Norton, Andre - Novel 15
Page 21
"—fever gone—"
That was the day those two sounds became words. The world was coming into focus again. But he still lay on the hospital cot very tired, sleepy, and ready to go back into the place from which the surgeon had dragged him.
On the day he was first propped up with pillows behind him there was the bite of fall in the air. But he was more interested in the other bed across the room and the man who sat up in it grinning back at him. There were questions to be asked and answered with long pauses between the words. They could marvel alike at the thought of that patrol which had heard their last shot and tracked them down to save them.
Then one morning Ritchie stood on his two feet before a shaving mirror and studied with grave intensity the face of a stranger. All the boyish roundness was gone from cheek and jaw. The lips were tight, compressed at the corners, straight set, and around the unsmiling eyes wrinkles had been etched by sun and wind. His own face—he ran his fingers in exploration along the angle of that jaw. There was something else. He saw in that murky mirror a faint resemblance to someone else—he couldn't remember and he frowned.
The door squeaked as Herndon came in. As yet the old spring was not in his step, and he dropped down on his cot with a real sigh of relief, lying there staring at the ceiling as fingers which still bore some likeness to claws worked the buttons of his short cavalry jacket out of their holes.
Ritchie sat down on a stool by the window and waited. There were lines of fatigue between Herndon's eyes, but he was satisfied, satisfied and, in his own way, happy. Odd how Ritchie knew that without being told. He guessed vaguely that he would always sense things like that now—at least with Herndon. There was a bond between them—one which would never be put into words. He relaxed in the bar of sunlight and prompted.
"What did the Old Man want?"
"Had news from Sharpe. They went through all right."
Ritchie nodded.
"George Caster and two of his Pima scouts caught up to them the day after we left. They got back the mules and some of the horses. We were just a little too previous, I guess—" Herndon's voice trailed off.
Ritchie remembered graves. Just a little too previous— the game had been stacked against them that time.
"Sharpe's been promoted and is to organize a special detail. Going to map more mountains—"
Ritchie was still watching the parade ground beyond the window, but his attention was all in the room.
"He can pick his own men. If there's trouble blowing up, he has to be sure—"
Herndon unbuckled his belt. He was still studying the cracks in the ceiling.
"It seems he has asked for a Sergeant Herndon—"
Ritchie had to moisten his lips before he could answer. "You're the right man for a detail like that, Scott."
"A Sergeant Herndon," the other repeated as if he hadn't heard, "and a Corporal Ritchie Peters."
Out on the parade ground the chill wind was ruffling the tails of the mounts. Ritchie could hear the commands— maybe better with his heart than his ears.
"Stand to horse! Lead out! Count fours! Mount!"
"I told the Old Man," Scott Herndon went on, "that he could have the both of us—"
Ritchie glanced down at his sleeve. Stripes there now? Well, why not?
"Am I right?"
Ritchie turned full face. The tight control of his lips broke in a smile. "I have drunk of these waters," he quoted. "I am part of this land!"