diffuse through him. Linus rolled up close by and Ward, thinking of the day and its fortunes, knew that Linus had done well. He would make a good officer, Ward knew—an officer whose men would unashamedly love him.
Linus’ voice, soft and hesitant, broke in on his thoughts. “You awake?”
“Yes.”
Linus didn’t speak for a moment, and then he said, “About what Riordan said before you hit him.” He paused. “I love his wife. I think he must have guessed it.”
Ward said nothing, waiting, wondering.
“She’s been true to him, though, because she’s that kind. I’d steal her if I could, God help me, but she won’t have it.” He added then, “Thanks for pulling Loring off my neck.”
Ward said, “Sure. But what are you going to do about it, Linus?”
“I’m going to pretend I can forget it. She is too.”
There was, Ward knew, nothing more to say. He understood in one swift instant the bitter hopelessness of the man beside him. The rigid code of the conduct that the Army had fashioned for its own had ordered the cleavage between enlisted man and officer and between their women. There was no chance even for a man’s passion and recklessness to bridge that chasm. It was there, implacable and absolute.
The departure from the spring an hour later was swift and wordless. The troopers were drugged with their small taste of sleep, but they knew the urgency of leaving here soon. Under cover of darkness, they were safe from attack, but by dawn if they remained they would be trapped, out-numbered and annihilated by reinforcements from Diablito’s band. The captives rode in the middle of the detail, a trooper on each flank, but they showed no disposition to bolt.
Ward cut immediately for the next ridge to the east, crossed it, picked up their old trail, left it, returned to it, and left it again, always moving eastward. There was, he knew, no faint hope that he could cover his trail even at night, since an Apache tracker could both feel the trail in the dark and smell the dust of the detail, but he could confu
se them as to his intent so that they could not circle him in the darkness and ambush him on the trail at dawn.
At first daylight, they were in more open country, and Linus put out flankers, and presently they picked up the Craig road far to the east of where they had left it. In full daylight, behind a screening ridge on which a lookout was posted, they ate a cold breakfast and went on, each mile diminishing the chance of Diablito’s retaliation.
In midmorning, they saw the distant flag of dust rising from behind a low butte that proclaimed Loring’s column on the return trip.
They met in the close file of a canyon, Loring’s flankers first passing them, saluting Linus and then exchanging short greetings with the troopers of Linus’ detail as they passed.
Loring and Holly reined in, and Linus dismounted and tramped stiffly over to Loring’s horse. He saluted and said informally, “It was a good scout, Ben. We overtook and engaged a band of seven at Calendar Springs after dark. No casualties on our side, two men on theirs. The rest scattered into the night, but we have three of them. Kinsman has talked to the girl, and determined that Mary Carlyle was with the warriors who traveled ahead of this band. She is in good health, the woman says.”
Loring’s broad face showed a complete astonishment as his glance lifted to Ward. “Mrs. Carlyle was in this band?”
Ward nodded, and Loring said, “Fine, fine. Wonderful work, Kinsman. We are all in your debt.” He glanced down at Linus. “Good job, Linus.” He turned now to Corporal Ames and called, “When we’re clear of this canyon, we’ll take a break, Corporal.”
It was then that Linus looked over the column and afterward stepped aside for a better view. He said, in surprise, “Storrow, where’d you join us?”
It was Loring who answered. “Storrow’s news from Gamble couldn’t be worse, Linus. A few hours after we left the post, Trooper Riordan attacked Major Brierly with a pitchfork. The Major’s in grave condition, with a punctured lung and side.”
Ward saw Linus’ face go pale under its sun flush, and he said slowly, “Trooper Riordan, you say?”
“Yes. The man Kinsman struck. Storrow shot him and wounded him in the leg.”
Storrow said mildly, “You are addressing our new commanding officer, Linus.”
Linus looked from Storrow to Loring and back again, and then said, “Of course. Senior Captain. My congratulations, Ben, although I’m sorry as you are for the circumstance.”
Loring said, “Thank you, Linus,” and now he glanced at Ward. “I’d be happy to send a detail with you to Craig, Kinsman, if you’re still determined to leave us.”
In a single fleeting moment, Ward read the consequences of Brierly’s accident. Loring would be in command in the field, directing the pursuit and capture of Diablito. With Brierly in command, Ward had known that it would be a soldierly, smart, and tenacious campaign; with Loring in command, he did not know what it would be.
Linus glanced at him now, pure misery in his eyes, and he said nothing. Ward tipped back his hat and felt the decision forming, and then said, almost surprised at his own words, “Why, Gamble suits me as well as Craig, Captain. I might as well return with you.”
Chapter IV
From the doorway of the commanding officer’s quarters, Ann saw the weary column file onto the parade ground. Both her attention and curiosity sharpened at once when she saw Kinsman pull his horse out of column, and she wondered at the stirring excitement within her. Ben Loring’s voice as he dismissed the detail shuttled her attention to him. He dismounted, conferred briefly with Lieutenant Storrow, and then gave over his reins to Sergeant Mack, and headed directly for her.
He walked heavily, she saw, as if he were tired. Even at this distance, she could see that his shirt of faded blue was less gray with dust than those of the others, and she thought, Of course, he led. He would lead from now on, in another sense, and she found herself wondering fleetingly what his men would think of it. She had observed enough on the escort from Santa Fe to know that his men were easy around him, and that told her he was a fair man. But he was not just another capable captain now; he was their commanding officer.
When he saw her, he waved, and as he hit the walk, he took off his hat. The stripe of skin between the line of his dark hair and where his hat rode was startlingly pale in contrast to his heat-flushed face. His mustaches were faintly silvered with dust.
He said, “Ann, how can you look so fresh in this heat?”
Ann knew she didn’t look fresh; knew that, as part of the comfortable charm of the man, he said this mechanically, and knew that his real concern was with Major Brierly. Nevertheless, it pleased her, and she was faintly irritated that it did.
“It was a good scout, wasn’t it, Ben? I’ve accounted for every man in the detail, and prisoners.”
“It was, thanks to Linus and Kinsman,” Loring said generously. He looked at her with brief open pleasure, and then asked gravely, “How is Major Brierly?”
“Not well, Doctor Horton says. If you see him, Ben, will you make it very, very brief?”
“Yes. Come with me, Ann.”
Ann led the way into the house, through the living room that was a comfortable bachelor hodge-podge of furniture borrowed or inherited from past tenants, and into the bedroom on the right of the corridor to the kitchen.
The shades were pulled against the glare of the sun, and the room was stifling with a close, sick heat. Major Brierly lay on his back in the iron bed in the far corner, and Loring walked over to him and saluted.
“How are you, sir?”
Brierly’s hand rose in a slow movement of negation, dismissing the question, and then he said in a dim voice, “Horton says I can’t talk much. Did you make a scout?”
Loring told him of Linus’ scout, of the skirmish with the Apache band and the capture of the two women and the man. Then, interrupting himself, he turned to Ann, who was standing in the doorway. “Ann, this is the news we wanted. Kinsman learned by talking with one of the captured women that Mary was only an hour ahead of this band, on her way to Diablito.”
Ann felt an almost painful exultation as Loring continued, “Mary is well, although she is being worked hard. She has not been taken as a wife, or otherwise harmed.”
A swift, almost overwhelming pity for her sister touched Ann, and then, unaccountably, the thought came to her, Why didn’t he tell me when he first saw me? and with it an odd resentment. It was only fleeting, and Ann thought, I’m irritable; I need sleep. Ben was again talking to Major Brierly; his voice was gentle, concise, respectful, and Ann was ashamed of her thought. He’s a soldier first. I’ve got to remember that, she thought.
Now Brierly spoke. “I’m tired, Loring. You will telegraph this information to Headquarters, and await further orders. It’s your command, now.”
“And I’m sorry for that, sir,” Ben said. He was about to add something, but instead, came to attention and saluted and said, “I think you’d better rest, sir.”
On the porch again, Ben leaned against the veranda rail, and he looked briefly over the parade ground, saw it deserted save for the Apaches who were being led to the guardhouse over by the bakery. That’ll be an oven, he thought. I’d better feed them, pry what information I can from them, and then return them to the reservation. But at the moment, he just wanted to look at Ann, to be with her, and he turned to her. “You’ve been nurse, haven’t you? I’ll ask Mrs. Wolverton or one of the enlisted men’s wives to spell you while you get some rest.”
Ann said, “They’ve all helped, Ben.” Her green eyes were dark and troubled. “Oh, it was such a stupid accident. It needn’t have happened to anyone at all, much less to Major Brierly.”
“I know. What’s Horton’s opinion?”
“It’s serious. Oddly enough, there’s danger of pneumonia, he says.”
Loring grimaced. “What about Riordan?”
“A simple gunshot wound in the leg. He’s in hospital under guard.”
“A pity Kinsman didn’t hit him harder,” Ben said
. He rose now, and said, “I’d better get acquainted with my new job. Now rest, will you, Ann?”
Ann nodded. Loring smiled briefly and went down the steps, taking the gravel walk toward his quarters. Mention of Kinsman prompted another thought now: Why had Kinsman changed his mind about going to Craig? Of course, the man was footloose, and to his shiftless kind, one post was as good as another, just so long as he was fed and could find company. But, even if by accident, he had helped them tremendously on this scout, yet there was something about the man, his belief in his own infallibility or in his luck, combined with his aimless, irresponsible way of life, that Loring deeply resented. Nevertheless, as Loring stepped up on the veranda he came to his decision. It didn’t matter whether or not he approved of Kinsman, he was going to ask him again to serve as scout when they took the field against Diablito. It might be wise, too, to enlist Linus’ help in persuading him.
As he stepped into the long corridor which ran the width of the building, he heard a splashing in the bath shed to the rear. He walked through the corridor and outside; he peered in the shed. Kinsman turned as he heard the door open; he stood naked under the shower, soaping his chest, his lean body a startling white in contrast to the deep brown of his neck and face and hands. Loring saw, with a sort of shock of surprise, a long pale scar that started at his right shoulder and crossed his back to his left hip.
Loring said good-naturedly, “You lucky hound, that’s where I’d like to be. Is Linus around?”
“He said something about picking up his laundry.” Kinsman didn’t smile; he was polite, faintly distant, and Loring felt the touch of embarrassment and resentment that comes when friendship is rejected.
He said, “Mind stepping over to the office when you’re finished?”
Kinsman only nodded assent.
Loring withdrew and tramped back into his room. He noted a pair of wrinkled shirts on Linus’ bed, and then, remembering Linus’ errand, he hauled up abruptly. Staring at the shirts now, the old suspicion returned, the suspicion that he had kept to himself ever since the night the detail left. He tried again to remember the exact words of the drunken Riordan that night, and again he could not. But he had been certain then, as now, that Riordan had said, “Wife-stealer,” not “horse-stealer,” as Kinsman reported. To whom Riordan spoke, he wasn’t sure and he never would be sure. But now he was remembering the afternoon he had blundered into Linus and Mrs. Riordan behind the closed door of this room; he remembered, too, Linus’ sudden wrath when he had objected to the propriety of the thing. Lastly, he remembered Linus’ face after Kinsman had struck Riordan. And now, with the dust scarcely settled from the detail’s return, Linus was calling for his laundry. Calling on Mrs. Riordan, of course, Loring thought.
