by J. T. Edson
‘How’d it come about?’ Mark asked, for he was an old friend, a comrade in arms. He could ask a personal question such as this without offending Bronson.
‘Called it striking an officer in the face of the enemy.’
‘He must have pushed you hard before you’d do that,’ Dusty observed.
‘Could say that, although the court-martial didn’t,’ replied Bronson. There was just a touch of bitterness in his voice. ‘I was riding scout for the troop that hit Ramon’s camp. There was a shave-tail lieutenant in command, fresh out from the Point and a real Indian-hater. Our patrol was headed across the reservation. There were rumours that Lobo Colorado and his bunch had held meetings with other tribes, and the colonel wanted to know about it. The lieutenant sent me out on a point and took the patrol on. I heard shooting and headed for it, right into Ramon’s village. I tell you, that boy went kill crazy. He was off his hoss and lining his gun on an old squaw’s head, just going to shoot her. I hit him to stop him and got the troop out. Back at the fort he had me arrested, tossed in the guard-house and charged me with striking him. He made out I took him wrong and laid the blame for the whole thing on me. The troop were all recruits. They didn’t know sic ‘em about what was happening, so the court-martial was forced to take things at their face value. I reckon they didn’t believe his story, but they had to stand by the brass. I’d have been shot otherwise.’ He looked down at the carbine in his hands. ‘Thirty years in the Stockade. I’d rather been shot.’
Dusty nodded towards the other three prisoners. ‘How about them?’
‘Taller and Morgan are snow-birds who got caught,’ Bronson replied. A snow-bird was a man who enlisted in the Army when winter was coming on and deserted in the spring. ‘Harris, well he’s the sort you get. A real good fighting man and a good soldier in action, but no good when there is none. He was on a small post and killed his trooper sergeant in a drunken fight. I don’t know the full story of it, but I knew the sergeant, and I don’t reckon Harris was all to blame. You watch him, Dusty, and Bogran won’t get to Baptist’s Hollow alive. Bogran’s been riding Harris all the time, telling what’s going to happen to him at the Stockade, trying to make him run. You’d have done better to leave us tied.’
‘Us?’ Dusty repeated gently.
‘Me and Harris at least. Give us half a chance and we’ll both be gone.’
‘No, you won’t, Chet,’ answered Dusty. ‘You’re a soldier, a good one. You’ve seen Apaches on the rampage before now and know what they can do. You know what this rising means to the folks in Arizona territory, it’ll end this part of the world for another twenty years. You’ll stick by us.’
Molly walked up to them. ‘How about bringing your friend to the fire, Dusty?’ she asked. ‘We’ve coffee on the boil, and he looks like he could drink some.’
Bronson followed Dusty to the medicine show fire. The carbine hung heavily in his hands, the box of bullets bulging his pocket. His regular mount stood near at hand, a big, powerful horse which won plenty of money in the fort races. Once on the horse he would stand a better than fair chance of escape, even matched with the Ysabel Kid’s white stallion.
Then Bronson looked at Molly, at her sisters sitting at the fire, then back at Dusty Fog. He cursed himself for a stupid fool. This was no time to be thinking of others. For all that, he knew he would. He could imagine the girls when the Apaches got through with them. Like Dusty said, he’d seen Apache work on men, women and children. He could not leave these girls to face such a death. Bronson tried to tell himself this was his sole reason for staying on, but he knew he was lying to himself. He was too much a soldier to desert his duty.
Dusty introduced Bronson to the girls, noticing the way the soldier held Molly’s hand just a shade longer than was necessary. At other times he would have regarded this as a normal thing, a man showing a keen eye for a pretty girl. Under the prevailing circumstances it was no use. The girls accepted Bronson. They’d seen him come into the camp with the other prisoners, but that meant nothing to them. If he was all right with Dusty Fog, the girls were willing to accept him.
Across the open space Bogran was sitting up, moaning and holding his head. He forced himself on to his feet and staggered to Big Em’s wagon and pulled the dipper from the water-keg on the side. He soaked his head in the water, then swung around, hand clawing at his empty holster.
‘I’ve got it, Bogran!’
Bogran turned to meet Paddy Magoon’s mocking eyes. He took the revolver held out to him, and his hate-filled eyes turned to where Dusty Fog was standing talking to Bronson. His hand shook as he held the revolver, for Bogran was in a rage almost beyond controlling. ‘I’ll kill that short-growed bitch,’ he snarled.
‘You just now tried,’ scoffed Magoon. ‘He bested you with his bare hands and no trouble to it. You go against him with a gun and he’ll not even bother to kill you. He’ll just smash both the knees of you, he’s that fast.’
‘Who is he, Magoon?’ snarled Bogran. ‘Is he Army?’
‘Do you think I’d touch me hat to any man who wasn’t the best damned fighting officer alive?’ Magoon demanded. He never regarded Dusty as a civilian. ‘You talk soft, easy and real polite around him, Bogran. He’s a kind and gentle man unless he’s roused—and you haven’t seen him roused yet.’
Bogran watched Magoon walk away and started to say something, then shut his mouth. Magoon was no man to give respect because of rank, only where such respect was well merited. This small man must be someone of importance. It was something for Bogran to think about. There was a fast growing group of officers who were trying to stamp out the brutalities of the Stockades. This might be one of that group, and Bogran knew his actions were wide open to question. If the small man was of the group trying to end Bogran’s way of running the Stockade, he’d seen too much right here. Bogran slouched to his conscious corporal and squatted down with him, snarling a curse to the man’s inquiry after his health. Bogran had reached a decision. Somehow, some time, real soon, that small man must die.
Soon after, while the girls prepared a meal, Dusty called his three friends, Magoon, Thornett, Big Em and Bogran to him. Bogran came sullenly and squatted down to listen to what was said. For all his hatred of Dusty, the Stockade sergeant had to admit there was little in detail he missed. Duties were allocated so that everyone of them knew what to do and what the others would be doing. There was only one interruption. It came when Dusty was telling of the Kid, Waco and Bronson as scouts.
‘Bronson’s a prisoner,’ growled Bogran.
‘And he’s the best scout we’ve got,’ replied Dusty. ‘Unless you’d like to take the point, Sergeant.’
Bogran’s angry growl could have meant anything, but he did not offer to take the risky duty of riding on ahead as scout. With the objection dealt with, Dusty went on making his arrangements.
‘Doc’s wagon’ll be a mite crowded, so you’ll have to take the injured Stockade corporal on your wagon box, Miss Em. Sit him between you and Phyl.’
Yo!’ Big Em gave the cavalry reply, even though she did wish to have any part of helping a Stockade guard.
‘Sergeant Magoon,’ said Dusty, a thought coming to him. ‘Pick out a good man. I’m sending a message to the fort to tell them what we’re doing. Take the best man you’ve got, other than Corporal Tolitski. I need him here.’
‘I’ll send Crayhill, he’s rode despatch before now and knows the country,’ answered Magoon and called a tall man with long tawny hair, side whiskers and huge moustache.
Dusty told the man what he wanted done, then got a pencil and paper from Thornett and settled down to compose a letter to the commanding officer of Fort Owen.
Fifteen minutes later, after a meal, Crayhill was riding out, headed overland for the fort. The rest settled down to wait until it was time to move out, all relaxing except for the alert and watchful pickets.
Phyllis got her chance to have a talk with Mark. The result was partly satisfying to her even though there was no cha
nce of doing more than talk at the moment. She found herself helping hitch the team to Big Em’s wagon before she could more than talk with Mark. With that done she went to her daughters and warned them about how they should act on the following day. On her way back she came face to face with Corporal Tolitski, an old friend from other Army camps. They’d not managed to find time to speak with each other before this and she smiled.
‘How’d you lose it this time, Ranko?’ she asked, indicating the mark where a third stripe had been stitched.
‘Celebrating,’ Tolitski replied with a grin. Losing and gaining his third stripe was no novelty to him. ‘You mind that big Osage squaw of Ring Goodwin?’
‘Sure,’ agreed Phyllis. ‘You matched me against her and lost two month’s pay betting her to win.’
‘I did,’ Tolitski answered. ‘Well, she took on Big Em toe-to-toe.’
‘Who won?’
‘Big Em. Took her easy in fifteen rounds.’
Phyllis gulped down something which suddenly seemed to block her throat. Tolitski was called away at that moment, and Phyllis was more than worried when she went to Big Em’s wagon. In her fight with Ring Goodwin’s Osage squaw she’d taken twenty hard fought rounds to win and considered herself very lucky to have done so at all. If Em won easily in fifteen rounds Phyllis was in bad trouble.
Now more than ever, Phyllis knew she must learn Mark’s system of fighting.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NIGHT AT BAPTIST’S HOLLOW
Major Ellwood was in a vile mood when he returned to the jail with food for his prisoners. It was dark, and he was late in feeding the two men in the cells, but he’d just finished the exhausting task of getting his people to the rifle pits. It was a hard task, and only by being strenuously unpleasant was Ellwood able to get all the first party into position. Man after man had tried to think up an excuse to avoid doing his civic duty, but Ellwood ruled them all out and, by threatening to jail any absentee, drew his men. He knew he would probably have the same trouble with the second watch and did not relish going around in the middle of the night to find them.
One of the chief causes of complaint was that the miners were not forced to take on full responsibility for the defence of the town. It was typical of the mentality of the Baptist’s Hollow citizen that he thought those men from the hills should be forced to defend the town.
In all fairness Ellwood tried to get the miners interested in his idea, for all were good shots, cool and brave men. They would have stiffened his line of defence if they would agree to help out. Individually and collectively the miners refused to have any part in those holes in the ground. Ellwood might have read a sinister warning in the refusal, but he was in no mood to look beyond surface appearance. What he did know was that the miners were ready to leave town, chancing the open country, rather than fight in the rifle pits. That was the last thing he wanted. If Lobo Colorado and his men came, the miners would be a fighting force worth having.
Scully and Willy looked at the tray of food Ellwood brought to them. It was a decent meal and struck them both as an ominous sign. They were capable of putting two and two together and making the answer come out correct. The arrival of the miners, their lack of celebrating, taken with odd scraps of conversation from outside the jail, added up to one thing. Apache trouble in its worst form.
‘I hear you’ve got Apache trouble, Major,’ said Scully, as he took the tray through the slot in the bars. ‘Me’n Willy can both use a rifle. Be pleased to help.’
‘I bet you would,’ Ellwood snapped back. ‘If I let you out, you’d be gone before morning.’
‘With Apaches on the warpath, without horses—afoot?’ asked Scully, looking mildly reproving. ‘Marshal, I don’t like your stuffy, pious little town and wish to be out of it, never to return, but not at the moment. I’d go further. I’d rather be here than out there right now.’
Ellwood snorted. Suddenly he realised he was beginning to think and act like a citizen of Baptist’s Hollow, beginning to suspect every motive as being the worst. He felt suddenly sick of the whole business, of this town where religious feeling was corrupted to mean distrust, bias, suspicion and prejudice. The feeling made him angry at himself and unreasoning in his anger, knowing that he was in the wrong.
The two prisoners could have been released earlier and allowed to work on the rifle pits. The charges against them would be covered by a fine, and Scully held enough cash to pay it, so there was no reason for him to hold them. Now, in his cross-grained, unreasoning anger, he would not allow them to leave the cells, even to help guard the town. Turning on his heel Ellwood went towards the door.
‘Hey, Marshal!’ Willy said, his drawl speeded up until it was almost whizzing along. ‘You ain’t going to leave us locked in here when there’s likely to be Apaches jumping us any time.’
‘I’ll let you out if the attack comes, not before,’ Ellwood snapped, then he went out of the jail, slamming and locking the office door.
Ellwood regretted his actions as soon as he turned the key in the lock but would not give way and admit it. He turned and received something of a shock as two dark, tall shapes loomed up before him. Taken by surprise at the silent approach of the miners, Zeke and Ike, Ellwood dropped his hand towards the butt of his gun and stepped back a pace.
‘Easy there, Major, it’s us,’ Zeke growled. ‘You ain’t changed your mind yet, have you?’
‘About what?’
‘The way you’re handling things here,’ answered Zeke, his waved hand taking in the circle of the town and the rifle pits.
Ellwood read an implication in the words that was not there. He knew the miners did not approve of the way he was defending the town and took the wrong attitude. Shaking his head he snapped, ‘I’m handling things the way I want them. The rifle pits are manned ready for a dawn attack and Apaches don’t attack in the dark.’
‘They move in it,’ Ike answered. ‘Why don’t you hustle all the women and kids along to the church there and get all the powder and shot from the store ready for when Lobo Colorado comes?’
‘There’ll be time for that when the attack comes.’
In his heart Ellwood knew every word the miner said was true. The women and children should be at the church, behind the safety of those big walls, so should Millet’s stock of firearms and ammunition. He’d tried to get the storekeeper to move that vital stock to safety, but Millet was shifty and evasive. There was a limit to what a town marshal could do. The limit was reached when it came to making a man do something like move his personal property. Without something more definite than they knew at the moment, Ellwood was helpless to make Millet do anything. The marshal would not allow these miners to see how helpless he was.
Zeke and Ike exchanged knowing looks as Ellwood turned to walk away. Ike let out an angry growl, and started forward but his friend caught his arm.
‘Ain’t no use nor need for it. He wouldn’t listen to no low men like you. See he’s read him a couple of them books about military tactics, like that officer boy we scouted for in the desert country. Allows it makes him an all-fired expert. He wouldn’t listen to no common men like us, Ike. Got him a real bad shock coming.’
‘You fixing in to light for some place safe?’
‘If I thought we could make it through Lobo Colorado’s boys I’d say yes to that. But there ain’t no such chance. I got me a feeling, Ike. They’s all round us right now, and just waiting for dawn. Happen we left town we’d right soon be wishing we was back again.’
They turned and lounged back towards the church. Crossing the plaza a low whistle came to their ears and brought them to an instant halt. Zeke whistled in reply before they moved on. Even so, a rifle was lined on them from the gate as they moved towards it and did not lower until the sentry knew for certain who they were.
‘You see him?’ asked the sentry.
‘We saw him,’ agreed Zeke. ‘All the boys inside?’
‘All but Walapai. Ole Winnie-Mae started to give out her Apache
call, and he slipped out to make a scout.’
Zeke nodded his approval of Walapai’s actions. Every miner who kept the same burro for any length of time got to know the various ways it brayed and Winnie-Mae was Walapai’s companion for many long years. The oldster was full capable of taking care of himself out there in the darkness. Walapai was a lone-wolf prospector when Lobo Colorado was a boy just starting on horse herding, and a man did not work alone for all those years in Apache country without learning to look after himself.
A small fire was burning by the protecting wall. Its flickering flames showing the faces of the miners as they gathered round it. All looked at Ike and Zeke with interest, for they knew what the two men attempted to do. They also knew, without being told, what the result was and none were surprised.
Before Zeke could say a word they heard a low whistle, replied to by the sentry and a few seconds after the short, whiskery shape of old Walapai slouched into the light of the fire. He was trailing his old Sharps rifle in one hand, the other held something which looked like a long black wig. Or would have to a man who’d never seen a fresh took, blood dripping Apache scalp.
Dropping to his haunches with the ease of a man who sat in a chair maybe once every three or four years, Walapai leaned his rifle against the wall. Dipping his now free hand into his pocket he took out a piece of coal black tobacco. He bit off a chew, munched for a moment, then sent a spurt of juice flying into the fire.
‘Ole Winnie-Mae was right.’
‘They’re out there, are they?’ asked the youngest of the miners. ‘It couldn’t just have been a stray scout for the main bunch?’
‘Maybe he was, sonny,’ Walapai grunted. ‘Only he warn’t alone. They’re out there, all round the town or I miss my guess. Comes dawn the main bunch’ll hit right down the trail, but there’ll be a few left over to come for the sides and the back of the church.’