Woman of Three Worlds (8 page)

“What a flatterer you are, Lieutenant!” Regina tittered. “Beware of him, Brittany dear! He's not to be trusted.”

“Mrs. Graves, I beg you! If you speak so, how can I persuade Miss Brittany to let me show her some of our points of interest?”

“You might just ask,” said Brittany, irritated at Regina's proprietary attitude and false show of affection.

O'Shea stared, then burst into laughter. “Right, then, Miss Brittany! Shall we go riding?”

“Yes, if you're prepared to show me how to mount and control the horse.”

His eyes danced. “Ma'am,” he said, rising to his height of six feet, “that will be my pure pleasure!”

An hour later, Brittany, knee hooked rather stiffly over the horn of Mrs. Tattersall's discarded old sidesaddle and trying to hold the reins off the sorrel mare's neck without tugging at the bit, was following the stage road along what O'Shea told her was Siphon Canyon.

They had already passed the stage station and the cemetery, with its new graves. “Those whiskey sellers Pionsenay killed before he went on that rampage are buried here,” the lieutenant said. “This is the way Tyrell brought you in. Remember it?”

“I was too frightened to pay much mind to scenery.”

“Small wonder.”

They rode on for a time, going down a wash. The lieutenant reined in his horse. Careful of the mare's mouth, Brittany did the same. “This is where Lieutenant George Bascom camped in early February of 1861, when he came after cattle and a boy Cochise's band was accused of stealing. Cochise came to visit. Had his half-brother, two nephews, two women, and a lad along, so it seems pretty clear he wasn't expecting trouble. Bascom demanded the cattle and kidnapped boy. Cochise denied having anything to do with it, but he offered to try to find out what band had raided and buy back the captive and cattle. Bascom didn't believe him, though it later turned out that it was Coyoteros, not Chiricahuas, who were guilty. It ended with Bascom taking Cochise and his party prisoners.”

“That sounds a bit rash.”

“It was tragic,” O'Shea said simply, staring at the tree-shaped spot as if seeing what had happened there. “Cochise got away. Bascom marched the other prisoners back to the stage station and sent one of the women to tell Cochise the hostages would be released only when the cattle and boy were returned.”

“Which Cochise didn't have!”

The lieutenant nodded. “He approached the station with a few warriors. Cochise had agreed to let the Butterfield stage run through his territory and sold wood to the station, so he was friendly with the stationkeeper, who now came out with his two helpers to talk with Cochise. One of the stage employees, James Wallace, spoke Apache, so they talked for a while in that language. Cochise suddenly gave a signal for the whites to be seized. The stationkeeper escaped and was shot by an Apache at the door of the station. One of his companions was shot by mistake by a soldier as he tried to scale the high stone corral. Wallace was captured, but Bascom refused to exchange his prisoners for him or three other captives, who later were taken by Cochise. Stages were attacked and a wagon train bringing supplies to the station was burned with eight drivers chained to the wheels.”

Brittany shuddered. “Forgive me,” O'Shea said. “I'll make the story short. More troops came to Bascom's aid. Cochise killed his prisoners, including his friend, Wallace, and vanished into the mountains. Bascom has been blamed for hanging the hostages, but the decision was made by two newly arrived ranking officers. The Apaches were hanged near the graves of the slaughtered Americans and the troops went off to their various posts.”

“I'm surprised that Cochise ever made peace again with the whites.”

“He didn't till it was clear they were in the country to stay, and he did his share to make southern Arizona a bloody place during the sixties. It's a mistake to blame all that on this Apache Pass affair, though. What really happened is that the Civil War began that spring. All troops were pulled out of what's now the Arizona Territory, which left miners and settlers exposed to raids by both Apaches and bandits.”

They rode on to the mouth of the canyon, where O'Shea pointed out the Dos Cabezas Mountains and Goodwin Canyon, where Cochise's band had had their
rancherías
.

“Been more people killed around here than will ever be known,” said the lieutenant. “A Texas wagon train back in the fifties was attacked by Cochise's father and thirty were killed. Captured women were carried down to Mexico, but only two could be sold. The rest were murdered.”

“Lieutenant O'Shea!” cried Brittany. “Please! I already knew this was a dangerous place!”

“No more Apache stories for today,” he promised. “To make amends, may I treat you to sarsaparilla at the trader's?”

“No, thank you. I fear it's getting late.”

Sighing, he reined his horse about. “I hope you're not put out at me, ma'am.”

“Indeed not. I want to know the history of the place. But—well, I think I'd prefer to hear it a little at a time.”

A dazzling smile erased his woeful look. “That's easily done! If you'll continue to ride with me, I'll tell you a bit each day. Anyway, that finishes the worst massacres.”

He was handsome and gallant and made her spirits rise, though he didn't have Tyrell's devastating effect on her. Surely that was a good thing. She smiled back at him as they rode along the wash. “I'd be happy to ride with you, Lieutenant, when you have the time.”

“I'll see that it's often.” He rode nearer. “Miss Brittany, may I have the honor of escorting you to the dance Saturday?”

Zach's face rose between them for a moment, but she banished it. He'd brought the little Apache boy in, but hadn't spared a moment to visit her. Besides, it was no thanks to him that she wasn't the scandal of the post. So she smiled at O'Shea.

“I've never danced, Lieutenant.”

“You'll have to learn! It would be cruel not to at this lonely post, where all the men need their spirits raised.”

His tone was so persuasive that she laughed. “All right, Lieutenant. But when I tread on your toes, remember that I warned you!”

She rode with him once more before the dance. This time, pausing at Apache Spring, he told her about the battle that had led to the establishment of the first Fort Bowie.

“A small force of Confederates occupied Tucson during the war, but they were driven out by California volunteers under General Carlton, who advanced eastward to contest the Confederates for their remaining outposts in New Mexico. It was July of 1862 when an advance command reached Apache Pass. They'd marched nineteen hours through deep mud on only a cup of coffee each and were eager to drink deep.”

Brittany glanced up at the two hills above the spring. “But Apaches were guarding the water?”

O'Shea nodded his bright head. “They waylaid the command about half a mile from the deserted stage station. The troopers fought their way to the station and had shelter, but water was six hundred yards away.”

He pointed at the hills south and east above the spring. “The Apaches had rough stone breastworks built on the crests of both hills. Naturally they could fire down at the soldiers without being in much danger till the two twelve-pounder howitzers were brought to the middle of this wide wash. Shells from them finally drove the Apaches from the fortifications three to four hundred feet above, and the troops drank at the spring and filled their canteens. They settled into the stage station for the night while the commander sent six cavalrymen back to warn the supply wagons and followed with twenty-eight men to escort it through the dangerous pass.”

“Those troopers must have been half dead.”

“A nineteen-hour march, a six-hour fight to reach the station, and then the battle for the spring—yes, the ones who marched back fifteen miles to the wagon train must have been tough fellows.”

“Did they make it through?”

“They reached the train about two in the morning, rested about three hours, and started for the pass, cavalry in front, with infantry flanking either side. By the time the wagons reached the stage station, some of the animals were dying of thirst.”

“Couldn't they water at the spring?”

“No, the Apaches were back at their hilltop fortifications. But Captain Roberts saw that everyone had a good breakfast of bacon and flapjacks. He formed the wagons in a hollow square in the stone corral and gave the teamsters rifles to defend them. The howitzers and skirmishing troops moved up the canyon, and the howitzers soon shelled the Indians out of the breastworks. The cavalry pursued them and the water was won. Men and animals drank, rested, and went on next day to the east, where they were to wait for General Carleton's main force.”

“No wonder the general decided a fort was needed at the spring!”

“Yes, he established it less than two weeks after the battle.” O'Shea chuckled. “Folks who complain about it now should have been here when it was only thirteen tents to shelter a hundred men. You can bet the first thing the commander did was to get a wall built around those tents. For the first few years the garrison lived in hovels, most of them dug into the hillside, but in 1868 the fort was moved to where it is now and permanent adobes were put up.”

Brittany glanced at the encircling hills as they rode along the canyon. “I suppose an eastern bride would still have found it raw and frightening.”

“It was certainly that. Travelers, freighters, mail coaches, and riders were frequently attacked till 1872, when Cochise agreed to peace provided the Chiricahuas were given a reservation in their regular stomping grounds.” The lieutenant shrugged. “Well, the old chief's buried in a secret place and less than half his people have gone with his sons to San Carlos. I expect we're in for a warm time from the four hundred or so that Agent Jeffords reckons have escaped.”

Brittany heard again the shrieking attackers, the screams of dying animals and men. She began to tremble, though they were near enough the post to be perfectly safe. O'Shea must have noticed, for his gauntleted hand reached out to touch hers sympathetically.

“It'll get better, Miss Brittany. But you must have wanted to take the first stage home.”

“I don't have a home.” At his questioning look, she briefly explained.

“That's a shame. Doesn't make me proud of my government.” He gave her a smile that lit up his gray-blue eyes. “I'm selfish enough to be glad you're here, though. From what you've seen of army life, do you think you could stand to marry into it?”

“If I loved a soldier, I suppose I'd have to.”

“Could you love a soldier?” His tone was bantering.

Why did Zach Tyrell's dark face seem to watch her? Matching O'Shea's tone, she said lightly, “That, sir, would depend upon the soldier.”

“So there's hope,” he said. This time he wasn't laughing.

VI

There wasn't much to be done to improve the blue dress Brittany had inherited from her mother. Regina had called it dowdy and hopelessly out of date, even on the frontier. It was designed to wear with a crinoline and fell instead in soft gathers. Brittany had to comfort herself that at least her kid slippers, also her mother's, were like new. She'd washed her hair that afternoon, and it curled at ears and brow, though she'd caught the mass up at the back of her head with a blue ribbon. Sapphire earrings and a matching pendant gave a touch of elegance at which Regina frowned.

“In your circumstances, I should think you'd sell such luxuries.”

“They were my mother's. I hope to pass them on to a daughter.”

Regina sniffed, beautiful in her tight-bodiced low-cut gray gown, which showed the creamy mounds of her breasts. The bustle made her waist seem tiny, though the boned corset she was wearing must have been a torment. Her golden hair was held up with a wreath of black velvet embroidered with pearls, and she wore a matching neck band about her slender throat.

Appearing in his double-breasted gold-buttoned coat with its gold corded shoulder knots, scabbarded saber swinging from a silk sash striped with gold lace, Edward looked martially imposing. His round face beamed as he gazed adoringly at his wife.

“Your servant, madam,” he bowed.

She gave him a perfunctory smile, sighing as she touched his plain shoulder knot. “Oh dear, Edward, it's at times like this that I wish most you could get a promotion! It's not just the pay, though God knows we could use it, but it would be lovely to see bars or leaves on your shoulder knots.”

“I'll get them for you someday,” Edward promised. Gray showed in his hair as he turned to lift his black felt dress helmet down from a peg. It glittered with the large gold eagle, tassels, and gilt braid, and the yellow cavalry horsehair plume streamed rakishly from its gold ball and socket. He noticed Brittany for the first time. “Why, cousin, you'd take a man's breath away! And here comes your first victim of the evening!”

Brittany moved toward the open door to greet her escort. Instead of smiling up at Michael O'Shea, she gasped and took a step backward.

Zach Tyrell stood there. Auburn hair brushed neatly back, boots polished, and wearing a well-cut dark blue coat that revealed a snowy white shirt and blue silk tie, he looked eminently respectable, though nothing could alter that reckless smile.

“You look prepared to start your reign as the belle of Camp Bowie, Miss Laird. Good evening, Mrs. Graves, Lieutenant.”

As they stared at him, his dark brows knitted slightly. “If you're all ready, why don't we go?”

Why should she feel guilty? He had no right to just assume that she'd be waiting breathlessly for him to turn up. Drawing herself erect, Brittany said stiffly, “I fear there's a misunderstanding, Mr. Tyrell. I don't recall your ever asking if you could escort me tonight.”