by Short, Luke;
Ann joined in the talk and she thought she noted a new deference in the way these men treated her. It was as if, she thought, they tacitly assumed that she and Ben would be married some day and it disturbed her. The talk was gay and wholly clannish, as Army talk is likely to be, but she noticed that Ward was included in it. Only Linus Delaney, whom she thought of as the gayest and most dashing and mischievous of the young lieutenants, was subdued tonight.
The dinner, served in the oven-hot Wolverton dining room, brought more toasts; it was a sentimental occasion, as the last night before taking the field always was.
Afterward, the party moved out onto the cooler veranda. Doctor Horton excused himself to check on his patients. The rest split up into small groups in the hot darkness. It was then that Loring murmured to Ann, “Like to walk over to the hospital with me?”
They slipped away, arm in arm, and Loring directed their stroll toward the hospital, where he checked on Riordan’s condition, and afterward joined her. There was no place really to walk, but they made a half-circle in the darkness, heading for the shadowed blackness of the laundry building. The far stars by the million seemed to swarm overhead in the hot night, and for a little while Ann knew a strange content.
Loring presently broke the silence. “Odd to think that one of those men, maybe our host, has taken his last drink of whiskey, and seen his last pretty girl.”
“Do you ever think of that, Ben?”
“Never—in relation to myself. Often, though, when I look at other men. It happens to other people, never to you.”
“It could.”
“It couldn’t,” Ben said pleasantly, and then he said feelingly, “Oh, damn!”
It was so unexpected that Ann stopped in surprise. “What’s that for?” she asked wonderingly.
Loring’s sigh of disquiet was audible. “I’m just cursing myself, and my clumsiness.”
Ann was silent, watching him in the darkness.
“Of course you don’t understand, Ann,” Loring said gently. “The point is, tonight I intended to ask you a question whose answer means my whole life, and then I remembered that I had prefaced it by the subject of death.” He said, in a tone of derision, “I’m just like any raw recruit, a half-wit farm boy, who’s talking to his girl on the night before he’s shipped west. I’m telling my girl about the danger and maybe death that awaits me, hoping she’ll be kind to me.”
Ann said slowly, “Is that wrong?”
“It’s cheap blackmail,” Loring said with conviction, “and I didn’t intend it. You’ve got to believe me, Ann.”
“I do.”
Loring took a deep breath. “When your sister Mary is safe here again and well, Ann, you’ll go out of my life. I think of it constantly and—I guess I can’t bear the thought.” He hesitated, and then rushed on, almost pleadingly. “Ann, I know we haven’t known each other long, but you know all there is to know about me. I love you, Ann, and I want you to marry me.”
A warm affection and tenderness welled up within Ann. And yet, her sharp womanliness asked of her, Is this the way you’d wanted it? and she was silent.
“Think about it, Ann,” Loring said then. “Will you give me an answer when I come back? I’d do anything in the world rather than hurry you.”
The low earnestness of his voice was a disturbing thing to her, distracting her for a moment from the import of his words. Did she love him? She didn’t know, and yet the sum of his kindnesses compounded with the knowledge that he loved her gave an overflowing tenderness to this moment. She said, “Ben, when you’re back, I will.”
He kissed her then, briefly, gently, and afterward put his arm under hers and laced his fingers through hers. They were silent now, and Ann felt the flow of affection still warming her. Ben had asked for later judgment, but she thought she could tell him now. She knew they could have a good life together; that was all, really, that a woman got out of this world. But some deep and buried caution of which she was scarcely aware kept her silent instead.
At Wolverton’s, Ben thanked Emmy for the party and excused himself, pressing Ann’s hand as he bid her good night. Doctor Horton, returning from Brierly’s, stopped him at the corner of the drive, and Ann heard the low murmur of their conversation.
Afterward, Horton came up onto the veranda. “Wonderful constitution our major has,” he observed. “You can’t kill a cavalryman with a mere pitchfork.” He looked around for a chair. “That’s a damned pretty woman there, that Mrs. What’s-her-name that’s staying with Brierly tonight.”
“Riordan,” Emmy Wolverton said. “She is, and nice too.”
Ann sat on the top step looking out into the night, half listening to the sporadic talk of the officers, thinking of Ben. Lieutenant Storrow left for the roll call, and presently tattoo sounded. She heard someone behind her and then Emmy Wolverton’s voice, “You’re not going already, Linus?”
“Got to, Emmy,” Linus said, “I can save a little work for Ben maybe.”
He thanked Emmy for the dinner, and moved down the steps, pausing to say good night to Ann, and then he turned the corner of the parade ground and was lost in darkness.
Presently, the first notes of taps lifted in the hot night, clean and melancholy, and the talk faded behind her while they all listened. Nobody said anything when the notes died, and the talk afterward was sporadic. Lieutenant Tremaine made the first move to go, and Ann knew she should be going too.
She was leaning forward to rise when she felt someone sink down beside her, and glanced over to see Ward Kinsman.
“I’ll take you home, if you like,” he said.
“How did you know I was going now?” Ann asked.
“I’ve been watching you. I just knew.” His reply was matter-of-fact, as if it explained everything, and Ann resisted the impulse to challenge it.
She rose and thanked Emmy Wolverton, Ward echoing her, and afterward they took to the drive and turned toward Brierly’s house.
Ann had the feeling that her departure with Ward would cause a stir of curiosity in the Wolverton’s party, and she was curious herself. Was it simple politeness that had prompted this offer?
Ann glanced at his tall figure beside her, and his silence goaded her into speech.
“You aren’t limping, as I expected.”
“He didn’t hit me in the foot,” Ward murmured. “However, that’s the only place he didn’t.”
Ann smiled. “I have a lot of questions. May I ask some?”
Ward nodded, halting, and she did too, and he looked at Brierly’s house, saying, “I will be taking Mrs. Riordan home if we go in now.”
“Then let’s don’t,” Ann said, surprising herself. “It’s a nice night. Let’s walk.”
He gave his arm, and she took it, and instantly she thought Not the laundry please. They turned down toward the hay barns, and Ann said, “Was there a fight?”
“What did Captain Loring say?”
“He’s too much of a gentleman to bring it up,” Ann said. There was a primness in her voice, an implied reprimand to his question.
“That I can believe,” Ward said. She looked up at him and thought he was smiling, although she couldn’t be sure. “There was,” he said.
Ann was silent a moment, then shook her head. “Every time I begin to think man is a simple creature, he gets complex.”
“Like how?”
“Well, if two women fought as you two did—and they do, sometimes—I don’t think one would go back to work for the other!” She glanced up at him. “Maybe that’s what puzzles me.”
“But I’m not working for him,” Ward said. “He just happens to wear the uniform that hires me.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Ann conceded. “Still, the act of humility doesn’t fit you.”
“It does pinch a little in the tight places,” Ward said dryly.
Ann laughed, and they looked at each other. “Why did you do it then?”
Ward didn’t answer immediately, and then he said, “You
can guess part of it, without the telling. The rest is that I have friends here. I would eat a lot of crow to save a man like Sergeant Mack or Trooper Ennis from an arrow in the belly.”
“That Ben Loring’s commanding them might invite?” Ann asked tartly.
“Yes.”
“You will feel like a fool if he does well, won’t you?”
“No. Grateful.”
An unreasoning anger was in Ann then, and she knew this was the time to be silent. But her anger edged her on, and she said, “I wish I had your second sight. If I had, it would have been so easy to tell Ben tonight that I wouldn’t marry him—that he is going to prove himself a poor commander, or excitable in battle, or even a coward. But I haven’t got it, thank God!”
Ward halted and looked down at her and she withdrew her hand from his arm. “What did you tell him?” he asked.
“I haven’t told him, but I know what I will, when he returns from the field, I’ll say yes!”
“No, Ann, you won’t,” Ward said quietly.
“Is that more of your second sight?” Ann demanded angrily.
For answer, Ward swept her into his arms and kissed her roughly. She fought furiously at first, beating his arms, and then she subsided, feeling the wild tumult rise within her, and when he let her go she stood there in the night, motionless.
She said sadly then, “I wish you hadn’t done that, Ward,” and when he said nothing, she asked, “Why did you?”
“You’re not engaged to marry any man, Ann.”
“I’m the same as,” Ann said, with sober directness.
“No, you’ll find out you’re not. I kissed you because you’ll remember it. You’ll remember it, and then you’ll wonder how Ben could wait a week for his answer. You’ll remember it, and wonder why you didn’t give Ben his answer tonight. You’ll remember it, and you’ll never marry him, Ann. Some other man, yes, but not Loring.”
When she said nothing, he said gently, “Good night, Ann,” and walked off into the night.
She lost count of the time she stood there, and each moment some inner awareness of herself opened like a slowly unfolding flower. It was as if Ward’s words, his kiss, had unlocked the door to certain truths; and when she considered one, there were others joined to it with a chain of logic. Ward had read her rightly. She was a forthright girl, and if she had loved Ben, she would have given her consent tonight. And if he had loved her in the way she wanted to be loved, he would never have kissed her in that passionless, brotherly way. And why had Ben ever thought, and she with him, that he must wait a week for her answer? Ann knew then with a woman’s shrewdness that all the boldness, the almost brutal directness of a lovable man had been bred out of Ben, leaving only that which was adequate and correct. That was what Ward had been trying, to tell her, to show her—that while Ben was good and considerate and gentlemanly, there was no fire in the man. She knew too, that this was the reason Ward didn’t mind taking a beating from Ben, and why Ward had stayed on to serve as guide; he saw the flaw in the man, who was only adequate, nothing more. Ben was, Ann knew now, only a pale copy of the man she would marry, a man rehearsed in all ways of the male because they did not come naturally to him. And knowing this, Ann thought bitterly, Yes, I’ll remember.
When Linus left the party, he went directly to Major Brierly’s. His knock on the door frame brought Martha Riordan to the door. He was in darkness, so that she did not recognize him, and he asked, “Is Major Brierly awake?”
“He’s—Linus!” she exclaimed softly.
“Is he?”
“No, he’s sleeping.”
Linus removed his hat and stepped inside the room. Martha Riordan backed against the wall, out of sight of anyone using the walk. The dim light of the lamp by which she had been reading touched her face softly, and Linus, watching her, saw that she still bore the faint marks on her cheekbone of her husband’s blow.
“I had to see you again,” Linus said gravely. “Have you changed your mind, Martha?”
Martha Riordan shook her head in negation.
“You know he’ll be tried. The court will be rough on him, on account of his record. That’s provided Major Brierly recovers. He’ll be in a military prison for ten years, Martha—ten long years, at least.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Martha Riordan said.
“What’ll you do, how’ll you live?”
“I’ll go back to my folks.”
“Go now, then,” Linus said miserably. “End it.”
Martha Riordan shook her head in negation. “What kind of a wife deserts her husband when he’s in trouble, Linus? No, I’ll stay. I’ll help him all I can.”
Linus said gloomily, “And be waiting for him when he gets out of prison, too?”
“He’ll still be my husband,” Martha said dully. Linus only stared at her. Her arms were folded over her breast, and he saw the work-roughened texture of her hands. He experienced something close to physical pain when he saw the dismal sadness in her eyes. He said, then, “I’ve made up my mind about one thing, Martha. When I return, I won’t see you again.”
“That’s sensible,” she said tonelessly.
“I don’t think I can stand it, but I will.”
“Anyone can stand anything, so long as he has to,” Martha said, without bitterness. She looked searchingly at him, and said, “Don’t touch me, Linus. Just say good-bye and go.”
Linus nodded, “Good-bye, Martha,” he said and moved to the door, and she followed him.
She called softly, “You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”
Linus didn’t answer. He went without once looking back.
The sun was barely out when the call “To Horse” rang out over the post. From her door, Ann Dunnifon, still in her wrapper, watched the two troops form on the parade and the roll taken. Loring, reins trailing from his fist, stood a little aside from the group of officers. The sergeants reported the counts to their officers, who in turn reported to Loring, and the order to mount was given. Troop G, by column of twos, led out the east sentry gate, guidons barely stirred in the still morning, and angled toward the right for the corner of the sutler’s post. Troop I, once through the gate, turned northeast. The few wives of the troopers drifted away from the quadrangle; a pair of dogs, lively now before the sun of the coming day drove them to shade, romped across the parade. Ann watched it all, remembering it all, thinking. This is the way men go to war, and turned back into the house.
Major Brierly was awake, and she said good morning and moved on into the kitchen, fighting down a lost feeling, wondering how she would ever pass the time until the return.
The country at the start was open, and Ward put his horse in alongside Linus. Tana was riding with Captain Loring, and both, walled off by the language barrier, were silent. There was much talk among the troopers, but as the sun rose higher and the heat pressed down, it thinned out and died.
By midafternoon, they had descended into a broken country of spiny hills and dry arroyos, and the rough rock, of marled dun and black, caged the mounting heat and seemed to hold it in suspension. Bailey’s Peak had sunk over the northern horizon, while to the east was a high series of bare ridges, the broken and jagged rim-rock of the nearest one a shimmering serpentine line in the lifting heat.
When Loring halted the column for the next rest period, he signaled Ward in. Loring’s face was flushed scarlet and he had wedged his neckerchief kepi fashion under his campaign hat to protect his neck from the sun’s rays.
“Get your signalman, Tremaine,” he ordered now, and then sank down in the shade, looking up at Ward. Tana squatted a little way off, elbows on knees, watching them. He was wearing his leggings pulled down; the tails of his ragged shirt barely covered his breechclout. “Tell Tana he’s to guide Tremaine and his detail to the highest point on that ridge, after which he’s to join us—”
“Be careful, Captain,” Ward interrupted. “They pick up place names easily.”
“Why shouldn’t he know?” Loring
demanded.
“He’ll be able to find us wherever we are. It’s just as well he doesn’t know what we intend. He may even understand you.”
Loring smiled stiffly. “Still suspicious?”
Ward shrugged. “If he got the name, he’d guess our plan. What’s to prevent him leaving Tremaine and heading for Bailey’s Peak with the information?”
“Nothing but loyalty.”
“You’re not dealing with a Fort Apache scout. You’re dealing with a prisoner taken on his way to join Diablito,” Ward said dryly.
“Then what’s to prevent him from picking up our trail later, following us, seeing where we camp, and carrying the same information?” Loring demanded.
“Nothing, but it’ll just make his information six hours later.”
“It’s too hot to argue,” Loring said equably. “Do it your way.”
Tremaine, his signalman, and two troopers, one leading the pack mule with heliograph came forward now, and Ward went over to Tana. He gave him his orders, and Tana said, “Enju”; only afterward did their glances meet for a moment, and Tana’s eyes were veiled, secretive, and fierce.
Once Tremaine’s detail had parted with them, they pushed on, and Loring, on Ward’s advice, put out flankers. They were bearing south by east into a rougher country now, loosely following the course of the ridge on which Tremaine would establish his signal station. It was useless, Ward knew, to even hope to hide the dust raised by a whole troop of cavalry, but by keeping south he could lead an observer to suppose they were heading for Bowie and away from the known trails to Bailey’s Peak. He kept thinking of Tana, turning over in his mind the wisdom of bringing him along. There was nothing so far that Tana could tell Diablito, save that a column, dropping a signalman, had headed south.
At full dark, they halted under the shoulder of the ridge, and Loring, after putting out guards, passed the word that this would be the last fire permitted. It was a stony country, shy of fuel, but a dozen small fires sprang up. Most of the troopers kicked the ground for snakes, then lay down or sat on the hot ground, their tired voices making a low susurrance in the still night.
