The soldiers now charged the living outlaws, in hand-to-hand battle with carbine butts, knives, and even fists and boots. Many of the troops had the presence of mind to pick up pistols and rifles from fallen raiders. The shock of the heavy casualties and this extra firepower pressed hard on the surviving outlaws.
Wildon saw one man, tall and gaunt as Hester had described him, in the center of the melee. Quickly shoving three rounds into his revolver’s cylinder, he rushed toward the bandido.
Mauveaux could see the man running toward him was an officer by the shoulder straps he wore. He also knew who it was. “Ah!” he cried out. “C'est un affaire d’honneur, monsieur!” Snarling, he raised his pistol to shoot.
Wildon quickly dropped to one knee and brought his revolver up. He squeezed off all three rounds. One hit Mauveaux’s torso, making him jump back crazily. The second slammed into the Frenchman’s head and dumped him onto his back. The third flew off into the sky above the Llano Estacado.
Gradually the roar of the battle simmered down until complete silence covered the scene. A few surviving bandits, who had been lucky enough not to be caught in the roaring fusillade, galloped away in an unorganized rout toward Mexico.
Stunned but thankful it was over, the troopers and the women looked at the carnage around them. No one moved for several moments until Sergeant Garrity walked up to Wildon.
“Sir,” he said saluting. “Two men dead, three wounded, and two present for duty.”
Wildon took a deep breath. “Well, Sergeant, it looks like you and I will be driving wagons the rest of the way to Fort Mojave.”
Twenty-Three
Reveille was sounded at Fort Mojave, Arizona Territory. The persistent notes swept over the post from Soap Suds Row up to the officers’ quarters.
Second Lieutenant Wildon Boothe, as usual, responded instinctively to the call. He sat up before he was fully awake and did not open his eyes until his feet were on the floor. But instead of being asleep in bed, he was dozing in a chair in the regimental headquarters. Detailed as the officer of the day, he had been on duty all night. He stood up and stretched. As soon as Reveille was over, he would be relieved from any more responsibility for the rest of the day.
The wagon train had arrived more than a month before. After the survivors had buried their dead—which included a proper marker for Trooper “John Jones”— and left the hated bandits to mummify in the desert sun or be eaten by vultures, the small group had traveled unmolested to their destination.
The regimental sergeant major stepped in through the front door. “Good morning to you, sir,” the senior N.C.O. said.
“I’m happy to see you,” Wildon said gratefully. “Tell the adjutant there is nothing unusual to report.”
“No fights in the barracks or sutler’s last night, sir?”
“Not even a shout,” Wildon said. “I’ll see you later, Sergeant.” He went outside and walked toward his quarters on officers’ row.
When he entered his small house, a delicious odor wafted into the room from the kitchen. Wildon strolled through the bed chamber and into the cooking area. The cast-iron quartermaster stove had a dancing fire in it. A pot of coffee bubbled on it. Hester looked up from the skillet that splattered with frying bacon.
“K Troop slaughtered a pig yesterday,” she said. “Mary Dougherty saved us some of the bacon.”
Wildon poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a cautious sip, then a healthy gulp. “This tastes wonderful.”
“You sound surprised,” Hester said.
“I am,” he said in all candor.
“Dixie told me the best way to prepare army-issue coffee,” Hester said.
“Did Mary teach you how to fry bacon?”
“She gave me some helpful hints,” Hester said. “I’m afraid there are no eggs, but the bacon will be a welcome change to salt pork, won’t it?” She pointed to the mirror on the wall where a basin of hot water sat. “Everything is ready for your morning shave.”
Wildon smiled. “You’re quite the army wife, aren’t you?”
“I’m learning.”
Wildon stripped off his tunic, and picked up his shaving mug. After lathering his face, he began to slowly strop his razor. “Hester.”
“Yes, darling?”
“I have written out my resignation,” Wildon said. “I’ll submit it to the regimental adjutant tomorrow morning.”
Hester stopped cooking and looked over at him.
“Of course it will take a little time for it to be processed,” he said. “And we have to make arrangements for transport back to New York.” He began to shave. “I think I’ll pass up the chance for a job with Bristol Soap, however. My own family can arrange a suitable position.”
Hester finished the bacon and put it out on the plates. “Wildon, why are you doing this?”
“I’ve been terribly selfish, darling,” Wildon said. He carefully ran the razor under his chin. “I had no right to ask you to endure all this.”
“Endure this?” She laughed. “Wildon, some of my dearest friends in the world live here. Dixie Mulvaney, Mary Dougherty, and even Elisa Abernathy.” She looked at him. “Darling, after just six months behind a desk in a brokerage house, you would be stark raving mad.”
“Maybe not,” he said.
“Wildon, I saw what kind of a man you are out there on the desert,” Hester said. “You are a born soldier. You belong here, and I want to be by your side.”
He turned and looked at her. “Do you really mean that?”
“My sweet husband, I love you with all my heart. I would much rather live with you here than put up with you back in New York,” Hester said. “Your company would be impossible to endure.”
Wildon wiped the remaining lather from his face. He turned and looked at her. “Hester—” A knock at the door sounded. Hester walked over and opened it. Sergeant Garrity tipped his kepi. “Some o’ the men would like to speak to you, ma’am,” he said. “It seemed all right so I brung ’em over.” He motioned to the soldiers with him.
Several troopers stood there, including Harold Rampey who still sported a sling. “Good morning, Missus Boothe.” He saw Wildon and saluted. “Good morning, sir.”
Puzzled, Wildon walked to the door. “What can we do for you men?”
“We got something for Missus Boothe,” Rampey said.
“We made it ourselves,” his friend David Mauson added.
“It was for the way she watched out for us with the surgeon,” Gus Dortmann added. He had suffered a painful thigh wound during the final charge of the bandits. “We know how hard it is to get good furniture.”
“What have you got there?” Hester asked, smiling.
“It’s a little dressing table, ma’am,” Dortmann said. “We made it out of hardtack boxes. Can we bring it in?”
“Certainly,” Wildon said.
“Oh, look!” Hester exclaimed. “It’s got a mirror on it. Where in the world did you get that?”
“We all chipped in and bought it at the sutler’s ma’am,” Rampey said. He and Mauson carried it in and set it down in the kitchen. “We don’t especially like the color, but it was the only kind o’ paint we could steal—”
Sergeant Garrity interrupted. “He means draw outta quartermaster stores.”
“I think blue is lovely,” Hester said. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s got a drawer in it, see?” Mauson said. He demonstrated it. “You can put stuff in it, if you’d like.”
“Thank you so much,” Hester said beaming. “I love it. You are all so kind to have gone to such trouble.” She walked up to the cleverly constructed table. “It’s wonderfully smooth to the touch!”
“We sanded it down, ma’am,” Harold Rampey explained.
“Give her the card, Rampey,” Garrity said. “We all signed this sentiment, ma’am,” the young trooper said, handing it over.
Smiling with delight, Hester took the envelope and opened it. The message was short, but there were more than a do
zen signatures and a couple of “X’s” beside which someone else had written the names.
To Mrs. Boothe,
We wish to express our gratitude for the kindness and consideration you showed us soldiers. As far as we are concerned, you are the First Lady of the Regiment.
“How sweet!” Hester said. “Oh dear, how thoughtless of me. Would you like some coffee?”
“If it’s no trouble, ma’am,” Dortmann said. “It’s no trouble at all,” Hester said. “Please sit down. I believe we have enough cups now.”
“Do you suppose I might have another too,” Wildon said.
“Of course, dear,” Hester said. She walked over to the stove to get the coffeepot. “Oh, Wildon.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary for you to see the adjutant, do you?”
“Not if you say so,” he replied happily.
“I do say so,” Hester said. She laughed. “Be it ever so humble—”
“—there’s no place like the U.S. Cavalry,” Wildon added with a smile.
Hester laughed and served the coffee. As her unexpected guests enjoyed the hot brew, she went over to the dressing table to give it a careful examination.
It was the most beautiful piece of furniture she had ever owned—and that included the expensive pieces back in New York.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrick Andrews was born in Oklahoma in 1936 into a family of pioneers who participated in its growth from the Indian Territory and Oklahoma Territory to statehood. His father’s family were homesteaders and his mother's cattle ranchers. Consequently, he is among the last generation of American writers who had contacts with those people from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Patrick’s wife Julie says he both speaks and writes with an Oklahoma accent.
He is an ex-paratrooper, having served in the 82nd Airborne Division in the active army and the 12th Special Forces Group in the army reserves. Patrick began his writing career after leaving the army. He and his better half presently reside in southern California. He has a son Bill, who is an ex-paratrooper and a probation officer, and two grandchildren.
Among his many books, Piccadilly Publishing is pleased to be reissuing ebook editions as mini-series and stand alones, including: The Long-Knives, The Dragoons, Texas Trails, Indian Territory.
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