Desert Crossing

by Short, Luke;

  “That’s better,” Lieutenant Miller said. He thought a moment. “We can alternate the rock detail with the digging detail. Digging is easier, I gather.”

  The corporal only nodded.

  Miller continued, “All except for Wilson. He stays on the rock detail. That’s all, Corporal.”

  Afterward, to the men who were still awake, Chasen imparted the news of half rations and alternating details. The men heard him out listlessly, too apathetic from exhaustion to protest. He looked at Wilson, who had now joined the others. He was sitting down and each blistered bare foot was cradled on the opposite thigh.

  “All except you, Wilson. The lieutenant said you’re to stay on the rock detail.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me,” Wilson said, in a strangely quiet voice. “I knew it already.”

  The sentries were put out before darkness came, and afterward the rest of the men turned in. Corporal Chasen chose a spot away from Wilson tonight, for he didn’t want to be kept awake by Wilson’s grousing. Again Lieutenant Miller was writing in his tent by the light of his home-made lamp. Watching him, Chasen was seized by a sudden depression. Would it be possible, when they were rescued, to report Miller’s senseless cruelty? His enlisted man’s wisdom told him no. For that matter, would they ever be rescued? There was no guarantee that Reardon and Adams would reach help. Maybe they were all spending the last days of their lives here; seven men laboring themselves to death and the eighth man sitting in a tent whiling away his last hours scribbling with the stub of a pencil in a book.

  It wasn’t exactly scribbling, since Lieutenant Miller wrote a neat and precise hand acquired as the regimental historian at the Presidio. This night he wrote: “Today was uneventful, but I think the men are beginning to respond physically as a result of my well-building project. They are not as sluggish, and they no longer kill time by talk and cards. Tonight I told Corporal Chasen that I had taken an inventory of our remaining supplies and that we would be forced to go on half rations. This was not entirely true, but I did it for two reasons. If rescue does not come within a few more days, I am determined to make a march of it to the north. I want my men to be lean and durable, with not an extra ounce of fat on their bodies. The second reason for putting them on half rations is that we do not know how long our march will be. However long, we cannot make it without sufficient food.”

  Lieutenant Miller closed his book, rose, and saw that the sentries were circling camp; then he extinguished his lamp, lay down, and slept.

  Next morning at bare dawn the sentry awakened Corporal Chasen, who roused the men. Since the surrounding dry and sparse mesquite had been exhausted for fuel, they were now breaking up the pack frames for fuel for their one fire a day. Pan bread had to be baked and bacon fried to last the detail until the following morning.

  The camp stirred with activity. Some of the men washed with water poured from canteens, while others filled their canteens from the well whose muddy water had settled during the night. Corporal Chasen eyed Lieutenant Miller’s tent and saw that the lieutenant was still asleep. He did not understand how a man could sleep most of the day, and all night through the dawn. He had to concede, however, that usually Lieutenant Miller was up with his men. Perhaps he had stayed awake late into the night writing in his book.

  However, when the food was ready Corporal Chasen walked over to the low tent and said loudly, “Morning, sir. Food’s ready, sir.”

  There was no answer.

  Corporal Chasen knelt down and looked into the tent. Lieutenant Miller, stripped to the waist, lay on his face. Chasen’s hand was moving to shake his shoulder when he saw the blood on Lieutenant Miller’s back. From a knife wound in the back the blood had flowed down the lieutenant’s side and had pooled on his blanket before leaving a wide dark stain.

  For a stunned moment Chasen stared at the wound, then reached out and touched Lieutenant Miller’s shoulder. The flesh was cold. The corporal snatched his hand back, then he rose, turned, and bellowed, “Over here, on the double!” The men looked at him a moment and then came running.

  To the first man who arrived, Schermer, the corporal said, “Take a corner of that blanket and help me haul him out.”

  Schermer and Chasen, each on a corner of the blanket, pulled the body of Lieutenant Miller out into view where the assembling troopers could see him.

  Watching their faces, the corporal saw many emotions reflected. The younger troopers stared at the body with a kind of fascinated horror. The older troopers looked indifferent, almost relieved. It was Ryan who first found his tongue. “Apaches?”

  The corporal addressed himself to the sentries on the first watch. “Either of you know anything about this? Did you see anything or hear anything?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  Chasen asked the same question of the two troopers who had relieved them, and received the same answer. One of them added, “It was moonlight when we took over. We’d have seen anything that moved.”

  Slowly, Corporal Chasen looked into the face of each man. There had not yet been a single expression of regret or pity from any one of them, and Chasen was an old enough soldier to know why. Miller had bred no loyalty, only abiding hatreds. The corporal was sure, in his own mind, that one of the detail had murdered Lieutenant Miller.

  Chasen said abruptly, “Let me see your knives.”

  Each man in the detail had a different sort of knife; they ranged from pocket knives to hunting knives. Obediently the men extended them, and as Corporal Chasen made a slow circle he examined each knife for bloodstains. When he came to Wilson, the sullen trooper held out a hunting knife in his palm. It was as clean as the rest.

  This was foolish, Corporal Chasen concluded. To destroy evidence all a man would have to do would be to wash off his knife with water from his canteen.

  Again Corporal Chasen looked at each man individually, and each met his eye with an expression of indifference that could have been a normal expression of innocence. He looked longest at Wilson and saw nothing in the man’s cold stare that hadn’t been there before.

  Chasen said heavily, “It looks like my rank says I take command.” He paused. “Anybody feel like arguing it?”

  “You’ve got the only rank in the bunch of us,” Ryan said. “Looks like you got to take command.”

  When the others nodded, Chasen said, “Then I’ll give my first one. Go eat.”

  The men drifted away to their small fire, but Chasen remained. Out of some obscure sense of propriety he knelt in the opening of the tent, reached for Lieutenant Miller’s blouse and covered his upper body and head with it; then he rose, circled the tent, and looked for tracks. There were tracks everywhere, Chasen saw, and there was no possible way of telling their age or identity. He stood and stared at the ground, wondering what he must do with this new responsibility. For the first time in his soldier’s career he realized the awesome burden placed on an officer. He, as Lieutenant Miller had been, was responsible for these men’s lives.

  Half an hour later the whole detail, save for the crippled Wilson, trudged the two miles to the rock bar, Corporal Chasen sometimes leading, sometimes taking his turn carrying the blanket-wrapped body that was slung on another blanket whose sides were stiffened by rolling them around two rifles.

  At the rock bar Lieutenant Miller’s body was laid on the ground and at Corporal Chasen’s orders the men began to pile rocks on it. When the mound was perhaps a yard high, Corporal Chasen called a halt. The men surrounded the grave and at the corporal’s orders removed their hats. Then Corporal Chasen, reaching into distant memory, stumbled through the words of the Lord’s prayer. Afterwards he signaled for the men to return to camp.

  “We work today, Corporal?” one of the detail asked. They were all listening for his answer.

  “We rest today,” Corporal Chasen replied.

  They were scarcely back at camp before Corporal Chasen noted the subtle difference in the attitude of the detail toward him. Now that he was giving orders, the men
eyed him warily, and since he had succeeded the commanding officer he lay down in the commanding officer’s tent, which was almost as hot as the scalding sunlight outside.

  Inevitably his thoughts turned to Lieutenant Miller’s murderer. Corporal Chasen knew he was not a bright man, but he thought he should be able to do more than he had to ferret out the lieutenant’s killer. The trouble was there wasn’t a man in the detail who didn’t have reason to kill Miller. He had abused them all—but especially he had abused Wilson.

  Now Corporal Chasen pondered what he knew about Wilson. He doubted very much if Wilson had enlisted under his own name. He was from an eastern city, Chasen judged, because his loud, aggressive cynicism was foreign to country or small-town men. Most troopers, Chasen knew, accepted their chores and assignments with a kind of fatalism, but not Wilson. He maneuvered and bribed among his equals; he fawned upon his superiors when they allowed it, but when they did not his actions verged on insubordination. Fawning had got him his job as quartermaster clerk, where he was excused from many of the chores required of the other troopers. He was derisive of any man wanting to advance himself, and was a gambler of real talent. A man with an extraordinarily lewd mind, Wilson had been a pimp in civilian life, Chasen guessed.

  All in all, Chasen could find no virtues in Wilson, and all the vices attributable to a bad soldier. In his own mind he was certain that Wilson had killed the lieutenant. However, there was one more factor that should be weighed. What did his fellow troopers think of Wilson?

  He cast back over the roster. Schermer hated Wilson because Wilson never addressed Schermer except as “You block-headed Dutchman.” Prince hated him because Wilson consistently cheated at cards and Prince could not discover how he was doing it. As he went down the roster, he could find some reason for every man disliking or fearing Wilson.

  Corporal Chasen was slow to make up his mind, but once it was made up he was a man of action. He raised up on an elbow and called, “Wilson, come over here.”

  All of the troopers had sought shade. Four of them were lying under the supply wagon, and Wilson was one of these.

  Now Wilson called back, “Come over here, Corporal. My feet hurt.”

  Corporal Chasen rose, lifted the flap of his holster, pulled out his pistol, and strode over to the wagon, halting in front of Wilson.

  “I’m commanding this outfit and I give the orders. I gave you an order, Wilson. Obey it.” His deceptively pleasant voice held a menace that was not lost on Wilson, but to the fat trooper this was a matter of saving face.

  Wilson said, “What you’ve got to say, you can say to me here, can’t you?”

  For answer, Corporal Chasen shot into the dirt an inch or so from Wilson’s feet. “On your feet, trooper,” the corporal said flatly.

  Wilson scrambled up on all fours, cleared the wagon, and stood up. “I’ll report that, Corporal,” Wilson said.

  “Do that,” Chasen said drily. “Now get over to the tent.”

  Wilson limped over to the tent with Chasen following him. When he halted, Chasen circled him and surveyed him a long moment, hands on hips.

  “You’re pullin’ rank you ain’t got, Corporal. Remember that.”

  Chasen didn’t answer, and Wilson said, “Can I sit down?”

  “No.” Chasen looked beyond Wilson at the men, who were all watching him. Then his glance settled onto Wilson. He said quietly, “You killed Miller, didn’t you?”

  Wilson grinned crookedly. “Prove it, Corporal. What are we talking for?”

  “For me,” Chasen said slowly. “You hated the lieutenant.”

  “So did you. So did every man here.”

  “Yes, we all hated him, but you killed him.”

  “Like I said, prove it.”

  “I can’t,” Chasen answered. “Still, I’d like to hear you admit it.” He looked around him. “Nobody can hear us, and there were no witnesses. Court-martial can’t touch you.”

  “What are you going to report, Corporal?” Wilson asked slyly.

  “Only that Lieutenant Miller was stabbed to death by someone in this detail.”

  “You’re sure you won’t say you suspect me?”

  Chasen nodded. “If I’m asked, I will; but what evidence has anybody got?”

  “None,” Wilson said smugly.

  “All right, then, did you kill him?” the corporal asked.

  Now it was Wilson’s turn to look around the camp, making sure nobody but Chasen could hear him. He turned back and smiled crookedly. “Sure, I killed him,” he said softly. “It was either him or me. You heard him keep me off the sick call. You saw him give me double work. What was I supposed to do, let him kill me?”

  Corporal Chasen said calmly, “No, the lieutenant had it coming. I think he was a little bit crazy. I don’t reckon I blame you for killing him, but I blame you for the way you did it.”

  Wilson laughed soundlessly. “You think I should have pulled a gun on him and shot him where all of you could see it?”

  “No. But I don’t think you should have stabbed him in the back while he was sleeping.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” Wilson asked.

  Corporal Chasen’s hands were still on his hips. Now he took a half-step forward, then moved with the swiftness of a striking snake; his ham-shaped right fist sledged into Wilson’s shelving jaw, which was wet and slippery with perspiration. But the blow was exactly aimed and the sound of it could be heard through the camp. It was the sound of flesh on bone that was being broken. Wilson, caught by surprise, simply fell backwards, unconsciousness coming so swiftly that he did not even attempt to break his fall.

  The men who had been watching came to their feet and, looking at each other, moved up to Chasen and Wilson. They ringed the two men, looking alternately at Wilson and then at Chasen.

  Finally Prince asked, “Why’d you hit him, Corporal?”

  “He’ll tell you if he wants; I won’t,” Chasen said flatly.

  One of the men knelt beside Wilson, put a hand on his jaw, and moved it. The jaw gave easily, loosely, as it was moved from side to side, and the unconscious Wilson seemed to have no knowledge of it.

  The trooper looked up. “You broke his jaw, Corporal.”

  Corporal Chasen nodded. “I figured to.”

  5

  Dave knew from past trips that the long haul from Pappa-Jack Layton’s place to King’s Wells was the hottest and most uncomfortable part of the trip to Whipple. There were stretches of malpais and blown sand that required double-teaming, as had been done the first day out of Ehrenburg. This in turn demanded that the escort, the ambulance, with Juliana driving, and the supply wagon, with Thornton at the reins, halt in the broiling afternoon sun. The glare off the sand and rock was close to blinding, especially in the stretches of blow sand.

  It was after Dave had bulled the second wagon through a stretch of sand and was returning for the third that he passed the ambulance where Juliana was slacked on the seat. Her hand shaded her closed eyes, but Dave saw that her face was flushed. He handed over the reins of the eight mules to his teamster and walked over to the ambulance, which Juliana had pulled off the road. It was even too hot for visiting, Dave observed, as he saw Thornton limply sprawl out on the seat of the supply wagon.

  At Dave’s approach Juliana looked up and a faint hostility came into her eyes. Dave pulled down the neckerchief from his face and said, “Miss Juliana, do you have a veil or a big handkerchief in your gear?”

  “Why, I think I could find one.”

  “Then you should tie it across your face. You’re getting sunburned.”

  “But I haven’t been in the sun all day,” Juliana protested.

  “You don’t have to be in the sun. The glare off this sand can burn you as badly as direct sunlight.”

  “Is that why you and your men always have your neckerchiefs over your faces?”

  “That, and the dust our teams kick up.”

  Juliana nodded. “How much longer must we travel today?” />
  Dave thought a moment and answered, “Till about dark, I’d judge.” Then he added, “Don’t expect much when we come to King’s Wells.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  “There are only a few cottonwoods around a caved-in spring. There’s an adobe building, but it’s abandoned and full of snakes and scorpions.”

  “Abandoned?”

  “The stage line gave up trying to stock it after they lost three station tenders and all the stock.”

  “Indians?”

  When Dave only nodded, Juliana glanced off at the uneven desert floor that held nothing but greasewood, rock mounds, and cactus. She said softly, “This is a cruel, cruel country, isn’t it, Dave?”

  “It never lets up on you,” Dave agreed.

  Juliana gave him a searching glance. “Maybe that explains you,” she said quietly.

  At that moment Sergeant Noonan rode up and said pleasantly, “They’re waiting for you, Mister Harmon.”

  “Remember the veil,” Dave said, and went along. He passed the supply wagon and did not even look at Thornton, nor did Thornton look at him. He saw that Everts, on his pallet of blankets, was sleeping, and then he moved on.

  Sergeant Noonan rode up to his side, pulled a foot from his stirrup, and said agreeably, “Climb up behind.” Dave accepted his offer and swung up behind him.

  “This is a good horse you’re riding, Sergeant.”

  Noonan half turned his head. “I think he is, but I haven’t had him out of a slow walk yet.”

  “Plan to race him? He looks like he could.”

  “I reckon I might. Prescott’s a gambling town.”

  The horse labored sturdily through the deep, soft sand with his double burden. Noonan then turned his head and, pointing to the sand, said, “You’ve got something broke in that last wagon that went through. See those spots like coal oil every once in a while?”

  “It’s those Army rifles. They’re still draining the packing grease.”

  Noonan simply said, “Oh, so that’s it,” in a disinterested voice.

  Back at the wagons they spent another idle half-hour while the remaining wagons were double-teamed across the blow sand. Afterwards, when Dave climbed into his saddle and got his team in motion behind the supply wagon, he recalled his conversation with Juliana Frost. In reply to his observation that the country never lets up on you she had said, Maybe that explains you. What had she meant by that, he wondered. Was it in reference to their discussion about Thornton and Dave’s refusal to give an inch to Thornton’s demands? Was she implying that this cruel country had made him cruel, too? He supposed she was, and he wondered if there was more than a grain of truth in her statement. To him Thornton was simply a willful man who threatened to stand in the way of a necessary job. No, that’s not quite honest, he thought. The truth of the matter was that Thornton merely annoyed him and that, in turn, he had been unnecessarily sharp with him.