Beyond Fort North

by Peter Dawson

  “You’re a queer cuss, Mike.”

  The saloon man barely caught those words. He chuckled softly, what Gentry had said pleasing him far more than would any further word of thanks.

  Chapter Seven

  Dawn was only a thinning of night’s blackness to a weak gray light that cast no shadows, and soon a steady drizzle blanketed Sentinel’s lofty peak. As the rain swept slowly down across the craggy, timbered slopes, finally to shroud both fort and town, Lieutenant Peebles started downcañon with his detail heading for the wagons. Caleb Ash and a crew of men and horses joined the column at the foot of the bench road.

  It wasn’t many more minutes before four troopers were hauling the new pine coffins from the post’s hump-roofed forage shed across to the burial ground at the isolated northeast corner of the palisade. There the troopers lined the coffins in front of the freshly dug graves that would soon match eighteen other slowly settling mounds nearby. By the time the funeral party arrived, the warps in the coffin lids were puddled with the rain.

  The service was informal, brief. Mary Fitzhugh had driven the buggy close to the open graves. And while the major spoke his words, reading first from the Scriptures, she stood with her arm about Faith Tipton’s slender waist, holding an umbrella in the other hand. She was more worried about Fitzhugh than she was about Faith, for the girl had displayed such unmistakable determination and fortitude in insisting on coming out here that Mary felt somehow cheated in the lack of any need for comforting her.

  There was a dignity about Robert Fitzhugh that stood out magnificently at times like this, and it was perhaps because of his non-effusive sincerity that Faith remained calm, giving no outward sign of much emotion. That stolidity seemed strange to Mary, or rather it did until she stole a sideward glance at Faith’s delicate profile and saw her cheeks glistening and her blue eyes brimming with tears. In that moment Mary tightened her arm, and the grateful and grief-stricken glance Faith gave her brought her own tears in a flood.

  Afterward, when they were back in the cabin and Mary had kindled the logs in the stone fireplace, they sat out a long, uncomfortable silence staring into the fire. Finally Mary, embarrassed by it, went into the kitchen to feed the stove and heat the coffee left over from breakfast.

  It was when Mary brought the coffee in and was pouring it that Faith broke the long silence by saying musingly: “Dad was a soldier once. He was with Lee till the end of the war. I have the feeling that he isn’t so alone out there, so close to those others, and with Mother beside him.”

  Mary nodded sympathetically, and after another moment Faith went on: “Those other graves, Mary. There were so many new ones. Why?”

  It took Mary several seconds to think out an answer. “Those men were lost seven weeks ago against the Apaches,” she said quietly. “My husband was one of them.”

  Faith’s look was at once startled and contrite. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I should have known better than to ask.”

  “But I don’t mind your asking.” Mary eased the awkwardness by passing Faith her cup, adding lightly: “I do hope this rain won’t last all day, though we need it badly.”

  Faith sipped her coffee, and once again there was a weighty silence. Then abruptly Faith was saying: “Forgive me for asking one more thing, Mary. But when...when you lost your husband, had that anything to do with Captain Gentry? He’s...well, in disgrace, isn’t he?”

  Mary said cautiously: “I’m afraid he is.”

  “Do you mind very much telling me about it?” Faith asked hesitantly. “The doctor only put me off when I asked him. Am I being unkind?”

  “Not at all, Faith.” Mary turned to put her cup on the table at her elbow. “It’s a mixed-up story, really. You wouldn’t understand it unless you know what had gone on before. To begin with, I still like and admire Dan Gentry.”

  “So do I.”

  Faith’s spontaneous agreement roused a twinge of jealousy in Mary, the absurdity of it making her smile inwardly. “It goes back to Gentry’s dislike for a man down below in town, Caleb Ash,” she said then. “For some time Captain Gentry had questioned this Ash’s right to demand such high prices for the horses he furnished the garrison here. He....”

  “I happen to know about Ash,” Faith cut in. Then she caught herself, saying: “Excuse me. Do go on.”

  Mary was noticing the way the damp weather had tightened the curl of Faith’s high-piled golden hair and now enviously wished her own could be coaxed to take on even the semblance of a wave as she said: “Dan...Captain Gentry had tried to convince the major that it would be worth the effort sending men down to Fort Starke. To bring in remounts from there, where they can be bought cheaper. But the major never felt justified in weakening his strength here, sparing the men to make the trip. Then finally Ash tried again to raise his prices. Even the major saw that a stop must be put to it.”

  As Mary hesitated, Faith asked: “That’s what they finally did, went to Fort Starke?”

  “Yes. Things were quiet among the Indians. And Gentry had worked out a plan for the men leaving here secretly on several successive nights, riding by twos and threes so as not to rouse any curiosity. It was hoped that no one would discover they had gone. Phil...my husband...left with Gentry and his sergeant one midnight.”

  “Was that a mistake? Were the men lost because they weren’t together?”

  “No. They all arrived safely at Fort Starke. They were on the way back, bringing sixty head of horses, when it happened.”

  For a long moment then Mary was silent. And, watching her closely, Faith waited. “I’ve never understood exactly what went wrong,” Mary said shortly. “We had no warning whatsoever here of any Apaches being off the reservation. It came afterward, when it was too late. But Gentry was caught out on open ground close to a cañon the major had ordered him to avoid. It seems he thought he’d have a better chance of making a stand in the cañon. He turned the horses loose and went in there. He and his sergeant were the only ones to come out alive.”

  Faith asked softly: “Didn’t he ever try and explain?”

  “No. At his trial he simply let the facts speak for themselves. He put up no defense at all.”

  Utter bewilderment was showing in Faith’s expression now. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of a man who would....”

  After a moment Mary said: “Disobey orders? No, he doesn’t. Until then he’d been a fine officer. Brilliant, in fact. He had just been given his captaincy well ahead of the time it was expected.”

  Faith’s amazement thinned somewhat, and in this moment Mary saw her as being quite beautiful despite the ugly gash and the swelling high at the hairline along her forehead.

  “I had the strangest feeling about him last night,” Faith said then. “He seemed so.... He’s one of those rare people you like and trust immediately.”

  Something in Mary tightened. She laughed uneasily. “You were very observant, Faith. Didn’t Doctor Spires tell us you were unconscious?”

  “That was earlier,” Faith told her. “I can remember waking somewhere along the road, can remember his telling me about Mother and Dad. Then later at the doctor’s he was so very kind. And...well, so gentle. Just to feel him holding me so close seemed the only thing that kept me from going to pieces.”

  Mary bridled inwardly at the words, resenting this picture of Gentry’s having embraced Faith all that long way up the cañon. And she couldn’t help saying: “He would be gone for good by now if he hadn’t found you. He was on his way out, you know.”

  If Faith detected any irony in the words she didn’t show it, for now she asked: “Then he really is leaving?”

  “Yes. They’ve made it unbearable for him here.”

  “I was hoping....”

  Mary waited a moment. “Hoping what, Faith?”

  “Well, that someone could help me with Dad’s affairs.” Faith laughed uneasily. “Of course it was foolish t
o hope it might be Captain Gentry.”

  Mary gave way to an urge then that made her say: “The major has something to tell you, Faith. Something I should perhaps be telling you now. It’s about Shotwell.”

  “Mark Shotwell? Yes, the doctor did say that someone had escaped and brought the word up here. So it was Mark?”

  Mary nodded, going on despite a warning voice that told her she was being needlessly unkind. “Major Fitzhugh had him brought up here last night to see what he knew about the...the ownership of that hardware. You see, he....”

  “But why should they be doubting my word? I kept Dad’s books for him.”

  “It was because of Caleb Ash, Faith. And Shotwell took Ash’s part.”

  Faith was bewildered and for a long moment couldn’t find the words to speak. Then her face took on color and she burst out: “But that’s not the truth! I doubt that Mark Shotwell would know. If he does know, he’s lying!”

  Mary was suddenly feeling ashamed of having broken this news so unfeelingly. Yet now that she had gone this far some contrary impulse drove her even further. “We’ll never be able to prove it one way or the other now,” she said, putting a false kindliness in her tone. “Shotwell was killed down in town last night. They’re hunting the man that did it.”

  Faith gave such a start that her coffee spilled into the saucer. She reached over and set the cup on the table, a strange calmness settling over her then. “Mark dead? How awful. Murdered, you mean?”

  “I’m afraid he was, Faith.”

  “But why?”

  “They don’t know yet. Perhaps he’d been drinking and got into a fight. But let’s not think about it,” Mary added, too lightly.

  “I must think about it,” Faith said quietly. “No one will believe me now, will they?”

  “Isn’t there someone back where you came from who could help you?”

  “In Denver?” Faith thought a moment. “Perhaps. But what will happen to those wagons meantime?”

  “The major didn’t say,” Mary answered. “You’ll have to talk to him about it.”

  * * * * *

  Peebles’s detail rode back in across the parade through the drizzle shortly after 10:00. When the men had been dismissed, Peebles came straight across to Headquarters, throwing his poncho over the saddle after dismounting. On entering Fitzhugh’s office, he saluted the major precisely and just as precisely gave his report. The wagons were safe in Ash’s barn lot, and Ash had promised not to unload any of his goods until he had word from the major that his ownership was no longer questioned.

  “And, sir,” Peebles said on finishing, “Caleb asked me to give you this.” He drew a sealed envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk.

  Fitzhugh’s look was puzzled until he had taken the two sheets from the envelope and glanced at them. “An invoice for hardware marked ‘Paid’. Signed,” he mused, inspecting the first page. He eyed the second then. “And a receipt for eighteen hundred twenty dollars in gold paid to Ash’s account, signed by Harry Tipton.” He glanced up at his lieutenant. “This is obviously what Caleb was referring to last night as his proof. So the matter’s settled.”

  “So it seems, sir.”

  Peebles spoke with a faint irony backed with an even fainter smile that made Fitzhugh ask: “You don’t think so?”

  “Indeed I do.” Peebles again reached to the side pocket of his blouse and this time took out a small black book that he laid on the desk in front of the major. “You’ll find some very interesting reading there, sir. Very interesting.”

  Fitzhugh picked up the book.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “An account of Tipton’s journey across here. Written by his wife. Allow me, sir.” Peebles came on around the desk now and reached out to turn several of the pages, continuing: “A chest in their wagon had broken open. It was while we were putting the things back in it that Caleb ran across this. He gave it to me to read.”

  Fitzhugh glanced up sharply. “You mean you were prying, Mister Peebles?”

  The lieutenant’s face reddened. “Not at all, sir. Ash looked through it to begin with. He ran onto something extraordinary and showed it to me. It wasn’t my intention to pry.”

  “I understand.” Fitzhugh looked down at the book again. “What is it you want to show me?”

  “This.” Peebles turned another page. “This entry dated the Twenty-Third of July, just two weeks ago.”

  He straightened and watched the major read the entry. Then, when Fitzhugh glanced up in puzzlement, he smiled broadly. “Does it mean anything to you, sir?”

  “Only what it says.” Fitzhugh was frowning. “This Laura Reed had paid Tipton to bring her here.”

  “Yes, but read on.”

  Once again the older man scanned the diary. And as he turned to the next page, Peebles said: “Now you’re coming to it, sir.”

  After a long moment’s silence, Fitzhugh asked: “You’re referring to what she says of the striking likeness between her daughter and Laura Reed?”

  “Precisely, sir. Same color hair, same eyes, same complexion.”

  Peebles’s smug rejoinder made the major say sharply: “Get to the point, Mister Peebles.”

  The other at once dropped his faintly patronizing manner. “It occurred to me that the girl found in the wagon yesterday might not really be Tipton’s daughter at all, sir.”

  An expression of outright amazement thawed the severity from Fitzhugh’s thin face and, taking encouragement from that, Peebles went on. “On another page Missus Tipton discusses the Reed girl at great length. She was very quiet and never talked much about herself. Missus Tipton was wondering considerably about her.”

  Fitzhugh nodded. “Yes. Go on.”

  “The Reed girl, if she be the one here now,” Peebles said quite deliberately, “might very well be making the most of a rare opportunity. Here are these goods without an owner. Or so she assumes. She decides to claim them, pretending to be Tipton’s daughter. By the time the matter is straightened out she is gone, leaving no trace of her whereabouts. But for Ash already having paid for his....”

  “But you have no proof of what you’re saying, Lieutenant.”

  Peebles’s look took on humility. “No, sir, I haven’t. It’s only that I thought it best to point out the possibility to you.” He drew himself up stiffly, asking: “Was that all, sir?”

  Fitzhugh’s stern glance thawed somewhat. “Yes. And I suggest we wait a day or so before letting Ash unload those wagons. You may send word down to him that the matter hasn’t been decided yet.”

  The lieutenant saluted and left the room, and at once Fitzhugh settled back in his chair and picked up the diary again. Only this time he began with the first page. It took him almost ten minutes to reach the long entry that had so intrigued Peebles. It was the last of all and ran:

  Twice today we have observed smoke signals to the north in the direction of the mountains. I shall ask Our Father this night to spare us an encounter with the savages and bring us safely to our journey’s end. Laura Reed continues to be an enigma. It is strange to find a girl so young traveling alone. It is even stranger that she should be so self-possessed and worldly. And she seems thoroughly capable of dealing with men. Arthur Williams has been courting her unobtrusively. This morning he asked her to ride with him on a hunt. They were gone for almost an hour, and on their return, with a doe, I noticed that Arthur’s face was red and he seemed disgruntled about something. Laura, however, was her usual self, calm and unruffled. It was obvious that something had passed between them and that Arthur had been rebuffed. This pleases me, for Laura seems to be of good family while Williams is a very common person. I say this not disparagingly, for as a hunter he is excellent, a remarkable shot who has kept us well stocked with fresh game all the way across this wilderness.

  Fitzhugh closed the book slowly and sat there tapping his
knee with it, frowning in deep thought. Presently he straightened, tossed the diary onto his desk, and, reaching quickly to his back pocket for his handkerchief, used it to smother a fit of coughing.

  When it was over and his breathing was normal once again, he eyed the small book distastefully. Then, seeming to reach a decision, he called: “Sergeant!”

  The door opened, and the duty sergeant said ingratiatingly: “Did you call, sir?”

  “Yes. Sergeant, will you go to my quarters and ask my daughter to come here? Tell her I’m sorry to have to ask it but it’s unavoidable.”

  “Very good, sir.” The sergeant stepped out, and after the door had closed Fitzhugh sat with elbows on the arms of his swivel chair, hands folded before his pursed lips.

  He wondered why it should be that civilian affairs, not military, always vexed him the most and presented the most baffling enigmas. A thought struck him then — Mary has the grace not to offend. — and his concern lightened somewhat.

  * * * * *

  This had been a long and tiresome morning for Dan Gentry. The cave’s gloomy half light and his weariness had made him sleep far beyond his usual early hour for rising; he hadn’t, in fact, wakened until Mike Clears came bringing him a solid breakfast.

  The saloon man had refused to discuss last night’s happenings, had warned him to stay out of sight, had then hurried away. But there was a gruff friendliness in Clears’s manner that was heartening. Gentry was grateful for that.

  Gentry spent some time working on the Grulla in the stall next to Clears’s big leggy roan horse. He applied ointment to two saddle galls the worn cinch had given the mare in carrying that double load up the cañon yesterday. He forked down hay and filled the mangers for both animals, giving the mare an extra pint of grain. As she ate he curried and brushed her mottled coat. Then he’d repacked his bedroll and tied it to the battered saddle once more.

  These chores he had gone about deliberately, wanting to kill time. But his watch said it was still only 9:15 when he finished all this, and, with nothing but time on his hands, he went to the cave mouth and stood a while idly looking down on the puddled, rain-swept street.