Ambush (6 page)

The sound of rapid footsteps made them both look up. They saw Captain Loring stride in the gate; as he glanced up and saw them, his pace slackened, but the scowl on his face remained.

“Ann, you shouldn't have come here,” Loring said heavily. He removed his hat and nodded briefly to Ward, and then looked back at the girl. “A sutler's post is no place for a girl on payday.”

Ann Dunnifon stood up and said calmly, “I'm sorry, Ben. I'd intended to return before the paymaster came.” She turned to Ward and put out her hand. “Thank you for answering my questions—even the impertinent ones.”

Ward accepted her hand silently. He saw a faint mischief, almost an acknowledgment of friendly conspiracy in her green eyes, and he touched his hat.

Loring held out his arm and Ann took it, and Loring nodded again to Ward as they went down the steps.

Loring said again, “You shouldn't have done that, Ann. Some of these men go crazy with liquor. It's dangerous.”

Ann looked obliquely at him and said gently, “Do they get any drunker than other men?”

Loring smiled faintly under his mustaches and accepted the reprimand. He asked then, “What could you have wanted with Kinsman? More gloom?”

“I got more,” Ann said soberly.

“I do not believe in his infallibility.”

“Nor I. Still, he seems sure.” She hesitated, then asked, “Does he know enough to be sure?”

Loring made a gentle scoffing sound. “I've seen enough of these guides to know them. They're more Indian than white, and they've left a string of Indian wives behind them. They're dirty, untrustworthy,”—he did not notice Ann's faint smile—“purple liars and vain, and they're only interested in prolonging a campaign so they draw pay.”

“Like Kinsman?” Ann asked slyly.

“I don't doubt he's acting coy,” Loring said positively. “If the Major ups his pay, he'll change his tune.”

Again Ann smiled, again almost secretly.

Of the chattering women lining the row of wooden sinks in the laundry house, only Martha Riordan was silent this morning. The prospect of the first pay in four months for the husbands of these women brought a rush of talk, of planning, of relief; it meant good times with small purchases, and it brought color into this hard frontier life.

Mrs. Schermerhorn, wife of Private Schermerhorn of G Troop, had the sink next to Martha. She was a big-boned husky woman, garrulous and at the same time tactful. She straightened now in the steaming heat and glanced over at Martha.

“If I was a mean woman, I'd wait out the week to settle with Hance,” she declared.

“His wife wouldn't stand for it,” Martha said absently.

“I'd do it, only she'd worry Hance out of his sleep till she has half of Fred's pay.”

Mrs. Hance's penury was a favorite subject of conversation among the enlisted men's wives, but this morning the joke lacked savor for Martha. She kept glancing out the window above the steaming tubs, working steadily at the sodden, soapy clothes before her.

When she saw young Andy Ferguson cut down the hill to pass the laundry on his way home, she straightened, rinsed her hands, and went to the door.

“Who's being paid first, Andy?” she called.

“I Troop, Mrs. Riordan.”

Martha, wiping her hands on her apron, thanked him and stepped out into the sun, turning up the hill. For a moment she was cool, as the sun drew the dampness from her dress and her hair. She was aware, passing the window of the laundry, that the women were discussing her errand and perhaps pitying her, but by now she was indifferent to their gossip. She would not be the only woman today who hoped, usually without foundation, that she could reach her husband before his meager pay was spent at Hance's saloon.

At the east sentry gate, several groups of soldiers loitered; Martha found a place in the shade, put her shoulder to the wall, and only then remembered to roll down her sleeves and remove her apron.

She was waiting thus some minutes later, when a trio of soldiers came out, heading directly for the sutler's post. Tom Riordan stood a head higher than his two companions, and she saw him throw back his head and laugh at some joke that was made. She thought with an oddly gentle knowingness,
Liquor's in prospect and he feels good;
now she steeled herself and straightened and called “Tom! Tom Riordan!”

Riordan halted and looked about and saw her, and then said something to his two companions, who strolled on at a slackened pace.

As he approached her, Martha saw that not even the dregs of his good humor remained; his handsome face was overlaid with surliness; the sight of her bruised face brought a shame that angered him, Martha knew. Now he halted and said, “I thought I told you not to do this.”

“You promised to stop by, Tom.”

“I was on my way to settle with Hance myself,” Tom said sullenly. He would not look at her, and Martha knew this was a lie, but she said quickly, “Oh, Tom, let me. You'll lose your temper with him, and then it takes me weeks to smooth it out.”

“Be damned to him!” Riordan said. “We don't need his junk.”

“But we do,” Martha insisted. “Please, I'll settle with him.”

Tom glared at her in stubborn anger, mixed with shame. There was only one more thing to do, Martha knew, and that was to hold out a demanding hand. She would not do it, though, and only regarded her husband in patient silence.

Finally, Riordan reached in his pocket and pulled put the few pieces of gold with which the Army paid him. It was a pitifully small amount, Martha knew, and for a moment she shared his own black and hopeless bitterness as he held them in his rough palm and contemplated them.

He gave her some of the coins; they were not enough, and, looking at them, she decided swiftly that she would concede defeat in this in order to gain victory in the other. Now she said quietly, “And money for the package, Tom.”

“Next time,” Riordan said.

Martha shook her head, “Oh, Tom, what if it's four months again? They can't hold it any longer.”

“Then you've got no new dress, that's all,” Tom said roughly. “You can't play officer's lady on my pay, do I have to tell you again?”

“No, Tom,” Martha said quietly, meekly.

“And I'll not have you jumping me again before my pay's fair in my pocket,” he said thinly. “There's one pair of pants and one petticoat in a family, and you better learn which one fits you.” He paused. “Or do I have to show you again?”

Martha put the coins in her dress pocket and smiled and shook her head. “I'll go back, Tom, I've dinner to get.”

Riordan said nothing. He turned on his heel and tramped back toward his companions, his back ramrod straight, his long legs scuffing up tiny moils of dust in the heat; and his black, stubborn pride was worn like a flag.

Martha stepped back into the shade and traveled its coolness for a moment, and then headed back toward the laundry. She had won a victory of sorts, she supposed, for she had a part of his pay, a pittance which would gain a stay of execution for her shaky credit at Hance's. The dress she could not pay for would have to wait, but she was used to that and accepted it philosophically.

At the laundry again, she worked with determined haste to finish her washing before the fire in the stove died and left her only tepid water.

Afterwards, her clothes hung, she tramped back toward the row of enlisted men's houses to the one-room adobe house which was home. Passing the Ringgolds, she heard the nagging of Private Ringgold's slatternly wife, and she increased her pace.

At her house, she stepped inside and paused a moment just inside the door. It was cool here, and she glanced about the plain clean room with the warm feeling of possession. Crossing to the bed in the far corner, she sank down on it, and lay back, resting a moment. Tom, she knew, would not be home for dinner. Sometime in the afternoon, with his pay drunk up, he would return, quarrelsome and ugly and sodden with Hance's cheap whiskey. If she timed it right, she could be ironing then, or, better yet, delivering the laundry on the post, and when she returned, he would be sleeping.

She remembered then, with a feeling of poignant tenderness, Linus' anger yesterday at sight of her bruised face. It was not like the pity of other men's wives; it was the hot outrage of a lover, or a brother,
or any decent man
, she thought. For a moment, the bitterness of her bleak, loveless life was overwhelming, and she shook her head and sat up, her pretty face set in stubborn anger at herself. Anything was bearable, she knew, as long as there was no self-pity. Moving across to the cupboard, she opened it, and at the same time heard footsteps on the hard-packed adobe yard. A knock came on the door frame and she called, “Come in,” and then turned.

Lieutenant Linus Delaney, a bundle of laundry wrapped in a faded blue shirt under his arm, stepped in the doorway, doffed his hat, and said, “Morning, Martha.”

Martha Riordan stood utterly still, her hand upraised to the cupboard. Then her arm slowly fell and, ignoring his greeting, she said, “You shouldn't have come here, Linus.”

“And why not?” Linus demanded. “I'm leaving tonight, and I'd like to return to a clean shirt.”

Martha didn't smile; she crossed to him and took the laundry from his arm and placed it on the table.

“May I sit down?” Linus asked.

“I'd—rather you wouldn't.”

Linus looked at her searchingly and then moved over toward the bed, threw his hat upon it, and sat down. Lacing his fingers together, he leaned elbows on knees and said gently, “It's got to come, Martha. Why do you fight it?”

“Because it won't do any good,” Martha said in a low level voice. “We can talk for a year, Linus, but nothing's changed. We've said all we can say.”

“Have you thought over my offer?”

“No, I never said I would.”

“He's drunk now, isn't he?”

Martha smiled wryly. “Not yet, I should say. He's developed quite a capacity.”

Linus' lean face broke in a slow smile. “As an Irishman, I resent that. We were all born with quite a capacity.”

Martha smiled only faintly, and Linus said soberly, “You were made to laugh and have fun, but all I ever see is that half-smile.”

“That's more than anyone else sees, Linus.”

A look of misery touched Linus' face, and he said in a low and bitter voice, “For God's sake. Martha, don't go on! You weren't meant for this. I don't care so much about myself. I can understand why you won't divorce him and marry me, and I respect it. But what I can't understand is why you stay with him. Is there anything in the marriage contract that demands that?”

“All of it demands it, Linus.”

Linus groaned and came to his feet, hesitated only a moment, then strode across the room and took her in his arms. He kissed her roughly, and she submitted to it, not responding. Linus drew away from her then, holding her by the shoulders, and he looked deeply and hungrily into her eyes.

“I promised I wouldn't do that again, didn't I?”

“Yes,” Martha whispered.

An irrepressible merriment edged into Linus' soberness then, and he said, “But you liked it?”

“Ah, Linus, don't torment me,” Martha cried in a low voice.

Instantly, Linus was sober again. “I'm a damned dog,” he said miserably, “but what do you do when you love a woman?”

“That,” Martha whispered, watching him.

It was Linus who first heard the footsteps. Instantly, his hands dropped from Martha's shoulders, and he wheeled swiftly and stepped to the bed and scooped up his hat. He was saying in a normal voice, “Oh, Doc Horton doesn't think it's anything serious. Shallet had a long diet of horsemeat on that last scout, and I guess it was too rich for him after the regular Army diet.”

He ceased talking as a form appeared in the doorway. It was Riordan, and he put both hands on the door frame to steady himself and came in. He squinted a moment at Martha, and then shifted his glance to Linus; it took him a moment to focus his eyes, and Linus said quietly, “Hullo, Riordan.”

Riordan straightened up, as if to come to attention, and then thought better of it. He said, “Lieutenant Delaney. How are you, sir?” in a voice thick with whiskey and freighted with irony.

“I should be several days, Mrs. Riordan, so there's no hurry,” Linus said matter-of-factly. “Shallet will be up and around by then. Give it to him.”

He bowed slightly, and turned toward the door. Looking Riordan full in the face, he said gravely, “Hot day, isn't it?” and stepped past him, saying cheerfully, “Afternoon.”

Riordan didn't answer. He watched him put on his hat and stride jauntily out of sight. Then Riordan wheeled slowly, bracing himself against the door frame.

“So you've got officers calling on you, now?”

Martha said indifferently, “There's one who isn't ashamed to be seen with laundry under his arm.”

“What's he doing here?” Riordan demanded.

Martha gestured carelessly to the bundle on the table. “The orderly is in hospital.”

Riordan thought that over with a careful, alcoholic concentration, and then said, “Is an orderly the only enlisted man to carry laundry?”

“I don't know, Tom.” Martha answered wearily.

“What was he doing here?” Riordan reiterated.

“I told you!” Martha said angrily.

Riordan shoved away from the door, lurching for her. Martha dodged swiftly around the table, and Riordan came up against it with such force that the legs gouged furrows in the hard-packed dirt floor. “So I have to put up with officers at home, even.”

Martha backed up to the stove and reached for an iron skillet that lay atop it. Once she had it in her hand, she said quietly, “You won't hit me any more, Tom. I won't stand it any more, you hear?”

Riordan, both hands on the table, studied her carefully, and he was unable to keep the surprise at her rebellion from his face. For a full half-minute, they regarded each other, and Martha's gaze was unflinching.