The Pride of Hannah Wade (19 page)

“Something like that.” Cutter conceded that it was roughly the number for whom Wade had paid ransom to the Apache.

“One of them women had a papoose on her back an’ the other had one in the oven. An’ the boy—he was wild an’ savage as any Apache tot ever thought of bein’.” Amos moved the cud of chewing tobacco to his other cheek and spat out the extra juice. “‘Fears to me, he’s better off not askin’.”

“Mrs. Wade is a rare woman, Amos.” Cutter gathered up the reins to his horse and leaned idly back in the saddle, the steady pressure on the bit backing his mount from the corral.

“Now, there ya go. Yore doin’ it, too—tallrin’ like she’s still alive,” Amos declared in exasperation.

“I guess I’ve been around the major too long. It must
have rubbed off.” Cutter’s grin was dry as he reined his horse from the corral and urged the tired animal into a canter.

The commissary building was pressed into service as a ballroom, its stores stacked away and its bare adobe walls and its rafters festooned with bunting, shields of colored paper, and crossed sabers. At one end of the room, a platform was erected for the regimental band to play at the ball, honoring the visit of the territorial commander, Colonel Edward Hatch, a visit that was covered by Hy Boler from the Silver City newspaper, arriving in his best bib and tucker and his derby hat.

While the band played its best rendition of a quadrille, the officers, resplendent in their full-dress uniforms, danced the sets with the ladies, elegant in their best satins and taffetas. The floor was a whirl of color, the gold epaulets and regimental cord and sash glittering on the military uniforms while the vibrantly hued gowns gleamed. An exuberance filled the night as the men were filled with a sense of importance at this visit from their regimental commander.

After leading off the ball, partnering Mrs. Betten-dorf in the grand march, Colonel Hatch stood near the punch bowl, flanked by a semicircle of officers. Prominent among them was Major Stephen Wade, the dramatic touch of the black armband around his sleeve giving him an even more striking appearance.

“It seems to me you had some very good hunting, Major,” the colonel declared in response to Wade’s report of the number of captives they’d taken in their recent action.

“Luck was on our side, Colonel. Our scouts were out combing the area for the hostiles who had fled the
rancheria
we had attacked. They heard a dog barking, and discovered another
rancheria
not four miles distant. I regrouped my forces and hit the second camp
immediately.” Stephen paused and idly took a sip of fresh lemonade, Hannah had often fixed lemonade for them on the hot, hot days when their thirsts seemed unquenchable. He had found nothing of hers at the second
rancheria
either, nor had any of the Apache captives admitted knowing anything about a white woman taken from the pony soldiers. He resumed his narrative. “Obviously the Apaches didn’t realize we were in the vicinity. If they think the Army is close by, they usually kill the dogs so their barking won’t lead us to their camps.”

“It was very commendable work.” The colonel brushed aside Stephen’s modesty. “You were out with your company for two weeks, destroyed seven
rancherias,
killed twenty hostiles, and captured fifty-two—and all without losing a man, and suffering only minor casualties. Very commendable.”

“That’s kind of you, sir.”

“Nonsense,” the colonel said gruffly. “To be honest, Major Wade, one of the reasons I decided to visit the fort was to meet you. I’ve been seeing your name on so many reports lately, his glance drifted to the black armband around Wade’s sleeve.” Naturally, the tragedy regarding your wife came to my attention. Most regrettable, sir. Most regrettable.”

It was still a knife in him, a raw and painful wound that festered. Stephen tasted the bitter irony that it should be Hannah’s fate that had brought him to the attention of his commanding officer.

“I appreciate your kindness, Colonel.” Stephen stiffly accepted the expression of sympathy.

“Well, I’m sure you know you’re not alone in all this. You have the prayers of a lot of people, both friends and strangers.”

“Yes, sir. Since the newspapers picked up the story from the
Gazette
about my search for her, I have received a good many letters of encouragement from
people I don’t even know. “Some of the eastern trades had carried it, and Stephen was well aware that the military hierarchy was particularly sensitive to the press. General Crook was even known to include two reporters in his entourage to ensure that his activities got proper coverage. Hy Boler was serving the same purpose for Stephen.

“That’s to be expected. I like you,” Hatch said abruptly. “General Pope thinks you are the kind of officer we need at command. What would you say to that, Major Wade?”

“I would be deeply flattered.” Stephen inclined his head in acknowledgement of the honor while expressing regret. “But you understand that I would not be happy to leave the area until my wife is found. If nothing else, I owe her a Christian burial.” He was aware that the newspaper publisher was listening closely to the conversation.

“Of course, of course. However, the army may feel that you are needed elsewhere,” the colonel suggested diplomatically.

“Naturally I will obey any orders the army gives me.”

“I never doubted it, Major.” The mustached colonel smiled, and finally shared his attention with the rest of the officers gathered around. ‘This strategy against the Apache is beginning to show results. As we destroy his
rancherias,
burn his winter supplies, and take his horses, we are driving him to seek the reservation. It does us absolutely no good to chase a band of raiders for a hundred miles. It wears out our men and our horses. We have already proven in the plains that if we take away the Indians food supplies, deprive him of the mobility of his horses, he must seek the refuge of the reservations to survive ... he must accept peace.”

“Have you heard the old adage about the Apaches and horses, sir?” Jake Cutter had been standing well
back from the half-circle of officers, listening to the run of talk as he drank lemonade and wished it was diluted with whiskey. He strolled into their midst after voicing his question.

Even in his dress uniform, he exuded a kind of loose indifference to military dictates. The black, unkempt thickness of his hair curled into his collar, and the uneven lines of his face gave him a roughness that was out of place amidst all this polish.

“I don’t believe I know the one to which you refer,” the colonel admitted with a summing look that found Cutter of skeptical worth.

“It’s claimed that a white man can ride a horse until it drops; then a Mexican can come along and ride that same horse another twenty miles before it quits; finally an Apache will come by and ride the same horse thirty more miles, and then he’ll kill it and eat it—and walk two hundred miles.”

“The point, sir?” the colonel inquired.

“These Indians aren’t the Comanches and Mescal-eros we fought in Texas. You take away an Apache’s horse and he’s twice as dangerous on the ground. I’d rather fight two hundred mounted warriors than a dozen Apaches on foot.”

“They are masters at camouflage and skilled, silent stalkers,” the Yankee-bora colonel conceded. “But what are you suggesting? That we are not achieving our objective of forcing the Apaches into a peace treaty by our destruction of their supplies?”

“I think we are all aware that the Apache bands we have struck so far have not been the ones that have been committing most of the depredations in this area.” Cutter was careful how he answered the question, not openly opposing the present plan. “The Apaches we want are followers of Juh and Geronimo, and they spend half their time on the other side of the border in Mexico laughing at us. And I wouldn’t be a
damned bit surprised if it was one of that bunch who took Mrs. Wade.” No argument came from the rest of the officers. “And the only way you’ll get those boys to honor a treaty is to beat them in a fight— a military victory they’ll respect.”

Colonel Bettendorf cleared his throat. “I believe we have forgotten that this is a ball. That’s a waltz the band is playing. Where is Mrs. Bettendorf? Do any of you see her?”

Balls had never been much in Cutter’s line, any more than polishing brass and playing politics were. He walked back to the punch bowl and left his cup with the trader’s ringlet-haired daughter, then left the commissary and ultimately the post.

An hour later he was riding his horse up to the hitching post in front of Lomas Cherry’s house, strategically situated on a back alley between two Silver City saloons. The inside lights gave off a rosy glow behind the curtained windows as Cutter climbed the steps to the porch. Someone plunked on an untuned piano, the sour notes distorting the melody. A laugh came from an upper story of the frame house, whose gingerbread seemed oddly out of place in this rugged clime.

Cutter opened the door and walked in, slapping the trail dust off his blue uniform with his gloves. Two slick-haired, spit-polished miners sat in the gawdy parlor with its red-rose-patterned rug and red-rose brocade sofas and gilded mirrors that endlessly reflected the vibrant pink shade. Cutter ducked his head to avoid the huge crystal chandelier, gilded as well, which was too large for the room.

“Ello, Cutter.” The heavily painted woman at the piano smiled when she saw him, but lost interest quickly. “If you want Cherry, she’s upstairs. A guy gave Nita a little trouble. The kid’s gotta toughen up. The game’s in back . . . as always.”

His glance went to the stairwell, but Cutter continued
through the parlor to a door half hidden by a fringed and tasseled drape. “I think I’ll play a little poker.”

When he opened the door, the room reeked of smoke. He walked into the haze, found an empty chair at the game table, and sat down. He knew most of the players already.

Roughly an hour later, Cherry came through. The heavy powder on her face was beginning to cake from the heat, showing the hardness in the features that had once been pretty. Cherry was of the belief that a man liked to do his sinning in splendor, so she gave it to him—the Victorian house, the chandeliers, the brocades and silks. She gave Cutter a look that said the night had been a wild one—one old friend to another— and went on to the little office she had in back.

The poker game broke up about midnight and Cutter wandered into the parlor, finding some whiskey and a quiet corner, while the rest of Loans Cherry’s clientele finished their business and went home. The last one to leave had drunk a few too many, and Cherry hooked Ins arm around her shoulders, half-carrying him to the door. Cutter made a move to help her, but she waved him back to his chair.

With the door shut and locked, she leaned against it. All the vitality seemed to ebb from her. Even the vivid scarlet of her hair looked artificial.

“Hell of a way to make a living, isn’t it?” she murmured, and walked through the parlor, picking up glasses and depositing them on a tray. Then she flopped into a chair near Cutter, her arms hanging loosely over the sides and her head tilted back.

“Drink?” He offered the whiskey bottle.

She looked at it and made a face. “I can’t even stand the smell of it anymore. Nital!” she hollered. “Bring me a cup of coffee!!” An affirmative reply came from the back of the house. Cherry shifted, bracing an elbow
on the chair’s curved armrest and supporting her forehead on her hand. “Why do you suppose all men are worms? Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course.” He smiled wryly. “If you feel that way, maybe you oughta get out of the business.”

“And do what?”

His shoulder lifted. “Get married.” Cutter raised the shot glass of whiskey to his mouth.

Her interest aroused, she looked at him. “Are you proposing?” But she already knew the answer. “I thought not.” Her red mouth twisted, but Cherry did straighten a little in the chair and push at the cherry-red hair from which she got her nickname. “I must look a sight.”

“Scrape off some of that rice powder and rouge and that kohl around your eyes, and a man might find a pretty woman.” The idle observation came as the girl Nita entered the parlor with Cherry’s coffee, her face all swollen and bruised around one eye.

“The later it gets, the homier a man gets and the more desperate he gets, until finally the ugliest hag looks beautiful to him.” Cherry took the coffee cup, but ignored the girl. No acknowledgment appeared to be expected as the young Mexican crossed to the staircase and climbed the steps without a backward glance. “It isn’t kind to say such things to a woman like me, Cutter.” A trace of sadness was in her hardened expression, and a bit of resentful anger. “It gets her to wishing for things she can’t have.”

“Why?”

“Maybe there was a time when I could have walked outta that door—and outta this way of living,” the woman mused; then her expression turned cynical and amused. “And if you’re asking how I came to take up this profession . . . naturally there’s a man involved. He came along at the time when I was ripe for picking. Well, he picked me—and a few hundred miles later, he
dropped me. What was I to do then? How does a woman make a living out here if she hasn’t got a man? Some do,” Cherry conceded. “But a gal makes a mistake, and she gets marked. So what fair town would want a soiled woman like me teaching school or sewing clothes or cooking in a restaurant? I didn’t have any money, nowhere to sleep . . . Hell, I did it!” Her tired laugh derided the justifications she was making. Almost immediately it faded away. “And, no doubt, I’d do it again.”

“An honest woman.” Cutter fitted his glass to her, sincere even as he smiled at the irony.

She sipped at her coffee, her red lips pursing around the cup’s rim, then lowered it to release a long sigh and eye Cutter with a speculative glance. “You almost make me believe that you mean the things you say to me.”

“I do.” He frowned slightly, studying her closer.

“Maybe so,” Cherry conceded, then laughed a husky laugh that had been roughened by years of whiskey and smoke and raw living. “But, honey, you still ain’t gonna get it for nothing.” She reached over to grab his hand, and led him up the stairs.