''Awake are you?"
Ritchie muttered assent.
"Well, you're a lucky young man, I can tell you. You'll bear a nasty scar for the rest of your life. But thanks to those mates of yours and their treatment, you'll still have your hand—which is more than poor Winters— And Velasco will have his feet, too—even if he'll have to favor them awhile—"
He broke off abruptly and hurried through his job, as if to avoid questions.
Ritchie struggled to one elbow when his hand was released. "What's the matter with Winters?"
"Frostbite!" The surgeon picked up his kit and was gone before Ritchie could ask another question.
"Yeh, tough on Winters." From the next cot came Kristland's voice.
"What happened?"
"Ain't happened yet, but it's goin' to. They're gonna take off his feet—gangrene. If he's lucky, he'll die. Wonder how Herndon feels— Winters won't be forgettin' him!"
"Shut up!" Ritchie turned his head and looked at the rough 'dobe wall. The pain in his hand seemed to feed the ache behind his eyes. He closed them, but his thoughts still went around and around. It wasn't Herndon's fault that Winters had been too stubborn and contrary to report his feet soon enough. Of course it wasn't! But where was Herndon now and what devils must be plaguing him in his particular dark!
7
Cold-Pork Christmas
Through the wavy glass of the small window Ritchie could see across the barracks square. From the flagpole the Colors were forced into a stiff bar by the force of the wind, a wind which also scoured and broke down the drifts it had but moments before built. Dark figures were performing the evolutions of drill veiled with swirls of driven snow. He fancied he could hear the guttural snorts with which Kristland warmed up the mouthpiece of his instrument before he attempted to play the calls.
"Who is here?"
Ritchie snapped to attention and then relaxed as he identified the man in the door of the convalescent ward.
"Ritchie Peters, Sergeant Woldemar."
"Peters—ach—yah. It is your hand, is it not? What says the surgeon of it now?"
"I'm on light duty 'til he gives the word."
"Light duty?" Woldemar rubbed his chin. "Maybe I have now the answer for that. Light duties I have altogether too much of. Come now with me, Peters."
Ritchie lost no time in pulling on his jacket and cap. He was so eager to be through with the dull monotony of doing nothing at all that he almost pushed Woldemar through the door ahead of him. But the pace of the young German continued to be quite deliberate as they crossed the edge of the parade ground to the orderly room.
Inside, an iron stove gave off just enough heat to toast anyone who might be pressed close to its round side. But the outer corners of the small room had an arctic tinge. Two rough tables piled with papers and a chair for each, with backless stools for—apparently—sinners required to do penance, completed the furnishing. One chair was already occupied.
"Look you upon my find, Scott." Woldemar unwound the vast muffler which covered him from shoulder to eye level. "Here is a 'light duty' to serve us. Do you write a clear hand, young man?" He turned upon Ritchie suddenly.
"If I don't, it wasn't for want of feruling." Ritchie fumbled awkwardly with the fastenings of his coat. He hadn't learned even yet how to manage very well with only one hand. But now Herndon's fingers slipped the troublesome top button out of its hole, and he was free.
"Sit here." Woldemar pointed to one of the stools. "These shall be copied—so. And no smudges upon them afterwards." Woldemar laid out the papers. "If your ink begins to ice, hold it to the stove. Now then, we work— yah?"
Ritchie set to writing, the pen oddly light between his fingers. At first he was interested in what he copied, but the monotonous lists of supplies finally made him sleepy. Woldemar picked up the first sheet he had finished and passed it on to Herndon. The Troop Sergeant studied it for a moment before he nodded to confirm Ritchie in his job. Private Peters flexed stiff fingers and pulled the second sheet to him.
"Well, well." Woldemar regarded a letter which had come up on top in his pile. "Camels is it now?"
That caught the attention of both of his companions.
'Is Beale making another cross-country gallop?" Herndon wanted to know. "Thought he proved his point last year—that camels can be used."
"Not Beale now—this is a Captain Sharpe—Captain Thornton Sharpe—an engineer with the camel fever."
"The Chama job!" Herndon threw down his pen. "When, Fred?"
"Summer here it says. And camels—Pah!" The Sergeant spat accurately into the box of sand by the stove. "Where shall we put camels? They make horses and mules go mad —I have seen it happen."
"But Beale proved them successful on long marches," Herndon said thoughtfully. "They can live off desert country better than horses or mules—don't have to carry fodder for them—"
"Yah. And they stink, and they bite, and the decent animals—they hate them! Give me no camels I beg of you!" Woldemar begged. "Ha—and what have we now—visitors?"
There was a hollow thumping outside the door. Woldemar got up and opened it to let the visitors in. Beside a huge gray, rough-coated dog padded the Apache boy.
"So." Woldemar regarded them with raised brows. "It is already that time, is it? Well, come not to me; I have not the supplies. Go to him who has—"
Both boy and dog favored him with a single solemn glance and then passed on, to stand in front of Herndon's table. Quite matter-of-factly the Troop Sergeant opened a tin box and picked out two small blackish lumps of the native sugar, which he put on the edge of the board. A long pink tongue flicked one away, and a brown fist closed over the other.
"Away with you now." Woldemar made shooing motions with both hands. But the visitors withdrew no farther than the corner of the room, where they bedded down together for a nap.
Ritchie ventured to ask a question of his own. "What is the Chama job?"
Woldemar pushed back his chair. "Ach, for that story you must ask Sergeant Herndon. It is partly his dream—is it not?" he asked over his shoulder.
Herndon was frowning at the paper he held. "We haven't time for chatting."
Ritchie flushed and gave his full attention to his list. Their quiet was broken only by the mess call, but it was with relief that Ritchie put on his coat. But he couldn't escape that easily. Woldemar fell into step with him as they went out of the orderly room with the staghound and the Apache for escort.
"That is one smart dog," Woldemar commented. "He is a staghound—belongs to Lieutenant Gilmore. But he is very, very smart, that one. Once he was bitten by a rattlesnake. The Lieutenant did what was to be done, burned out the bite-with gunpowder, and brought him fast to Dr. Billings. Again they hurt that hound bad, cut away skin, burned with caustic—all bad, hurting things. But the hound —he knows it was good for him.
"So once again he is bitten. This time the Lieutenant is not with him—he had run away to hunt rabbits alone. So in he comes, all by himself, and he goes to Dr. Billings' quarters, and he holds up to the doctor that bitten paw to be treated. Yah, he had brains, does that hound. If I were going upon a trail, I would wish him with me. At bull-hunting he is very good—"
Ritchie swallowed the boiled pork, the stewed, dried apples, and the scalding coffee. Since he had had no orders to the contrary, he supposed he must report again to the orderly room. But the thought of spending the afternoon at work under Herndon's disapproving eye was a little daunting. He lingered over his food as long as he could and was pleased that Sturgis caught up with him on the way back.
''When are you coming back to our palatial quarters?" the Southerner wanted to know. "I've kept an eye on your bunk and—"
"The Doc won't let me go yet. I'm in the orderly room-copying stuff—"
Sturgis whistled. "Boy, you were born with Lady Luck beaming right down at you. Nice warm orderly room—and me out freezing on this plain. If it weren't for the Colonel's bright eyes, I might be in all cozy with y
ou. He's made and broke me so often I put my chevrons on with hooks and eyes. Now he just doesn't try to raise me from the lower ranks any more. How's working with His Lordship? Good thing he's keeping to cover right now. The men aren't any too pleased over Winters. But it was better for the poor chap to peg out the way he did than drag out life as a cripple."
Ritchie stopped. "Why does every one blame Sergeant Herndon for that? Winters was stubborn enough not to let anyone know he was frosted until too late. Was that the Sergeant's fault? And when he discovered what was wrong, he certainly did what he could. I was there—I saw how they worked over Winters' feet. They rubbed almost all night long! If they're blaming Herndon, it's a blasted shame!"
Sturgis was laughing. "Turkey cock! Goin' to burst some day if you don't watch out. What're you so worked up about anyway? Old High-n-mighty isn't any special friend of yours—or is he?"
Ritchie did not miss the veiled hostility coloring those last three words. "No, he's no friend of mine. I don't think he wants any friends. But I've got a hand on my left wrist. And if it wasn't for Herndon and a couple of others, I wouldn't have. It was he who kept us on our feet and going; we would have died in our tracks if he had let us!" i
"I'll admit he has guts," Sturgis agreed more soberly. "They say his hands were frozen fast to the bridle of the horse that was carryin' Winters, and they had to peel his gloves from his hands, strip by strip. But he's such a cold fish that nobody likes him. Can you get a pass for tomorrow?"
"Why?" asked Ritchie flatly. "I'm broke too now—"
"Once in town with me was enough, eh?" Sturgis grinned. "Oh, but this time is different. I'll swear to that. Company K's thinkin' about Christmas. The paymaster never got here, but one or two of the boys think they can borrow, and we're makin' up a party to explore the resources. No bar trips, I assure you—"
"I'll see—" Woldemar was turning in at the orderly room. He'd better hurry before he gave Herndon a chance to be sarcastic.
The cold—that certainly spelled Christmas. But—Ritchie eyed the orderly room with frank disfavor—the surroundings were not conducive to belief in that festive date. He blew vigorously and with some show on his fingers and scowled down at the papers before him.
However, their afternoon of toil was not to be without interruption. The knock which brought up three heads a little while later had enough authority in it to lead Ritchie to expect the Colonel at least. And he stared somewhat slack-jawed at the muffled creature which shuffled in at Herndon's call.
A broad-brimmed black hat had been turned into a sort of bonnet by the device of tying a scarf tightly over its crown until only a thin slit of daylight could be seen by its wearer. Shaggy buffalo hide formed the enveloping coat, which must have wrapped almost twice around the body it concealed. And from under its hem flapped a sort of black skirt, the sight of which made Ritchie jump to his feet— though he was sure that this could not be the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Major Jackson, or any of the other fort ladies.
But the very masculine voice coming out of that strange assembly of coverings and the gnarled hands busy at shedding them were anything but feminine. Both Herndon and Woldemar came forward to greet the visitor with real pleasure, and he was pushed by their combined efforts into a chair by the stove.
“Padre Justinian! What in the world brings you out in this weather?" demanded Woldemar, while Herndon assaulted the fire into greater efforts at heat.
Out of a brown and weathered face very bright eyes surveyed them all and then darted to where the little Apache and his rough-coated companion had again hidden out.
From somewhere within his coat the Padre produced a small tin box from which he exhumed a glistening set of very white teeth. These he inspected carefully before slipping them into his nutcracker jaws to face the world once more a whole and articulate person.
"My son, in our lives there is no such thing as weather. Do you not ride out even in the face of a gale if your duty demands it? I received your Colonel's message only yesterday, having been on a journey among my people. So this is the child he wishes me to take into our school—"
His attention was now all for the small Apache who had never turned his wide-eyed stare from the priest since his entrance. And now the thick gutturals of the boy's own tongue flowed between those brashly gleaming teeth.
The Apache got to his feet with caution and, after darting a suspicious glance at the soldiers, came across the room to stand before his questioner. After a while he even replied with a stiff word or two.
And at winning that response from him, the priest nodded briskly. ''It is well. He shall come to our school. In time, my sons, I may offer back to you a scout for your forces. They have good minds, these Apaches, and they can learn from us, even as we may learn from them. Your Colonel is wise in giving him into our keeping. A fort is no place for a child so young and so alien."
So was Ritchie's captive swept away, almost as if carried out of the fort upon the swirling skirts of Padre Justinian's shabby soutane. Ritchie wondered how the child would take to the redoubtable Padre's school. There seemed to be a brisk common sense about that preceptor of the untamed young which argued well for the future. And maybe the priest was right. When Ritchie Peters had brought back the biting young fury of the mountains, he had really entrapped a future army scout.
He went to hunt up Sturgis with the news, only to be drawn into the Christmas buying trip after all.
But the town expedition was a failure. Since all of Santa Fe knew that the pockets of army breeches were still empty, or so close to that that it made no difference, no shopkeeper particularly welcomed the delegation from the fort. Ritchie trailed along with the group of persuasive talkers who had been sent to bargain. But after their fourth failure, discouragement drove them to the bars. Among them they could raise the price of a beer. And there were warmth, light, and the latest Eastern papers, only five or six weeks, old, to be read. But Ritchie refused to be drawn in with the rest.
He walked back along the street which led out to the fort road, his back hunched against the wind, kicking at lumps of clay and snow. And, in spite of all his efforts, his thoughts swung backward a year. The two high-stepping pacers and the light sleigh they had pulled, the crispness of the eastern air, the ride home from the station. Father at the head of the table—even then he must have been worried to the verge of his illness but he had not let them know—the last Christmas at home.
Well, Laura and May would be riding to church in the sleigh again this year. Aunt Emma liked the girls, and they liked her. It wasn't too bad a life for them. He touched the three coins in his pocket, and wished he had something to send them—not that it would get there in time. It'd have to fly through the air to reach Washington Square by the day after tomorrow.
There were one or two shops along the street—mean little holes in the wall. He'd like to send the girls each one of those lace head scarves the ladies wore out here. The Colonel's wife had a black one. But where was he going to get forty dollars? He couldn't even send one of those pound cakes of native sugar or a stick of horehound.
Something crinkly, rose and gold, fluttering in the air drew his attention to the doorway of a shop. He crossed the drifts to see what those long paper streamers could mean. And because the sign was so unlike the others, he went in.
There were odd spicy smells in the air, and he saw a thin curl of blue smoke mounting from a little bowl on the counter. In daylight the room might have been as tawdry and mean as all the others, but in the candlelight it was enchanted and strange.
"You wish—?" Words, singsong and different in tone.
A Chinese had slipped out of the shadows. His long dark blue gown, his ageless—and to western eyes—expressionless face was in stark contrast to the red Indian blanket pegged up on the wall behind him.
"Tea-coffee-?"
"No." Ritchie was embarrassed. "It was the sign." He pointed with a mittened thumb to the streamer.
"File clackels? Si,” One hand went beneath the
counter-to reappear holding a package wrapped in vermilion paper.
For the second time Ritchie had to shake his head. "It's not the Fourth," he began.
Then something else caught his eye, and he stepped over to examine a pile of small polished boxes. Some were carved with queer Chinese symbols; some merely depended upon the beauty of the wood for decoration; some were inlaid. Trinket boxes for the girls!
"How much?" He had picked out one of the less decorative ones.
"Fivedolla'!"
He sighed and pinched the coins in his pocket. By no miracle did they total five dollars—or even two.
"You like?"
"They're mighty pretty."
"No five dolla'?"
"No five dollars, no four dollars, no three dollars," Ritchie admitted with wry amusement. "We balgin—you savvy balgin?"
"Balgin—?" Ritchie translated hastily. "You mean bargain?"
“Si—balgin. What you give—one box?" The shopkeeper selected three and then a fourth box. He tapped each with a long forefinger and pronounced the words slowly and distinctly.
"This mesquite, this maderone, this manzanita, this mesquite. You like?"
Ritchie looked them over carefully. The polished maderone was certainly dignified enough to meet even Aunt Emma's strict standards; the manzanita one had an Indian design which would amuse Laura; and either of the mesquite pieces with their inlays would please May.
"I like." He singled out the maderone one. "Two bits?"
“Fo' dolla'," was the solemn reply. "Wait—"
The shopkeeper disappeared into the shadows. When he returned, he had a small tray on which stood two handleless cups equipped with lids. One he set before Ritchie with a ceremonious gesture.
''Tea. You dlink—cold—"
"It sure is," Ritchie agreed. He put aside the lid of the cup, and the fragrant steam, different from any tea scent he had known before, met his nose. He drank slowly, and the fragrance became part of the tang on his tongue.
Norton, Andre - Novel 15 Page 8