The Peacemaker

by Chelley Kitzmiller

  "I studied engineering," the colonel continued. "Thus, I spent my war years mapping out battle plans on paper and helping coordinate troop movements, also on paper. I never professed to have any kind of knowledge about the frontier or Apaches." His hands balled into tight fists and his knuckles whitened with strain.

  She knew as well as he did that if the commissioner didn't like what he heard and saw during his visit, which would be through the end of the following week, his report to the President would not be a favorable one. That could lead to all sorts of ramifications. He could use his authority to relieve her father of command and send him home. In that event, the likelihood of him getting another command, with such a scar on his service record, was little to none. Or, worse yet, the commissioner could even have him discharged. Either way it would be a terrible disgrace and the end of a long, hard-won career that had not been totally without merit.

  Indy had told herself she wouldn't care one way or another what the commissioner's report said or how it affected her father. He deserved what he got. But she did care. How could she not? In spite of everything, he was her father. The only father she would ever have. The only family she had left.

  "On behalf of the War Department, Colonel, I extend my apologies for the error. Rest assured that I will have the matter looked into and rectified as soon as possible. However, that does not excuse you, Colonel. You, sir, are a West Point trained officer who served in the war. I've seen your service record and while it isn't outstanding by any degree, it is an adequate record and it indicated that you were qualified to command a frontier garrison.

  "Most of the officers sent west for duty such as yours have far less education and experience than you do. The point being, Colonel, for all intents and purposes, it appears that you blatantly shirked your duty here, perhaps as a form of rebellion for the error?"

  The colonel's face turned red with rage. "I most certainly did not, sir."

  "This afternoon, Colonel, in your absence, I had Captain Nolan escort me around camp so I could personally speak to the men. What I learned, not just from one source but from many, was that you refused to take the good advice of your experienced officers, who had been in residence here during Major Clarke's command, and who were familiar with his methods and his operations—successful operations I might add—that were in effect and working at the time of his death.

  "The men were extremely cooperative and made their complaints clear by way of this petition, which apparently they held back from sending at Captain Nolan's request." He unrolled the petition and turned it around for the colonel to see. "Were I to take the time to verify all these charges and discovered them to be true, Colonel, you could be subject to military court-martial."

  The colonel's expression went from indignation at having been publicly rebuked to extreme alarm. "Court-martial?"

  Indy gasped and put her hand over her mouth. She had thought a discharge at the worst, but a court-martial had never entered her mind. She'd had no idea that the problems were so serious. Turning to her father, she saw him go white with shock and take his seat at the end of the table, where he had sat so imperiously the day the captain brought Jim Garrity into her parlor. He rested his arms on the tabletop and clasped his hands.

  Showing no trace of sympathy whatsoever, Mr. Moorland leafed through several papers in his hand. "Now then, Colonel," he said as he crossed one long leg over the other. "Now that you know where things stand, why don't you tell me what steps you've taken to remedy the situation here at Bowie."

  In a voice Indy hardly recognized, her father gave a concise explanation. "I've just reinstated the escorts through the pass and have patrols going out on a regular basis to check the ranches."

  "Where, may I ask, were your patrols when the San Simon stage station was attacked by Cochise and his raiders?"

  "We can't put patrols everywhere at once," was the colonel's explanation.

  "I realize that, but the stage station, like Camp Bowie itself, is a vital point of travel and communication that should have been protected all the time. Is that the extent of it?"

  "Yes—I mean no. There's the training," said the colonel, shaking his head.

  To Indy, it appeared he had given up trying to help himself and had resigned himself to whatever fate the Indian commissioner decided.

  She had to help him. "Commissioner Moorland," she ventured, not sure she was doing the right thing by coming to her father's aid, but knowing she had to try. "As you can see my father isn't quite himself. If I may speak on his behalf, sir, I'd like to tell you about the new training program."

  Mr. Moorland cut a quick glance to the colonel, then came back to Indy. "This is a highly unusual request, young lady . . . but yes, I'll allow you to speak on Colonel Taylor's behalf."

  Now, Indy was the one who was nervous. She wanted to do the best by her father, which would mean presenting a definition of the training in a clear, concise manner. Keeping her sentences short and choosing her words carefully, to sound very military, she explained that it was Captain Nolan's idea to train a group of soldiers to become Indian scouts, who would then be able to think and fight like Apaches, thus making them capable of accomplishing in the field what regular troopers could not.

  Moorland nodded and mumbled as she spoke. Then the captain filled in where Indy was lacking information or expertise and between the two of them they gave the commissioner a complete picture of the training program and what it would accomplish once it was put into use.

  "An excellent idea, Captain Nolan! Most ingenious of you. And you, Colonel, I commend you for approving Captain Nolan's idea and allowing the experiment to proceed." He bent his head and quickly scrawled some notes on the pages in his lap. "I'm sure President Grant will be most pleased with this piece of news. He was extremely worried. I will, of course, want to see this training for myself to judge its merit before I make my final analysis. And I want to meet this Major Garrity, whose talents have been praised so highly. He must be a most unusual man."

  Captain Nolan spoke up. "You did meet him, sir, or rather you saw him this afternoon at the corral. He was giving his men instruction in tracking and trailing skills."

  The commissioner shook his head. "The only thing I saw, Captain, was a group of shirtless soldiers standing around watching an Indian poking through horse dung."

  'Tes, sir," the captain chuckled. "That Indian, sir, was Major Jim Garrity. He was showing his men how examining horse dung could help them estimate the numbers of Indians in a party, and how by looking to see how dry it was toward the center, they could determine the length of time since the party passed by."

  "Is that a fact, Captain?"

  "Yes, sir. That's a fact. What Major Garrity doesn't know about tracking and trailing isn't worth knowing. He says he can tell if a party of Indians includes women because of where the horses’ urine is in relationship to the hooves. Women apparently are the only ones in the Indian society who ride mares."

  The commissioner looked suitably impressed. "It seems to me that the service Major Garrity is performing is of the utmost importance and value. If he and his men are successful at rooting out the savages, there could be other such soldier training programs. So, why isn't he here? I should like to speak with him."

  Captain Nolan stood up. "I'll get him if you like, sir."

  "Yes. I would indeed."

  Indy left her chair. "I'll make a pot of coffee. Would you like a slice of fresh bread, Mr. Moorland? Baked it just this morning."

  "Yes. Thank you, Miss Taylor."

  Indy was glad to escape the tension that filled the room. Mr. Moorland was a stern, demanding man, who obviously didn't concern himself with such things as diplomacy. She hoped he was a fair man and considerate in his regard of her father, his long-standing military record, the War Department's error, and the steps her father was taking to put things to right.

  She delayed her return as long as she felt she could, carefully slicing the bread and putting it inside a calico cloth to kee
p it from drying out, arranging the tin coffee cups neatly on a tray, and making sure she had a thick cloth with which to pour the coffee. God forbid that there should be a repeat of her last coffee disaster.

  And God forbid that when she went back inside, and Jim Garrity was there, that she let him see how much she loved him in spite of what he had done this afternoon. After spending her afternoon in the shade of the Cottonwood outside her kitchen, she thought she knew what had happened between them, though she hadn't known at the time. Her little nudge had turned into a big push and she'd pushed him too far.

  He did love her. Of that she was sure in spite of what he'd said when he left. And he wanted to make love to her. He'd been almost crazy with need. His hands, his lips, his body—they'd translated his thoughts in a language even her untutored body could understand.

  And she wanted him. She wasn't sure what that entailed exactly, but she knew it must be something very special and wonderful. When he had left her, she had been stunned, not hurt, for she understood completely how he felt.

  But now was not the time for her to show her love or understanding. It would only confuse and befuddle him even more than he already was. He needed his wits about him to talk to the commissioner, for only Jim and what he was doing could save her father.

  Jim was telling the commissioner his background when Indy came in through the back door. She adroitly avoided visual contact with him, but could feel him watching her. She could always feel him watching her. It was an odd intangible link that she still couldn’t explain.

  He had taken her chair, which would mean if she wanted to continue to be a part of the discussion, she would have to take the only chair left, directly opposite him. And that would mean that she would have to look at him every once in a while.

  She let out a silent sigh as she set the coffeepot and tray down on the table. With an effort, she put a smile on her face as she turned and offered each man a cup of coffee and a slice of bread.

  "And you, Major Garrity," she extended her offer to him last. "I understand you would kill for fresh baked bread."

  He looked up at her, his eyes unreadable. "Not unless I hadn't eaten in a week, Miss Taylor." He reached in and took a piece.

  "As I was saying, Major, about your very interesting tale. I don't believe I've come across a white man who's lived with the Apaches before of his own free will. I can see why the captain thought you would be the man for the job. I expect you know the Apaches as well as any man alive, but I do have to wonder about your personal feelings in this matter. You will, after all, be training men to hunt and kill people you must have considered your friends."

  "Yes, sir. I still consider them to be my friends. That's one of the reasons why I made the bargain with the colonel." Jim went on to explain his conversation with Toriano and their conclusions about the Apaches' future. "Either way, extinction or being herded together on reservations— the Apache people are doomed. The sooner they're brought to do the white man's bidding, the fewer lives will be lost. I see my role as bringing the inevitable about just that much sooner. That's how I have to look at it, Commissioner, otherwise I probably would have to consider myself a traitor even though the Apaches would never see it that way."

  "How do you mean?"

  In spite of herself, Indy could not keep her eyes off Jim. She loved him and admired his courage and nobility. She prayed that knowing his efforts would ultimately save lives would be enough to sustain him through the difficult times yet to come.

  Jim hesitated a long time before speaking. "They have no central form of government. Each tribe is broken down into so many divisions and subdivisions that there is no unity among the people. Without that there is no reason to be loyal; there's no one to be loyal to. Captain Nolan tells me that some commanders are already employing Indians as scouts. That means that they're being paid and given things. Material things, Commissioner. Material wealth and status are of the utmost importance to them. To acquire these things at the expense of their own is of no consequence. Again, because they have no one to be loyal to." He sat forward, his elbow on his thighs, his hands in front of him.

  "An interesting culture, Captain. I'm certainly glad we white eyes don't have the same beliefs. There would be utter chaos!" He laughed, but he was the only one, and when he realized it, he sobered immediately.

  "What do you call it then, sir, when one soldier murders another soldier? Or when one neighbor steals from another? Is the murderer or thief charged with disloyalty? Is he branded as a traitor?"

  The commissioner cleared his throat and nodded. "Your point is well taken, Captain."

  It was late by the time the gathering broke up. The commissioner's last words had let Jim know that he would be taking a serious interest in his training methods for the next few days, and that at some time tomorrow he wanted to discuss the bargain Jim had mentioned.

  Jim and Aubrey had stopped to talk at the far eastern side of the parade ground. They had been holding up the hitching post there for the past ten minutes.

  "I'm sorry, Jim, that I made you mad this afternoon. I was just trying to make you jealous is all."

  "You succeeded," Jim answered testily. His tone of voice did an about-face when he said, "And then I succeeded in making a jackass out of myself by forcing myself upon her, kissing her like some savage animal, then running away."

  "You ran away? From a woman?" Captain Aubrey Nolan was incredulous.

  "You could say that," Jim admitted none too happily.

  "Christ, Jim. What did those Apaches teach you, anyway?"

  "That's the second time you've asked me that. They taught me a lot of things, dammit. One of them being to respect women! They don't rape, you know. At least, not as a rule. If I'd have stayed one minute longer with Indy, I would have raped her."

  Aubrey's brows shot up in surprise. "Oh! Well then, I guess it is a good thing you ran away. And you had the nerve to call me a coward! At least your experiences are proving to me that it's best not to let emotion have anything to do with choosing a wife."

  Jim turned to him, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

  Aubrey sighed as if it was a lot of trouble to explain. "Watching you suffer convinces me that falling in love is nothing but pure hell! I don't want any part of it." He took a flask out of his pocket, uncorked it, and put it to his lips.

  A moment later Jim grabbed it away from him. "Give me that thing before you drink it all."

  "I thought you didn't drink."

  "I don't. Except when I drink."

  Aubrey simultaneously shook and nodded his head as Jim guzzled down the contents of the flask. "You know what you're going to feel like in the morning, don't you?"

  "Can't be any worse than I feel now."

  "Wanna bet?"

  "I'm not a gambling man."

  "Except when you gamble, right?"

  "Right." Jim wiped his mouth dry against his sleeve. "Thought you'd want to know, we've got a problem with the colonel," he said on a more serious note as he looked up at the moon.

  "We've got a lot of problems with the colonel. One of them being that he is a colonel and in charge of this garrison."

  "I mean it, Aubrey. I was in his office and saw something that really bothered me. He had newspapers and Army reports all over his desk. You would have thought he was studying up on how to do his job except that all those newspapers and reports had to do with Cochise. I have a bad feeling that the colonel has acquired a big ambition."

  "Of capturing Cochise?"

  Jim nodded. "It would make him famous to be the man responsible for Cochise's capture. It would give his career a big boost."

  "I see what you mean." Aubrey stared off into the night, obviously contemplating the significance of what he had just learned. "He may not have a career in the next few days. I don't think I would worry about it too much. The commissioner doesn't appear to have taken to Colonel Taylor." Aubrey took his empty flask back. "I'm going to turn in."

  "I'll be along after a bit. I
just want to think a few things out."

  "Might as well while you still can," Aubrey said over his shoulder.

  The moonlight softened Bowie. The adobe buildings almost looked pretty beneath the white light. The responsibility of training the men lay heavy upon him now, more now than before and he wasn't sure exactly why.

  Jim found himself staring at the light in Indy's bedroom window. He wished he'd exercised more control with her this afternoon. But, damn! She had nearly driven him crazy with her soft hands touching him like that. He hadn't meant to hurt or scare her. He loved her, for God's sake! But he just couldn't see himself making her a good husband, not after everything he'd been through these past six years. Not even if he got his pardon. What he had told Prudence was true, that he had lived with the Apaches so long he had forgotten what it was to be a civilized man.

  A civilized man would not have forced himself on her the way he had.

  She had looked so stunned when he'd backed away from her. Stunned, he thought, but not frightened!

  He was about to turn in when he heard the colonel's wrathful voice, loud as a pistol shot.

  "How dare you presume to do such a thing! Don't you ever talk for me again as long as you live!"

  Jim took off, running toward the officers' quarters.

  "I won't. I'm sorry. I only wanted to help you."

  "Can't you understand? I don't want your help? I don't want anything from you. Not now. Not ever!"

  Jim heard a door slam. From a hundred feet away he saw Indy coming into her bedroom and felt an incredible sense of relief. He kept going until he was at approximately the same spot he had been the other night, and, like the other night, told himself he was watching her to make certain she was all right.

  She was rubbing her upper arms and he realized she was in pain; her father must have grabbed her and hurt her. Then she bent her head and put her hands in front of her face and began to sob.

  "Jesus." His throat suddenly ached. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he held himself back. That would only make matters worse. He couldn't touch her, let alone hold her and comfort her, without making love to her. He didn't have the moral or physical strength to resist her another time.