The Colonel's Lady Page 14

  But the ponies were urged to greater speed. Up and down the canyon the riders went as the crowd roared its approval, the two scouts running behind as long as they could stand. They could not keep the pace for long. First Red Hand stumbled, lost his balance, went crashing to the ground. Then Walking Fox was pulled down, and the two of them were dragged up and down in front of the mob. The rocks tore them to pieces. The paths of the ponies became soaked and slippery with blood. The two scouts made no sound.

  That was the horrible part about it, the silence. Even the Apaches became silent now, watching the bloody parade in morbid fascination. The riders continued to gallop up and down until there was nothing recognizable as human at the end of their ropes, and only then was the spell broken and the crowd began to cheer again.

  I felt sick. I went down on my knees behind the boulder and gagged emptily. For many long nights, I knew, I would hear the sound of those ponies running up and down the canyon. And the silence. I would remember that.

  We waited where we were that day, not daring to move until darkness. Our tongues became thick and our bellies cramped for want of water, but there was nothing we could do about that. The lookouts were still in position along the ridge, but they were exhausted with the excitement of the early morning, and they sat like stone, with rifles across their knees.

  Sundown came at last, and we drank the coolness in like water. As soon as darkness fell the drums began again. It was time to move. If we were ever going to move this was the time.

  We started inching down from the ridge, Juan going first, guiding me on with his hands. We hadn't gone more than a few feet when Juan pointed out a figure on a rock to our right, an Apache.

  We lay there for a while, wondering if we could make it all the way down without his seeing us or hearing us. I decided that we could—but an idea had been growing in my mind, and now it had grown until I could not ignore it.

  I motioned to Juan to stay where he was. I started crawling forward, toward the Apache. It was a job for Juan, probably, but I had to learn sometime, if I meant to stay alive. That was what Gorgan had said, and Gorgan had been right so far.

  It seemed to take half the night, covering those few yards on my hands and knees. But I had learned some things from the scouts, and one of them was that speed was not as important as living. No coyote ever moved more slowly getting into position for the kill. I could feel Juan watching me. He was probably sweating worse than he had ever sweated before, for I was still the pupil and he was the teacher. But I made it to the rock. And the seated Apache didn't move. I took Gorgan's knife in my right hand. My left arm went out to choke off a scream before it could begin. I found myself thinking like an Indian, moving like an Indian.

  There was a brief struggle, and then I had the Apache on the ground. Juan was beside me in an instant, with his own knife raised for the kill. I stopped him.

  “I want you to talk to him, Juan.”

  “Talk to Apache?”

  “I want you to ask him what tribe he's from.”

  “Chiricahua,” Juan said impatiently. “I tell you this. Better dead. He call others.”

  The Apache was growing limp in my arms, his breath cut off from the pressure of my forearm against his windpipe. I loosened the hold a little. I put the edge of my knife against his throat and held it there. “Ask him anyway,” I said.

  Juan didn't like it, but I was sure that the Apache couldn't make much of a sound before I could draw the knife across his throat.

  Juan asked him. He spat the words out, the guttural Apache dialect of the Chiricahuas.

  The Apache didn't move. He looked at us and his eyes were filled with enormous hate.

  “Tell him,” I said, “that Kohi's days are numbered. Apaches are not soldiers. They are women. They fight like women. Tell him that.”

  Juan told him, and it had the effect I had hoped for. The Apache attempted to spit at us. His eyes swam in anger. I lifted the knife very slightly from his throat, just enough to permit him to speak. He spoke harshly to Juan while looking at me.

  “He cursed you,” Juan said. “That was about all.”

  “He must have said something else.”

  “He said the white man's days were numbered.” Juan shrugged. “Not Apache's. He bragged that all white men in the White Mountains would be dead before the moon showed itself seven times. He said there would be no more white-dog soldiers in the White Mountains.”

  It was what I had wanted to know. What I had been afraid to hear. I looked at the Apache and knew that he was telling the truth. Then Juan said something to him in Apache and his eyes blazed. He attempted to lurch forward.

  It was all he had to do. The blade of my knife bit into his throat and hot blood gushed over my hand.

  I don't remember much about the trip back. We went on our bellies as long as we could hear the drums, and then we got to our feet and ran. And at last, somehow, we reached the little box canyon where we had left our horses, and the animals were still there. Nervous and dry and wanting water too, but they were there. Juan and I drank from the saddle canteen, and then we poured some of the precious water in our hands and let the horses wet their tongues. Then we saddled up and led the three extra ponies out of the draw. We headed for Star Creek.

  It was after sunup when we got there, and the patrol hadn't arrived yet. Our nerves were rubbed raw and our insides quivered for want of sleep. We set the horses to graze and took turns sleeping in snatches. Around mid-afternoon the patrol came riding up the dry bed of Star Creek.

  The men were tired and filthy and evil-tempered, but they were all there, so I guessed that they hadn't run into any war parties so far. Halan hadn't changed. At first he seemed surprised to see me still alive—even pleased to see me. But that didn't last long. His eyes were cool as we shook hands.

  “Well, I see you made it back, Mr. Reardon.”

  “Yes, sir. Two of us did. Black Buffalo and Walking Fox and Red Hand are dead.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, almost seemed to smile. “Three good scouts, Mr. Reardon. That's not much of a record to start off with, is it? I don't suppose you got the maps.”

  I was too tired to be mad. I handed him the map case and he opened it and looked at the drawings. It jarred him, seeing a detailed diagram of the stronghold. His face sobered, and for a moment he forgot to be cold and bitter and aloof.

  “My God, Reardon, are you sure this is correct?”

  “As sure as I'll ever be about anything. Kohi has recruited warriors from every Apache tribe in the territory. He's got between eight hundred and a thousand braves in that stronghold of his, all of them half crazy from tiswin and war medicine.”

  “My God,” Halan said again, staring at the map and figures. “But why? What does he intend to do?”

  “Maybe he intends to attack Larrymoor itself. Maybe that's the prize he's offered to all those Chiricahua and Mimbreno and Arivaipa renegades. It would be a great prize. Sacking Larrymoor would keep white men out of this part of the territory for years.”

  But Halan shook his head. “Kohi wouldn't attack Larrymoor. Not even with a thousand braves.”

  “Then what does it mean?”

  “I don't know, Reardon. It means trouble, but I don't know what kind. This information has got to get back to the Colonel. Can you take it?”

  “I guess so. My horse is in pretty good shape.”

  “The patrol's got four more days to go. We can't wait till then.”

  “I'll go, then. We've got no more than a week at the outside, then all hell's going to break loose somewhere.”

  “How do you know that?” He frowned.

  I told him about the Apache lookout I had killed, but it didn't convince Halan. “Kohi won't attack Larrymoor,” he said, “but you'd better get your map to the Colonel, anyway.”

  The mention of the Colonel seemed to recall something to him, and he became a ramrod captain of cavalry again. “Mr. Reardon, there is no excuse for dressing like a savage, even when on scout. You will
wear your boots while under my command, the same as the rest of us.”

  What had changed him? I wanted to ask him, but I knew it would only get me a quotation from Army regulations, and I'd had all I could take of that.

  I reached Larrymoor early the next morning, and rode through the gates as first call sounded for reveille. I listened to the familiar rattle of mess gear as the men began to turn out of their barracks, and it was hard to believe that what I had seen in Kohi's stronghold lay less than a day's ride away. I turned my horse over to a corporal at the stables, and from the way he looked at me, I knew I must look like hell. But I walked on across the parade anyway, toward headquarters.

  I walked into the building and a young Irish lieutenant named Hilligan, the OD, stood up. “Joseph and Mary,” he said softly. “Reardon, I didn't expect to see you... well, not this soon, anyway.”

  “Is the Colonel here?”

  “He hasn't come in yet.”

  “Then you'd better go get him.”

  I went into the regimental orderly room and the sergeant major looked at me as if he had seen a ghost.

  “Does the Colonel know you're here, Lieutenant?”

  “He will in a minute, Sergeant.” I sat down. I was dog tired and I didn't think I could keep my eyes open much longer. I was almost asleep when I heard the crisp crack of the Colonel's boot heels on the plank floor.

  He was furious. I knew it before I looked at him. I could feel it. I didn't move until the sergeant major said, “Good morning, sir,” and then I stood up.

  “Well, Mr. Reardon, you got back. Early, I see. Perhaps you will explain the meaning of this.”

  I put the map case on his desk and opened it. “It was Captain Halan's wish that I should bring this to you, sir.”

  Weyland looked at it, his face dark with anger. “Do you propose, Mr. Reardon, that I take this to be a drawing of Kohi's stronghold?”

  “That's what it is, sir.”

  “Lieutenant,” he said tightly, “do you know the penalty for falsifying scout reports.”

  It was like a slap in the face. It startled me, woke me up, made me mad. “I don't understand what the Colonel means,” I said. But I understood.

  “I mean,” he said angrily, “that it is quite obvious, Mr. Reardon, that you deliberately disobeyed the explicit orders of this command.” He looked sternly at the sergeant at the next desk. The sergeant got up and left the room. “Now, Mr. Reardon...” He smiled thinly, but there was hate in his eyes. “Mr. Reardon,” he said softly, “you are a liar. A coward and a liar and a disgrace to the uniform.” His smile was frank now. A gloating smile. “And I shall have your hide, Lieutenant. I shall call a general court-martial and charge you with disobeying a direct order, cowardice in the face of the enemy, falsifying reports, bringing disgrace to the uniform. You will rot for the rest of your days in an Army stockade, Lieutenant, for thinking you could make a fool of me.”

  My anger was too great to speak. I opened my mouth, but no words would come.

  The Colonel slapped my map with the flat of his hand. “You call that Kohi's stronghold? What do you take me for, Lieutenant? You didn't even sec the stronghold. You didn't even get close. You were scared. Skiddering scared, Lieutenant, so you falsified the map and the report. Isn't that what happened?”

  “No, sir,” I said tightly. “That is not what happened.”

  He laughed suddenly. “But you were too ambitious, Lieutenant, too eager to make a rotten thing look good. A thousand warriors! I'm not the fool you seem to think me, Mr. Reardon. Kohi has fewer than four hundred able warriors in his tribe, and I know it. And two entrances to the stronghold! Mr. Reardon, that was going too far. It is known to this command that Kohi's stronghold has only one entrance. You should have read the reports of regimental intelligence, Mr. Reardon, before attempting your little fraud.”

  I couldn't say a thing. Anger settled a red haze over everything. I was afraid to open my mouth.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Reardon.” The Colonel smiled. “Defend yourself.”

  “I did read the intelligence reports, sir. They were wrong.”

  “That's a lie, Lieutenant! A brazen, naked lie!” He leaned across his desk, his face only inches from mine. I could have hit him then. I ached to smash a fist into that grin of his. But this was what he wanted. Another charge against me.

  “Speak, Lieutenant!”

  “My report is written out... sir.”

  “You are in quite enough trouble, Mr. Reardon, without adding impudence to the list of charges. Answer me.”

  “The stronghold is as I have drawn it. Kohi's warriors are as I have numbered them, including Mimbrenos and Arivaipas and Chiricahuas.”

  The Colonel smiled widely. He was satisfied with himself now. The first disappointment and frustration of seeing me still alive had worn off, for he had already found another way of taking care of me. A firing squad or a lifetime in a stockade would get me out of the way as well as an Apache bullet.

  He selected a cigar from a box, bit the end off, and lit it. “Really, Mr. Reardon, I find this quite amusing. Go on, tell me the rest of it.”

  “Kohi is going to attack Larrymoor,” I said. “Within a week.”

  The Colonel exploded, almost choked with laughter. “I don't suppose I should be surprised, Lieutenant, but there are limits, even to lies! Kohi attack Larrymoor? It's insane. Even if he did have a thousand warriors he couldn't do it.”

  I had said all I was going to say. I felt sick and tired and disgusted, and he could do what he wanted.

  “Sergeant,” Weyland called, his voice calm at last, satisfied. “Call the Officer of the Day, Sergeant. Have him turn out four guards to escort Mr. Reardon to his hut. He is under arrest, confined to quarters.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DURING RETREAT that afternoon, after I had slept, bathed, and shaved, Gorgan came around to see me. He was carrying a linen-covered tray.

  “Mary and Sarah thought maybe you'd be hungry,” he said.

  I was glad it was Gorgan. He was the only man I wanted to see right then. He came in and took a bottle of the sutler's rotgut from under the linen cover. “I figured maybe you'd be thirsty, too,” he said dryly. “Where do you keep your glasses?”

  I got two tin mess cups and he poured into them. We drank. “Now you'd better eat,” he said, “while it's hot. It's not much, but it's probably better than you get at bachelor's mess.”

  I felt better with Gorgan there. I found that I could grin without cracking my face. There was a large bowl of hot stew on the tray, and half a loaf of freshly baked bread. Gorgan tamped his pipe casually, poured himself another cup of the whisky, and sat quietly until I had finished eating.

  “Well,” he said finally, “do you want to talk about it?”

  “What are they saying on the post?”

  “That you falsified a scout report, among other things.”

  “What other things?” I asked.

  “Enough to keep you in an Army stockade the rest of your years, if you're convicted.”

  And I would be convicted. The Colonel would see to that.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think,” Gorgan said, “that I would like to hear the story from you.”

  “Is there any way for a man to get his family out of this part of the territory?” I asked, pouring myself another cup of whisky. “Say down to Tucson, or maybe over to the New Mexico country?”

  “Not unless some mail or supply wagons get through, and that won't be likely for a few weeks yet. Why?”

  “You ought to get your wife and daughter out of here, if you can. Kohi's going to attack Larrymoor. He's going to do it within a week.”

  Gorgan whistled softly. “That doesn't seem reasonable. The regiment is under strength, of course, but behind these walls we could stand him off. How does he mean to swing it?”

  “I don't know. All I know is that an Apache bragged about it a few seconds before he died. Kohi has gathered renegades from every clan an
d tribe in the territory, eight hundred able warriors at least.”

  Gorgan whistled again. “Did you see them?”

  I told him about the scout, leaving nothing out. When I finished, the Lieutenant sighed deeply. “Well, it's easy to see why the Colonel didn't believe you. It's hard for me to believe you—but I guess I do. There's sure not much sense in lying about a thing like that.” He stood up. “Well, thanks, Reardon. I'll see what I can do about getting my family out of here.”

  I didn't have any more visitors until my striker came in to see if I wanted supper. I didn't want anything to eat, but there was something I did want. I wrote a note to Caroline and I told her as briefly as I could about the danger of staying at Larrymoor. I told her to contact Gorgan and maybe he could help her get away until the danger was over. I wanted to ask her to come to me; I wanted to hold her and forget. But I didn't do it. I put the note in an envelope and sealed it and gave it to the striker.

  “I want you to deliver this to Colonel Weyland's house,” I said. “If the Colonel isn't there, leave it with Mrs. Weyland. Just tell her who it's from.”

  I knew that Weyland would still be at headquarters and Caroline would understand that the note was for her. But the striker wasn't sure if it was the thing to do.

  I was under arrest and confined to quarters, and he didn't want much to do with me.

  “And take that bottle of whisky with you,” I said, “and do something with it. I don't want any more.”

  His eyes brightened at that. He took Gorgan's bottle before I could change my mind.

  “And keep your mouth shut about this,” I said.

  He wouldn't keep his mouth shut, of course, but there wasn't much chance of dragging Caroline into it, anyway. Even if the Colonel found out, it couldn't make things much worse than they already were. The striker went out with the whisky and the note and I lay on my bunk and tried not to think. Tried not to do anything. Wait, that's all I had to do now.