The lieutenant felt awkward and clumsy. “Well, please carry on, ma’am.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, glad to be gone from there and the concerns of womenfolk.
After he’d seen his wounded and dead carried into the hospital, Stryker had Trooper Ruxton taken to the guardhouse and then dismissed the detail. Before entering the headquarters building, he untied a new Winchester from the saddle horn, then gave his horse over to the care of Trooper Kramer. He heard the young soldier tell Hogg that the frog in his pocket was still alive, though it was exhibiting definite signs of being down in the mouth and he confidently expected the creature would bite the dust before nightfall.
“Keep checking on it until dark, boy,” the scout said. “As any doctor will tell you, the frog cure is the sovereign remedy for asthma and it has never been known to fail.”
Stryker watched Trooper Kramer leave. Was it only his imagination or had the boy’s breathing sounded easier? Then another thought hit him hard: Why the hell did he care?
But he did. And that gave him pause. It was something to think about . . . later.
A couple of loungers propped up the timber poles that supported the headquarters’ porch. The younger man was a drover in from one of the surrounding ranches with a supply of beef. The other was a scout Stryker had seen hanging around the fort. Long John Wills was nearly seven feet tall in his moccasins and sported a magnificent red beard that hung all the way to the crotch of his greasy buckskins. He had a vague reputation as an Indian fighter and a more definite one as a ladies’ man.
“Seen you ride in, Lieutenant,” he said, “bringing in dead and wounded, an’ all. Run into Apaches?”
Stryker nodded. “West of here.”
“Ol’ Nana’s out.”
“Yes, so I heard.”
Wills inclined his head. “See the tents over yonder?”
“I saw them as I rode in.”
“Two companies of the Twenty-third Infantry. Them boys are green as can be and their major is a little feller who looks like he’s about twelve years old. All the cavalry, including the Second, is being sent to Fort Bowie.”
“Then the Twenty-third has been ordered here to guard the fort?”
Wills smiled. “Never was a truer word spoke, Lieutenant.” He looked over at the tents, then threw up his hands. “God help us all.”
“Colonel Devore inside?”
“He is, with that major I told you about. I think his name is Hayes . . . Haynes . . . something like that.”
Stryker put his hand on the door, but Wills’ voice stopped him. “Lieutenant, Colonel Devore is right testy today. He’s sore about losing his cavalry.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
After the oppressive, dusty heat of the day, the inside of the adobe felt cool, its windows shuttered against the blaze of the sun. An elderly corporal sat at a desk to one side of the door to the colonel’s office.
The man rose to his feet and saluted when Stryker entered, his eyes darting everywhere, unwilling to settle on the contorted mask of the lieutenant’s face.
“First Lieutenant Stryker’s compliments to the colonel, and ask him if now is convenient to make my report.”
The corporal seemed relieved that he no longer had to meet the lieutenant’s eyes. He knocked on the colonel’s door, stuck his head inside and repeated Stryker’s words.
“Send him in,” Devore said.
Stryker stepped inside, the Winchester hanging loose at his side.
Colonel Michael Devore sat behind his desk, a grizzled, medium-sized man of forty-five who had begun his career as a cavalry private at the outbreak of the War Between the States and had risen through the ranks to brevet brigadier general.
Devore was no spit-and-polish soldier, but a fighting man who understood the limitations of light cavalry in Indian warfare but used its flexibility and speed of movement to full advantage. He knew his men, loved the desert and admired the Apache as a skilled guerilla fighter.
He also looked another man directly in the eye, as he did now to Stryker.
“You’ve been through it, Lieutenant.”
Stryker nodded. “Yes sir, some.”
Devore waved a hand. “Meet Major Hanson; he commands the infantry you must have noticed when you rode in.”
Hanson was blond, boyish and small, wearing a neat tunic that somehow had not gathered a coating of gray desert dust. Stryker suspected the major had carefully brushed his uniform before meeting with his formidable superior officer.
After registering the initial shock that Stryker’s appearance always caused, Hanson stood and gave the lieutenant a surprisingly firm handshake and a friendly grin. Like Devore, he sought eye contact.
Stryker and Hanson made the usual polite exchanges expected of officers, “Welcome to Fort Merit, sir,” and “Delighted to be here, Lieutenant,” but Devore cut it short. “Since he’s going to be directly involved in the defense of this post, Major Hanson should listen to your report, Lieutenant.”
Using as few words as possible, Stryker told of the attack on the Norton and Stewart stage and the massacre at the ranch. He then described the action in the arroyo and the murder committed by the mutinous deserter Sergeant Miles Hooper.
“And this man, Trooper Louis Ruxton?”
“In the guardhouse, sir. He’s charged with inciting a mutiny.”
“I have a short way with mutineers, Lieutenant, especially in wartime.” Devore’s face hardened. “I’ll convene a court-martial for later this afternoon, to be followed immediately by the firing squad.”
He rose and took the Winchester from Stryker’s hand. “You’ve done well, Lieutenant. This is from the arroyo battle?”
“Yes, sir, one of six we took off the Apache dead.”
“And you suspect Sergeant Rake Pierce supplied these?”
“Yes, sir, I do. New guns and new ammunition.”
“Well, it’s possible. But last I heard he was in the Madres.”
“I think he may be closer,” Stryker said. “With Nana out and joined up with Geronimo, this is where the market is for his guns.”
“The consensus of opinion is that Nana will leave the territory and raid deep into Mexico, Lieutenant. That’s why the cavalry, myself included, is being recalled to Fort Bowie. We will pursue Nana and Geronimo and make sure they remain south of the Rio Grande.”
“Nevertheless, sir, I believe that Pierce is somewhere in the Cabezas Mountains. If he is out of the picture and the Apaches can’t get guns and ammunition, Nana will be forced to return to the San Carlos.”
Devore’s smile was barely a twitch of his lips under his mustache. “There’s nothing personal in your request, of course?”
“You know it’s personal, sir. I make no secret of it.”
Seeing the confused look on Major Hanson’s face, the colonel said, “Mr. Stryker and Rake Pierce have a history. The lieutenant’s last detail before he was to be transferred to Washington was to bring Sergeant Pierce from Fort Bowie to here to be court-martialed for desertion.”
“Sir, with all due respect, do you feel this is necessary?” Stryker asked. He suddenly felt vulnerable, like a man, naked from the bathtub, who walks into a surprise party.
“Lieutenant, your face speaks volumes, and I think Major Hanson should be aware of the reason,” Devore said. “He’s too much of a gentleman to ask, but he will soon be in command of this post and he has a right to know what kind of man Pierce is, and indeed, what kind of man you are.”
Then, damn you, let me tell it, Colonel.
“Major, it was drawing on to dark when I left Fort Bowie, so we camped for the night close to Silver Strike Spring. Somehow Pierce got out of his shackles—maybe one of his friends at Bowie had passed him a duplicate key—I don’t know. Anyway, he grabbed the gun of the other escort and shot him dead. He also wounded me. Then he took the shackle chain and swung it back and forth across my face, screaming that I’d never put those irons on him again.
“Pierce left me for dead, but I was picked up by a passing stage and returned here.” Stryker managed a smile. “The post surgeon did his best, but Pierce is a big man and strong, and the damage was too great. The handsome specimen you see before you is the result.”
Hanson, obviously embarrassed, tried to say the right words, but finally gave up, his mouth working.
“Major, I’ve grown used to children running from me in fear and women shrinking away when I turn and they see my face. The Mexicans call me
la Fea Una
, the Ugly One. I don’t know what my own men or the Apaches call me.”
“Let me just add that Lieutenant Stryker is a fine officer, and I’m glad he’s here and not playing drawing room soldier in Washington,” Devore said quickly. He looked at Stryker. “I plan to recommend you for promotion to captain for your successful action against the Apaches, Lieutenant. I think I still have enough influence among the old Civil War generals to see that it’s done.”
Stryker nodded. “Thank you, sir, but I’d rather have your permission to go after Pierce.”
Devore said nothing. But when he laid the Winchester on his desk, then opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle and three glasses, it seemed to Stryker a polite preface to a vehement no.
“A glass of whiskey with you, gentlemen,” the colonel said. “To celebrate Lieutenant Stryker’s success against the Apaches and his coming promotion.” He filled the glasses and raised his own. “To the confusion and defeat of Nana and Geronimo, damn their dirty hides.”
When the glasses were drained, Devore refilled them. He offered cigars. Hanson declined, but Stryker gladly accepted. It was said the colonel’s cigars were the finest, sent to him regularly by General Grant, his old comrade-in-arms.
The colonel told Stryker to pull up a chair, and when he was settled he resumed his own seat behind his desk and studied the younger officer through a cloud of blue smoke.
“Lieutenant, as to your orders: Tomorrow at sunup you will take a full company of Major Hanson’s infantry and march south, full packs, no mules or supply wagon.”
Stryker was appalled, like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer.
Infantry! He’d never catch up to Pierce with a bunch of green web-feet weighed down by knapsack, haversack, blanket, overcoat, canteen, rations, cartridge box, waist belt, bayonet scabbard and the nine pound Springfield rifle.
But military protocol demanded that he remain silent and he did.
Devore was still talking. “You will march to where Big Bend Creek enters the Pedregosa Mountains, about two miles south of the Packsaddle, and take into custody the Apaches you find there.”
The colonel relit his cigar, taking his time, his eyes on Stryker. The lieutenant’s ruined face no longer reflected his emotions, but his stiff, upright posture in the chair eloquently betrayed how he felt.
“The rancheria is more or less ramrodded by an old chief who goes by the name Yanisin. He’s always been friendly to whites and we want him to remain that way. You will move the old man’s people to Fort Bowie, and, contingent on further orders, to the San Carlos.”
Stryker said nothing, but Hanson’s question filled in the silence. “How many Apaches are involved, Colonel?”
“According to Long John Wills, about a hundred and fifty, at least twenty-five of them warriors.”
The major nodded. “I can see why you want to keep them away from Nana and Geronimo.”
“Indeed, Major, if they joined Nana and his band, that would be a disaster,” Devore said. “You can understand, Lieutenant, why speed of march is of the essence. I want those Apaches in Army custody as quickly as possible.”
“Then give me a troop of cavalry, sir,” Stryker said. “If memory serves me correct, Saddleback Mountain is about fifty miles due south of here. If I push the horses I can be at the rancheria in two days. Infantry weighed down by seventy pounds of rifle and backpack could take nearly twice that long.”
“Lieutenant, I assure you that my men will still be marching when your cavalry mounts are lamed up and weak from lack of water,” Hanson said edgily, revealing the foot soldier’s hereditary antagonism toward the mounted warrior. “The Twenty-third can cover that distance as fast as horses and will still be capable of fighting when they get there.”
Stryker studied Hanson more closely. It was true that the man looked like a baby-faced boy masquerading in an officer’s uniform, but he wouldn’t have gotten to be a major in the frontier army unless there was steel in his backbone, and he’d just proved that.
“There’s no point in arguing about something that won’t happen,” Devore sighed. “Lieutenant, all the cavalry has been recalled to Fort Bowie, and I mean all. And the scouts have also been called in, but if you can make an arrangement with Joe Hogg, then I’m willing to turn a blind eye. At any rate, at dawn tomorrow you will begin your march to Chief Yanisin’s rancheria with Company E of the Twenty-third Infantry as ordered. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. But perhaps the colonel can tell me how I feed and water one hundred and fifty savages on the march back to Fort Bowie. I understand that Camp Rucker had been abandoned, so I can’t look to supplies from there.”
Devore’s smile was good-natured, without a trace of malice. “There are plans to reoccupy Camp Rucker, but not in the immediate future. Lieutenant Stryker, one of the reasons you were commissioned into the United States Army from West Point is because you were judged to possess the initiative to solve problems as they arise, including the proper care and feeding of Apaches.”
Now Stryker smiled, but he looked anything but good-natured. He was hard-eyed and cold. “I’d solve the problem by marching into the Apache village, killing Yanisin and his twenty-five young bucks, and leaving the women and children to shift for themselves.”
“It’s a way, Lieutenant,” Devore said, almost wearily, “but it’s not the right way. We’re trying to pacify the Apaches, not wipe them from the face of the earth.”
Before Stryker could say more, the colonel rose to his feet and glanced at his watch. “I’m sure you gentlemen are eager to get back to your duties,” he said. He held out a hand. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”