The Colonel's Lady (13 page)

“Father tells me you're going on patrol tomorrow,” she said, and maybe she sensed that I didn't want to talk about the past.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, and that seemed to end that subject of conversation. I gathered that Gorgan hadn't told her about the scout patrol, though, and I was glad of that. “I suppose,” I said, “the desert is all right when you get used to it. Larrymoor too, for that matter. It's not like —” I started to say Sweetbriar. “It's not like the cities back east, of course, but you do have certain social activities here. The regimental dances, for instance.”

I felt that I had to keep the conversation going somehow until Gorgan got back, but it was an effort and Sarah Gorgan could tell that it was. Without looking at me, she said, “Would you like to go inside, Mr. Reardon? I'm sure there's some sherry.”

I could see now that Gorgan—for reasons of his own—had thrown us together again, the way he had done at the dance. I began to feel the same discomfort that I had felt before, wanting to get away but knowing there was no way of doing it gracefully.

“Not at all, Miss Gorgan,” I said, with as much conviction as possible. “I find it very pleasant out here.”

I could see her smile to herself. It seemed a hopeless smile, to me, and I guessed that she felt as trapped as I did. She moved down to the darker end of the porch and sat on the banister, looking out at the parade. A pale, bloated moon had come up suddenly from behind the far hills, and that vague, suffused light did something to her.

It was almost as though I were looking at her for the first time. She sat there quietly, as still as a statue, and somehow beautiful. It was the moonlight, of course, but something about her made me think of Caroline.

It happened then as it always did. The smallest crack had opened in my mind and Caroline came walking in to taunt me. To tempt me with her mouth and excite me with her body. I heard myself speaking then. Speaking to Sarah Gorgan, but thinking of Caroline.

I said, “You're very beautiful tonight,” and I started to add, “Caroline,” but then Sarah Gorgan's chin came up sharply, as if she had been slapped. Her eyes were wide, and I thought at first that she was angry. But then I saw that she was hurt.

She looked back at the parade. “I'm not beautiful, Mr. Reardon. You shouldn't have said that.”

I don't know what made me go on with it. A thing like that could be carried off with a laugh. A light word. But I didn't do it. It was almost as if Caroline were there beside me, tempting me to go on, daring me to look at another girl.

I said, “I mean it, Miss Gorgan.” I hadn't meant it to go any further than that, but I moved down to the end of the porch and stood beside her, and looked down at her. I suppose that, in the back of my mind, I thought I was hurting Caroline. Or maybe I was thinking of nothing at all when I put my hands on Sarah Gorgan's shoulders and brought her toward me.

She didn't protest. She didn't utter a sound. I could close my eyes and imagine it was Caroline I was holding. She brought her head back and I pressed my mouth on hers. The moment I did it I was sorry. Her mouth was cold at first, but it warmed suddenly and was eager.

I was the one who broke it off.

“I didn't mean to do that,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

She still didn't say anything. She put her face against my shoulder and I thought, She's only a kid. The thought made me feel rotten inside.

“You'd better go in now,” I said.

After a while she said, “Matt. May I call you Matt?”

“Sure. But you'd better go in now.” My mind darted forward to the next day, when the patrol would be pulling out of Larrymoor. At that moment I didn't care whether I came back or not.

She went inside finally. Gorgan came out in a few minutes, grinning quietly. I would have felt better if he had hit me.

“Did my daughter tell you about Larrymoor, Reardon?”

I must have said something, but I don't remember what. Then he put some things in my hand and said, “You'd better take these with you tomorrow. Maybe you'll find some use for them.”

When I got back to the hut I saw what they were. There was a long, razor-keen bowie knife made of rifle steel, the bone handle inlaid with coin silver, and a pair of long, knee-length Apache moccasins.

I had expected my sudden rise through the ranks to cause hostility among the men, but Halan was something else again. He was the one who had recommended me to Weyland. If I had a friend at Larrymoor, I told myself, it was Halan.

But it didn't look like it. I thought at first that it was my imagination, but as the column stretched out across the wasteland and the rigid garrison discipline began to relax among the men, the Captain continued to keep his distance.

“Mr. Reardon, please maintain the correct cavalry seat while in my column. Sloppy riders beget sloppy commanders, Mr. Reardon, and sloppy commanders can be fatal when dealing with Apache.”

This was something I hadn't counted on. Halan had the rank; he could pull it on me as often as it pleased him. And it seemed to please him at least twice an hour that day.

The next day was no better. It was worse, if anything, with Halan continually finding fault with everything I did. I could feel the men behind me grinning fiercely.

I gave up trying to figure out what was happening. Too much was happening too fast. Caroline, Weyland, Sarah Gorgan, and now Halan.

“Mr. Reardon,” Halan said. “Please remember that officers must set examples for their men. Square your campaign hat, Lieutenant; the cavalry campaign hat is regulation uniform meant to be worn in the regulation manner. And please ride erect, Mr. Reardon.”

I was glad when we reached the Boulders on the third day, for that was the end of the line for me and my scouts. I didn't have to worry about people and why they acted the way they did. All I had to worry about was staying alive.

“Do you have the route of march memorized, Mr. Reardon?”

“Yes, sir. I'm to scout the hills near Kohi's stronghold. On the third day I'm to join the patrol column again as it makes its return swing, near the mouth of Star Creek.”

“Not scout
near
Kohi's stronghold, Mr. Reardon,” Halan said coolly.
“In
the stronghold. That is the Colonel's order. On the third day my patrol will be at the mouth of Star Creek. Do you have any questions?”

I had some questions. I wanted to ask him what the hell had gone wrong with him. What had I done to him? Was it so bad that he couldn't even talk about it? But what I said was:

“No, sir. No questions.”

“Very well, Lieutenant.” We shook hands like strangers and he called for Skiborsky to mount the column again. I stood on a ridge and watched the column straggle down into a rocky ravine and out of sight. The last white men I would see for days. Maybe the last white men I would see, ever. If Colonel Weyland had his way about it. I motioned to Juan, who was the chief native scout.

“Tell your men they can build fires here, if they want to cook. We won't be pulling out before dark.”

Building the right kind of fire was the first thing I learned from my four scouts. Juan sent Black Buffalo and Red Hand to scour up the right kind of wood—hardwood, and dry. Dried brush roots would do, if there was no hardwood. We made the fires, two small ones, and there was no smoke at all to give our position away. The four Indians remained to themselves, squatting stonelike in the heat of the dying sun as I cooked my bacon and coffee. I cooked two days' rations of bacon because there wouldn't be any more fires after this, and I soaked the hard bread in the coffee to soften it. It was no better and no worse than field rations always are, but the bacon and bread tasted different that day, as I wondered if it was going to be my last meal. The desert was very quiet.

I called Juan over and asked him how far he judged the stronghold to be.

He shrugged. “A march for the length of time it takes the sun to cross the sky,” he said, “would bring us near the place.”

“Or the moon?” I asked.

He shrugged again. It was possible. He had never seen the stronghold himself, and neither had the other scouts. Then he asked, “Do we take the horses?”

“Part of the way. As far as it's safe. Then we'll have to hide them somewhere, but I'll leave that up to you.”

Juan nodded and then called to the other scouts to put out the fires. They put out the fires and scooped up the ashes and buried them and then they smoothed the ground with their hands. We couldn't cover the trail of the patrol, but we could hope to keep Apache from knowing that someone had dropped off along the way. I sent Walking Fox and Red Hand up to some high ground to keep a watch on the hills until dark. There was nothing to do after that but wait.

The two Pimas came back as the sun died, saying that they had seen nothing. No smoke, no sign of any kind, but they didn't seem particularly pleased about it. They knew that Apache gave sign only when he wanted to.

We waited until it was dark. Then we waited some more. The Indians squatted, watching me, and I wondered if they would follow me if hell began to break. There was no way of knowing about that. Finally I gave Juan the nod and we mounted and began riding into the hills.

Toward midnight the scouts began to get nervous and Juan said it was about time to leave our horses and go the rest of the way on foot. The two Pimas went out and came back about twenty minutes later, saying that they had found a small box canyon up ahead. That was where we left the horses. We hobbled them and set them to graze, and hoped that they would be there when we got back.

A late moon was beginning to show now over the hills. In the pale light that sifted down I could see Walking Fox and Red Hand, the two Pimas, fingering long scalping knives. The Papagos, Juan and Black Buffalo, had knives and hatchets. Where they had hidden them during the long patrol march, I didn't know. Juan said something and the two Pimas went up the side of the canyon wall as silently as cats, and in a moment they were swallowed in darkness.

After a minute Juan motioned for me to follow him. But it wasn't as easy as it looked, going up that clay bank over loose rocks and brush, without making any noise. I kicked a loose rock with my heavy cavalry boots and it went crashing down to the floor of the canyon, sounding as if I had dislodged a boulder. I didn't like that. And neither did Juan.

I remembered something then. After motioning to Juan to stay where he was, I made my way back to the bottom and found my saddle and saddlebags. I pulled off my boots and found the soft long buckskin moccasins that Gorgan had given me and put them on. It wasn't going to be much fun traveling over sharp rocks with tender feet and nothing to protect them but the pliant soles of the moccasins, but it was better than giving our position away. I also unloaded the two bandoleers of ammunition that I had slung over my shoulders and put my carbine back in the boot. The carbine would only make the going more clumsy, and it wouldn't do much good anyway if we were discovered. I kept my revolving pistol and Gorgan's bowie knife but I discarded the map case and knapsack. Pencils and paper, along with the jerked beef that would be our food for the next two days, went into my pockets.

When I had finished I felt naked, but I also felt less loaded and clumsy. I made it up the canyon wall this time without too much noise.

I had expected rough going after we left the horses, but I hadn't expected it to be the way it was. We moved like animals most of the time, down on all fours, from one rock to another, keeping in the deep shadows. We didn't see the Pimas until sunrise, but Juan seemed to know where they were all the time. The grade was steep and the rocks were sharp, and my feet were bruised and raw before we had traveled half an hour. At the first signs of dawn I called a halt and lay flat on the ground trying to get my wind back. Trying to stop my heart from pounding through the rib cage of my chest. When I could talk I told Juan to bring the other scouts in. We wouldn't go any farther until the sun had come up.

“How much farther is the stronghold?” I asked.

Juan shrugged. Maybe an hour. Maybe less. He would know more about it when the other scouts came in and he could talk to them.

Black Buffalo and Walking Fox and Red Hand appeared before long. They said they thought the stronghold was not far away. They had a long talk with Juan and I gathered that they figured they had come far enough and wanted to get out before Apache began stirring.

If that was the case, Juan put an end to it with a few sharp words. I took the jerky from my pocket and passed it around, and we lay behind the rocks, chewing, waiting for the first real light of dawn.

It came finally, but the Apaches didn't. Everything looked safe enough to me; the hills were quiet, the morning was pleasantly chilled before the sun got itself together to make another assault on the land. But Juan was careful. He sent his scouts out again, one at a time, at about five-minute intervals, then he motioned for me to follow. We moved from rock to rock, and I found myself imitating the Indians in my movements, moving crouched over, arms hanging. Like hunting dogs, with our noses to the ground. Near midmorning Red Hand came back and said he thought they had found the place.

We moved up a little more and pretty soon we could see the ragged rim of rock in the distance. We lay flat on our bellies for a long while studying it. If it was the place, there were sure to be lookouts on the high points and we couldn't possibly reach it without being seen. Not in the light of day, anyway. Maybe at night there would be a chance.

I asked Juan what he thought about it, and he said we wouldn't have a chance of getting any closer that day. Walking Fox and Red Hand and Black Buffalo thought we were too close already. They were all for getting back to our horses and rejoining the patrol.

It wasn't long before we saw a band of Apaches come riding from behind the ridge and head toward us. There must have been twenty of them. But they didn't see us. They rode heavily, chins on chests. Some of them were smeared with ceremonial paint, but they looked neither to the right nor to the left. They looked sick. Or very tired.

I saw Juan grinning faintly after they had passed. He pointed to his head and made circular motions. “Tiswin,” he said.

It was Juan's idea that the Apaches had had a big celebration the night before, and all the young bucks, and old ones too, for that matter, had tanked up on tiswin. I had never tasted the Apache corn beer, but if it was anything like the sutler's whisky, I could understand how they wouldn't take much interest in things on the morning after.

We lay there behind the rocks and by midafternoon we were baked dry by the sun and I cursed myself for leaving the saddle canteen behind in my sudden enthusiasm for traveling light. We tried to chew some more jerky, but there wasn't enough moisture in our mouths to get it down. We had to give it up, and lie there and wait.

Later in the afternoon we saw more Apaches come from the deep draw behind the ridge—small hunting parties, probably. Some of them had deep-dish Mexican saddles on their ponies, and Juan said they were Chiricahuas. Professional outlaws, probably, who had deserted Geronimo down south. The scout recognized others as members of the Mimbreno tribe, by the painted designs on their bodies. They were all naked except for breech-clouts and headbands and long moccasins like my own. All of them had long bows, and filled quivers slung across their backs. Most of them had rifles.

We lay there. We sweated and cursed and were too dry and thirsty to be scared. But finally the sun began to go down and it wasn't so bad.

As long as we lay still we were safe, it looked like. But we couldn't stay there forever, without water, without food. And besides, there was a job to do, and we had to get up to the ridge to do it.

Toward nightfall we began to hear the far-off beat of drums from behind the ridge, accompanied by the high-pitched twang of one-string Apache fiddles. And then the chanting and yelling. Juan grinned that grin of his.

“Tiswin.”

As the sun died and the night grew darker we could see a ghostly glow along the ridge, caused by their fires on the other side. I wanted to start moving up then, but Juan said it would be better to hold back until the tiswin had a chance to work.

Near midnight, as the yelling beyond the ridge reached a frantic pitch, Juan nodded and said, “Now.”

The other scouts didn't like it and didn't see the sense in it. They wanted to go back while they had the covering of darkness. But Juan again clipped the uprising before it could become effective, and they began to move out, sullenly, reluctantly, toward the ridge.

It was a long way, it turned out; farther than it looked in the bright light of day, farther than you would guess that sound would travel. It must have been at least three miles of boulder-strewn upgrade from our starting place to the ridge. We moved very carefully now, crawling, squirming, wriggling from rock to rock, and trying to hurry to make the ridge before the moon came out.

Juan scouted the ridge himself, when we finally reached it. He came back with the information that there were Apache lookouts on both sides of us, but there was still a good chance of making it to the top, where there were places in the rocks to hide.

As we neared the top we could see a lone Apache standing against a blood-cast sky. We moved an inch at a time now as the noise from below seemed to sweep over us. I followed Juan under a protecting shelf of rock, and there we lay for what seemed like a long time, not breathing, not moving. Then at last we began to relax. The lookout hadn't seen us.