Mallory

by Hebby Roman

The door opened and Captain Myerson, along with Captain French, stepped into the room. He rose and greeted the infantry captain, who had a puzzled look on his face.

  A few minutes later, Captain Rodgers returned with Sergeant Hotchkiss. He sat down and offered the men their ease, urging them to take seats across from him, except for the sergeant, who he motioned to his side.

  “Hotchkiss, you’re fair at sketching. Right? And you’ve been stationed how long at Fort Davis?”

  The sergeant joined him on the other side of the desk and pursed his lips. “I can draw simple things, sir. And I’ve been at Fort Davis for six years.”

  “Good man.” He clasped the sergeant’s shoulder and pointed at the map. “See this rendering of the mountains? It’s just a bunch of squiggles with no focal point, no canyons, or gullies, or watering holes.” He shook his head. “We need a terrain map, Hotchkiss.” He glanced at the man, standing beside him. “If you’ve been here six years, you must have been on about a hundred patrols.”

  Hotchkiss swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir, I guess I have been on a lot of patrols.”

  “Then you must know the terrain. Can you draw me a more detailed map? From your experience. With the trails but also the topography of the mountains, where’s there a pass, stand of forest, canyon, or watering hole?”

  “Uh, yes, sir, I think I can do it. Would you want me to cover the same area as this map? If so, I will need a much larger—”

  “Let’s concentrate on a thirty-mile circumference, Hotchkiss, with the fort as the central point.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, sir. No problem, sir.” The sergeant glanced at Myerson.

  “You’re relieved of your other duties, Sergeant Hotchkiss,” Myerson said. “Get to working on the commander’s map. I’ll assign your duties elsewhere.”

  “How long do you think it will take?” Gregor asked. He walked to a cabinet and pulled out several long sheets of paper, handing them to Hotchkiss.

  “I’ll get right to it. Shouldn’t take me more than a day or two.”

  “But you’ve got to make this detailed, Hotchkiss, marking all the relevant topography. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my very best, sir. It might not be pretty—”

  “Just make it accurate. And as soon as you’re done, bring the map directly to me. We’ll go over it together.”

  Hotchkiss straightened, took the sheets of paper and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Hotchkiss turned in a tight square and quit the room.

  Captain French watched him go and then he faced Gregor. “Sir, if this is about containing the hostiles, we’ve known for years that infantry men, on foot, are no match. The savages gallop off in a cloud of dust, laughing at my men.”

  Gregor sighed. What French said was true. The Indian wars would probably have been over by now if the Army had possessed a bit more foresight. But after the Civil War, it had been easy to dispatch infantry troops to the West, thinking they could overcome the native tribes. The poor men had marched for days, back and forth, around most forts, being led on a wild goose chase by the natives, who were always on horseback.

  It had been one of the more embarrassing chapters for the Army.

  “I’m well aware of your men’s limitations in dealing with the hostiles,” Gregor replied. “That’s why I’ve put them to building structures and patrolling the fort.” He scratched his chin. “And if we had the wire, I’d put them to stringing the telegraph from Brilla Springs, but I’m still waiting on supplies.” He shook his head. “The Regional Commander in Fort Sam Houston says the wire is on its way, but for now, I don’t know when we’ll get it.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  French should understand, being a lifer like him. Supplies of any kind usually took three times as long as the Army promised. But that was part of guarding the frontier, and he’d learned to adjust to it.

  “What are your men working on, Captain French?”

  “Storehouses, sir. We’re building storehouses.”

  “Well, we can do without a few more storehouses for now. If we run out of room, we’ll use the quartermaster’s storage or the stables.”

  “We’re to stop building and do what, sir?”

  “Have you been drilling your men?” Gregor tossed back.

  “Yes, sir, a forced march every other day after reveille.”

  “How fast can your men cover five miles?”

  “Depends, sir, on the terrain and the pace.”

  “Double-time and mountainous terrain.”

  French puffed his cheeks and blew out his breath. “Double-time in the mountains is… challenging.”

  “I know. Give me an idea.”

  French shook his head. “Two to three hours, maybe half a day, sir.”

  “Good enough. That gives me something to work with.”

  “But, sir,” Captain Myerson interjected, “as Captain French has pointed out, infantry can’t—”

  “Captain Myerson, I’m well aware of your objections.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Myerson was always quick to voice his opinion, mostly of the negative variety. But the course they’d been following wasn’t working. Time to try something new.

  “I have a plan. You might think it’s worthless, but we need to give it a try. I want to station a company of infantry at each of our outposts. The men can be rotated out, every few weeks.” He paused and glanced at French.

  “And once Hotchkiss has drawn up his map, we’ll probably station more companies, at likely sites, based on the terrain. The infantry’s mission will be to reconnoiter the area around their stations for five miles, every other day.” He held up one hand. “They will be accompanied by two scouts, one from the Ninth Cavalry and the other from the Tenth. If there is any sign of hostiles, one of the scouts will ride, with all due haste, to the fort. Then we’ll dispatch a cavalry patrol to intercept the hostiles before they can carry out their raid.”

  He leaned forward and stabbed the map with his index finger. “That way, instead of being on the defensive, we’ll take the offensive, driving them off before they can strike. The cavalry will still patrol the road and surrounding ranches, too.” He straightened and looked each one of his captains in the eye. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir, my men will be eager to see action,” French said.

  “Perfectly, sir, I believe it’s a good plan,” Rodgers said.

  “I understand, sir,” Myerson said, and then he couldn’t help but add, “it will be a challenge, getting the cavalry there in time.”

  “But we’re all agreed to give it a try,” Gregor demanded.

  French and Rodgers nodded.

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” Myerson said the right words, but the tone of his voice was begrudging.

  Gregor grunted. “Good. Prepare your men, French. Pick the scouts for this next month, Myerson and Rodgers. As soon as Hotchkiss finishes the map, we’ll talk again about deployment.”

  He raised his hand and saluted them. “Dismissed.”

  ***

  Mallory turned in her saddle and waved goodbye to Peggy. The young girl, her eyes suspiciously bright, waved back. Though she’d only known the child for two days, she was loath to leave her, realizing Peggy needed a mother in the worst of ways.

  She chewed her lip and turned around, resolutely letting her mount carry her away from Fort Davis. Though, it was past hard, and her heart ached. Peggy reminded her of how lost she’d felt when her mother had died, and shortly thereafter, her father had marched off to the war. Children needed their parents.

  She shut her eyes, willing the tears away. Macon was in good hands and with a bit of luck, she’d be sending for him soon. She must remember this was only temporary, leaving her child behind.

  After about an hour of trailing behind Major Gregor on a black mare, her thighs chaffed from rubbing against t
he saddle. She’d never ridden astride before, only side-saddle, as a proper southern lady would do. But when they’d given her the mare, fitted with an Army saddle, she’d not protested, realizing, on the frontier, there probably wasn’t a sidesaddle within a thousand miles.

  Four soldiers flanked her and two more rode behind. Her trunk was strapped to a mule, which one of the soldiers led. Macon’s picture was tucked safely inside it.

  She hoped the commander knew what he was doing, riding out with so few men. She was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. The vast land spooked her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if there was an Apache hiding behind every boulder.

  She gazed at the commander’s broad back and wished she was his mail order bride. Not that she wanted him as a woman should, because her experience had taken that away from her. But the commander was a good man, a fellow Christian, and though, she knew everyone spoke highly of her intended, she couldn’t help but worry he wouldn’t find her suitable.

  Her wedding night loomed ahead, filling her with terror. What if she couldn’t abide her new husband’s touch? What if he realized she wasn’t a virgin? All the disturbing thoughts she’d pushed to the back of her mind came to the forefront, leaving her ashamed and worried.

  How on earth would she beguile an unknown man to be a doting husband and get him to agree to send for her son?

  Why had she wanted to ride out to Mr. Murphy’s ranch? Because, after her near escape from the hostiles, she’d felt fragile and frightened. Somehow, it had seemed the right thing to do. Now, she wasn’t sure. If she’d been observing the customary proprieties, she would have sent for Mr. Murphy. She shook her head, feeling like she’d already ruined herself again.

  They turned down the fork in the road and after another mile, a huge weathered wood arch stretched above them. On the top of the arch, the letter M scrolled out, lying almost vertical against the wood, as if it was resting or… lazy.

  An interesting choice for the name of a ranch. She could understand the letter “M” for Murphy, but nothing about this harsh land made her feel lazy.

  Her horse shied and side-stepped. She glanced down to find several of the holes the commander’s horse had almost stepped in the first day. Tightening her hold on the reins, she gazed out over the rolling grasslands, hoping to catch a glimpse of the strange, rodent-like creature the commander had tried to describe.

  The tall, wheaten-colored prairie grass, dotted with rainbow-colored wildflowers, waved in the wind, but there wasn’t a prairie dog in sight.

  The commander stopped his roan and glanced over his shoulder. “Better take care, Miss Reynolds. There’s quite a few prairie dog holes. I would have thought Mr. Murphy would have…” He stopped himself and pursed his lips. “There’s a lot of work to do on a ranch of five thousand acres. I’m certain it’s an oversight.” He dipped his head. “The mare is sure-footed, but you might want to watch out, too.”

  At the mention of five thousand acres, she covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing a gasp. Very few plantation owners, even before the war, owned that much land. Her husband-to-be hadn’t lied when he’d claimed to be wealthy. Not that his financial position helped allay her fears. If anything, she feared he’d be even more exacting.

  “Of course,” she said, looking at the ground. “I’ll watch for holes.”

  They rode in silence for another half of a mile, avoiding holes in the winding trail. Then they topped a rise in the track, and a long, low building came into view. Surrounding it were other, smaller buildings and a series of wooden corrals. The main building, which must be the ranch house, was made of the strange earthen material Peggy had called adobe. The roof and green-painted shutters were wooden, though, and helped to “dress” the outside of the plain house.

  They approached the ranch house, which had a deep front porch, supported by cedar posts. Several men from the nearby corrals must have seen them because they came drifting over and stood in the shade of a side porch.

  The men wore their wide-brimmed Stetsons pulled low, half-covering their eyes. Mallory had the distinct impression she was being reviewed, measured, and appraised. Not that she could blame them. There were few enough women on the frontier, and here she was, set on being mistress of this sprawling spread.

  A tall, thin man opened the front door of the ranch house and stepped onto the porch. He was clad in a blue cotton shirt with a red bandana at his throat and rough denim trousers. A holstered gun rode on his right hip.

  His face was creased and lined, but his hair and the smudge of mustache above his narrow mouth was ginger-colored without a speck of gray in it. If this was her soon-to-be husband, he looked younger than his forty-six years.

  He wasn’t a bad looking man, but he wasn’t handsome. Somehow, though, he wasn’t what she’d expected. There was something about his demeanor that belied his character, especially given everyone’s praise of Mr. Murphy as a distinguished Christian. This man struck her as almost sinister, a far cry from how she’d pictured him.

  She swallowed and composed her features. Needing something to do, she drew the reins through her gloved hands, stroking them as if they would lend her a kind of solace.

  The commander dipped his head and touched the brim of his hat. “Ben, good to see you. You’ve not been to town for a while. Hope you’re doing well.”

  The man the commander had called Ben, smiled. But for her, his smile was more of a grimace, not even reaching half-way to his eyes. “Been well enough, Colonel.” He spat a wad of tobacco on the ground and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

  Startled, she didn’t know what to think. She despised men who chewed tobacco, but then again, the commander had called this man by the name of “Ben,” not “Edward.” Secretly relieved, she stayed quiet and waited for her to-be-husband to appear.

  “What brings ya out here, Colonel? Didn’t know ya left the fort much.”

  “No, you’re right, I don’t, but this lady…” He turned around and extended his hand toward her. “Needed a special escort. She’s your brother’s mail order bride, and E. P. should thank his lucky stars she made it here. Her stagecoach was attacked, and she was taken by Caballero and held captive until we rescued her.”

  “Well, don’t that jist beat all,” Ben said, chortling. He glanced at her and narrowed his eyes. “What a plumb sad fact that, her being taken by Caballero and all… fer nothing.”

  “What do you mean, Ben?” The commander asked.

  Ben half-turned and hitched his thumb toward a huge pecan tree in the yard. Beneath the tree was a wooden cross at the head of a freshly-turned grave. “Cause poor ole Ed done met his Maker. We buried him yonder, three days ago.” He squinted. “’Twere an accident. He was herding some stray cows in Painted Rock canyon, and his horse must have mis-stepped.” He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a fresh plug of tobacco. “We found ‘em both at the bottom of that there ravine.”

  He took a bite of tobacco and turned his gaze on her. “Missus, yer husband-to-be, my dear brother, is dead.”

  This time, she couldn’t suppress her gasp. She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She swallowed, feeling discomforted and suddenly nauseous. But she was determined not to be sick, especially in front of the ranch hands.

  The commander glanced over his shoulder at the grave. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ben.” He swung his head back to face the reedy man on the porch. “I’m surprised you didn’t send for Reverend Finley. E.P. would have wanted a Christian burial.”

  Ben worked his jaw muscles, pushing the wad of tobacco around in his mouth. “Tweren’t no time. He’d been dead for three days afore we found him.” He smiled, a mocking smile. “Poor ole Ed was a mite ripe when he finally turned up. No time to send fer that fancy-pants Reverend.”

  “I thought you said E.P. died three days ago,” the commander pointed out. “Was it three or six days?”

  “Did I? Well, ya know how it is out here. Time
, ‘cept fer the day’s chores and the seasons, don’t mean much.” He chewed vigorously, and a thin trickle of nut-brown saliva slithered down his chin.

  Watching him, Mallory shuddered. If the older brother had been anything like his younger sibling, she would have been hard-pressed to marry him. No matter how rich he was or how faithful a Christian.

  Suddenly, she realized she was free. A wave of relief rolled over her, leaving her almost giddy and light-headed. She didn’t have to get married or have a stranger touch her. It was as if someone had been holding her underwater, and she’d finally broken loose and risen to the surface, able to drag air into her lungs.

  She took several deep breaths. Then she glanced at the mound of earth again and felt ashamed. Ashamed and guilty that a good man had died, and all she felt was a sense of liberation. But with freedom came responsibility. What would she do now?

  The commander must have been thinking along those same lines because he asked, “Are you prepared, Ben, to honor your brother’s agreement?” He gestured toward her. “This lady has traveled hundreds of miles, braved an Apache attack, and—”

  “Hold yer horses right there.” Ben put out his right hand, palm out. “I don’t know what yer thinking, Colonel, but I’ve not got any responsibility here. It was all ole Ed’s doing, wanting a wife so he could birth a passel of young’uns to follow in his footsteps.”

  Was the commander suggesting Ben take over her marriage contract?

  The thought of marrying such a man made her heart stop in her chest. When the gaunt rancher vehemently refused, she breathed again, deeply.

  Besides, she was not a side of beef to be bartered back and forth. Her marriage arrangements had been made with Mr. Edward P. Murphy, not his younger brother.

  “I see,” the commander said. He glanced at her and then gazed at the men, gathered around the porch, following their conversation with avid stares. “Could we go inside and discuss the situation in private.”

  “Ain’t nothing to discuss, Colonel.” Ben waved his hand and spat again. “She’s free to go right back whar she came from. Simple ‘nuff.”