by Short, Luke;
This was a shadeless flat and the heat seemed to have weight and substance. The detail, propping up ground sheets and blankets with their carbines to provide shade, tried to sleep and prayed for the sun to hurry and heel over to the west.
In his own small tent Lieutenant Miller, stripped to the waist, wrote out his daily report. Presently he consulted a map which adhered to his sweating hand whenever it was touched. In his report Lieutenant Miller was candid enough to state that he did not know where they were, that he had been traveling west and some south and had not once camped at one of the very few wells that were named on the map. He proposed, he wrote, to take up pursuit in the morning unless weather conditions intervened to obliterate the Apache trail. This last made him smile, since there was not a cloud to be seen in the brassy sky in any direction.
That evening when the sun was down the horses were watered again before being put on the picket line. The troopers had managed to scrounge enough mesquite for two small fires, over which they cooked a meager meal of bacon, bread, and coffee. They were a dispirited group, the lieutenant saw, and he knew they were blaming Corporal Chasen for his inability to persuade their officer to abandon the chase. At dark two guards were posted, and again Lieutenant Miller noted the surly but silent reception with which the news was received. He knew that his men, having ridden all night, were exhausted, and that they thought guarding was not only unnecessary but punishing.
Soon after supper the men rolled in their blankets and slept. Lieutenant Miller made the round of camp and saw that the guards were alert, and then retired himself.
It was sometime after midnight when Lieutenant Miller was awakened by the sudden sound of hoofbeats. He boiled out of his tent, pistol in hand, just as a sentry shot. He was in time to see, in the moonlight, his horses vanish into the blackness to the south.
Running to the two guards, a sudden rage touched Lieutenant Miller. Hauling up before the guards, he demanded, “Wilson, what happened?”
“Sir, I was awake and I had passed the picket line a bare minute before.”
“And you, Ryan?”
“I’d come around on the north side of the camp, sir, and was heading for the picket line.”
“Neither of you saw anybody?”
Both men said no. By this time the camp was roused. Small fires were rekindled and the troopers stood waiting for orders.
Lieutenant Miller knew he should act, but he also knew he was powerless to change anything. He had taken every precaution a commander should. No, that isn’t quite correct, he conceded to himself. I should have had a mounted sentry circling the camp. Still, in spite of his precautions, his detail was now afoot and in unknown country.
Well out of the firelight Lieutenant Miller paced back and forth. He had heard it said, half in jest, that an Apache Indian could steal a horse from a man who was holding its reins. Now he had bitter proof that this was true. Pursuit of his horses, of course, was out of the question. By dawn his horses would be fifteen miles away, and if he set out after them they would gain hourly on his dismounted detail.
His second choice was to retrace the route they had come. He knew, with a dismal certainty, that by doing so he would lose most or all of his command. A man afoot in this wide and oven-hot desert was almost certainly a dead man. What had seemed impossibly long rides between water to mounted troopers would simply be impossible to the unmounted men.
The third alternative he remembered from his map-reading earlier. A stage-and-freight route from Ehrenburg to Prescott lay far to the north of them. Instead of risking his men by following their old back trail or instead of trying to lead them to the freight road, he would keep the detail here where they were certain of water. He would dispatch a couple of his strongest men to the north, carrying all the canteens they could manage, hoping they could intercept a stage to take them to Camp Date Creek or Fort Whipple, where they could obtain horses to rescue his detail.
Only then did the ignominy of his situation become fully apparent. He had allowed the Apaches to pull him into an angry pursuit that was no pursuit at all. They had led him as far from water and food as they wished and then stranded him. It was easier than an attack, infinitely more safe for the Indians, and the end result might easily be death to the whole detail.
Next morning, after a breakfast at dawn, Lieutenant Miller summoned the troopers of the detail to his tent and explained the situation. It was his decision to remain here until help and horses came, he said. Other alternatives—and he named them—were the equivalent of committing suicide.
After a long pause in which the men eyed each other grimly, the lieutenant resumed. “I propose that the strongest men, packing all the water and food they can carry, head north for the stage road within an hour.”
“What men, sir?” Trooper Ryan wanted to know.
Lieutenant Miller said icily, “It would be simple justice, Ryan, if you and Wilson were selected. After all, you let the Indians steal our horses.”
There was a murmur of assent among the remainder of the detail.
“However,” the lieutenant continued, “I will select two men on the basis of their strength.”
“What about drawing lots, sir?” a trooper on the fringe of the circle called.
“Aye, what about that, Lieutenant?” another voice called.
Lieutenant Miller answered coldly, “I am thinking of the safety of us all.” He looked slowly around the circle of faces. “There are men in this detail who are rotten with disease and have fought whiskey for so long they couldn’t make it out of sight of us. Am I right?”
“That’s their own business, Lieutenant.”
“Nobody knows what’s out there,” a new voice spoke up. “You may be sending two men to their deaths.”
The lieutenant said angrily, “I’m your commanding officer!”
“And a hell of a one you are!” Wilson said brusquely.
“Corporal, arrest that man!” Lieutenant Miller ordered.
“And take him where, sir?” Corporal Chasen asked with open irony. Then he added, “If the Lieutenant will dismiss the men, maybe we can talk, sir.”
Miller hesitated, then he snapped, “Dismissed.” The group did not break up, but moved away from the tent almost as a body, talking in low tones.
Corporal Chasen said, “I request the Lieutenant’s permission to make a suggestion, sir.”
“Go ahead, Corporal.”
Corporal Chasen continued quietly, “I think the Lieutenant better let them draw lots. They think it’s only fair that way.”
Miller retorted, “These men are bound by oath to obey orders!”
“Suppose the Lieutenant orders the two youngest and strongest to go?”
“Yes, suppose I do? You think they won’t obey, is that it?”
Corporal Chasen’s quiet expression did not change as he said, “Oh, they’ll obey. They’ll walk out of sight, wait until dark, then come back to camp, and shoot you in your sleep. After that we’ll draw lots.”
A startled look came into Lieutenant Miller’s thin face, and he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
Corporal Chasen continued, “You see, Lieutenant, in this fix we’re all equal.”
Lieutenant Miller scowled. “Are you suggesting that I draw a lot, too?”
Corporal Chasen shook his head, “Oh, no, sir. It’s your duty to try and save the men, sir.”
“But not in the way I choose?”
Corporal Chasen’s face reflected an increasing distaste for continuing this argument. He spoke formally. “The Lieutenant gave me permission to make a suggestion. My suggestion is that the Lieutenant call the men together and ask if anyone wishes to volunteer. When they don’t, I would allow them to draw lots. They can start tonight, and travel in the cool.”
Lieutenant Miller had made his protest; this was not the way the United States Army did things. This was riffraff government, but behind this feeling of conviction were Corporal Chasen’s words. They will wait until dark, then come back to camp and shoot
you, then draw lots. Lieutenant Miller smiled ever so faintly. “Very well, Corporal, call the men together.”
That night Troopers Reardon and Adams, the former a sodden alcoholic, the latter not much more than a boy, left camp. Festooned with canteens, they carried all the food and water they could pack.
2
Brick Noonan, in the few days’ time alloted him, had studied his man thoroughly. He was aware that the Fort Mohave detail was camped several dozen yards behind the Ehrenburg House. He was also aware that Lieutenant Overman, with the privilege of rank, was staying at the hostelry and he had made a study of the lieutenant’s habits.
Like most junior officers, Lieutenant Overman was not averse to a bit of alcohol, especially during the evenings when a man in Ehrenburg had only three diversions—the cheap Indian and Mexican women, gambling, and drink. It had been Noonan’s observation that the first two did not appeal to Lieutenant Overman, while the third did. Apparently the lieutenant favored the discreet small bar in the Ehrenburg House where the more prosperous businessmen and mine owners adjourned each evening for a quiet game of cards and even quieter drinking. Accordingly, it was into this small, one-room bar, holding two gambling tables and several easy chairs, that Noonan came that night. He was wearing a well-worn sergeant’s uniform over which he had carefully sifted dust.
Stepping into the lamplit, whitewashed room from its street entrance, Brick Noonan saw his man immediately. Overman, glass in hand, was watching the poker game, and Brick smiled inwardly. You don’t gamble on a lieutenant’s pay, he thought. He walked across the room and halted beside Overman’s chair. When Overman looked up, Brick gave a respectful, casual salute that startled Overman, who returned it even more casually.
“May I speak to the Lieutenant, sir?”
Overman, the top two buttons of his blouse unbuttoned, rose and moved the eight feet to the bar, on which he leaned.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“I’m Sergeant Noonan, sir, reporting back to Fort Whipple from leave.”
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“Sir, it’s like this. I spent my leave with my brother at Dos Palmas. The night before I was to leave I got lucky in a card game and won a horse. He’s a good one, sir.”
Lieutenant Overman looked puzzled but polite as Noonan continued.
“I sent all my gear on the stage and rode my horse to Ehrenburg. After I crossed on the ferry I went into a bar and met one of your troopers, sir.”
“That’s very likely,” Overman said drily.
Noonan smiled dutifully and continued. “He told me your detail was headed for Whipple. I’d like your permission to join the detail, sir.”
“When’s your leave up, Sergeant?”
“I’ve got a week of it left, sir.”
Lieutenant Overman straightened up and smiled. “You’re more than welcome, Sergeant Noonan. There aren’t too many of us and we could use an extra rifle.”
Noonan smiled. “And I could use company, sir. One man isn’t much against a bunch of murdering Apaches.”
Overman nodded. “You’ve got your papers?”
Noonan shook his head. “No, sir. They’re with my gear on the stage. I didn’t figure I’d be as lucky as this or I’d have carried them.”
Lieutenant Overman smiled. “Well, Sergeant, if you were intending to desert, you wouldn’t be going back to Whipple.”
Noonan grinned. “No, sir. I’d be going the other way.”
Lieutenant Overman handed his glass to the bartender. “We’re leaving at dawn tomorrow, Sergeant. We assemble at Harmon’s warehouse. Your horse in good shape?”
“The best kind of shape, sir. Thank you. And I’ll be on hand when your detail is.” He came to attention, saluted, and walked out.
Lieutenant Overman returned to watch the card game, regarding himself as a lucky man.
Later that night, back in the cottonwood motte Sergeant Noonan rode up to a fire around which ten of his men were gathered. He could see the other two men guarding the remuda. There were other fires within sight, the fires of broke miners who had been thrown out of work by the gradual closing of the placer mines of La Paz, five miles to the north. They were too poor to live in the cheap boarding houses of Ehrenburg, or to travel. They were hungry, desperate, and reckless, and would willingly steal an unguarded horse. Indeed, half of the ten men lounging around the fire had been carefully recruited by Noonan from these ranks.
Kirby was lounging on his blankets, the farthest from the fire, taking no part in the conversation. As befitted the man who would lead this riffraff, he purposely remained aloof. After Noonan had unsaddled, and turned his horse into the rope corral, he went across to Kirby.
“How’d it go, Brick?”
Noonan sat down. “Just like I knew it would.” He could not entirely keep the smugness out of his voice. “No questions asked, except about my leave papers. I reckon he was glad to see me.”
“You carry your luck with you, don’t you?” Kirby said admiringly. “All right, what do you want us to do?”
“Better start moving the men out in an hour or so. I want you to be well ahead of us.”
“Where’s the first water?” Kirby asked.
“A place called Tyson Wells. Tell your bunch to get water there, then scatter out of sight till dark.”
“We ain’t got much grub, Brick.”
“We won’t need much grub if this works, Kirby. If it doesn’t, you couldn’t pack enough grub.” He started to rise, and then as an afterthought said, “Be careful of that woman, Kirby, and also be damned careful of me. I’m the only man with sergeant stripes. Remember that.”
It was barely daylight when the seventh loaded wagon pulled out from Dave’s wagon yard and joined the six others strung out in a line down the street. They were big wagons, high-sided, with rear wheels as tall as a man, and to most of the wagons were hitched four teams of mules. Two of the wagons, loaded with lighter goods, had teams of horses. The near wheel horse of each team was saddled for the teamster who would drive his team by the jerk line running to the bits of the lead teams. On each wagon a long leather brake strap extended from the brake pole and buckled on the saddle horn so that the teamster in the saddle could still brake his load.
A dozen teamsters and stevedores were gathered around the circular water tank in the wagon yard, watching Dave Harmon conduct a fairly routine chore.
Two of the teamsters, who had been drinking through the night, were ducking their heads in the trough and rubbing the backs of their necks in an attempt to sober up. The third man lay at their feet, dead drunk.
When the two teamsters came up sputtering, Dave regarded them critically.
“Well, if you can stand up, I reckon you can sit in a saddle. Now pitch him in,” Dave said, indicating the teamster on the ground.
“No use, Dave. We had to carry him here,” one teamster said.
“Throw him in anyway. At least it’ll keep him cool for a few hours.”
The two teamsters leaned unsteadily over their companion, seized him by arms and feet, lifted him up and rolled him over, face down, into the two feet of water in the big tank.
When the teamster did not struggle, Dave moved over swiftly, grasped the man’s hair and lifted his head above water. The ducking, he saw, had not even succeeded in opening the man’s eyes, and if he were left here he would drown.
“All right, pull him out, Solly,” Dave ordered.
The two teamsters lifted out the dripping form of their companion and set him in the mud, his back propped against the tank. Dave looked about him at the circle of men. “I reckon you’ll have to go in his place, Bailey.” He had singled out a slight young man in rough clothes, who only nodded indifferently.
Now the teamster of the seventh wagon came into the yard and went directly up to Dave. “The escort just come, Dave. They’re ready.”
Dave looked at his men. “All right, let’s go.”
He went out through the gate and saw the esco
rt waiting in the street. There were seven mounted troopers, and their sun-faded blue blouses were salty with dried perspiration from their ride down from Fort Mohave. They were armed with sabers, carbines, and pistols, and one of them was a bored and seasoned-looking, red-haired sergeant. Young Overman was leaning down, talking to John Thornton, who would drive the Army ambulance in which he was seated. Beside him was Juliana Frost.
Dave touched his hat to Juliana.
Lieutenant Overman glanced beyond Dave and saw the teamsters mounting up as Dave said, “We’re ready if you are, Lieutenant.”
At that moment Thornton said to him, “Where do you want us, Lieutenant?”
Overman turned his head to look at Thornton. “Why, in the lead, so you’re out of the dust. Move ahead slowly, Mister Thornton. We’ll catch up with you.” He turned to look at Dave. “You’re sure we’ll reach water tonight, Harmon?”
“I’m sure.”
“I wish I weren’t a stranger to this road,” Overman said with wry good humor. “Looks like you’ll be taking care of us instead of us taking care of you.”
Dave smiled. “Not if it comes to trouble, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Well, that’s fair enough,” Overman said. “You can take off now.”
Harmon left him, and Overman pulled his horse around and rode back to his men. He named Sergeant Noonan and Trooper Cleary as advance guard, and called off the names of two more troopers who would serve as flankers. Then his orders put the detail in motion.
Just past the last house of Ehrenburg he caught up with the ambulance. Noonan and Cleary were riding a hundred yards ahead. Lieutenant Overman signaled out his flankers, then drew alongside the ambulance.
This wasn’t much of an escort, First Lieutenant Richard Overman thought, and he wished that his first assignment since he received his promotion last month had been a less burdensome one. The reason for its being burdensome was seated beside John Thornton, he admitted to himself. He not only had the responsibility of protecting the teamsters, his own troopers, and a male passenger, but he had the added responsibility of protecting Juliana Frost, a major’s daughter. In case of trouble what was the best way to protect her? She was a beautiful girl and, being army, she must certainly know that death was preferable to capture and torture by the Apaches. It wasn’t that he was afraid she would be captured, though, but that she might be hurt in an exchange of gunfire.