The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “O’Callan, it’s plain to see you’re more than a little upset. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothin’ much, Hays. ’Tis jest the ruin o’ me life is all.”

  “I doubt that, O’Callan. Nothing could be that disastrous.”

  “They’re gonna court-martial me, Leroy. That means I’ll lose me stripes—which means I’ll not be makin’ enough pay to set any aside fer me retirement as a gentleman saloonkeeper. Worse still, they could fine me a forfeiture of two-thirds pay, which would make the calamity complete. An’ all because o’ them damn mules.”

  “They wouldn’t court-martial a man for that mule you lost on the mail run, O’Callan.”

  “I said, ‘mules,’ Hays—more than one. Twenty-one, ta be exact. An’ three wagons an’ sixteen horses as well. Them Apache brat kids ran ’em off an’ then we wrecked—ah, hell. ’Tis a long story and not fittin’ fer the retellin’.” He stood unsteadily. “I’ll be gettin’ back to me serious drinkin’, if’n it’s all right with ye, Leroy.”

  “Sit down, O’Callan! Any drinking you’re gonna do in Lester Wells is going to be done right here in my office. And as the law hereabouts, I’m tellin’ you that you’ll be drinkin’ coffee.”

  “Blaah! A pox on yer coffee, Leroy,” O’Callan replied.

  He sat down all the same. The bar owner poured scalding black liquid into a clay cup and pushed it across to his unwilling guest. The Irishman eyed the brew distastefully, then took a sip. A wry expression formed on his face and gave visual evidence to his opinion on the question: Coffee versus whiskey—which do cavalrymen prefer? Hayes ignored it. “That’s right, O’Callan, drink up.”

  While O’Callan struggled with the coffee, Jimmy Brannigan entered the main room of the establishment through the batwing doors. He sauntered to the bar in happy anticipation of a good, stiff belt.

  “Charlie Gonzoles, ye burnt Irishman, give us a nip o’ yer best, hey?”

  The genial Mexican grinned. “I ain’t so sure I’m a burnt Irishman or if you’re a whitewashed Mexican,” he quipped while he poured out a shot for the cavalry sergeant. “By the way, your pardner, O’Callan, is in the office with Leroy. He’d really been tying one on, so Leroy’s pouring some coffee into him.”

  Brannigan laughed, and shoved his glass forward for a refill. “Don’t ye know what ye get when ye force coffee down a drinkin’ man’s throat, Charlie?”

  “Sure, a sober customer.”

  “The hell ye do! Ye get a wide-awake drunk, that’s what ye get.”

  “Drunk or sober, Leroy wants him outta here as soon as possible, Jim. O’Callan’s in a dangerous mood.”

  “Right, and thanks, bucko.”

  Brannigan polished off his drink and walked around the bar to the office. As one of Leroy’s close friends it wasn’t necessary for him to knock, so he burst through the door without ceremony. “O’Callan!” he roared. “An’ what in hell are ye doin’?”

  “Ah, it’s terrible, Jimmy lad. This merciless devil is forcin’ coffee down me poor throat,” O’Callan wailed, then he calmed down and looked hopefully up at his friend. “Have ye come to rescue me, then, Jimmy lad?”

  “That’s it, Terry. Now don’t ye fear for naught. Sure an’ I’m here an’ have the situation well under control. Come along now, there’s a good lad.” Brannigan steered O’Callan through the saloon, the inebriated noncom listing badly to one side. Outside, Brannigan located O’Callan’s waiting horse. He propped his friend against a roof post while he retrieved his own.

  “Don’t worry about nothin’, Terry,” he soothed. With a small grunt of effort, he helped O’Callan astride his mount.

  Brannigan started for his own bay gelding, then changed course when the compassion felt by one Irishman for another who’d become enthralled with Demon Rum sent him back inside, where he purchased two bottles of excellent rye whiskey. Brannigan loosed O’Callan reins and, once in the saddle, led the way.

  Until they passed the outskirts of Lester Wells, Brannigan continued to lead O’Callan’s horse, his sodden friend weaving in the saddle. Once they rode clear of town—and prying eyes that might note details to be carried back to Leroy Hays—Brannigan reined up and groped in his saddlebags. The pop of a cork being briskly withdrawn from a bottle brought an end to O’Callan’s rambling discourse of maudlin self-pity.

  “’Tis a time like this when a man learns who his true friends are,” O’Callan declared passionately as he reached for the bottle. “At least ye didn’t farget me, Jimmy darlin’, did ye?”

  Brannigan jerked the whiskey out of reach. “Now listen to me, Terry. Ye’ve no reason to go off the deep end like this. It’s not any of us that’s got it in far ye. It’s that tosspot Cap’n Butts. Black Harry, hisself, brought down the papers—not to gloat, mind ye, but to say how sorry he was that it happened. Seem as how our darlin’ quartermaster somehow learned the identity of the, ah, ladies ye brought to the troopers’ ball. Bein’s as how it was such a ... ah, delicate subject... he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. But ’tis what got his dander up fer yer hide. Felt he’d been made a fool of, don’t ye see?”

  “Marietta’s girls at the ball! Why, that was near onto a month ago. He’s no call to be bringin’ up somethin’ about that after all this time.”

  “True enough, Terry. An’ the point is, he’d never dare to bring it up in the first place. But that fiasco with the navy last week gave him an opportunity to see ye punished without bringin’ up the real cause he had in mind.

  “Black Harry said the papers had been on the colonel’s desk within an hour of your return to Fort Dawson. An’ himself in a regular stew about it. Short-handed as the regiment is, and all the time involved in yer goin’ clear to San Francisco for a court, our darlin’ colonel was loath to do anything about it.” Brannigan paused to take a swig from the bottle. “Even so, it’s only a routine notification of charges ye’ve been given, not orders to go before a court.”

  “Is that what MacDonald had to say?”

  “Aye. An’ the same as ye’d been hearin’ had ye stayed to listen. Colonel Patterson hasn’t forwarded the papers with any sort of recommendation. Ye know what that means. Could be he’ll not put ye in far a court at all.”

  O’Callan fell silent, reflecting on the import of all this. It might hold some promise after all. Yet, with whom could he politic? He found the idea of facing the strange, penetrating gaze of Harry MacDonald too uncomfortable. Appealing to the better nature of the quartermaster—through a few bottles of fine bonded whiskey—might prove beneficial, though that went against the chain of command and, considering the alcoholic officer’s personality, might lay him open for even more trouble. There was, of course, Drucilla Patterson, the colonel’s lady. Now, if he could locate some seeds for flowers that would grow in this godforsaken desert ... Only, was there time?

  “I’ll be havin’ a nip o’ that lovely bottle, if ye don’t mind, Jimmy.”

  “If ye’ve calmed down an’ are ready to talk sense about yer predicament, ye can have it with me blessings. But no more o’ this gloom-an’-doom talk, ye hear?”

  O’Callan took the bottle and pressed it to his lips, the glass winking in the soft moonlight that turned the contents to an inky blackness. His throat worked as he drank deeply. As the whiskey blossomed into a comforting warmth in his stomach, O’Callan felt as though a heavy pawl had been lifted from his shoulders. Rid of the awesome fear of imminent court-martial, his brilliant—if untutored—mind began to jump from point to point in its usual manner.

  “Jimmy-boy, let’s ride to a place more private. I’ve some serious talkin’ to do ta ye.”

  ~*~

  Since sunrise, the measured, flat throbs of the hollow log drums had sounded throughout the shallow bowl where Halcon’s rancheria was established in the Dolores Range. For nearly two months the women had mourned the loss of warriors fallen in battle. A quick raid into Sonora, three hundred head of prime, fat cattle, and sixteen Mexicans slain had wiped o
ut part of the stain of defeat Halcon felt for the nighttime battle against the little pony-soldier chief with the burning hair under his nose.

  Nearly two moons had come and gone since that disaster, he considered. It was time to deal with other things. Almost two hands of days had passed since the battle on Mesa-Where-Singing-Bird-Died. Although three hands and one of horses had been taken, along with four hands of the rabbit-ears, the white-eye soldiers had escaped. In truth, the man-children had fought as fiercely and as bravely as warriors full grown, yet Halcon knew it to be a defeat, not a victory. So, apparently, did his son.

  Since their return to the rancheria, the boy had not spoken a word, save the ritual prayers and greetings all were required to make. He sat alone every day, staring off into the distance and often making strange marks in the dirt with a stick. Da-soda-hae drew the flying wagon used by the pony-soldiers to escape from the encircling warriors. And he drew many pictures of owls.

  Some of the owls had grown the strange gray-white wing their enemies had used to outrun all pursuit. Halcon knew the boy still smarted with humiliation at how his followers had taken flight in terror, along with his father’s warriors, at sight of the flying wagon. But this night was meant to end these things as well.

  All of the old, wise men of the three clans in Halcon’s rancheria were gathered in the shaman’s wikiup. Present, too, were the best leaders in war and the fiercest warriors. They had convened to determine what could be done about Mochuelito and the warrior society of the owl that his vision had inspired. The subject of their solemn convocation had been sent three days ago to undergo a purification and test of his endurance, to prove himself worthy.

  ~*~

  Mochuelito lay spread-eagled on the hard, cold rocks, high on the rim of the bowl-like meadow where a stream entered by means of a waterfall. The icy mist of the cataract felt like a million daggers as it settled on his naked body this late winter night. False spring had come and gone with the same suddenness and had left behind the deadly chill. Even if he wished to end his torment, Mochuelito was powerless to do so, for his hands and feet were bound by rawhide strips tied to stakes pounded firmly into crevices in the rock. He had been made to fast and lie exposed on this spot for three days. Now his mind had become crowded with swirls of hallucinations. Regardless of the spirit voices that sang just inside his ears, he was able to discern the sound of a stealthy, moccasined footstep.

  “Quien es?” he croaked in a whisper from his dry throat, parched lips barely forming the words.

  “Nanah,” came the whispered reply. A slim boy of eleven summers slipped from between two boulders and approached, kneeling beside the suffering youngster.

  “Little brother,” Mochuelito spoke, deep affection softening the rasp of his tormented vocal cords, “you followed me so faithfully when I answered the call of Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain. But now I’m disgraced and so’s my vision. Why did you come?”

  Nanah’s voice choked with emotion and unshed tears glinted in his obsidian eyes. “It’s because I love you. It’s the same with all of the boys. Even some of the warriors say you are the war leader they wish to follow.”

  The youngster’s hand reached out timidly, hesitantly. He lightly touched the icy flesh of Mochuelito’s chest, lingered there as if to warm the pain-wracked child with the heat of his own body. Mochuelito, who so recently had been called Da-soda-hae, stiffened under his friend’s soft touch.

  “They come! You must be away. Spirit-Woman will reward you for your faith.”

  Excitement flared in Nanah’s breast. “Then you have again seen your vision?”

  “I have seen ... something. Now be gone.”

  Inside the spirit lodge of the shaman, the fire glowed brighter and pungent desert leaves were sprinkled over it as the boy was brought before his elders. They regarded him with silence and suspicion for a long moment, and the sudden heat made great droplets of sweat pop out on Mochuelito’s bare flesh. The boy’s lips were blue with cold and his ribs stuck out starkly in testimony of his ordeal. His fingers, toes, and penis were wrinkled and whitened from long exposure to the cold water. At last, the shaman grunted his approval and nodded. The others made ritual sounds of acceptance.

  “You have seen beyond this world, Small One?”

  “I have seen many ... things, Honored Grandfather. I have heard strange music as well. It’s as if Mother-Of-Us-All sang to the People of her love. As she did, I saw a rabbit clutched in the talons of an owl. And I saw a clear blue sky over the land, which was empty of all save the People. The shadow of an owl passed across that land, flying unafraid in the daytime, and the pen-dik-oye were not there to shoot it. The singing told me this was good.”

  “You have seen into the time to come. Yours is a vision of peace. Your medicine is true and strong. Your wisdom is needed to guide and to counsel. Later, perhaps,” the shaman went on, interpreting Mochuelito’s visions, “you shall be a great war leader. But whether that’s before the time of great peace or not, the Spirit doesn’t show me. Now, you are gifted with a closeness to the Spirits that even I could envy. You shall serve the Spirits through service to the People. It is good. Dress this one as a man, for from this night forward he shall walk among us as a man full grown. I have spoken.”

  Early morning in the rancheria saw joyful preparations for a feast. Tiswin was being collected for all to drink, and much game was hunted and gathered in for the cook fires. Halcon’s rancheria had been blessed by having in its number a certified mystic. The little boy, Da-soda-hae, had been confirmed in his man-name, Mochuelito, and given high praise by the gnarled old medicine man. Surely now all ventures would prosper.

  ~*~

  A scant two hours after the same sun had risen over Fort Dawson, First Sergeant Jimmy Brannigan headed for his office to begin the morning report. He breathed deeply of the crisp, clean air, noting only a slight whiff of coal smoke from the farrier’s forge and a touch of burning ocotillo branch from Soapsuds Row, where the enlisted men’s wives made ready to do their wash. Above him a deep cerulean sky made a vast dome, without the slightest fleck of white to disturb its serenity. It was good to be alive on a day like this. Terry O’Callan found him at his desk a few minutes later.

  Head bent over a stack of papers, Brannigan went about his task while Dawson scribbled furiously to make out multiple copies of the sick call list, to be taken by the senior man reporting sick to the regimental surgeon’s office.

  “Top o’ the marnin’, Jimmy boy,” O’Callan greeted his friend.

  Gone was the dark depression he had felt the night before. In its place reverberated the mild throb of a minor hangover. But that was something he could handle in style. His carrot-topped head buzzed plans and schemes of getting rich and not ever having to worry about all this.

  “Have ye started our furlough papers as yet?”

  “I’ve not. An’ I’ll not be doin’ it. We went over this a week ago an’ I said it was a fool’s errand then. ’Tis crazy, Terry lad. Neither ye nor I know the first thing about go—ah, what it is yer plannin’ on doin’, so’s best we forget the whole thing.”

  Anger flared a fleeting, painfully jagged path through O’Callan brain. “I suppose ’twas in the cold light of mornin’ ye decided that? Ye were ready enough last night.”

  “In the cold, sober light of mornin’, Terry. As to last night, I’m not so sure ’twas me that was willin’ or that bottle o’ rye.”

  “Horse turds! What’s the difference we don’t know innythin’ about it? Least we can do is give it a try. Even if we don’t make a success of it, it’ll take me away from here an’ give the colonel and his darlin’ officers a chance to cool off a bit. Then perhaps they’ll give me the benefit of the doubt. Ye’d not be denyin’ me that, would ye?”

  Jim Brannigan started to make quick reply, but subsided at O’Callan’s question. When he answered, his voice came out soft, hesitant, as though regretful in advance for what it was saying.

  “I did agree to this wild sc
heme of yours last night, as I recall.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “And we do have over six weeks’ furlough coming, truth to tell.”

  “Right ye are.”

  “Likewise, it would be pretty mean o’ me to go back on me word to a fellow noncommissioned officer.”

  “No truer words were ever spoken, Jimmy lad,” O’Callan enthused, feeling victory sliding his way.

  “An’, win or lose in this venture, I imagine it would only be me Christian duty to do all I could to aid ye in yer present difficulties.”

  “Spoken like a true Irishman, Jimmy boy.” O’Callan’s eyes twinkled with excitement.

  “Bein’ as it is ye believe the best way to get a favorable decision is to absent yerself while the colonel makes up his mind, I suppose ... I just suppose I could take it upon meself to get on with it and present those furlough papers before noontime today.”

  “Saints be praised!” O’Callan sighed gustily. “Ye’re a credit ta yer stripes, Jimmy me boy, an’ a credit to Erin’s dear ald sod. Ye’ll not regret this, that I promise ye.”

  Dawson stared at them in open-mouthed confusion. He knew better than to inquire into the private affairs of two ranking NCOs, yet he was hard put to control his rampant curiosity.

  Jim Brannigan sighed heavily. “Terry, ye silver-tongued devil, that, I sadly fear, remains to be seen.”

  Twenty-One

  Five days on the trail brought the adventurous pair to Fort Apache. From there everything went uphill.

  Having topped the uncountable-dozenth ridge after leaving Fort Apache, and climbing upward onto the Mogollon Rim, Terry O’Callan and Jim Brannigan sighted the clouds of dust and smoke that located for them the mining boomtown that had grown up in the craggy wastes. A few miles more, and another ridge allowed them a glimpse of the uneven rows of white-walled tents that housed the occupants and their businesses alike.