The Colonel's Lady Read online

  We tasted the whisky. It was good, and I had an idea that Gorgan had borrowed on next month's pay to pay the sutler for it. Why he had gone to so much trouble for a second lieutenant, and a new one at that, I didn't know.

  “Likely the women will be busy for a while,” Gorgan said, sitting down and stretching his legs. He dallied with his glass, looking thoughtfully into the amber liquid. “Ah—I don't suppose the Colonel has changed his plans, has he?” he asked finally. “About the scout detail, I mean?”

  “I got my orders a little while ago. They're still just about the same.”

  The Lieutenant sighed, looked as if he were about to say something, and then changed his mind. “Maybe I'm doing a lot of worrying over nothing,” he said. “You can take care of yourself in an open fracas, you proved that. But going Apache-hunting on their own ground, that's something else. It looks like a job for a more experienced man, I'd say.”

  “I have more than three years' cavalry experience.”

  Gorgan snorted. “This isn't cavalry, the way we fight out here. It's dragoon work. You ride to where you're going and then get off and fight on foot.” He grinned suddenly, and unexpectedly his face reddened in embarrassment. “Hell, I guess it's none of my business, but—well, I keep thinking of the way you saved my hide not long ago. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Just take care of yourself, Reardon, I guess that's all I wanted to say.”

  I had to grin at that, for Gorgan was obviously not versed in paying compliments. It was strange, in a way, but I hardly remembered anything that happened that day of the ambush. But Gorgan remembered. I knew I had a friend in the Lieutenant any time I wanted to call on him, and that thought was comforting.

  Gorgan poured more whisky to cover his embarrassment, and I knew that he would never mention the incident again.

  We sat for a while in silence, nursing the whisky, and I could see that Gorgan wanted to bring the conversation back around to the Colonel and the scout detail. He was curious about that. He didn't know anything, probably, but he could feel that something was wrong. Sooner or later, I knew, he would tie Caroline in with it if I wasn't careful.

  “How do you like soldiering?” he asked abruptly, and I laughed.

  “Major Burkhoff asked me the same question, before I got the commission.”

  “Well,” he insisted, “how do you like it?”

  I wondered about it now, as I had wondered about it before, and the answer was about the same. “I like it all right, I suppose. It's about all I know.”

  “It's a hard way to live,” Gorgan said slowly. “Sometimes I think I hate it. There's no future in it for me, because I talk too much, probably. And it's hell on women. Still...”

  He let the word hang as he thought of it.

  “Still, there's something about it. Out here, you squeeze years into days. You get used to living like that and nothing else is any good for you. I had a chance to go back to Washington once as the chief quartermaster's aide, but I didn't take it. I had been out here too long, on the desert and in the mountains, where everything runs to extremes. Here you freeze at night and then maybe drop over from heat exhaustion the next day. You rot as a garrison soldier, and maybe a week later you'll die violently on patrol, fighting a little private war that nobody outside Arizona Territory will ever hear about. Extremes in everything. I don't think I could get used to civilization again. To be civilized is to be temperate, they say, and this country jades a man's taste for temperance.”

  It was the longest speech I had ever heard Gorgan make, and he wasn't through yet. I wasn't sure what he was getting at, but I had an idea that it had to do with me somehow.

  “Some people never get used to it,” he went on. “They come out here and hate the country on sight, and the Indians too. Maybe they go on living here because they're afraid of the law back east, and they haven't got the guts to push on west. But they never get to like it or become a part of it.”

  I was looking into my whisky, but I could feel the Lieutenant watching me.

  “One thing about the desert,” he said, “and the mountains, you have to earn the right to live here. You have to be smarter and tougher and braver than the country itself, or it will kill you. You have to learn fast, and learn from the Indians, because they know more about it than anybody else.” He laughed suddenly. “Now there's a hell of a lot of words said, and they don't mean a thing.”

  “You like this country and you like the Army. I got that much.”

  “I don't like them and I don't hate them. We've just learned to live together. You start feeling that way when you stop being afraid. And you'll be afraid before long, when you get out alone on that scout detail.”

  “Are you trying to tell me there's a good chance I won't come back?”

  “A damn good chance. But it's not a sure thing, if you're willing to learn.”

  “I'll learn as fast as I can,” I said. “I'll have Juan and Black Buffalo and Walking Fox and Red Hand for teachers.”

  He smiled faintly, then took the whisky decanter and shook it. “That's what I wanted to know, I guess. Whether you regarded your scouts as teachers or ignorant savages. I think we've got another good drink left here before supper.”

  Supper was pleasant, although we were rather crowded in the small dining room with its post-made sideboard and table and chairs. The roast—rump of young venison —was excellent and Gorgan's mood had changed again and he was in fine spirits. After the meal was over Gorgan and I went out on the front porch and smoked cigars. Blurred figures passed back and forth across the dark parade. Here and there barracks lights were beginning to be put out. The stars were out in great numbers over the desert, and the night was still.

  Gorgan had something here that I envied, here in his small adobe hut on an outpost frontier fort, and I wasn't sure what it was. My belly was well filled with the kind of food we never got at regular mess, and warm with good Kentucky rye, but it was more than that. Maybe it was his peace of mind that I felt, as we stood there smoking in silence.

  I began to think about the things Gorgan had said before supper, and I would have liked to have him go on talking, about the territory, the Indians. But it seemed that Gorgan was talked out. He wasn't very skilled with words, but I thought I understood what he was trying to say. There was a place for every man—I think that was what he meant—if he could only find it. And if he only knew it when he did find it. Maybe he was trying to say that Larrymoor was the place for me.

  Why he bothered, I didn't know. I wondered what Gorgan would say if he knew all about me and Caroline and Weyland. The thought made me grin.

  But the grin went away. I had a feeling that Gorgan did know. Not know, maybe, but he was guessing.

  'There's some sherry inside,” he said. “Not very good, I'm afraid, but it will do.”

  But I didn't want any more to drink. “No, thanks. I've got to get back down the row before long.”

  Someone moved in the doorway of the house, casting a long shadow across the lamplit square on the porch. “Sarah?” Gorgan said.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Come out and keep Mr. Reardon company for a minute. I want to get a couple of things for him before he goes.” Sarah Gorgan came out, hesitantly, and her father grinned and roughed her hair, as though she were a child. “Maybe you can tell him a thing or two about Larrymoor, eh? She's been here long enough, Reardon. Most of my daughter's life has been spent on this post.”

  Gorgan disappeared inside the house, leaving me to shift for myself in the company of his daughter. Sarah came over to the porch banister and leaned over slightly, looking up at the dark sky.

  “The desert is beautiful at night,” she said, almost to herself. “Don't you think so, Mr. Reardon?”

  “Beautiful? I don't know. I guess I've never thought about it. It's not much like the country I was born and reared in.”

  She glanced at me briefly and then looked up at the sky again. The stars were as cold as chips of ice on sheet steel, very
aloof and far away. “The desert, I guess, is about all I know. What was your home like, Mr. Reardon?”

  “Alabama?” I hadn't thought of it for a long while. “It was black and rich and slow-moving, or that's the way it seems to me now. I don't suppose it was really much different from the rest of the South.” I thought of Sweetbriar, but I knew I couldn't picture it for her. And anyway it didn't seem to be worth the effort. I wondered what was keeping Gorgan.

  “Father tells me you're going on patrol tomorrow,” she said, and maybe she sensed that I didn't want to talk about the past.

  “Yes, ma'am,” I said, and that seemed to end that subject of conversation. I gathered that Gorgan hadn't told her about the scout patrol, though, and I was glad of that. “I suppose,” I said, “the desert is all right when you get used to it. Larrymoor too, for that matter. It's not like —” I started to say Sweetbriar. “It's not like the cities back east, of course, but you do have certain social activities here. The regimental dances, for instance.”

  I felt that I had to keep the conversation going somehow until Gorgan got back, but it was an effort and Sarah Gorgan could tell that it was. Without looking at me, she said, “Would you like to go inside, Mr. Reardon? I'm sure there's some sherry.”

  I could see now that Gorgan—for reasons of his own—had thrown us together again, the way he had done at the dance. I began to feel the same discomfort that I had felt before, wanting to get away but knowing there was no way of doing it gracefully.

  “Not at all, Miss Gorgan,” I said, with as much conviction as possible. “I find it very pleasant out here.”

  I could see her smile to herself. It seemed a hopeless smile, to me, and I guessed that she felt as trapped as I did. She moved down to the darker end of the porch and sat on the banister, looking out at the parade. A pale, bloated moon had come up suddenly from behind the far hills, and that vague, suffused light did something to her.

  It was almost as though I were looking at her for the first time. She sat there quietly, as still as a statue, and somehow beautiful. It was the moonlight, of course, but something about her made me think of Caroline.

  It happened then as it always did. The smallest crack had opened in my mind and Caroline came walking in to taunt me. To tempt me with her mouth and excite me with her body. I heard myself speaking then. Speaking to Sarah Gorgan, but thinking of Caroline.

  I said, “You're very beautiful tonight,” and I started to add, “Caroline,” but then Sarah Gorgan's chin came up sharply, as if she had been slapped. Her eyes were wide, and I thought at first that she was angry. But then I saw that she was hurt.

  She looked back at the parade. “I'm not beautiful, Mr. Reardon. You shouldn't have said that.”

  I don't know what made me go on with it. A thing like that could be carried off with a laugh. A light word. But I didn't do it. It was almost as if Caroline were there beside me, tempting me to go on, daring me to look at another girl.

  I said, “I mean it, Miss Gorgan.” I hadn't meant it to go any further than that, but I moved down to the end of the porch and stood beside her, and looked down at her. I suppose that, in the back of my mind, I thought I was hurting Caroline. Or maybe I was thinking of nothing at all when I put my hands on Sarah Gorgan's shoulders and brought her toward me.

  She didn't protest. She didn't utter a sound. I could close my eyes and imagine it was Caroline I was holding. She brought her head back and I pressed my mouth on hers. The moment I did it I was sorry. Her mouth was cold at first, but it warmed suddenly and was eager.

  I was the one who broke it off.

  “I didn't mean to do that,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

  She still didn't say anything. She put her face against my shoulder and I thought, She's only a kid. The thought made me feel rotten inside.

  “You'd better go in now,” I said.

  After a while she said, “Matt. May I call you Matt?”

  “Sure. But you'd better go in now.” My mind darted forward to the next day, when the patrol would be pulling out of Larrymoor. At that moment I didn't care whether I came back or not.

  She went inside finally. Gorgan came out in a few minutes, grinning quietly. I would have felt better if he had hit me.

  “Did my daughter tell you about Larrymoor, Reardon?”

  I must have said something, but I don't remember what. Then he put some things in my hand and said, “You'd better take these with you tomorrow. Maybe you'll find some use for them.”

  When I got back to the hut I saw what they were. There was a long, razor-keen bowie knife made of rifle steel, the bone handle inlaid with coin silver, and a pair of long, knee-length Apache moccasins.

  Chapter Nine

  I HAD OCCASION to remember what Gorgan had said about a man having to earn the right to live in the desert. That morning, as the patrol rode through the gates of Larrymoor, I knew that a man had to earn the right to wear gold bars, too. I didn't have to go into the hills to find hostiles. They were there in the column. Skiborsky, Morgan, Steuber, all the rest of them. I could feel their hate as I brought the four scouts across the parade and reported to Halan.

  I imagined that the feeling had even reached Halan. He accepted my salute coldly, as if he had never seen me before. “Very well, Mr. Reardon, fall in beside me. Your Indians can bring up the rear of the column for the time being.”

  I had expected my sudden rise through the ranks to cause hostility among the men, but Halan was something else again. He was the one who had recommended me to Weyland. If I had a friend at Larrymoor, I told myself, it was Halan.

  But it didn't look like it. I thought at first that it was my imagination, but as the column stretched out across the wasteland and the rigid garrison discipline began to relax among the men, the Captain continued to keep his distance.

  “Mr. Reardon, please maintain the correct cavalry seat while in my column. Sloppy riders beget sloppy commanders, Mr. Reardon, and sloppy commanders can be fatal when dealing with Apache.”

  This was something I hadn't counted on. Halan had the rank; he could pull it on me as often as it pleased him. And it seemed to please him at least twice an hour that day.

  The next day was no better. It was worse, if anything, with Halan continually finding fault with everything I did. I could feel the men behind me grinning fiercely.

  I gave up trying to figure out what was happening. Too much was happening too fast. Caroline, Weyland, Sarah Gorgan, and now Halan.

  “Mr. Reardon,” Halan said. “Please remember that officers must set examples for their men. Square your campaign hat, Lieutenant; the cavalry campaign hat is regulation uniform meant to be worn in the regulation manner. And please ride erect, Mr. Reardon.”

  I was glad when we reached the Boulders on the third day, for that was the end of the line for me and my scouts. I didn't have to worry about people and why they acted the way they did. All I had to worry about was staying alive.

  “Do you have the route of march memorized, Mr. Reardon?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm to scout the hills near Kohi's stronghold. On the third day I'm to join the patrol column again as it makes its return swing, near the mouth of Star Creek.”

  “Not scout near Kohi's stronghold, Mr. Reardon,” Halan said coolly. “In the stronghold. That is the Colonel's order. On the third day my patrol will be at the mouth of Star Creek. Do you have any questions?”

  I had some questions. I wanted to ask him what the hell had gone wrong with him. What had I done to him? Was it so bad that he couldn't even talk about it? But what I said was:

  “No, sir. No questions.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant.” We shook hands like strangers and he called for Skiborsky to mount the column again. I stood on a ridge and watched the column straggle down into a rocky ravine and out of sight. The last white men I would see for days. Maybe the last white men I would see, ever. If Colonel Weyland had his way about it. I motioned to Juan, who was the chief native scout.

  “Tell your men the
y can build fires here, if they want to cook. We won't be pulling out before dark.”

  Building the right kind of fire was the first thing I learned from my four scouts. Juan sent Black Buffalo and Red Hand to scour up the right kind of wood—hardwood, and dry. Dried brush roots would do, if there was no hardwood. We made the fires, two small ones, and there was no smoke at all to give our position away. The four Indians remained to themselves, squatting stonelike in the heat of the dying sun as I cooked my bacon and coffee. I cooked two days' rations of bacon because there wouldn't be any more fires after this, and I soaked the hard bread in the coffee to soften it. It was no better and no worse than field rations always are, but the bacon and bread tasted different that day, as I wondered if it was going to be my last meal. The desert was very quiet.

  I called Juan over and asked him how far he judged the stronghold to be.

  He shrugged. “A march for the length of time it takes the sun to cross the sky,” he said, “would bring us near the place.”

  “Or the moon?” I asked.

  He shrugged again. It was possible. He had never seen the stronghold himself, and neither had the other scouts. Then he asked, “Do we take the horses?”

  “Part of the way. As far as it's safe. Then we'll have to hide them somewhere, but I'll leave that up to you.”

  Juan nodded and then called to the other scouts to put out the fires. They put out the fires and scooped up the ashes and buried them and then they smoothed the ground with their hands. We couldn't cover the trail of the patrol, but we could hope to keep Apache from knowing that someone had dropped off along the way. I sent Walking Fox and Red Hand up to some high ground to keep a watch on the hills until dark. There was nothing to do after that but wait.