by Short, Luke;
Ward put his soft hat in the manger and moved a little ways toward Loring. “All right,” he said, and he lunged in, swinging. He was stopped dead by a blow he had thought be ducked and fell flat on his back, his head rapping the plank floor with an impact that sent stars pin-wheeling before his eyes.
He came quickly to his knees, shook his head to clear it, and saw Loring, hands half raised, standing some feet away, coolly watching him. Unthinking as an animal Ward went at him; he felt his blow land on Loring’s shoulder, and then he took a punishing blow in the pit of the stomach before he could set himself, another blow above the heart that half spun him around.
A wild rage gathered in him now, and he swarmed at Loring. But all he struck was air. Loring’s face was before him, and Ward struck, swift as a snake, viciously, and felt his blow checked and brushed aside, before the teeth-rattling clout caught him on the cheekbone.
Loring was to the left of him now, and again Ward attacked; he was moved off balance before he could get set, and was hit again, once more in the chest. And now he lowered his head, leaning his body forward, and moved in, swinging savagely, wildly yearning to hit solid flesh and close with the man.
His ribs were sore now, and his breath was heaving out of him in great shuddering sighs, and again and again he felt the battering blows that all but caved in his chest. He saw Loring only moving, never standing still, seldom coming at him, and he knew, with a kind of dread fatalism, that he was spending his strength to no avail.
It angered him out of all reason, and he thought, I’ve got to reach him, to corner him, and now he lunged again, and this time he saw the blow coming and tried to slide by it and it caught him with an explosion of pain that dimmed his ears and blurred his eyes, and he thought wildly, He’s there, right in front of me. He still moved in, and this time the blow was on the point of his jaw, one great mushroom of pain before blackness.
He was first conscious of the wetness of his back. He moved and felt it puddle on the floor against his backbone, and when he opened his eyes, Loring was standing above him, his shirt on, his hat on, his pistol belt strapped around him.
Ward rolled over and painfully sat up, and looked at Loring, who said, “I suppose this means you refuse service as guide?”
Ward shook his head to clear it, trying stupidly to fathom the meaning of this. When he finally did he said, “No, I’ll go.”
“Good man,” Loring said quietly, and turned and let himself out of the barn.
Chapter V
Orders came through next morning that Troops G and I would take the field next day. The ordinary tempo of the post, already warned, did not accelerate noticeably, but everyone seemed to move with a purpose. The boredom and the lethargy vanished.
A quartermaster train pulled in from Craig in mid-morning. Sergeant Mack, observing it, said sourly to Corporal Samson, “Why didn’t they dump the stuff along the road, since we’ll be packing it back that way?”
“Nah,” Samson muttered cynically, “It’ll be blankets, fur caps, and heavy-duty overshoes.”
“You’ve put in one too many enlistments,” Mack observed mildly, and moved off toward the blacksmith shop. The anvil was never silent that day. Horses were checked, the last of the remounts issued, and the field-hardened non-coms drove the new recruits into checking and repairing all their equipment.
In late morning, Captain Loring summoned all officers to the big room housing the officers mess. It was as hot as any other room, but its size provided more air to breathe. Ward had been summoned from Hance’s and when he stepped into the room he noted Frank Holly’s presence among the lounging officers.
“Morning, Kinsman,” Loring said briskly. “Have a seat.” There was no hint of last night’s triumph in his tone or appearance; it was his usual courtesy, and Ward, sitting down gently and holding his breath against the soreness of his ribs, thought, I wouldn’t wonder if he’s forgotten it.
When all officers were assembled, Loring went over the plain of campaign. It was one originally drawn up by Brierly, submitted to Headquarters, approved, and passed on to the command at Craig. Briefly, it assumed that Diablito’s band had chosen a bad tactical position in remaining on the Peak; two troops from Craig were heading west for it today, since they had further to travel. One troop from Gamble would start eastward toward it tomorrow. There seemed faint chance of surprise, and indeed there was little need of it. This was to be an open show of force. Diablito could choose, as the Army hoped, to defend the Peak, and be wiped out, or he could, as the Army feared, run. It had been Brierly’s opinion—and Ward admitted his was as good as any, since an opinion seemed necessary—that if Diablito broke from the Peak, he would head south, fighting a series of rearguard and delaying actions, always hoping for an ambush, until he crossed the border and achieved the safety of Mexico. On the assumption he would head south, Troop G under Captain Loring would be placed at Cardinal Springs, a waterhole where the three main trails from the border to Bailey’s Peak, and beyond, met. Troop G would travel light, move at night, and remain quiet in day, and it would be informed of Diablito’s movements by Wolverton, in Command of Troop I, through a heliograph relay which Lieutenant Tremaine and a signalman would set up between the Peak and Cardinal Springs.
It was the hope, of course, that Troop G could surprise Diablito, intercept and engage him, and hold him until Troop I and the two troops from Craig could finish off the job.
It was a good enough plan, Ward conceded, always provided Diablito fell in with it. But he was just as likely to head north, west, or east; and, contrary to the Army’s bland assumption, he would not necessarily move his band as one unit. It was perfectly possible that upon sighting the columns the band would disperse like so many quail, assembling a hundred miles to the west without seeing a soldier or firing a shot, and leaving a score of confused and contradictory trails behind it. It all depended on the mood and desire of the vicious little man who led them.
When Loring was finished, a few questions were asked and answered, and then Loring spoke of Mary Carlyle. He gave a minute description of her, which was to be passed on by officers to all troops. For fear of accidentally shooting Mrs. Carlyle, all troops were ordered to refrain from engaging women unless directly attacked by a female indentifiable beyond a shadow of doubt as Apache. Loring repeated this order for emphasis, then went on to lesser things. Rations for five days would be issued, and a pack train with rations and ammunition would follow Wolverton and I Troop. Troop G would join Troop I for replenishment of supplies and ammunition after the engagement, which was expected to be effected within five days. Frank Holly would serve as guide for Wolverton, Kinsman for G and Loring, with the captured Apache, Tana, as scout for the latter.
“I might add,” Loring went on, “that I am employing Tana in spite of his status as prisoner. He seemed thankful to be captured, and he put up no resistance. He’s already been helpful, and he seems to have joined Diablito only because his son-in-law dragged his daughter and her child along with him in the break from the reservation. Since we also captured the girl and her baby, Tana doesn’t fear retaliation. I think we’ll find good use for him as a scout. Any more questions? Then that’s all, gentlemen.”
Ward spent the afternoon choosing a horse from the remounts. He picked an ugly, short-coupled bay whose legs and depth of chest augured well for his stamina, and afterwards drew rations and a carbine and ammunition. Linus, who ordinarily would have enjoyed helping him, was busy with the affairs of G Troop; Ward watched him a moment in the group badgering the quartermaster, and he seemed cheerless and preoccupied. Ward moved over to the sutler’s house.
In his room, he poured out water from the bucket by the washstand into the iron washbowl, and then lighted a cigar and stripped off his shirt. From his window he could see Hance’s barn, and he stood there a moment regarding, remembering last night. The character of the man who had given him the beating rose in his mind to puzzle him again. The only anger shown last night had been his own. Loring h
ad asked to finish the fight only out of a sense of duty, of honor, of what was expected from him, Ward guessed. Could a really angry man check his rage long enough to remember his position and the proprieties as Loring had done last night? And he had fought the same way—with a cool skill, but without any show of passion or even rancor. Ward wondered now why this quality in Loring mattered to him, and he could find no answer.
He finished his cigar and then began preparation for shaving. The water in the bucket was already warm from the heat of the room. He was half through the job when he heard slow steps mounting the stairs and Frank Holly came through the doorway.
“Take a chair, Holly,” he invited. “What’s on your mind?”
Holly was looking at him carefully, and now he said, “Well, he ain’t a mean man, anyway, Ward. He left plenty of tracks on your belly and chest, but he never marked your face.”
Ward looked down at the blotched bruises on his chest and smiled faintly. Holly lounged on the cot, and Ward, lifting his razor, said dryly, “He’s a considerate man.”
“You know, damned if he ain’t,” Holly agreed wonderingly. “He asked if I wanted to send any word to Bowie with the detail for them ’Pache women, and when I told him the only thing I wanted to send was somethin’ I didn’t have—money—why he shucked five days’ pay out of his pocket. My woman’ll feed every cousin and uncle and aunt she can find on the reservation on that.”
Ward smiled.
“How do you figure him?” Holly asked presently.
“How do you?”
“Book soldier,” Holly said.
“There have been good ones.”
“He could be,” Holly admitted. He scratched his chin through his beard; the noise it made rasped Ward’s nerves, as it always did. “Still, I mistrust a perfect man.”
Ward glanced at him. “Perfect?”
“That ain’t the right word, maybe, but it gives you an idea. He’s too good. Take that swarry you and young Delaney was on. Loring backed out and give it to Delaney, so Delaney will get the credit. Look at his men; he takes care of ’em like children. He’ll smoke one cigar of an evening, and he’ll take a drink of whiskey, but I’ve never seen him come out the morning after a heavy drinkin’ night and miss the saddle, like some of these officers. He’s just soft-spoken enough, he’s handsome to the ladies and he’s a man. Still, I can’t like him.” Holly frowned in thought. “Dammit, there just ain’t anything inside him.”
“You worried about it?” Ward asked.
Holly looked searchingly at him. “Not me. I got Wolverton. It’s you that should be.”
Ward turned to regard him, and he was unable to keep the surprise from his face.
“Why?”
Holly said soberly, “Look, he don’t like any man much. He treats ’em right, but he don’t understand how they can make the mistakes they make, because he don’t make any. Ever stop to wonder then what he thinks of an Injun?”
“Not much, I’d guess.”
Holly pointed a dirty finger at him. “Damn right he don’t. And a man that don’t think much of a ’Pache or the way he fights is headed for trouble. You watch out, Ward.”
Ward said, “I will,” and went on shaving. Holly talked about trivial things for a few minutes longer, then drifted out. He had come, Ward knew, for the explicit purpose of warning him against Loring, and that was curious. Perhaps Holly, with the simplicity of a shrewd and direct man, had summed it all up in the statement, “Dammit, there just isn’t anything inside him.”
Some of the excitement that pervaded the post was communicated to Ann that day. She found herself looking up from her work, listening, watching from the nearest window the activity around her.
Emmy Wolverton, in midmorning, had come over with the news that her modest dinner was being transformed into a party. Was there a better time to celebrate than on the eve of the troops taking the field? Besides, nobody had celebrated Ben Loring’s new command. The problem of Major Brierly’s nurse was easily taken care of; Mrs. Riordan, wife of the drunken trooper who had attacked Brierly, was a sweet woman, and capable; moreover, she felt deeply about her husband’s conduct, and had gladly consented to act as nurse so Ann could come to the party. The irony of the situation did not escape Emmy, who said, “It’s nice that we’re a practical sex, isn’t it, dear? Otherwise it would be embarrassing.”
After Doctor Horton’s afternoon call, the Major slept, and Ann got out the maroon dress she was to wear and began to press it. The usual noises of the post were missing, supplanted by others. She was glad that Ben had excused the customary inspection before taking the field. It was miserably hot for that, and she knew from an Army childhood that the sergeants, out of gratitude, would see that men, horses and equipment were in flawless condition. It was typical of Ben, she reflected, typical of his thoughtfulness to everyone.
And then her thoughts returned again to the story she had heard this morning from Emmy Wolverton. Ben, it seemed, had quarreled with Kinsman last night to a degree that only a fight could settle. The fight had taken place in Hance’s barn, and Ben had clearly won. When Ann had politely doubted the gossip, Emmy had said that Captain Wolverton had it straight from Ward, who had cheerfully admitted his licking. Nobody knew the cause of the quarrel.
The whole affair puzzled Ann. The outcome hadn’t surprised her much, since Major Brierly had mentioned in the past that Ben had never been defeated in a fight at the Academy the whole time he was there. Before his appointment, even, he had been taught to fight, as he had been taught to ride, to sail a boat, to play tennis, to shoot and to dance, all of which he did superlatively well, no doubt. What had puzzled Ann was that the dislike of the two men for each other should have driven either of them to blows. Ben had always seemed too civilized for this. And Ward Kinsman too—well, scornful. She could imagine him laughing at the notion of a fight, or else, once forced to it, never resting until his man was dead. His very appearance, his background, his disturbing honesty suggested implacability; to pick himself up off the floor and go to work for the man who had put him there seemed strange and out of character. In this, as in all else, he was a complete paradox to her.
Afterward, she dismissed Manuelita, Brierly’s cook, who had five small children to feed on the enlisted man’s pay of her German-born husband, and prepared Major Brierly’s simple supper. As she was serving it to him, mess call blew, and they both smiled at the coincidence.
“Party tonight, I hear,” Brierly said softly.
Ann nodded. “I wish you could be there.”
Brierly grimaced. “I like this bed at the moment. Have a good time.”
Martha Riordan came in then, and once she was settled, Ann went into her room to dress. She heard Ben, who was to take her to the party, come in. His talk with Mrs. Riordan, and later, Major Brierly, made a low pleasant rumble behind her door. Ann changed out of her dress, unpinned her thick black hair, brushed it swiftly and then shrugged into her dress, afterwards pinning up her hair. Standing before the mirror, hairpins in her mouth, she looked critically at herself, her dress, her green eyes bright with anticipation. For a part-time nurse and cook, she concluded, she didn’t look bad, and she went out.
The Wolvertons had one half of the big adobe house next to Brierly’s house; Lieutenant Storrow, whose wife was visiting in the East, had the other half. The house faced the gravel drive that led from the parade ground to the stables, so that its back was to Brierly’s quarters. It had the same deep veranda of the other buildings fronting the parade ground.
As they took to the walk, Ann put her hand on Ben’s arm. “Busy day?”
“An annoying one,” Loring said cheerfully. “That confounded quartermaster’s train. We needed the stuff, but what a time for it to come.” He glanced down at her. “I’ll have to leave early. I still have some work.”
“Don’t think about it. Let’s have fun. This party is for you, really.”
Ben’s hand covered hers for a moment in affectionate consent.
/> The officers of both troops were lounging on the veranda around Emmy Wolverton when they approached. Bob Wolverton had requisitioned Storrow’s chairs, and whiskey and water and glasses were set up on a table. Ward Kinsman’s black suit made his chestnut hair seem almost blond, and looked oddly formal among the uniforms; glass in hand, he pushed away from the wall as she mounted the steps and greeted the party.
Ben spoke to all of them, and as Ward returned his greeting, Ann watched for any expression on his face; his reply was casual, pleasant and was carefully noted, since everyone here had heard of the quarrel and was assuming it had never happened.
The small talk, army talk, soon engulfed her and she listened with simple pleasure. Presently, after Bob Wolverton had refilled their glasses, he paused, looked around, lifted his glass, and looked at Ben. “To success in your new command, Ben.”
They all drank, and Lieutenant Storrow said mischievously, “Ben, when’re the changes coming? I remember when Whitey Whitehead got his command at Cummings. He swore off the poker game where he owed a month’s pay, held mounted drill every day, and we had to wear blouses to mess. God knows what would’ve happened if he hadn’t got a heatstroke one morning at stable inspection.”
Loring smiled faintly, “I’m going to make a change when we return from the field.”
Storrow looked faintly embarrassed, as if he had been presumptuous; the rest of them waited respectfully.
“I’m going to organize a band,” Loring said. “We need music.”
Everyone laughed with relief, and Ann felt a small glow of pride. Ben had handled this with his usual grace; he had let it be known that he could and would make changes that suited him, and yet the change he had named was bound to make him popular.