‘Likely that’s where they’ve been camped ahead there,’ the Kid went on, indicating the area in which Frank Cochrane and his partners had camped.
‘Look it over,’ said Dusty.
Riding forward the Kid studied the camp site for a moment from the saddle, then dropped to the grounds. In the matter of reading signs the Kid had few if any equals in the Fort. He read everything the ground held before he turned and went afork the big white stallion in a single bound without bothering about stirrups or holding the reins to steady the seventeen-hand horse.
‘Met up with five of them,’ he reported to Dusty, who kept the patrol moving at an easy pace. ‘They stood and talked about things for a time, then she got into their wagon and they mounted up. Headed on to the trail here, pointing for the Belle Pourche.’
‘Straight ahead?’ asked Dusty. ‘They’d run into Mr. Jarrow’s patrol if they did that.’
Ever since leaving the Fort Dusty had been remembering the orders he gave to the two patrols. He also tried to work out in his mind, from memory of the map he’d so often studied, just where on the Belle Pourche the rushers aimed to cross. The pieces clicked together in his mind, yet the direction taken by Noreen and the rushers did not lead to the unguarded area of their territory. She must have taken the orders to use them in such manner, to get money and transport east by means of ingratiating herself with the group of rushers.
Then Dusty got it. He cursed himself for not having guessed before. The rushers were playing his own trick on him. They were taking the shortest route to the Belle Pourche only in case anyone tried to follow them. Once clear of Shacktown and away from possible following rushers, the party would swing off in the direction they aimed to go.
‘Lon,’ he said. ‘Take a point. I want to go direct to Pronghorn Crossing.’
‘Can do it easy,’ drawled the Kid in reply. ‘You figure that’s where they’re headed?’
Not even to his two
amigos
had Dusty mentioned which direction he sent out the patrols. He nodded in answer to the Kid’s question and turning his big white the Kid headed out without another word. Relying, as he’d done so many times before, on the Kid’s ability to carry the map of a particular part of the range in his head, Dusty followed his pard’s lead.
Time passed, the patrol held their horses to a steady trot which covered ground faster than the rusher party had done. More, they were travelling in as near a straight line as the country allowed, instead of winding about to keep under cover and out of sight.
Suddenly, as the men were walking, leading the horses and keeping up a pace which would not have disgraced trained infantrymen, the Kid stopped. He was out ahead of the others, striding along like a buck Apache, the big white following on his heels like a well-trained hound-dog. He came to a halt, standing still and his head turning slightly to catch some sound which as yet was beyond the hearing of any of the others.
‘What is it, Lon?’ asked Dusty, coming up fast.
‘Shots ahead there, a couple, but more of them now.’
Neither Dusty nor Mark, even though they stood by the side of the Kid, could hear any shots. Dusty raised his hand to halt the rest of the men and Magoon snarled out a warning for silence.
‘Yep, shots they are,’ grunted the Kid. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Mount the troop!’ Dusty barked. ‘Forward at the trot, Sergeant Magoon.’
Kallan was first into his saddle and he rode forward, passing Dunbrowski who was riding to take his place behind Dusty. The young corporal showed his quick grasp of the situation by holding his horse back a little. He did not know why they were out still but knew Kallan did not often accompany a patrol, being more concerned with drill training at the Fort.
‘Can the sergeant ask what’s wrong, sir?’ Kallan asked formally.
‘Shooting ahead,’ Dusty answered.
Ahead lay the Belle Pourche, ahead was Kallan’s wife and ahead also were the Sioux. Shots coming from ahead meant only one thing. Noreen and the men with her had found bad trouble.
Dusty allowed the men to make better speed now. The horses had blown while being walked and could cover the distance to the river without distress. He did not want his mounts exhausted for they might need some speed later, so he gauged the pace as best he could.
It was several minutes before any of the others could hear the shots. Talk welled up among the men, instantly quelled by Magoon’s angry orders. The men fell silent and each gave his full attention to keeping his horse going.
Ahead lay the Belle Pourche River, they all knew the spot to be a ford, an easy crossing. The shots sounded from beyond the river and the men expected to be halted at the water edge, for they were allowed to cross the Belle Pourche only in the most dire emergency and rescuing a bunch of fool rushers hardly seemed to come into that category to the troopers. They’d spent so much of their time on patrols that any sympathy they might originally have felt for the rushers had long since gone. The men knew the danger stirred up by the rushers who crossed into the sacred Sioux lands and had no love for anybody who went over the river.
So it came as something of a surprise when the Kid rode into the water and started across. The soldiers expected Dusty to call the black-dressed Texan back and instead he also rode in.
‘See nobody lags behind, Magoon,’ Dusty called over his shoulder as the big paint waded boot top deep across the ford.
The patrol made its crossing with no trouble and on the other shore Dusty set a faster pace. He could tell from the shooting and now from the yells of the Sioux that the fighting was still going on. They might yet be in time.
Raising his hand Dusty gave the signal for more speed and the horses responded, urged by their riders. In the lead Dusty rode grim-faced and unspeaking. Mark at his right and the Kid at his left as they’d been more than once in dangerous situations.
The sound of the shots drew nearer all the time, the horses were striding on at a better speed but Dusty still held them from the final gallop which might be the difference between life and death.
While still riding at the same speed the Kid suddenly bent, jerked out his yellow-framed old Winchester. It flowed to his shoulder and he appeared to fire with no pause to take careful sight. Not one of the following men could have said at what the Kid fired until a buckskin-dressed shape slid from a stunted tree ahead and dropped to the ground in a limp pile, a rifle falling unheeded from its hand. Even in the short time it took to reach the tree, the Kid found time to boot his old yellow boy once more. Gripping the saddlehorn in one hand he swung down, hanging over the flank of the big white and scooped up the rifle from the side of the dead Sioux, noting in passing the man wore no feathers or signs of tribal prominence, but appeared to be a run of the mill young brave. The rifle taken up by the Kid attracted his interest. The first thing he saw was that it appeared to be of all steel construction instead of having the brass frame of the old model of 1866. The Kid was well aware that the new model Winchester as carried by Dusty and Mark was made of all steel instead of a mixture of steel and brass. Which meant the Indian had a near enough new Winchester ‘73, or did have until he made the mistake of shaking a branch in a direction which did not agree with the wind.
Dusty raised his hands shoulder high and held them out from his sides. The patrol caught his sign and knew all too well what they must do. The left file fanned out beyond the Kid and the men in the right-hand file spread out until they rode in a line stretching from Mark to Magoon, who held the flank.
‘Draw pistols!’ Dusty ordered as they raced their horses up a gentle slope beyond which the sound of shots rose loud and the yells of the Sioux rang out.
On topping the ridge the men saw why they’d been brought from Fort Tucker, although most of them still did not see why they’d broken the treaty and crossed the Belle Pourche to rescue a bunch of rushers.
Throwing a look at the camp in the clearing Dusty saw they’d only just come in time. The wagon stood where it had been halted, one horse dead and the other two struggling against the harness which held it. Two of the rushers lay sprawled on the ground away from the wagon and only one gun seemed to be firing from under it. Of Noreen there was no sight but more than one shape lay under the shadow of the wagon and one of them must be her.
There was no time to think of anything but the Sioux. Dusty saw it to be a small party, not more than a dozen braves, although five out of the dozen had rifles and seemed to possess ammunition to spare from the appearance of the wagon and the way they threw lead at it.
So intent on their prey were the Sioux, as they went into attack once more, that none of them paid any attention to the thundering hooves of the cavalry horses. Then, even as Dusty roared out an order which brought a crashing volley of shots, one brave turned and howled a warning. The hail of lead slashed into and around the Sioux, two braves went down, another clutched a wound but it took a very accurate, or lucky, shot to hit with a revolver from the back of a fast running horse and no other damage was done. The Sioux who could, sent their horses racing by the wagon and one fired a final shot Dusty saw the man with the gun jerk and then go limp as the lead struck him.
The Sioux did not halt but sent their horses dashing into the bushes and away. Dusty knew better than to allow his command to follow so he roared an order to bring all but the Kid and Mark to a halt. They followed the departing Indians up the other slope, guns out and watchful for a chance ambush.
Before the big paint even halted Dusty left the saddle and lit down running, but fast as he moved, Kallan reached the wagon first. The sergeant dropped to his knees and a low moan came from his lips.
Noreen lay on her back, she’d been pulled into the shelter of the wagon but hadn’t needed it for she’d been hit in the back by a bullet which must have smashed through her heart and come out at the front.
One look told Dusty there was nothing he could do. He glanced around and saw that already Magoon was forming up the men and Dunbrowski was checking to make sure nothing could be done for the two rushers killed away from the wagon. It only needed one glance to show they were well past all aid.
Without looking at Kallan, who had drawn Noreen’s body from under the wagon and knelt cradling it in his arms, Dusty gave orders.
‘Two men to unload everything from the wagon, Magoon! Dunbrowski, take as many men as you need to clear the harness off that dead horse and put one of our mounts in its place. Good man, soldier, calm that horse down.’
The last words were to a private who had left his horse and was holding the reins of the terrified team horse, trying to calm it. Dusty saw men leaping to obey his orders. Then he saw Mark and the Kid coming back in a hurry. They brought their horses to a rump-scraping halt and both jumped down.
They’ve got
amigos
coming, Dusty,’ drawled the Kid, mowing a look at Noreen’s body, then at the wagon. ‘How bout this lot?’
‘All cashed, got the last as we came in,’ Dusty answered, looking under the wagon. ‘Move it, men. We’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Yeah and fast—or stay here for good,’ finished the Ysabel Kid.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Get back and watch the Sioux, Lon!’ Dusty barked and his pard went afork the big white in a bound, heading the horse to a place where he could see the approaching Sioux.
Dusty threw a look at the cursing men who were trying to clear the harness from the dead horse. He doubted if they would have time. There was another thing to consider. Not one of the cavalry horses had ever been used in harness and would not take kindly to it now. Yet the bodies must not be left for the Sioux to mutilate, he knew he could not allow that.
‘Asking your pardon, Cap’n,’ said Magoon, stepping up and saluting. ‘But I don’t reckon we can take the wagon with us.’
‘That’s what I think,’ Dusty replied. ‘Get the bodies aboard it, Sergeant.’
Thoughts raced through Dusty’s head. He must prevent the bodies, especially Noreen’s from being hacked to pieces by the Sioux. Yet he could not stay and fight to try and protect them. Already he’d exceeded his orders by crossing the Belle Pourche in pursuit of the rushers. He could not make matters worse by staying to make a fight of it and feeding further the flames of hatred Crazy Bear and his white-man-hating lodge brothers stirred among the Hunkpapa.
The men left the dead horse and flung themselves to the task of carrying the five dead rushers to their wagon, putting them inside. Under Dusty’s orders more of the men threw in blankets and anything which would burn. The soldier who’d managed to quieten the horse was now unharnessing it, not meaning to leave it to the Sioux and guessing what Dusty aimed to do.
Striding forward Dusty picked up a can of coal oil, fuel for the lamps which lay among the rushers’ belongings. He took up the can, shook it and heard liquid splashing around inside. Removing the stopper Dusty splashed the inflammable oil on the pile of blankets in the wagon, then splashed more on the sides and canopy. He tossed the can aside and was about to apply the lit match when he realized Noreen’s body was not inside.
Dusty Went to where Kallan still knelt cradling his wife to him. Laying a hand on the man’s shoulder Dusty spoke gently.
‘We’ll have to leave her in the wagon, Kallan, we can’t take her with us.’
A face lined with grief looked up at Dusty, Kallan stared with eyes that did not seem to see and ears which clearly caught little or no sound, or if they did his brain could not understand them. Mark Counter sprang to Dusty’s side and gently took the woman’s body from Kallan’s unresisting arms. The big Texan carried the woman’s body to the rear of the wagon and placed it in. Still Kallan made no attempt to get to his feet. He’d not said a word, or made a sound since running to his wife and even now gave no sign of knowing what danger he was in.
‘Mount the troop!’ Dusty roared as the Kid came racing his big white back. ‘Magoon, Mark, get Kallan on his horse!’
‘They’re coming like bats out of hell, Dusty!’ yelled the Kid. ‘Fifty or more and all wearing paint.’
Mark and Magoon caught the unresisting Kallan by the arms and lifted him to his feet. They were strong men and between them they carried the sergeant to his horse. Even then Kallan did not appear to know what was happening but his cavalry instincts got him into the saddle.
‘Move out the troop!’ Dusty barked. ‘Keep them going, Sergeant.’
Turning his horse Dunbrowski rode back along the line, took up the loose hanging reins of Dusty’s big paint and led it towards its master. The young corporal was once more showing his courage and devotion to duty, for it was the guidon carrier’s job to bold his officer’s horse, making sure it did not run away and leave the officer afoot. So Dunbrowski rode back, even though he might die for doing it. He gripped the guidon’s shaft in his right hand, Dusty’s paint’s reins in the left and waited, watching the Sioux who came swarming down the slopes, heading through the rough country and the bush towards him.
Without flurry or fluster Dusty took a match from his pocket, rasped it on the seat of his pants and applied the flame to a soggy, oil-soaked strip of cloth. For a moment he thought he’d need another match but the tiny flame crawled up slowly and grew, spreading across the cloth, setting fire to the canopy. Dusty knew nothing short of an organized fire-fighting party could save the wagon now and the Sioux most certainly could not, would not even bother to try.
So Dusty wasted no more time. He turned and ran to where his horse stood and for the first time saw Dunbrowski. The young corporal’s face fought to hide its relief and Dusty made a mental note to commend him for his courage. Right now there was no time for that. Not with the Sioux closing in with every second which ticked by. Dusty raced for the paint, hearing the crack of rifles as the Sioux took long range shots at him. He did not hear the bullets and so guessed they were missing by a considerable margin.
Sensibly Dunbrowski had turned the horses so they faced in the direction the rest of the patrol took. Dusty did not use conventional methods of mounting but went over the seventeen-hand rump of the paint in a leapfrog bound which landed him on the saddle, feet feeling for stirrup irons even as he grabbed the reins from Dunbrowski and yelled:
‘Get out of here!’
Dunbrowski needed no urging and sent his horse leaping forward alongside Dusty’s striding paint. They sent their horses after the rest of the patrol and behind the Sioux charged after them, howling out war yells and looking for the honour of being first to take coup.
‘Form into fours!’ Magoon roared, checking the first sign of panic. ‘I’ll drop the first man to break rank!’
Not one of the soldiers doubted Magoon’s words. They knew he might regard discipline as being something to ignore in barracks, but not in times such as this. Magoon knew he must hold the men in a formation. If he let them ride wild it would no longer be a withdrawal but a wild flight with men running their horses into the ground. Held as a group they could be controlled, made to keep their horses to a pace which allowed each mount to retain something in reserve.
For all his words Magoon felt nervous. He’d left Captain Fog (Magoon never thought of Dusty in any other manner) to set fire to the wagon. He twisted in the saddle and relief showed plain on his face as he found Dusty and Dunbrowski almost up to him.
‘Keep them going, Magoon,’ Dusty barked.
Even as Dusty sent his paint along one flank of the tight held column he heard a yell from the other side.
‘Noreen!’
Kallan screamed the word out. He brought his horse to a tight, swinging turn and sent it hurling back towards the wagon over which flames were now licking. Dusty and Magoon also saw, so did Mark and the Kid and all four brought their horses to a halt.
‘Keep the patrol going, Magoon!’ Dusty ordered.
With an angry growl Magoon swung his horse and headed after his men. Mark shot out a hand to grab Dusty’s bridle and hold the paint even as the small Texan was about to go after Kallan.
‘No go,
amigo
!’ the blond giant snapped. ‘I’ll cut your hoss down afore I’ll let you try.’
Even as Mark spoke Dusty saw there was no chance of saving Kallan. The man sent his horse straight back towards the wagon. He bent and drew the carbine, sending a shot at the Sioux. Then lead struck his horse and it went down under him but he kicked his feet free and lit down running, still gripping the carbine in his left hand and drawing his revolver with the right.
Clenching his hands so the knuckles showed white Dusty watched Kallan going willingly to his death. The slopes looked to be alive with Sioux and the patrol were hopelessly outnumbered. Without making a pitched battle, one they could not hope to win at that, Dusty could not help Kallan. It would be death to all his men if he tried and an end to any chance of keeping the peace until the army gathered the following year. A resounding victory over the soldier-coats would strengthen Crazy Bear’s hold on his supporters and weaken the saner heads who called for peace. It was as easy as that, one man’s life against thousands, for thousands would die if the Sioux went to war this year.
Lead caught Kallan, he staggered but kept his feet, shooting down the nearest brave. Three times while they watched Kallan took lead, yet he kept his feet and reeled on. His Colt cracked out shot after shot until empty. By that time he’d reached the wagon. Throwing the weapons into the back Kallan dragged himself up. A barbed war arrow struck him between the shoulders and he fell forward into the blazing wagon, dropping across the body of his wife.
‘He’s done for!’ said the Kid. ‘Let’s get going, we can’t do a thing for him by stopping here.’
Still holding Dusty’s horse Mark started to turn his blood-bay and the paint followed. Lead cut the air around their heads and they started forward. The three big horses had the legs of any Indian war pony or cavalry remount. With racing strides they drew ahead of the Sioux and caught up with the patrol, much to Magoon’s intense relief.
‘Keep them running,’ Dusty said, catching up alongside the burly Irishman. ‘We’ll make a stand on our side of the Belle Pourche.’
‘Yo!’ replied Magoon. ‘And how about Slasher, sir?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Did he make the wagon?’
‘Yeah.’
Magoon crossed himself, for he was a Catholic and the early training never left him. With this simple tribute to his departed friend Magoon gave his attention to the patrol.
The memory of that chase would last long among the men of the patrol. They rode their horses with death on their heels, sending the racing animals through the rough bush, down slopes, up the other side, swerving around bushes but always holding their closed formation. The Sioux were shooting but not with accuracy and not one man had been hit when they rode the horses into the water of the Belle Pourche. Churning up the surface, sending spray into the air, ignoring the wetting they got, the men rode across the Belle Pourche’s ford. Dusty reached the shore first and he swung down from the paint as soon as its hooves churned the soil on the other side. Jerking the short Winchester carbine from the saddle-boot, Dusty allowed the paint to lope off, knowing the horse would not stray far.
‘Dismount, secure your horses, then take cover along the river edge!’ he bellowed as the patrol came from the water. ‘Draw carbines. On the double! Sergeant Magoon. Move them!’
To the accompaniment of yells and bellows of annoyance from Magoon, lashing the slower movers into action, the soldiers dismounted and made their horses secure to the first thing which came to hand. Then with their Springfield carbines in their hands they dashed to find cover along the edge of the river, flattening down in a firing position as soon as they reached a place.
All eyes were on the Sioux as they poured through the bush, making for the ford. Dusty could see the Kid’s guess at their being at least fifty was right enough and likely more on hand in case they might be needed.
‘Hold your fire until I give the word!’ he ordered.
Nearer swept the fast-riding, feather-decorated and wild-eyed braves. In the lead rode a war-bonnet chief, a Winchester in his hand. He brought his horse to a sliding halt as he saw the sight on the other side of the river. Behind him every other brave also came to a halt when they saw the grim-faced men and the lined weapons awaiting them.
It took the war-bonnet chief who led the Sioux but one glance to know he’d carried the chase as far as he could without making a fight of it. Any attempt to make the river crossing would be met by rifle and carbine fire poured on them by men under cover and who could rest their weapons to ensure a better aim.
No man could ever claim truthfully that an Indian war-chief did not know light cavalry tactics. That chief across the river knew the lessons of war as well, if not better, than most graduates from West Point. Not for one moment did he think the soldiers fled in fear before his men. They’d acted as he would have ordered his own men to act under the same circumstances. Outnumbered, in a poor defensive position, the soldier-coat leader wisely decided to withdraw. There had been no panic in the orderly retreat of the patrol and now they waited, with the advantage of position on their side. The chief, it was Crazy Bear himself, a powerful young man who early made his name as a fighting warrior, and gained the trailing war bonnet by his hatred of the white brother, knew he would have selected this same spot to make a stand.
So Crazy Bear did not force home his attack. He could claim it as a victory for his medicine right now. Yet, if he tried to attack, lost men and was forced to withdraw, by that much would his power be weakened. He could boast of how he and his men drove the soldier-coats from their land, sing of how the other white men and their woman fell before his braves. People would listen, they would know why he did not cross the river and his medicine’s power be respected.
Whooping out a string of deep-throated Hunkpapa insults at the cowardice of the white brother, even though the white brother had not acted as a coward but as a wise warrior, Crazy Bear spun his horse in a tight turn. He waved the rifle over his head in a derisive manner then headed back to see if there was any loot to be had from the burning wagon. The rest of the warriors also yelled their war cries, hurled insults at the soldiers, turned their horses and followed their chief.
At any other time there might have been some cheering among the soldiers but not as they watched the Sioux file away from the Belle Pourche. They could all see the grim set to Dusty’s lips and knew it would go hard on the man who crossed him. Then for the first time most of them noticed that Kallan was no longer with them. In the heat of the retreat from the river his passing had gone unnoticed until this moment.
‘Where’s Kallan?’ asked one of the men.
‘The Sioux must have got him,’ answered another, resting the butt of his carbine on the ground. ‘What the hell was his wife doing—’
‘Mount the troop, Sergeant Magoon!’
Dusty’s voice cracked savagely, cutting off the man’s words and bringing the patrol to their feet. He turned and walked to where his big paint stood unconcernedly waiting for him. Thrusting the carbine into the saddleboot, Dusty gripped the horn and swung on to the horse. He sat with his head lowered and eyes on the ground, a dull, aching anger throbbing through him.
‘March out, Cap’n, sir?’ asked Magoon’s voice politely. The burly sergeant knew what was wrong with Dusty and knew better than mention it until Dusty spoke.
‘March out, Sergeant,’ Dusty said, his voice flat.
The men formed into twos and rode forward, away from the river, their talk welling up as they asked each other about Kallan and discussed what they’d seen beyond the Belle Pourche. Mark, the Kid and Dunbrowski waited for Dusty, the young corporal sitting back from the other two, his concern over Dusty showing more than the two Texans’. Finally Mark shrugged, if Dusty’s temper had to burst it might as well burst on him. He rode the big blood-bay to Dusty’s side.
‘You did the right thing and you know it,’ he said.
Dusty let out his breath in a long sigh. He shook his head like a man coming out of a daze. ‘I reckon you’re right. It was one man’s life against twenty-four,’ Dusty answered. ‘But I hate to think of why he came to die.’
‘Reckon he didn’t want to live with his wife gone,’ Mark drawled quietly. ‘Let’s go, there’s nothing we can do here.’
‘Reckon not. Thanks for stopping me back there, Mark.’
Saying that, Dusty swung the paint from the river and rode after the patrol. He took his place at the head of the double file
of soldiers and Magoon eased his horse alongside the paint.
‘You did the right thing back there, Cap’n,’ he said.
‘I should’ve known, guessed what he’d do.’
‘No, sir. I’ve known Slasher for a few years now, ever since he come to the regiment. I didn’t know, couldn’t tell he’d do what he did. He was a damned good soldier and a brave man. Loved her and I reckon in her way Noreen loved him.’
‘Why did Kallan leave West Point?’
‘He never said and I never asked,’ Magoon replied. ‘There was the usual latrine gossip about it having to do with his wife and van Druten but I couldn’t say yes or no to it and wouldn’t want to try.’
‘Do the men know how he left?’
‘They were all too busy trying to save their own hides to see him go I’d say,’ Magoon answered.
‘For the record we’ll say he died in action and leave it at that,’ Dusty stated. ‘For the rest, I’ll see Miss Lingley and ask her advice.’
‘Aye, she’s the smart one is Miss Joanna and can see things that go right by the likes of us. It’s maybe for the best the way Slasher and Noreen ended. We might be able to stop most of the scandal.’
‘Dismount the men and walk for a spell,’ Dusty said, not telling Magoon the real reason he meant to discuss what had happened with Joanna. That he held this rank under false pretences and blamed himself for the deaths of the Kallans and the five rushers.
Night had fallen when the patrol returned to Fort Tucker. The men put their horses in the picket lines and the Texans led theirs to the officers’ stables. They tended to the three stallions then went to their rooms in the quarters. Dusty found his room lamp lit and Dawkins, the old striker, waiting for him. The old man read Dusty’s expression, made no comment as he took the dirty and sweat-soaked blouse, then helped draw off the Jefferson boots.
‘Mr. Gilbey to see you, sir,’ he said, answering a knock on the door.
‘Show him in and see if you can raise some hot water for me.’
Dusty waved Gilbey into a chair and sat on his bed. The young lieutenant was bubbling with questions but he held them back. He sat waiting for Dusty to speak and finally the small Texan did so.
‘Is Mr. Cardon back yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’d better tell you what happened then.’
Quickly and without wasting words Dusty told the story of the patrol, of what they’d found beyond the Belle Pourche and how Kallan came to die. Gilbey sat in the chair and listened, never speaking until Dusty reached the end of his narrative. Then he rubbed a hand across his face and took a chance.
‘You acted correctly, sir,’ he said.
‘We didn’t act quickly enough, mister. And I’m to blame for leaving the copies of the patrol orders where they could be taken.’
‘Nobody could’ve guessed—’
‘Lack of forethought’s never been any excuse, mister. Six deaths are the result of what I allowed to happen. I reckon it’s right that you know something. I’m not a—’
‘The bath’s ready, sir, and Miss Lingley wishes you to dine with her as soon as you’re through.’
The words stopped Dusty just before he could tell Gilbey his correct status in the Fort, that he was an impostor wearing a dead man’s uniform. Dusty suddenly realized that he could hardly give himself away without speaking with Joanna and Hogan, both of whom were in this as deeply as he was. He decided to wait until after he’d spoken with the girl.
Gilbey was ready on his feet. Suddenly Dusty knew the young lieutenant liked and respected him. Gilbey was being tactful, not wanting to keep Dusty from a chance of relaxing and throwing off the feeling that he’d failed in his duty.
‘Call a meeting of all combat staff in the Fort in an hour and a half please Mr. Gilbey,’ he said, coming to his feet. ‘Mr. Cardon should be back by now.’
Not until he was seated in the hot water of the bath and soaping himself did Dusty remember the rifle picked up and brought back by the Ysabel Kid. He knew he should go and talk with the Kid but decided to leave it until after he’d eaten. Dusty did not know but his two pards had already decided this for him and he would have been unable to find them even if he’d tried. They and young Gilbey had seen to that by taking an invitation to eat with the family of the quartermaster-sergeant.
Joanna Lingley met Dusty at the door of her house and took him into the comfortable sitting-room. She waited until he sat down and brought him coffee, then closed the door. Like Gilbey, she knew straight away that something was troubling the small Texan but unlike Gilbey she guessed straight away what the trouble was.
Once more Dusty told the story of the patrol. Joanna listened, noticing that he made no attempt to hide what he regarded as his own failure or in any way exculpate himself. He just stated the full facts in a flat and emotionless voice and finished by stating that he intended to tell Gilbey the full story of how he came to be here, then leave the young lieutenant to take whatever action he felt was necessary.
‘You’re wrong, Dusty,’ Joanna replied. ‘Balance all the good things you’ve done since you came here. Think of the lives which you’ve saved by holding back all the rushers who failed to get through. You’ve done something that few men, army or civilian could have done.’
‘And I’ve made a fool mistake that any green, wet-behind-the-ears shavetail would’ve avoided.’
‘The blame’s partly mine,’ she corrected. ‘At least, as much mine as yours. I’ve handled the paperwork and I never thought to remind you about the lock on the drawer. Father lost the keys, or they were lost when he died. He rarely kept the desk locked so I forgot about it.’
‘I should have locked the office door.’
‘And she could’ve opened it, she or anybody in the Fort with a door key.’
‘But,’ Dusty said bitterly. ‘for all that she got in and through it she and six men died.’
Joanna stood with her fists clenched. She did not know just what to say or do for the best. She knew Dusty had done his best, she might have mentioned how busy he’d been since his arrival, using it as an excuse for forgetting to lock the desk and his office. She said nothing for she could not remember ever feeling so helpless as she did at the moment.