by Janet Dailey
“I just came back from patrol this morning and learned that you were gone.” Her withdrawal puzzled him, and he fiddled with his hat, fingering the creases in the crown and rolling the brim. “I wasn’t sure where you had gone.”
“I didn’t go far.” She fitted a slug between some words to space out the line to the end of the column. “I had to find work.”
An awkwardness stretched between them, and Cutter couldn’t seem to find the words to break it. “Will you be staying here, then?”
“Long enough to learn the trade. With a recommendation from Mr. Boler, I should be able to find a job at a newspaper in some other town.”
“Where will you go?”
“Maybe Prescott or Denver.” Her shoulders lifted in a vague shrug.
“What about Santa Fe?” It was closer to the valley where he planned to settle.
“Regimental headquarters for the Ninth? No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head wryly at the suggestion.
Cutter breathed in deeply. He wasn’t thinking of it in that way. He had so many things to say to her, but he could find no sign that she wanted to hear them. Maybe he had only imagined that she cared about him. Maybe when she had waved to him it had been only a casual gesture, and not some silent promise to wait for him. Lord knows, he’d built up enough visions in his head from it, and from the kiss she’d given him. She was his daydream and nightdream. But it was all locked up inside him, and he didn’t know how to get it out—or if it would be welcome.
The tracks were lost where they joined the main road into Silver City, the hoofprints obliterated by the horses and wagons that had come afterward. John T. halted the detail on the roadside and looked toward the town.
“Could be he’s tryin’ to lose us again like he done with the cattle.” Private Grover ventured the thought. “No tellin’ which way he went.”
“He doesn’t know we’re on his trail.” John T. collected the reins, slapping them against the horse’s neck to stir it forward. “He went into town. He’d be that brassy.”
A wave of his hand ordered the troopers to follow him as John T. rode alongside the Apache scout. They entered town in a straggly column of twos, walking their horses down the busy main street. Hooker’s staring eyes searched the faces they passed and scanned the brands of the horses tied at the hitching rails. One of them jarred him to attention, and John T. pulled his horse up and rode over for a closer look, sidling his horse up to the flank of the chestnut gelding. He ran his fingers over the 08 mark burned into the hide and flicked off a scab. The older US brand was barely visible. The Apache slid off his horse and checked the gelding’s shoes and those of the horse tied next to it.
“Same horses,” the scout announced.
At the confirmation, Hooker’s attention swung to the building directly in front of the hitching rail. Tall letters painted on the fake front of the second story identified the establishment as the Ace High Saloon and Gambling Hall.
“Bitterman used t’brag that he dealt faro in N’Orleans,” Grover said.
John T. dismounted and passed his horse’s reins to the private. When he unholstered his gun and started for the saloon’s door, the troopers quickly swung out of their saddles to follow him, sensing that no order would be given.
His gun was leveled when he walked through the door. He had no conscious thought of what he was doing or of the soldiers behind him as he paused to look around the nearly empty gaming room. The click-click-clicking of a spinning roulette wheel made its sound against the background of muted voices.
Cimmy Lou laughed, and he turned and strode in the direction of the laughter. She stood beside Bitterman’s chair at a poker table in back, watching while he raked in the winnings from a poker hand and added them to the small pile beside him. John T. leveled the gun at the narrow chest of his target. In some distant part of his brain, he heard Cimmy scream a warning to Bitterman.
“Leroy! Look out!!”
He adjusted his aim as his target pushed back from the table to stand and grab at something tucked in the waistband of his pants. Unblinking, he pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession, and watched Bitterman slam against the back wall, then side to the floor, a red stain spreading down his shirtfront. Cimmy Lou was still screaming, and John T. shifted the gun muzzle and pointed it at her. The explosions reverberated through the hall. Then silence—that awful, killing silence and the blue powder smoke drifting in the air, that’s all he knew when he lowered his gun. “Sweet Jeezus,” someone murmured.
At the sound of gunfire, Cutter lifted his head, instinctively attempting to determine distance and direction. The call was one he’d answered for too long to break the habit of investigating it now. He broke for the door, aware that Hannah was following him, and met Boler on his way out, jamming the derby hat on his head. Outside the newspaper office, Cutter paused to locate the source before he plunged into the trouble.
“Where did it come from?” he asked. Boler had been closer to the door than he had.
“Up the street, I think.”
There was a stir of activity outside one of the saloons as others were drawn by the sound of shooting. Cutter headed in that direction. A freckle-faced boy ran toward him, wide-eyed with the excitement of danger.
“One o’ them colored soldiers just shot somebody at the Ace saloon!” the boy shouted eagerly, wanting to be the first to spread the news.
Cutter broke into a lope. When he reached the crowd gathering outside the Ace High, he shoved his way through to where the cavalry horses were standing at the rail. Two of the black troopers stood at the door, uncertainly facing the crowd and holding their rifles diagonally across their bodies.
“Captain, suh!” An agitated Private Grover came out of the saloon to meet him. “Am I glad t’see you, suh.”
“What happened here?” All was silent within the gaming hall.
“It’s Sergeant Hooker, suh. He jest went in there an’ shot ’em. Never said a word.”
Swearing, Cutter took a step toward the door just as John T. walked out with Cimmy Lou’s limp body cradled in his arms. His face was like stone, black marble with vacant, staring eyes. Nothing lived inside anymore. Another string of swear words came from Cutter, this time cursing the injustice of life, and the sense of inevitability of some things.
“Hooker.” He planted himself in John T.’s path.
“Captain.” Hooker’s voice was devoid of emotion, flat in its delivery. He looked down at the body in his arms and the smooth, dark-skinned face, beautiful even in death. “I had to do it. There was no other way.”
“Let me have her, John T.” Cutter reached out to remove the burden from him. “She’s dead now. It’s over.” Hooker offered no resistance as Cutter took the death-heavy body into his arms. The front of Hooker’s shirt was dark with her blood. Cutter turned and gave Cimmy’s body to Private Grover. “Find the undertaker,” he instructed quietly. When he turned back, John T. was slumped against the wall of the building, his body slack. Cutter sighed heavily, unable to look at him. “Where’s Bitterman?”
“Inside.”
“You killed him, too, I suppose,” he said grimly, and watched the slow, affirmative nod. “Why, Hooker? Why did you do it?”
“I had to stop her. She couldn’t do it herself, so I did it for her. I guess she couldn’t help bein’ what she was. She had no feelings, not the good kind that make you want someone else to be happy. She used people an’ she was gonna keep on usin’ people—an’ hurtin’ ’em. She can’t do that anymore.”
“Damn,” Cutter muttered with savage impotence.
“What’s going on here?” a voice demanded, and Cutter swung around to face the man wearing a marshal’s badge.
“It’s army business,” he said. “We’ll handle it.”
“What happened?” The town marshal glanced at the body being carried out of the saloon by two of the soldiers.
“My sergeant shot a deserter, and the woman was Idled in the cross fire,” Cutter snapped
. “No, suh.” John T. shook his head at the answer. “Shut up, sergeant!” “I can’t, suh.”
“Dammit, Hooker, I’m trying to save your neck.” Cutter growled the low warning. “But I Idled her, suh.”
Fighting down his temper, Cutter faced the marshal. “This is an army matter. We won’t be requiring your assistance.”
After a small hesitation, the man nodded. “Very well. I’ll leave you to it.”
Cutter waited until he had disappeared into the mulling throng of curious onlookers before he turned back to Hooker. He leaned toward him, bracing an arm against the side of the building. “Listen to me, John T.,” he ordered. “I want you to walk over there and get on one of those horses and ride out of town and’ keep riding. No one will stop you; I’ll see to that.”
“No, suh.” Dully Hooter shook his head.
“Dammit, John T., will you get the hel out of here! All right, so she’s dead. Don’t let her destroy you—she isn’t worth it. Run while you’ve got the chance,” he insisted angrily.
“I can’t run, Captain. I’m a soldier. They said I was a hero at the battle near Kickapoo Springs, and they gave me the Medal of Honor. I was top sergeant. If all that’s gonna mean somethin’, I have to stay.”
“Damn.” Cutter’s hand pounded the building as he pushed away from it. The tightness in his throat hurt as he turned away. He saw the two soldiers silently looking on. “He’ll have to face charges,” he told them. “Consider him under arrest.”
From the outer edge of the crowd, Hannah caught glimpses of Cutter by the entrance to the saloon. Even from this distance, the grim set of his features was evident. She made no attempt to get closer. Word had passed through the crowd, so she had a general idea of what had happened inside, and she’d seen the soldiers carrying the bodies of Bitterman and Cimmy Lou to the undertaker’s.
Nothing could be gained by waiting for Cutter, so Hannah drew back to leave. As she turned, a horse and rider approached the crowd, attracted by the assembly in front of the saloon. It was Stephen. Hannah stiffened at the sight of that erect figure in the saddle, so unbendable, like his codes of right and wrong. When he saw her, he reined in his horse.
“I was just coming to see you.” He dismounted and walked toward her as if he expected her to be glad to see him.
“Were you?” Hannah murmured coolly.
“Yes. What’s going on here?” He gestured at the crowd. “I noticed a couple of our troopers by the door of that saloon.”
“The detail caught up with that deserter. There was some shooting. He and Cimmy Lou Hooker were killed.” Hannah watched his face, wondering if he’d show any reaction to the news of the woman’s death. She suspected that Cimmy and Stephen had been lovers, but she didn’t bother to ask. She really didn’t care.
“This is no place for you.” Stephen took her by the arm and led her across to the empty side of the street. The wind churned up a spinning dust devil and it danced by them, whipping at the hem of her skirt.
“You said you came to see me.” Hannah brushed back a strand of hair that the wind blew into her face.
“Look at your hands.” Stephen caught her ink-blackened fingers and turned them up for his inspection. “What have you been doing?”
“Working.” She calmly pulled her hand away.
“Where?”
“At the newspaper, setting type for Mr. Boler. Were you hoping to find me working in some dance hall being mauled by a rowdy bunch of men, so desperate that I would run into your arms?” She tipped her head to one side, knowing him too well.
“I was hoping that by now you would have realized how foolish and ill-conceived your actions are and would be ready to come back with me,” he admitted with harsh impatience. “It’s time you came to your senses.”
“But I have.” Hannah smiled coolly. “I have spoken with an attorney, Stephen. It appears that it will be relatively easy to obtain a divorce. I believe it has something to do with the shortage of women in the territory.”
His face was white with fury beneath his tanned complexion. “Then you intend to go through with this notion of yours?”
“Yes.”
“I have tried to be patient with you, Hannah, but there is a limit to how far I’ll go. Now, either you stop this nonsense and come home, or—“
“Or what, Stephen?” she demanded.
“Don’t be a fool, Hannah.” His voice was thick with anger. “No one else will want you.”
His words stung and resentment flared through her. Stephen saw the maintenance of their marriage as his duty, and she was supposed to be grateful for the favor he was doing her. She was supposed to be grateful that he was willing to provide a roof over her head and food on her table; she wasn’t supposed to expect more. But that was a step backward to mere existence.
“Good-bye, Stephen. I see no necessity to ever see you again.”
That stiff-necked reserve hardened him, and Stephen’s chin lifted with offended arrogance. He didn’t rage at her or plead for her to reconsider. He expressed neither grief nor regret; all his thoughts were for himself. His self-centered ego did not admit anything except his own image of himself. When he turned on his heel and walked crisply away from her, Hannah knew that it was truly over. As long as she had fed his dream of himself, things had worked between them. When she had stopped, there had been nothing left. Now, he would play the role of the maligned husband.
Cutter watched Wade coming across the street, but it was the expression on Hannah’s face, so grim and saddened, that prodded him to rashness. He met Wade halfway. Stephen hesitated in mid-stride and threw a frowning look over his shoulder at Hannah before bringing his hard, questioning gaze back to Cutter.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“None of your damned business,” Cutter snarled in reply, his temper breaking through the harsh restraints he usually placed on it.
“I do not care for your insolence, Captain,” Stephen stood stiffly, the brass buttons on his uniform shining brightly in the sunlight. Everything about him was precisely “by the book,” following strict regulation, “You will retract that remark.”
“Like hell!” Cutter’s stomach muscles tightened into a solid wall as his every nerve tensed in readiness. He felt the throb of blood through his veins, his pulse quickening. The smells were sharper—dust, sweat, horses—and the sounds around him were clearer. Yet everything seemed more distant, outside the arena in which he stood.
“May I remind you that insubordination and failure to salute are punishable offenses, Captain?” Wade frowned, sensing trouble and puzzled by it.
“The hell you say.” Cutter had never been a talker. His right arm cocked and swung with lightning precision, his doubled fist connecting solidly with Wade’s jaw. All his weight went into the swing and it drove Wade backward, snapping his head to the side and sprawling him across the ground. Cutter stood crouched and ready, his fists up, waiting for Wade to come at him. But the major merely propped himself up on his elbow and rubbed at his jaw, glaring his dislike at his attacker.
“I’m bringing charges against you for assaulting a superior officer, Cutter. I’ll break you,” he threatened.
“No, you won’t. Not that way.” Cutter ripped the captain’s bars off one shoulder, then the other, and threw them on the ground beside Wade. “My resignation went into effect this morning. That was civilian to soldier. So if you want to break me, you either have to stand up or have me arrested. And I wish to hell you’d stand up.”
But he didn’t, and Cutter slowly straightened, squaring his shoulders and flexing the bruised knuckles in his hand. After a last look at Wade as he got up and brushed off the dirt, he walked across the street to Hannah. Somewhat guiltily he avoided meeting her level gaze.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” He couldn’t express regret for something that gave him a lot of satisfaction.
“So have I.” The smallest smile touched her lips, lifting the corners as he finally lo
oked at her in surprise. “I have something to thank you for again.”
“I wasn’t sure . . . how you felt about him.” Cutter still wasn’t. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem to matter how badly a man treats a woman; she just beep on loving him.”
“I’m not one of those women.” The milling crowd began to disperse. The glimpse of a bowler hat heading in, the direction of the newspaper office offered Hannah the excuse she sought. “I have to get back to work.”
“Then you are through with him?” Cutter didn’t give her a chance to leave.
“Yes. Mr. Hawthorne, an attorney here in town, is drawing up a divorce document for me. We’re finished. I think Stephen has finally accepted that.” On the other side of the street, Stephen was issuing sharp orders to the troopers to reaffirm his authority. Hannah watched him and felt nothing, not even pity. When she brought her glance back to Cutter, it strayed to the darker blue marks on his sun-faded uniform where his rank insignias had been. “You have left the army.”
“I handed in my resignation before I left on patrol. I had intended to tell you, but—“ He shrugged away the rest of that sentence. “I knew I couldn’t stay in.”
“No, the life didn’t suit you,” Hannah agreed lightly, feeling the tension taking over once again as it had in the newspaper office. She tried to ignore it. “It’s too restrictive. You’re the kind of man who needs room; otherwise you just drift along.”
“That’s what I was doing—drifting—-until I met you and realized how unsatisfied I was.”
She didn’t want to hear the implication of his words, so she shied away from reading anything into them. “What will you do now? Do you have any plans?”
“I chased some Apaches into a long valley northeast of here a few years back. It had a river running through it, and grass growing stirrup-high. There was timber in the mountains that a man could cut to build a cabin and a barn. A herd of wild horses ranged there, and some looked like good saddle prospects. With some work and riding, a man could trap them, break ’em, and sell them to the army. A herd of cattle could always be brought up from Texas and put out to grass. That’s where I’m going, if somebody hasn’t already beaten me to it.”