by Short, Luke;
Meanwhile Dave had gone over to the supply wagon where he was told the wounded teamster was lying. It turned out to be Everts, one of the men who had shown up drunk yesterday. He had a nasty gouge in his thigh from an almost spent bullet, but his bearded face held more worry than pain. His wound had been bandaged, and when Dave asked how he felt he spat elaborately over the side of the wagon before he answered.
“I’m all right, Dave. I can drive.” He paused. “Them wasn’t Injuns.”
“We’ll know for sure in a little while,” Dave answered. “What have you got on that leg?”
“That-there lady put flour on the cut. It sure stopped the bleeding.”
Only then did Dave move over to the fire. The troopers and teamsters trekking in for breakfast accepted their food and moved off by themselves. Now Lieutenant Overman took two plates, offered Dave one, had his plate filled by Juliana, and then firmly took her by the arm and led her to a blanket spread on the ground. Dave helped himself and was preparing to move over with the troopers when his glance lifted to Juliana. She looked pale and somehow forlorn in this early sun. Smudges of ashes were on her face and her arms. Impulsively he went over and sat down beside her.
“That first light came awful early, Dave,” she said drily.
“Didn’t it?” Dave agreed. He knew she was referring to what he had said last night about the timing of Apache attacks. But, waiting proof, he refused to let himself be baited.
“This can happen every night, can’t it?” Juliana asked.
“I don’t think Overman will let it happen.”
“How will he stop it?”
“Form a corral of all wagons with the horses inside, I reckon,” Dave said. He glanced curiously at her. “Where were you last night?”
“They made me lie in the supply wagon,” Juliana said slowly. She looked up at him. “I can shoot.”
“That’s for soldiers,” Dave said gruffly.
John Thornton moved over and wearily sat down beside Juliana. He looked more tired than she, as if the events of last night had impressed upon him that this was more than an uncomfortable ride in a borrowed ambulance.
“Harmon, I guess we’re all in your debt for saving those horses and teams.”
“I had a little stake in keeping them myself,” Dave said drily.
“I heard that the Apaches go for the horses first.”
“They do,” Dave said noncommittally. He drank the last of his coffee and got up.
Dave first hooked up Everts’ teams and then his own. He didn’t intend that Everts should drive even if the teamster wanted to, and now he was faced with finding another teamster. As he worked, he noted that a quartet of troopers were piling rocks on the trampled remains of Molvaney in a makeshift grave. Nobody knew if Molvaney had mercifully been killed by the first shot, but the whole camp hoped so, in view of what had happened to him later.
Already the sun was blasting hot, and everyone, teamsters and soldiers alike, was anxious to break camp.
It was while the wagons were waiting to form up that the two troopers sent on reconnaissance pulled into sight. Dave went over to where Lieutenant Overman, Juliana, and Thornton were standing.
The two riders, one of them Sergeant Noonan, rode directly to Lieutenant Overman to report. Sergeant Noonan properly saluted. “We found the downed man, sir. Apparently he broke his neck from the fall.”
“A white man?” Overman asked quickly.
Noonan nodded and extended a battered hat containing a few personal belongings—a knife, a plug of tobacco, some small coins, and a polished buckeye, a good-luck piece that had probably been swapped with some immigrant.
“His horse was dead, too,” Noonan continued. “The gear wasn’t worth salvaging.”
“All right, Sergeant,” Overman said. Noonan and the trooper withdrew, and Lieutenant Overman stared glumly at the hat and the assorted contents; then his glance lifted to Dave. “What do you figure, Dave?”
“I think somebody wants our train.” Dave’s voice was matter-of-fact.
“Nonsense,” Thornton said sharply. “Why would a dozen men kill people for nails and sugar and rope?”
“We’ve got other freight, Thornton,” Dave said, and he paused to emphasize his next word. “One hundred and fifty rifles. Remember, my warehouse was raided in Yuma. Surely you heard about that.”
At Thornton’s nod, Dave continued, “I didn’t know what they were after, and neither did Lieutenant Overman. You figured they were after the usual loot—whiskey or whatever they could sell.”
Juliana had been listening intently, and now she said, “Now we know.”
“I think we do,” Overman said glumly.
“Why, who’d buy rifles?” Thornton asked.
“Apaches use them, I’m told.”
Watching this information sink into Thornton’s mind, Dave waited for his reaction to it once it was digested.
Overman said bitterly, “We should have been allowed a bigger escort.”
Dave made no comment, although he agreed.
Lieutenant Overman looked about him, grim decision in his thin face. “Well, we’ll make do with what we have.” He looked abruptly at Harmon. “You think they’ll hang on?”
Dave shrugged. “I can’t tell you, Dick. You’ll have to wait and see. There’s mighty little traveling on this road nowadays. Still, with all that freight moving out upriver there should be trains behind us, but they’ll be waiting on an escort.”
“You’re suggesting we wait?” Thornton asked.
“I’m suggesting nothing,” Dave said flatly.
A faint anger at the world in general stirred in Overman’s face. “Damned if we will! No civilian is going to escort the Army.” He turned to Juliana. “Can you handle that ambulance team, Miss Frost?”
“Of course. I drove part of the way yesterday.”
“And you, Thornton,” Overman continued, “can you drive the supply wagon?”
“I’m sure I can.”
“That’ll free one man to take the hurt teamster’s place. Which reminds me, there’ll be a short service for Molvaney before we pull out.”
It was short, too. The troopers and all the men, save Everts, stood bareheaded around the high mound of rocks while Overman recited a short prayer. A crude cross of wood from a crate was tied together by leather thongs, and this, supported by rocks, stood at the head of the surface grave.
Afterward Overman sent out his flankers and the train pulled out into the blistering heat of the day. Dave, again in the lead wagon, wondered what he would do in Overman’s place. It depended, he supposed, on what lay in the future. But the trouble with what lay in the future, he thought wryly, is that when it happened it was too late to act in the past.
Kirby gave the train plenty of time to assemble and move out before he rode in to Tyson Wells. He had sent his men into the rocky foothills of the nearby Granite Wash Mountains with orders to wait for him.
Last night’s failure was rankling him and he was in a surly temper. To have come so close to success and then to have fumbled the opportunity was a galling memory. If they had succeeded in leaving the train afoot, it would have been a simple enough matter to set siege to the train, and either reduce them or accept their surrender. Now that all had to be done over again, and Kirby was in a quandary. He and his men did not carry enough food for themselves and their horses to make a sustained and prolonged attack.
The reason for his return to the Wells was that he was certain Brick would communicate with him by some means. He hoped he was right, because he was frankly at a loss as to the next move.
He reined in now and regarded the camp site. He looked at the remains of the two fires and the horse-trampled ground. No camp of soldiers or teamsters was ever free of the litter of tin cans, empty bottles, and trash. This camp was no exception. Kirby rode his horse to the rocked-in well under the stunted cottonwoods, and while the horse was drinking, he went back to the camp site. It would have helped if he knew what he was lo
oking for and if he was certain there would be a message. Could it be scribbled in the dust? He didn’t think so, since writing it would have drawn attention to Brick.
He picked up a can and looked inside and saw it was empty and discarded it. He did the same with a pair of whiskey bottles. Then his roving glance settled on an upright can on the edge of the cold fire. He walked over to it and picked it up and saw that it was a can that had held tomatoes. Its label was jammed inside it. He had his hand raised to throw the can away when he halted the motion. He pulled out the label and turned it over. There, written on the back of the label, was the message he had been waiting for: Circle and fight them off King Wells. It was unsigned, of course.
Kirby tore up the note, then headed back for his horse, pondering the wisdom of Brick’s instructions. Obviously, what Brick hoped they could do was to keep the train from water until heat and thirst beat it into submission. The question was, could his fourteen men—no, thirteen, for Hallam was killed last night—hold off a slightly superior force? He supposed it all depended on the topography of the land where the next water was.
He was almost to the spring when he heard the distant hoofbeats of horses. The sound came from the east, but his sight was obscured by the young cottonwoods crowding the well.
His men? he wondered angrily. He had told them to wait for his gun-shot signal to approach and water their horses.
He moved away from the well into the open. In the distance he could see the approaching westbound stage and its escort of five troopers. For a moment Kirby hesitated. Should he get out of here on the run? He quickly decided against it. He had a right to travel the country, and since nobody had seen him last night they could not possibly have a description of him. He was filling the canteen above his horse at the head of the seep when the stage and its escort rolled in.
At sight of him, the sergeant in command of the troopers signaled a halt and the stage driver pulled up. A couple of curious men passengers looked out the curtained end windows as the sergeant rode over. He was as burly as Kirby, and some five years younger. His uniform was dusty, and as he approached he pulled down a yellow handkerchief from the lower part of his face.
Kirby rose, canteen in hand. “Morning, soldier.”
“You alone?” the sergeant demanded.
Kirby turned and looked around him. “I thought I was. You see anybody else with me?”
“What are you doing here?”
Kirby said pointedly, “Minding my own damn business. Try it some time.”
“Where you headed for?”
Kirby gave him a long, level look. “You sound as if you wanted to stop me wherever I’m going. I wouldn’t advise you to try it.”
Surprisingly, the sergeant smiled. “Hell, I’m not stopping you. The thing is, we just passed a wagon train heading for Whipple. They were attacked here last night.”
“Injuns?”
“They didn’t think so. A bunch of roughs after the trade goods. You’re liable to run into them if you hang around here.”
“Well, I don’t aim to hang around here, soldier. I’m headed east.”
“Then you better hurry and catch up with that train. A single rider is a sittin’ duck for the ’Paches.”
“You see any?” Kirby asked.
The sergeant nodded. “A small bunch followed us for half a day, then veered off north. We had too many guns, I reckon.”
Kirby seemed to consider this. “Where’s the next water?”
“Layton’s Place.”
“That a stage station?”
The sergeant nodded. “Eight miles or so from here.”
“And after that, where?”
“A long haul to King’s Wells. No station there.”
Kirby asked irrelevantly, “The Apaches hittin’ any of the stage stations?”
“They tried Layton’s last week. They pulled out when they lost a couple of men.” He added, “No, sir, mister, I wouldn’t travel alone. Catch up with that train.”
“Reckon I will,” Kirby said.
The trooper gestured loosely, wheeled his horse, and went back to the stage, which was already moving. It sounded to Kirby as if King’s Wells would be the place to keep a train from water, since there was no station there and the train couldn’t expect help. The train would probably noon at the stage station at Layton’s and push on for King’s Wells. They would have had a long drive and would be in real need of water.
Now Kirby pulled out a cigar, lighted it, and lolled in the shade. When it was half smoked, he drew his gun and fired twice. Even if the troopers heard the shots, they would do nothing. Their orders undoubtedly were to protect the stage and its passengers.
Before his cigar was finished, his men began to trail in from their hiding place in the rocks. There wasn’t a dry thread on them, Kirby noted, and their horses were sweating too. He knew that the furnace heat of the rocks had tortured them, but he also knew that had Overman decided to snoop around for his attackers last night he would have looked in vain in the rocks. Simple robbery, Kirby concluded wryly, was not always simple in this country.
An hour after the train had broken camp the heat was blazing down without mercy. When Juliana looked to the right and left at the far-out flankers, they appeared as wavy uncertain objects. Although she would not admit it to herself, she was exhausted this morning. Every member of the train had spent an uneasy night after the attempted horse raid, she suspected.
Glancing behind her at the supply wagon driven by Thornton, she saw Lieutenant Overman in conversation with him. She was oddly relieved that she was free of John and alone today, for since her near quarrel with him last evening she felt a little less friendly toward him. She supposed that his objection to her talking with Dave Harmon stemmed only from his desire to protect her; nevertheless there was an implicit snobbery in his words. He did not understand what everyone else in the West knew without ever stating it: a respectable woman in this country was perfectly safe in the hands of the most desperate killers except Indians.
She corrected herself, thinking, What about last night’s raid? Certainly the attackers were shooting indiscriminately at the camp, and their bullets could have hit her as easily as the teamster who was hit. It was a sobering thought. Also, if the raiders had succeeded in stealing their horses, they would have spent not only uncomfortable but dangerous hours in this desert before help could be brought. It was only because of Dave Harmon that the raid had not succeeded.
She wondered now about him and speculated on what series of events had turned him into the cross-grained, distant, almost unfriendly man that he appeared to be. Was he jealous of Lieutenant Overman’s command? She doubted that. In his Army career he had commanded far more men in far more dangerous situations. Was he envious or scornful of Lieutenant Overman’s youth? She doubted that too, since he was young enough himself not to consider Lieutenant Overman extremely young. Shrewdly she guessed that perhaps his forced retirement from the Army might be at the core of his actions. When a man was doing superbly the one thing he wished to do, it could be a bitter thing if he were forced out of it and into accepting the second-best.
She tried to remember what her father had told her of Dave Harmon, then Lieutenant Dave Harmon. All she could remember was that he had been furious when Harmon had been transferred from his command. She could remember her father discussing it with her mother, claiming that he would disapprove the transfer himself, and question the wisdom of it all the way to Washington if need be. It had been her mother who had pointed out that the transfer to a regiment known to be ill-officered would doubtless lead to promotion and opportunities for Harmon, and her mother’s opinion prevailed. Last night had showed her why her father had been so reluctant to lose Harmon as a junior officer.
The thought now of meeting her parents again almost brought tears to Juliana’s eyes. Her mother had written on first coming to Fort Whipple that it was the nicest post they had served on. Its mountain coolness, surrounded by sunblasted deserts, was heaven.
The climate was reflected in the actions of everyone on the post and in the pleasant charm of Prescott nearby. Juliana, her mother wrote, would love the place. If I reach it, something in the back of her mind whispered.
She straightened up. Why shouldn’t she? A gang of roughs had attacked them and had been defeated. What was there to fear?
Sometime before noon the train reached Layton’s stage station, which consisted of a mean two-room adobe building and a big stone corral under spreading cottonwoods. The well stood by the corrals, and one of the cottonwoods had been felled and hollowed out to make a long wide trough that lay against the wall of the well. Two tall slabs of rock were upended against the wall of the well and notches had been drilled in the tips of the slabs to accommodate a log windlass on which a long length of rope was wound. One end of the rope was stretched down into the well, while the other end was attached to the saddle horn of a riderless pony.
Layton’s hostler was already at work; he was a dirty, middle-aged man in a frayed shirt and cotton home-made trousers. Now he gave the pony a slap on the rump and the pony slowly moved off as the windlass turned and drew up an oaken barrel. The hostler shouted to his pony to halt, then pulled the barrel onto the wall and tipped its contents into the huge trough. When the first of Dave’s teams were unhooked and led to water, the trough was almost full.
At the trough Dave stripped off his shirt, ducked his head in the water, soaked his shirt, and then put it back on. When his own teams were watered and hooked up again, Dave went back to the hostler.
“Can you top off my water barrels for me, Uncle Ben? We’ll have a long haul this afternoon.”
“Sure thing,” the hostler replied.
As Dave passed his own wagon he lifted the lid of the oak barrel ironed to the side of his wagon. It was close to empty, he noted, and he made a mental note to check the barrels on the other wagons before taking off. Afterwards he moved into the comparative coolness and darkness of the stage station.
The common room was a small one holding two trestle tables; Juliana, Thornton, and Overman were already seated at one of them. The other table was filled with the teamsters and troopers, who had taken care of their horses first. There was, Dave noticed, no place to sit except at the other table and the only empty space was beside Juliana Frost. Hanging his hat on the wall nail, Dave slid onto the bench beside the girl.