The ruddy-complexioned young man looked Clay up and down before answering. Puffing up his ample chest, he said, "I reckon that's army business, mister."
Clay released his arm. "Then tell me where to find First Lieutenant Randall's office."
"Randall? He ain't been in command here since the middle of last month. Second Lieutenant Fleming's in charge now."
Clay shook his head in disbelief. A second lieutenant, in charge of a whole post? It was getting worse all the time. "And where will I find him?" Clay returned with a patient look.
"Have a look-see in his office down yonder," he answered, pointing at the small room which housed the army headquarters. It was tucked, under the catwalk that circled the inside walls of the fort. "If he ain't there, try over at Old Bedlam."
"Old Bedlam?" Kierin echoed. "What in the world is that?"
The soldier's eyes widened appreciatively at the sight of Kierin stepping out from behind Clay. He doffed his cap and gave her a gap-toothed smile. "How do, ma'am."
Kierin dipped her head. "Corporal? You were saying?"
It took him a moment to remember what he had been saying. "Oh, yeah. Old Bedlam. Officers' quarters. Well," he corrected himself, "it ain't strictly for officers anymore, 'cause the truth is there ain't many here. No cavalry stationed here neither. Anyway, check over there if you don't find Fleming in his office."
Kierin smiled engagingly, hoping to pry more information from him. "Are you sure he's not among those men who just left the fort?"
"Fleming? No, ma'am. He'd a been a fool to go with that hothead, Grattan."
Clay's arm tensed beneath her hand and she glanced obliquely at him. A narrow-eyed frown tugged at his expression. She gave the soldier her full attention again. "Why's that, Corporal?" she prodded.
The soldier evidently caught Clay's expression and stopped himself before he overstepped his bounds. Licking his lips, he answered, "Well... it ain't purely for me to say, ma'am." He glanced at Clay again. "You'll have to ask Lieutenant Fleming about it yourself." He touched two fingers to the bill of his cap, excusing himself. "Ma'am."
"What do you think he meant?" Kierin asked, when the soldier was out of earshot.
"I don't know," Clay answered, "but I'm going to find out." He turned to her, a smile softening the lines on his face. Sliding his hands up her arms, he held her shoulders and asked, "Think you can entertain yourself, while I talk to Fleming?"
"Oh, I'm sure I can find something to do," she said with a teasing grin.
"Good." He bent down, planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, and gave her shoulders a squeeze. "I shouldn't be long."
His touch sent a current of warmth through her and made her heart hurry its pace. As he turned to go, she put a hand on his arm. "Clay, you won't forget to ask him about marrying us, will you?"
A playfully wolfish look came into his eyes. "Not a chance, Miss McKendry," he told her, capturing her mouth in a brief but fervent kiss. "I'll be right back."
Kierin's cheeks were warm with color as she watched him go. A shiver of pure happiness ran down her spine. Had it been only two days since he'd asked her to marry him? she wondered with a contented sigh. Two days since he'd told her he loved her? It had been the most wonderful two days of her life.
She brushed her fingers against her lips. She could still taste his kiss there—warm and fresh with a hint of the wild mint they'd collected earlier that morning.
A woman with a young boy by her side smiled at Kierin as she brushed past her on the narrow boarded walkway. Kierin's gaze followed them as they passed. Her thoughts turned naturally to Matthew.
He'd be bigger than that now, she mused, looking after the boy, who nearly reached his mother's chin. He always sprouted like a joe-pye weed in the summers. She smiled, remembering how she'd barely get his pants let out before she'd have to turn around and do it again.
Everything would be perfect if only Matthew were here to share her joy. Scanning the fort, her eyes came to rest on a small sign over a doorway opposite the sutler's store. It read: Records Office. There was only a slim chance that she'd find out anything about her father and Matthew, but she decided to try it.
A bell jangled from the door jamb as she entered the dimly lit office. An immaculate polished-oak counter bisected the smallish room. Behind this, at an equally orderly desk, sat a thin, bespeckled man wearing sergeant's stripes, scratching entries into an oversized ledger book. He looked up at the sound of the bell. His spectacles slipped down to the tip of his nose when he stood to greet her and he pushed them back with a practiced forefinger.
"How do, miss? What can I do for you?"
"My name is Kierin McKendry, Sergeant. I'm looking for my father and brother, who passed through here last year. Would you keep records on that?"
"Yes, ma'am. Best we can. Any idea what month they may've come through?" he asked.
"August, I imagine," she answered. "They didn't leave from Independence until the end of June."
The clerk frowned. "That's a mighty late start. With a train, were they?"
"Yes. A small one. Maybe fifteen wagons. But more might have joined them on the way." She explained about the locket she'd found at Kearny and showed him the pictures inside.
He shook his head. "I'm not too good at remembering faces," he admitted. "Names. Now that's another matter." He hauled out a large ledger from beneath the counter and laid it open in front of him. "McKendry, you say?"
"Asa and Matthew."
He flipped through the pages, reciting the names of the months until he came to August. "Ah, here we are. Now let's see." His thin finger indexed down several pages. "McKendry... McKendry... Last year we had a lot of trains slowed by the cholera," he said absently. "Epidemic. Might have put them in here as late as September."
Kierin chewed on her lip, disheartened by the news.
"Some folks didn't bother to register their names," he went on. "Could your pa write his—ah, wait... here it is. Asa McKendry and son, Matthew. Tenth of September, 1853. With the... ah, Hadley train."
Relief poured through her and she rolled her eyes shut for a moment. "Thank God. Their names were both there?"
"Yes, ma'am." He stared at the book, scratching his thinning hair as if searching his memory for an out-of-place fact.
Kierin folded her hands tightly in front of her. "Is something wrong?"
He cleared his throat. "Like I said, names have a way of sticking in my head. The Hadley train was one of the last trains through here last year. In fact, they were so late, half the families decided to stay on here for the winter. The others decided to chance the weather over the pass." He pulled another ledger from beneath the counter and leafed through it.
"You mean it was dangerous to go on then?"
He glanced up at her briefly. "Winter comes early that high up."
A cold knot formed in her stomach. Her father was a gambler. He loved taking chances. He would have gone over the pass and taken her brother with him, in spite of the dangers.
The clerk's finger stopped at the bottom of the page he was scanning while he read the entry. He cleared his throat, then slipped the spectacles off his nose with deliberate slowness.
"What?" she asked in a small, frightened voice. Somehow, she knew she wouldn't want to hear his answer.
"Your pa's wagon was among those that went on," the sergeant replied slowly. "It was a small party, only seven wagons. They were warned before they left the fort about traveling in such small numbers..."
In agonized silence, she waited for him to go on.
His expression was pained, reluctant. "We... had no way of knowing until this spring.... It appears by the markings on the arrows, they were hit by a band of Crow up near the South Pass." He hesitated before going on, avoiding her stricken eyes. "They found no survivors."
* * *
A snot-nosed private who appeared decidedly underage answered Clay's knock on Fleming's door and showed him into the office.
"A Mr. Holt to see you, Lie
utenant," the private announced in a voice that hadn't yet made a decision on octave.
The officer behind the desk looked up at his visitor from behind a clutter of paperwork. Darkly tanned by the prairie sun, the young sandy-haired lieutenant shuffled the papers he was holding into a chaotic pile and rose to greet Clay. "Holt, you say?" Fleming asked, extending a sweaty palm.
Clay returned the handshake. "Clay Holt, Lieutenant. I'm here on behalf of Tom Fitzpatrick. I'm to deliver some papers for him to the officer in command."
"You've found him, Mr. Holt." Fleming indicated a chair to Holt and settled back in his own. "Nichols—" he called to the young private hovering near the door, "a drink for Mr. Holt here and pour me another while you're at it."
While Nichols was pouring, Clay withdrew the packet of papers from inside his shirt and laid it on the desk.
"Damn shame about Fitzpatrick," Fleming said, opening the packet and scanning the contents. "Heard about his dying in Washington this year. Savages trusted him as much as they trust any white man."
Clay's jaw tightened. "He was a man of his word," he agreed, sipping the whiskey Nichols handed him. "Indians respect honor, Lieutenant Fleming. This report is Tom's last. Just before he died, he was working toward the repeal of the Indian Removal Act."
Fleming refolded the report, then dabbed his forehead with a linen hanky. "I must say I'm curious. How is it that you delivered these and it wasn't done through ordinary military channels?"
"I happened to be in Washington when Tom was dying. We were old friends and he asked me to deliver them as a favor to him when he heard I was headed this way." Clay glanced pointedly at Fleming's cluttered desk. "He didn't hold much stock in military channels."
Fleming lifted an amused brow and tossed back a slug of whiskey.
"Tell me something, Lieutenant. Are you in the habit of sending your patrols out armed with howitzers?"
Fleming straightened in his chair. "If you're referring to the patrol that just left, Mr. Holt—"
"I am."
"That was a disciplinary action—"
"Disciplinary," Clay interrupted, setting down his glass with a thud. "On who?"
"On an Indian named High Forehead, of the Miniconjou Sioux," Fleming told him warily. He got up from his desk and paced to the glass-paned window.
"For what offense?"
Fleming stared out into the fort's courtyard. "He killed a cow from a Mormon train. Butchered the poor beast and ate it. It's a crime to steal cattle, Mr. Holt. We intend to bring the man to justice."
Clay blinked at the man in disbelief. "Are you aware that the Treaty of '51 makes no provisions for such an action?"
Surprised by Holt's audacity, Fleming turned to face him. "I'm aware that you're overstepping your bounds, Mr. Holt."
"Have you even bothered to read it, Lieutenant? The taking of prisoners is strictly forbidden. The treaty's quite clear on that. Withholding annuities until restitution is made is your only recourse and you know it."
"Sir, this is not a simple case of—"
Clay got to his feet. "The hell it isn't," he snapped. "We're talking about a goddamned cow, Lieutenant, and a tribe of hungry, and from what I hear, unhappy Sioux. Is it worth risking the lives of your men over something as petty as a cow?"
Fleming's face reddened with anger. "Who the hell do you think you are coming in here and questioning my judgment?"
Towering over the young second lieutenant, Clay chose his words carefully. "When you send twenty-some green men out on a fool's mission into an armed Sioux encampment—on foot, no less—someone better damn well question your judgment. Sir."
"If you were a soldier, I'd have you court-martialed for that remark," Fleming gritted impotently.
"I've done my time in the army, Lieutenant. Long enough to see how many men get killed because of senseless orders like these. What did you hope to accomplish?"
Fleming backed down and poured himself a drink. He drank it before speaking. "I was against it from the first," he admitted grudgingly, "but Brevet Lieutenant Grattan was anxious to teach these Sioux a lesson. The Miniconjou have been stirring up trouble for more than a year. He persuaded me... he felt—"
"Call them back."
Fleming's mouth dropped open. "What?"
"Send a man out. Do it, Fleming."
"Impossible."
Clay narrowed his eyes and took a step closer.
"I d-didn't order those men out," Fleming sputtered. "They're all volunteers under Lieutenant Grattan's authority. I've given him complete—"
"If they press this thing, they'll all die. You know that, don't you?" Disgust laced Clay's tone.
Fleming swallowed hard. "I trust Lieutenant Grattan will know where to draw the line."
"And will you be able to live with yourself if he doesn't?" At the lieutenant's stubborn silence, Clay snatched his hat from Fleming's desk and slammed out of the office.
Once outside, he swore and took several deep draughts of air to calm himself down. It wasn't his problem, he told himself. It was an army problem. He could just walk away. Any white man within miles of those twelve-pounders could be considered fair game if this thing got out of hand. He had other things to consider now.
Kierin, for one.
Clay scanned the fort's interior, searching for a glimpse of her. The fort was crowded with people but she was nowhere in sight. He headed to the sutler's store, the most promising possibility, he decided. As his long-legged strides covered the distance, his imagination formed pictures of the likely consequences of the coming confrontation.
He was constantly amazed at how little the army understood of Indian ways. No training was offered at their revered West Point, where most of these stiff-necked officers were emerging from. They came out here as green as sprouting buffalo grass and nearly as dumb. Glory-hungry idiots like Lieutenant Grattan were the worst of the lot.
At the post store, Clay's search came up empty. Where the hell did she go? He leaned a shoulder against the adobe wall outside the store and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, weighing the odds.
Should he follow his conscience or cold reason? And if he chose reason, would his conscience let him forget it if this all came out badly? He'd never been one to run from trouble before. Pushing away from the wall, he decided he wasn't about to start now.
Clay spotted Susan Thorp as she was coming out with her arms full of packages.
"Mrs. Thorp?" Clay touched the sleeve of her dress.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Holt. How are-"
"Could you do me a favor?" he asked, cutting her off.
She shifted her grip on the packages, and squinted at him through the sun's glint. "Of course, what is it?"
"I can't seem to locate my wife and there's something I need to do. It won't bear waiting. Would you see if you can find her and tell her I'll be back as soon as I can?"
"Certainly," she replied agreeably, "but where shall I tell her you went?"
Clay was already moving toward his tethered horse. "Just tell her I went out to have a talk with the soldiers who left earlier," he called, already back-pedaling toward his tethered horse. He could only hope Kierin would understand. "And, Mrs. Thorp," he added with a forced smile, "tell her not to worry."
* * *
"Miss McKendry, are you all right?" the registrar sergeant asked. "Maybe you should sit down."
The blood had siphoned from Kierin's face and she swayed against the counter. The sergeant hurried around the barricade and helped her to the bench beside the door.
"A-are you sure there's no mistake?" Her voice sounded small and far away. Shock stripped her of tears and she sat rigid as a church pew, staring blankly ahead of her.
He squatted down in front of her. "Sure as anyone can be, ma'am."
Her gaze slid to his. "Wh-what do you mean?"
He dropped his chin to his chest and heaved a long sigh. "Just that most of the bodies were recovered and buried, but some were never found. Consider
ing the time that'd passed, it'd be pretty nigh impossible to make any kind of... identification."
"But my brother was just a boy," she said, grasping at the small remaining hope. "Did they find any bodies of children?"
"It wasn't in the report we got back, ma'am. But from the records, there were several families with children along."
She pressed her steepled fingers against her lips. "I see. Well," she said, clearing her throat, "thank you for all your help, Sergeant." Standing stiffly, she edged toward the door.
He rose beside her, concern etched on his face. "Are you sure you're all right, miss?"
"Yes, I'll-I'll be fine," she answered, letting herself out the door. The little bell jangled again, just as it had before, yet this time the sound was more ominous, final.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against the jamb, hand to throat, gulping air.
"Why, there you are, Mrs. Holt."
Kierin's eyes flew open at the sound of a woman's voice. Susan Thorp was staring at her strangely.
"I've been looking all over for you." she said. "Good heavens, dear, are you all right? You're pale as ashes."
Kierin pushed away from the wall. "I... I have to find Clay."
"Well, that's what I came to tell you. He had to leave and he asked if I'd find you."
Kierin blinked at her. "What? He left? When?"
"About five minutes ago. He said not to worry... that he needed to talk with some soldiers... or something like that, and that he'd be back soon. I assumed you'd know what he meant."
"Oh, no..." What little color she had left fled Kierin's face. Her gaze snapped to the spot where they'd tethered his horse. Another stood in its place. With a sinking feeling, she realized it was true. Dizziness assailed her and she leaned back against the jamb for support.
"Mrs. Holt, is everything all right?" she heard Susan ask.
A cold dread fingered up her spine. This couldn't be happening. She wouldn't let it. Strangely, her desperation gave her courage.
"Kierin?"
Leaving Susan staring after her, she strode up the walkway to the commander's office. Her heels beat an angry rhythm against the wooden boards. She flung open the office door, startling both the young private and the lieutenant behind the desk. They stared at her in open-mouthed silence.
Holt's Gamble Page 22