Mallory

by Hebby Roman

  The young girl wrinkled her freckled nose. “They’re our infantry units. Papa says they’re not suited to pursuing hostiles, marching on foot. He uses them to keep the fort running and to build the new buildings we need.”

  “Sounds like your father knows what he’s doing.”

  Peggy dropped her hand and ran forward. “Corporal, can I pet Boots?”

  “To be sure, Miss Peggy.” The corporal was walking a roan horse that looked familiar. He stopped and held the horse’s bridle.

  The commander’s daughter reached into her pocket and brought out a sugar cube. The horse lipped up the treat, and Peggy giggled. “He tickles!” She patted the horse’s gray-speckled neck. “Isn’t he a beauty? He’s my Papa’s favorite mount.”

  Now Mallory remembered, though to be honest, most of yesterday was something of a blur. The commander’s horse had been a roan gelding. Accustomed to being raised around superior horseflesh, she scanned the gelding’s confirmation and saw why Peggy was enthralled. He was a stunning horse.

  “Papa had to pay for part of Boots. The Army didn’t want to buy him because he was too expensive.” She stroked the horse’s nose. “But I think he’s beautiful, and I’m glad Papa got Boots.”

  “He is handsome,” Mallory agreed. “But why do you call him ‘Boots?’ He doesn’t have socks.”

  Peggy gave the horse a last pat and returned to her side. “For ‘boots and saddles.’ It’s a nickname for the cavalry. Want to see the town?” She wrinkled her nose again. “Not that there’s much to see, but the new church is there.”

  “Yes, please show me.”

  They joined hands again, and Peggy led her to a dusty road leading away from the canyon, a natural defensive position that made her feel safe.

  But how would she feel on a secluded ranch, miles from nowhere?

  Despite feeling relatively safe, she was curious, though, about the manner in which the fort had been built. “I thought the fort would be enclosed by a wall or palisade.”

  “Not in the West. My Papa says western forts rely on their soldiers and guns, not walls, for keeping away the hostiles. Though bad men have sold the Indians guns, and Papa says having guns have made the hostiles more fearless.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  She vividly recalled the thud of arrows into the stagecoach, but she also remembered the man who’d captured her was holding a gun, and all of the braves seemed to have some kind of firearm.

  “The commander who picked the site for Fort Davis chose it for the natural protection of the canyon walls, along with Limpia Creek,” Peggy informed her. “Limpia means clean in Spanish. Martina has been teaching me Spanish.”

  “Learning other languages is a good thing. My governess taught me French.”

  “Really?” Peggy gazed at her. “I’ve never heard anyone speak French.”

  “Well, if you were to go east to New Orleans, you’d find many French-speaking people.”

  “Hmmm, I’d like to go there and see those big riverboats. The ones with the paddlewheels.”

  “They’re wonderful boats. Smooth to ride upon and very luxurious. Maybe someday, you’ll go east and travel on one.”

  “I’d like that.” Peggy dropped her hand again and skipped ahead.

  The rutted road, leading away from the fort, appeared to be the main street of the town. As Mallory glanced around, she was disappointed to find the town was small and had little to offer beyond a dry goods store, a green grocer’s, bakery, butcher’s shop, livery, lumberyard, and saloon. Most of the stores were made of wood or limestone, like the fort’s buildings.

  Behind the main street, there were some scattered houses. A few were wooden, but most were constructed of a smooth, earthen-looking substance.

  They were nearing the end of the street, and a small, half-painted building with a cross above the front door stood in solitary splendor.

  Peggy stopped in front of the building and pointed. “There it is. Appears Reverend Finley hasn’t finished painting the church. Too bad.”

  She looked the squat church over; it was like no other church Mallory had ever seen. The structure was rectangular with clear glass windows along the sides. In place of a steeple, there was another box-like structure placed at the front of the roof line. And the building was made from that peculiar earthen-looking substance, too.

  “What is the church built from? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Oh, that’s called adobe, and it’s how the Mexicans build. It’s a kind of sunbaked mud, either bricks or filler between a wooden frame. If the walls are thick enough, the buildings are cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter.

  “Papa says the Mexicans learned how to use adobe from the more settled Indians, like the Navajo and Hopi.” Peggy bobbed her head. “He told me about Indian towns in New Mexico, built out of adobe, which are one huge building, divided up into many homes for the families. I’d like to see that.”

  “Yes,” Mallory agreed, “though, it’s hard to picture.” In Charleston, after the war, some builders had erected three-and-four story buildings with shops below and apartments for tenants above. She wondered if the strange adobe structures in New Mexico looked anything like them.

  Standing still, she could feel the sun, beating down on her head. She shaded her eyes and glanced up, taking in the blue sky, stretching for miles with a few puffs of white clouds. “Being cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter is quite an advantage,” she said.

  They’d napped for the prescribed hour, and though it was only April, Mallory could feel the sting of the sun on her skin. Not that it was as hot as the Lowcountry in summer, but the sun here seemed stronger. She must remember not to go out-of-doors without her parasol for fear of ruining her complexion.

  “I hadn’t thought it would be this warm during the day,” she remarked.

  “That’s because the air is thin up here.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Papa’s reasoning. When he can get them in the mail, he reads what he calls ‘scientific journals’, and there’s a theory the higher up you go in the mountains, the thinner the air is, making the sun feel hotter.”

  “How fascinating. I would have never taken your father for a reader of scientific journals.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Something about him reminds me of my friend’s husband who’s a minister.”

  Peggy leaned closer, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “If you can keep a secret, I’ll tell you something.”

  Mallory had to smile. Children and secrets, like iron and magnets, couldn’t resist each other. She touched the young girl’s shoulder and said, “I’m very good with secrets.” She crossed her heart and kissed the palm of her hand. “I promise.”

  “Papa wanted to be a preacher. Then he met Mama, and they married.”

  “But preachers marry; why did he give up on being a preacher?”

  Peggy shrugged. “I’m not sure. Grown-up stuff, something about having a decent home.”

  “Oh, I see.” But Mallory didn’t understand why his being a preacher would preclude him from having a nice home. Most preachers lived in parsonages, free of charge, built for them by their congregations.

  Peggy’s secret did answer one question—now she knew why the commander struck her as a kind and an upright man.

  “Too bad the preacher hasn’t finished painting,” Peggy said again. “Once it’s white-washed, the church will look a whole lot better.”

  Mallory nodded. She couldn’t help but agree. The original adobe color was a muddy brown. The parts of the church that had been painted at least looked clean and inviting.

  “I guess Reverend Finley won’t have time to finish, not before your wedding anyway.”

  “Most likely.” Mallory pursed her lips, trying to envision her wedding day, taking place within the next week. She had brought an appropriate dress, nothing too showy but probably far mor
e elegant than most folks had seen in this tiny, far-flung town. She hoped her husband-to-be approved.

  Despite their stilted, formal letters to each other, it struck Mallory she’d be marrying a veritable stranger, a man she knew very little about. Thinking of it, her heart fluttered in her chest like a dove, beating its wings against the bars of its cage.

  “How many people live in town? Do you know?” she asked.

  “At last count, Papa said about five hundred, but there’s new people moving here every day, especially because Fort Davis is the county seat.”

  “So, the town is called Fort Davis, too?”

  “Used to be called Presidio, but now that’s the name of the county instead.” Peggy grabbed her hand again and tugged. “Want to see the inside of the church?”

  The way she was feeling, as if this squat, half-painted structure would be her sacrificial altar, she’d rather not see inside, but she couldn’t tell Peggy such a thing. Instead, she said, “Of course.”

  They entered the building, which smelled strongly of fresh paint, and found an austere interior, composed of simple wooden pews, a communion rail, and a pulpit.

  From the shadows, a raw-boned, young man appeared. “Welcome, I’m Reverend Finley, and it does my heart good to see your interest in our new church.”

  Peggy pushed her forward. “She’s getting married here in the next few days, so you better be ready.”

  Mallory put out her hand and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Reverend Finley. My name is Mallory Metcalf Reynolds, and my intended is E. P. Murphy.”

  He took her hand. “Ah, the mail order bride of our benefactor. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, and I look forward to joining you in holy matrimony.”

  Peggy gazed at her, her mouth hanging open. “You’re a mail order bride? Papa didn’t tell me. And you’re to marry that old man Murphy?”

  At the young girl’s innocent words, a shudder slithered down her spine. She knew Mr. Murphy was forty-six years old from his letters, but it didn’t mean he was an old man. Or, not exactly.

  Still, the proprieties must be observed, and she protested, “Peggy, that’s not kind.”

  “Awww,” Peggy huffed.

  Mallory glanced up to see the reverend, running a finger between his neck and clerical collar. She could understand his anxiety, as it mirrored her own. She’d often wondered what her husband-to-be looked like. Unlike other mail order catalogues, The Texas Christian Advocate frowned on the exchange of pictures, believing a marriage shouldn’t rely on outward appearances.

  “Mr. Murphy is not old, Miss Reynolds, though his face might be creased from spending time out of doors.” The reverend defended his benefactor. “I can assure you he’s in the prime of life and a distinguished man.”

  “I’m sure he is.” She stuck a smile on her face. “Thank you, Reverend, but it’s getting late, and we should return to the fort for supper.”

  “I understand.” He coughed. “Would you like to visit the men’s graves before you leave?”

  “What graves?” She couldn’t keep the note of alarm from her voice.

  “The men we buried this morning, the stagecoach driver and his guard.” He peered at her through his thick glasses. “You are the young lady who was rescued after the coach was attacked. Am I correct?”

  News traveled fast in this small outpost, but it was the same back home. People loved to talk and gossip.

  She gulped. “Yes, I am. And you’re right, I would like to pay my respects.”

  He inclined his head and gestured with his arm. “This way.”

  They followed the reverend out the back door and down a short staircase to what was a desolate and dry-looking plot of ground, ringed by split cedar logs. Two new mounds of earth with crude wooden crosses caught her attention. Compared to the lush, tree-lined cemeteries back home, this place was barren and forbidding. She trembled inside.

  The reverend stood for a moment with his head bowed and then glanced up. He ran his finger around his collar again, and perspiration beaded his upper lip. “Such a terrible thing. I’ve only been here two weeks, and I’ve already buried six people murdered by the Apache. I hope the commander can bring them to heel soon.”

  She opened her mouth to defend Commander Gregory, but when she saw Peggy’s scowl, she decided not to put her two cents in. The reverend struck her as a particularly nervous young man, and she doubted he would last long on the frontier, even though he kept to the relative safety of the town.

  “Not to mention three men killed in a gunfight in town,” he added.

  For a minister, he really was a kill-joy.

  She put her arm around Peggy and said, “I think we should go.” She glanced at the men’s graves again and bowed her head. “God rest their souls.”

  “Good day to you,” the reverend said, tipping his hat.

  “And to you.” She raised her head and took Peggy’s hand again.

  The reverend returned to his church, and they stepped outside the split-rail fence. Off to the right-hand side, she glimpsed another huddle of adobe buildings. But instead of being white-washed, the dumpy buildings sported a bright array of pastel colors, as if, with false gaiety, they could compensate for their stubby structures. The cluster of adobe buildings were separated by a ravine from the other part of town.

  “Is that part of Fort Davis?” she asked. “Funny, how it’s off there by itself. Do we have time to explore?”

  Peggy shook her head. “I’m not allowed to go there. It’s a dangerous part of town, called Chihuahua. Papa says his soldiers go there to do bad things, even though they’re forbidden.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Mallory could guess what kind of establishments Peggy was talking about. If it hadn’t been for her friend Nancy, she might have…

  “All the people who live there are Spanish-speaking. They were there before the fort, Papa says. México owned this land until we won it in the Mexican-American War. Most of the people in Fort Davis are Mexican.”

  “Well, then it’s a good thing you’re learning Spanish. If you stay here, you’ll need to speak the language.”

  The young girl shrugged. “Papa never gets to stay in one place for long. Makes it hard to have friends,” she added wistfully.

  “I’m sure it does. But you’re sweet and smart; you must make friends easily.”

  Peggy looked down and drew an arc in the dust with the toe of her lace-up boot. “Maybe. I suppose.”

  Poor girl, she was at that awkward age, and with her mother gone and her father’s vocation, she didn’t have it easy. Mallory’s heart went out to her. She took Peggy’s hand and squeezed it.

  Mallory looked over her shoulder at the sprawl of adobe buildings in the forbidden part of town. She wasn’t in a much better place than Peggy, only a little older.

  She’d come west for a fresh start and almost been ravished and killed by the Apache. Most servants, like Martina, were probably vanquished Mexicans who’d had their land taken from them. And if men like Mr. Spofford was an example of the other inhabitants of this place, though he was a brave man, she’d need to learn their rough ways. Not to mention the reverend’s broad hints about even more violent types, dying in gunfights.

  And Peggy had called her intended an old man.

  What was she doing here? Could she learn to make this dangerous and forbidding land her home? Could she lay with a stranger, an older man, and not recoil when he touched her?

  Chapter Three

  Colonel Gregor unfurled the map and laid it on his desk, securing the four corners, so it wouldn’t curl up. He rose and stretched out his arms on either side of the map, supporting himself and studying it.

  Captains Rodgers and Myerson stood on the other side of his desk at attention. He should give them their ease, but he wasn’t feeling generous today. Too little sleep, too much to worry about.

  He’d reviewed the map, over and over, until he knew every road, trail, ranc
h, and the few landmarks sketched on it. For some reason, he was drawn to the map, believing it held the key to overcoming the hostiles. Perhaps that was why he never got tired of looking at it. The crude map drew him, like an alluring woman… like Miss Reynolds.

  Enough of that. She was espoused to Mr. Murphy, a fine man.

  But he couldn’t forget the way her arms had embraced him, the simple touch of her, holding onto him in the saddle. It had been a long time since he’d felt a woman’s touch. His Martha had been ailing for at least two years before the good Lord had taken her, and he’d buried her at Fort Clark almost two years ago.

  Glancing at the sketchy outlines of the mountains on the map, he had a revelation. Standing up straight, he said, “Captain Rodgers, fetch Sergeant Hotchkiss. On the double.”

  Rodgers looked startled and then saluted. He turned and marched out of the headquarters’ office.

  “Captain Myerson, I need for you to bring me Captain French.”

  “Yes, sir, but I thought we were going to talk about containing the hostiles. It’s well known the infantry has failed—”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He waved his hand. “But I’ve had a thought, and I’ll need Captain French’s counsel and coordination.”

  Captain Myerson drew himself up and saluted. “Right away, sir.”

  Gregor sat down and fiddled with his coffee cup. His orderly had brought it when he’d arrived, but the coffee was already cold. He downed a gulp and grimaced. Might as well do something useful while he waited.

  He pulled a stack of papers toward him—the latest dispatches from Fort Bliss and Fort Stockton, his nearest neighboring forts.

  Fishing in his jacket pocket, he retrieved his spectacles. He hated wearing spectacles. They made him feel like an old man. But for close-up reading, he needed them.

  Reading the dispatches, especially from Fort Stockton, was like going over his own dispatches. Same problems, same slippery Apaches who confounded the cavalry, melting into the mountains or returning to their reservation in New Mexico when they were hotly pursued. Only to reappear when least expected.