Beyond Fort North

by Peter Dawson

  He supposed that Mary was cooking their supper and he was grateful for her thoughtfulness. Lately it had become acutely embarrassing to appear each evening to eat with the officers of his command, knowing as he did that they were closely observing the failing of his health and growing more concerned about it. George Spires particularly had become a nuisance with his constant insistence that Fitzhugh apply for a lengthy leave and go East for treatment and possible retirement. Retirement was a purgatory the major had no intention of suffering of his own free will. The Army was his life and to leave it would only be signing his death warrant, of that he was very certain.

  This hour, when dusk was laying its shroud over the jagged hills and evening’s cool breeze brought strongly the scent of the pines, was the one he liked best of all the day. Now, wanting to take the last possible measure of enjoyment from it, he threw back the blankets and left his bed, holding to the headboard until the dizziness and unsteadiness that had lately been with him drained away.

  Going to the window then, he looked out across the shadowed parade and the uneven ranks of the foothills beyond to the deepening azure of the jagged western horizon, wondering if by this time tomorrow evening K Troop wouldn’t be threading its way through the buttes and mesas of the broken country off there.

  Everything depended on Washington, of course. At midday, on learning of the wagon train massacre, he had sent a long message over the wire to Denver. This evening, having asked Caleb Ash to be here to give an opinion on what was to be expected of the renegades, he would send another, emphasizing the urgency of immediate action. It might be only six or eight hours, but more likely a day or even two or three days before he would receive authorization to act in this situation.

  The fact of his having been stripped of all independence of action, of having to consult Washington through the Department in Denver before making even the most minor disposition of his forces, rankled deeply and gave him a feeling of being shackled and at the mercy of the hostiles. But such developments were only to be expected after the disastrous outcome of Gentry’s ambush last month. He was putting up with the situation as best he could.

  Just now a harsh ring of voices sounding from the direction of the main gate broke the peacefulness and quiet of the moment, and Fitzhugh frowned in irritation. Perhaps it was because he’d just been thinking of Gentry that one of those voices seemed strangely like the man’s, its tones deep and compelling. Only when he realized the absurdity of Gentry’s being on the post did the impression leave him and, his enjoyment of this interval completely gone, he turned from the window and began putting on his clothes.

  He was still feeling that slight irritation a few minutes later when Mary knocked at his door. His tone was impatient as he answered: “Yes?”

  “It’s Corporal Rawlins, Father. They want you at Headquarters.”

  “I’ll be along presently.” He had spoken harshly and was immediately regretting it. So when he shortly came out of his room to find Mary waiting by the porch door, he crossed over to her with a smile and said apologetically: “Guess the sleep turned me sour, Mary.”

  She handed him his hat, the look in her dark eyes one of concern. “Couldn’t someone else attend to whatever it is? You should be resting. And the dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Then I’ll hurry,” he said. “I must hear what Ash has to say.” And he went on out.

  They were waiting for him on the Headquarters porch, Peebles and Ash and Captain Grell. And after he had taken his officers’ salutes and said — “Good evening, gentlemen.” — it was Sam Grell who at once announced: “Sir, we need your help.”

  Fitzhugh nodded, regarding his adjutant. And Grell went on lamely: “There’s been...well, sir, a young woman was found alive down there at the wagons. She’s been brought in to George Spires. She’s hurt. How badly we don’t know yet.”

  Fitzhugh’s look was grave only a moment before it brightened. “It’s unfortunate she’s hurt, but how splendid she survived. He glanced at Peebles. “You should have wakened me, let me know about it, Lieutenant.”

  “But I didn’t bring her in, Major,” Peebles said uncomfortably.

  “Then who did?”

  It was Grell who answered, saying awkwardly: “She was found late in the afternoon. It was...was Dan Gentry who found her. Lord knows how it happened to be him. But he’s here right now...down at George’s cabin. It hasn’t been ten minutes since he brought the girl in.”

  Fitzhugh’s thin, sallow face tightened in an expression that showed no emotion whatsoever. He stood a moment in thought, then said tonelessly: “And of course you’re wondering what to do about him. Suppose you send Corporal Rawlins down and ask the doctor if he’ll be good enough to come to my office.”

  Grell, vastly relieved, saluted and turned in the door. And Fitzhugh said to the other two: “Let’s go on in. I’m sure you have a lot to tell me.”

  They went on into the major’s office, and Fitzhugh sat at his desk, asking the scout a question that started the big man talking. Once the major interrupted with a question, and when Ash finally went silent, Fitzhugh was staring down at his desk in a brooding, considering way.

  “We can at least be thankful they didn’t get more of our horses this time,” he said shortly, looking up at the scout and smiling faintly as he added: “You’re about the only man I know who’s profited from Sour Eye’s forays, Mister Ash.”

  The scout’s bronzed face took on a dark flush, and he said testily: “Could I help it if you needed remounts when Gentry lost all those animals?”

  “Not at all, not at all,” the major hastened to assure him. “I meant nothing personal.” He was obviously surprised at Ash’s touchiness and, deciding on the best way to put the man at his ease again, asked: “Then what’s your opinion on what the Apaches will do now?”

  “Head south over the line, collect themselves some Mexican scalps and livestock, and try and hole up in those hills down there close to Cochise’s people. It’s what they did last time after they caught Gentry’s detail and hid all those animals.”

  It was Fitzhugh’s turn to be uneasy now. He straightened in his chair, trying to cover his annoyance over this second reference to something he had asked his officers not to mention in his presence, a fact Ash obviously wasn’t aware of.

  “Then I’ll make my plans on your opinion, Caleb. We....”

  His words broke off as the door opened. Doc Spires entered the room. The medico was a stooped slat of a man crowding old age, and now, meeting the major’s glance, his narrow face wore a dour expression. “I know what you’re going to say,” he stated bluntly, unceremoniously. “But it couldn’t be helped. Dan had no choice.”

  “The woman,” Fitzhugh said. “Is she badly injured?”

  “A possible concussion. And naturally she’s unstrung. But woman is hardly the thing to call her. She’s a downright beautiful young girl.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Tipton’s daughter, Faith by name.”

  “And how did Gentry happen to find her?”

  “He was on his way out and stopped to look the wagons over. His animal shied, and he thought it queer and investigated. She was buried under something spilled from a wagon. Evidently took a hard blow when the thing went over. She was unconscious most of the day, till long after Dan found her.”

  Fitzhugh’s look was relieved. “Then you think she’ll be all right, George?” He waited for the medico’s nod, went on: “Give her my compliments. And in view of your being a bachelor, why not move her to my place? There’s the extra bed in Mary’s room.”

  “I’ll do that. And you might tell Missus Fitzhugh to keep a close eye on her tonight. She’s got more downright guts than nine out of ten men. Hasn’t broken down yet. But there’s a limit to what anyone can stand. She may take a turn for the worse.”

  “Mary will watch her.”

  “Another thi
ng,” Spires said. “She’s worried about the wagons. It seems her father owes money on the goods intended for Mike Clears and Ash here. If you could have Sam Grell see to the collection of it, her mind would be relieved a....”

  “Collection?” Caleb Ash cut in, his voice such a growl that it startled them all. “Those goods’re paid for.”

  Fitzhugh frowned, glancing at Spires. And the medico told Ash: “I’m only repeating what she said.”

  Ash laughed harshly, his big voice filling the room. “She’s got another think comin’, Doc. That hardware’s paid for and I can prove it.”

  Spires only shrugged. “Then that’s that.”

  “Her father probably didn’t discuss business matters with her,” Fitzhugh remarked placatingly. “At any rate, let’s wait till she’s rested before we go on with the matter.”

  “Suits me,” Ash drawled. “But no meddlin’ woman’s goin’ to do me out of what’s rightfully mine.”

  Fitzhugh paid scant attention to the scout’s salty words, so absorbed was he in deliberating something else now. They all sensed what it was and were nervously waiting for him to speak. At length he glanced up at Spires. “George, see that Gentry leaves at once. There’s nothing more he can do now, and his being here makes it awkward for all of us. You can thank him for....” He caught himself, shaking his head. “No, not that. Just tell him to go.”

  On his way out Spires commented dryly: “He’ll go afoot. That mare of his is done in. She wasn’t any good to begin with and she damned near killed herself carrying that load up here.”

  The door had barely closed behind the doctor when Ash was saying: “Suppose she sticks by her guns, Major? Does she just rob me blind?”

  “How can she? You said you had proof.”

  “So I have. In writin’. But....”

  “Could Shotwell help us?” Peebles interrupted.

  “Shotwell?” Fitzhugh asked.

  “The teamster, the one that brought the news this noon, sir. He might be able to straighten us out on this.”

  Fitzhugh eyed Ash obliquely. “Do you want to find him and ask him about it?”

  Ash’s look was momentarily uncertain. But then in his bluff way he said: “Wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? But it’ll be you he talks to, not me. I know where I stand.”

  The major nodded. “Yes, that would be best.” He glanced at his lieutenant. “Have the men eaten yet?”

  “They’re eating now, sir.”

  “Then as soon as they’ve finished send a man down to town and have him bring this man Shotwell up here to see me.”

  Ash had stepped across to the door. Opening it, he asked: “That’s all you want of me, Major?”

  “That’s all. We’ll be calling on you if any favorable word comes in over the wire.”

  The scout nodded, and went on out across the adjoining room past the duty sergeant’s desk and onto the porch. He paused there to take out a plug of tobacco and cut a wedge from the corner of it. As he tongued the chew from the clasp knife’s thin, keen blade, he was still feeling the shock that had hit him twenty minutes ago on first learning that Faith Tipton was still alive. Her being here threw his plans off, complicated them to a point where he wondered whether or not he dared carry through the deception he had so carefully thought out.

  But then, thinking of Shotwell, his expression all at once changed from a worried one to a slowly smiling one. Snapping shut the knife’s big blade, he went quickly down the steps and out the graveled path to the rail where his bay was tied.

  It was dark now, and he crossed the parade at a fast trot, heading for the main gate marked by the feeble glow of a lantern. The trooper on guard there heard him coming and stepped out from the sentry box with carbine slacked in the bend of his arm. At the last moment Ash realized he shouldn’t appear to be hurrying and he tightened rein, and the bay was at a walk coming in on the gate.

  Then he saw who the sentry was, and all his concern left him as he said affably: “How goes it, Johnny?” He brought his animal to a stand and without waiting for a reply said: “I hear Gentry’s back again.”

  The trooper’s look was rueful, angry. He shook his head. “Did the sergeant ever comb me over for letting him in!”

  “Has he left yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ash was smiling crookedly now. “How come you did it, Johnny? Changed your mind about him?”

  “By God, no!” Corporal John Ewing’s jaw set hard in indignation. Ash appeared unconvinced and his look made the trooper ask defensively: “What was I supposed to do? Here was this girl, blood all over her face, and the captain....”

  “You did all right, Johnny,” Ash cut in mildly. “You always do all right.”

  The scout’s words brought a look of apprehension, of wariness, to Ewing’s narrow face. Stepping closer to the bay, Ewing looked furtively around before saying in a low, grating voice: “Caleb, I don’t like the way things’re shaping up. Not a damned bit! McCune’s been watching me. Every time I look around there he is, staring at me. This morning I braced him, asked him what the hell he’s got on his mind. He says to me...‘Maybe nothin’, Johnny boy.’ Then he just grins and walks off.”

  Ash shrugged with a nonchalance he was in no way feeling. “Forget McCune. What could he know?”

  “Nothing,” Ewing burst out in a hushed voice. “That’s it. What is there he could know?”

  He was about to add to this when suddenly he turned, listening to the rapid sound of hoof strikes coming in along the bench road. He darted a glance at Ash, said — “I’ll let you know if I find out anything.” — then stepped out to the center of the gate as a rider came in out of the shadows. “Halt!” he called.

  “Easy, soldier. Easy!” Mike Clears walked his horse into the light toward the sentry box, toward Ash, asking unceremoniously: “Caleb, what’s this I hear about a girl being found down there at those wagons? Was it really Gentry that brought her in?”

  “So he did, Mike.”

  “Brought her here?”

  The scout nodded. Then, catching a slur of sound from behind him along the parade, he turned in the saddle and looked off into the darkness. In another moment he was seeing a man’s tall shape followed by that of a horse coming toward him out of the shadows.

  “Who was she?” Clears wanted to know.

  “Here’s your man,” Ash drawled, knowing now that it must be Gentry who was approaching. “Let him tell you.”

  In a few more seconds Gentry came on into the lantern’s light leading the Grulla mare. And Clears, seeing him, said: “That girl, Dan. Was it Tipton’s daughter?”

  Ewing was scowling now, and for a moment Gentry seemed to be gauging the strength of the man’s animosity. But then he ignored the trooper and nodded to Clears. “Yes, it was Tipton’s daughter.” At once his glance swung up to Ash. It was agate-hard, and he said: “George Spires tells me your story and the girl’s don’t agree.”

  “They don’t.”

  “You claim you paid Tipton?”

  “I do,” Ash stated, adding pointedly: “If it’s any of your affair.”

  Gentry’s eyes clung to the big man a deliberate moment before he looked at Clears again. “Mike, I’m leaving,” he said. “For good this time. So maybe you’ll do me a favor.”

  The exchange of words a moment ago had meant little to the saloon man, who now asked guardedly: “What kind of a favor?”

  “Seeing that Ash pays the Tipton girl what was due her father.”

  It was the sudden outright astonishment in Mike Clears’s eyes rather than anything he sensed himself that gave Gentry warning in that instant. He glanced quickly around to see Caleb Ash already dropping from the saddle toward him. He let go of the mare’s reins, lifted his arms, and tried to wheel out of the way.

  But Ash was too fast. With a leap amazingly fast for a man so big he lunged
at Gentry. All the weight of his massive upper body was in that first full swing of his knotted fist. It caught Gentry on the shoulder and knocked him backward and off his feet, hitting the ground so hard that he slid along it. Ash came on at him and, before he could roll away, kicked him savagely in the chest.

  Had the scout been wearing boots the blow would have broken several of Gentry’s ribs. As it was, Gentry’s breath was driven from his lungs in a sharp groan. And as Mike Clears and Ewing watched in awe, Gentry somehow managed to roll clear of the swing of Ash’s other foot and get his knees under him.

  He saw Ash coming at him again and knew he didn’t have time to get to his feet. So he drove his body forward in a diving roll that caught the scout at the knees and knocked his legs from under him. Ash went down, clawing and kicking, as Gentry scrambled out of the way.

  This time Gentry was erect before Ash was ready. Gentry had a fleeting thought of the gun riding his thigh, then at once forgot it. He stepped in on the bigger man as he was rising and threw two fast, hard uppercuts at his face. His left missed, but his right connected solidly with Ash’s ear. The man was jolted hard, was badly hurt, and crossed his arms in front of his face, crouching down, backing away a step.

  There was one exultant moment when Gentry knew he had decided this. He threw a long, full swing at Ash’s chest, and the man’s arms came down instinctively. Then Gentry hit with a vicious, full punch at the hinge of the jaw and connected solidly.

  Ash was staggered. He stumbled unsteadily backward, nearly falling. But then as Gentry was following his advantage the scout gasped hoarsely: “Johnny!”

  Ewing hesitated but an instant. Then he stepped in swinging his rifle club-fashion as Gentry was bracing himself to throw the blow he knew would be the last he would need.

  It was then that Mike Clears cried sharply: “Dan! Watch it!”

  The words were barely spoken when a stunning blow struck Gentry at the back of the head. His knees buckled, and he felt himself going down. He felt nothing as he hit the ground.