Ambush (8 page)

Evans grunted, “Lug him through the runway. It's shorter.”

Riordan's weight was utterly slack, however, and three quarters of the way through the stable, Trooper Carrick's hold slipped. The others lost their holds too, and Riordan slumped to the dirt floor.

“All right, make a try,” Evans said in exasperation.

Menzies said sourly, “You ain't got enough rank to pull, Evans. Lug him yourself.”

“Damned if I won't,” Evans said. He slung his carbine over his shoulder, elbowed Menzies out of the way, and said to Carrick, “Hoist him high and swing his arm around your neck. Now—”

The notes of tattoo came rolling to them, and Carrick came erect. “Tattoo,” he said blankly, “We got to get up there for roll call.”

“You damn wedge-head!” Evans snarled. “The commanding officer knows you're on post. Now, let's heave him up.”

On the second try, they succeeded in getting Riordan to his feet and themselves under his arms, but his dead weight, combined with the inequality of their heights, sent them off on a staggering tangent that carried them through the far door of the stable before Carrick's awkwardness downed them. They fell in the trampled muck that surrounded A's water trough.

Menzies, from the doorway, didn't utter a sound as Evans rose, cursing. By the light of the lantern inside the doorway, Evans looked down at his trousers covered with mud; his hands, held high, were dripping with muck. Carrick rose and wiped his face with his sleeve.

Evans said grimly, “There's easier ways than this,” and walked past Menzies into the stable. In a moment, he returned with a bucket, stepped over Riordan, filled the bucket with water from the trough, and sloshed the contents in Riordan's face.

Riordan moaned and rolled over on his back and opened his eyes.

“On your feet, Tom,” Evans ordered. “You're too big to carry.”

Oddly enough, Riordan struggled docilely to his feet. This brought Menzies sauntering up to him. Once Riordan was standing, feet planted widely, he looked about him and finally his bleared eyes focused.

“You'll get a better bed in the guardhouse, you drunken Mick,” Menzies said.

“Come on, Tom, no trouble now,” Evans said. He extended the bucket to Menzies, saying, “Hang it up, will you, Fred?”

“Hang it up yourself,” Menzies said. “I'm not in your platoon.”

Evans cursed and then pushed past him with the bucket into the stable runway. Carrick stood loutishly silent, watching Riordan.

Menzies said slyly, “That's more water than you've seen in a month, ain't it, Tom?”

Without a waste motion, Riordan belted him viciously across the face with the back of his hand. Menzies yelled as he fell backwards, and then Riordan swung wildly at Carrick. It was not a great blow, and he overshot his mark, but his forearm caught Carrick a swiping blow alongside the neck, sending him sprawling. Riordan lunged off into the darkness then in the direction of the hay barns.

Carrick was up first as Evans pounded back to him.

“Where is he?” Evans demanded.

“He hit us both.”

“Damn you both, which way did he go?” Evans demanded.

Carrick couldn't tell him. Evans wheeled on Menzies, who was rising now. Menzies had his hand across his mouth; now he withdrew it and looked at it, and the blood he saw on it brought soft curses welling from his torn mouth.

“Which way'd he go?” Evans demanded.

Menzies couldn't tell him either, and Evans moaned softly in anger. “You better think,” he said softly. “He's our prisoner.”

Carrick said, “He's drunk. He'll crawl away somewhere and sleep it off. Let him go.”

“You want to walk post for three months, you simple farmer?” Evans snarled.

Evans unslung his carbine,' and then stared thoughtfully into the darkness, listening. If Riordan tried to break post, the sentries would pick him up. To give the alarm now would break all hell loose, and he, as corporal of the guard, would be held responsible for the security of the prisoner. Evans had a fleeting picture of being stripped of his corporalcy that he had sweated to earn, and the consequent loss of prestige and pay, and he knew, with an old soldier's cynicism, that both Menzies and Carrick, since they weren't of his troop, would cover for themselves.
Well, that's that
, he thought resignedly.
Let's find him then
.

His tone was easy, confident, when he spoke. “Jack, boy. Get us a couple of lanterns and let's start looking.”

Carrick went into the stable and returned with two lanterns, which he lighted. Evans took one, and gave Carrick the other and then looked about him. “The hay barns first,” he said. “Careful of the lamp now, lad.”

That was the beginning of the search, and from the hay barns and forage sheds it moved to the blacksmith shop and the quartermaster storehouse. Each moment increased Evans' uneasiness. Some officer was bound to see the lanterns, call for the corporal of the guard, and then hell really would break loose. Carrick, with Menzies trailing him, timidly poked about in likely places, and Evans silently cursed his slowness. Then the slow notes of taps sounded, and Evans knew he had failed. The moment could no longer be put off. He called to Carrick who was heading for the laundry, “Wait here, Jack,” and turned and jogged toward the quadrangle. Lieutenant Tremaine was officer of the day, and it was to him the report must be made. Tremaine was a new second lieutenant only months out of the Academy, sober, serious, unsure of himself. Evans felt a weary resignation wash over him now; hell had no fury like a boy lieutenant reprimanding slackness.

Major Brierly moved his chair off a creaking board, settled back, and pulled contentedly on his cigar, eyeing Ann Dunnifon in the darkness with a quiet contemplation. In the ten days since she had been his guest—“Propriety be damned,” he had told Mrs. Wolverton, wife of his junior captain. “You married folk are crowded insanely now. Besides, I stood up at Andy Dunnifon's wedding, and I was godfather to Mary. Ann stays with me—” he had acquired a profound respect and affection for this girl. He supposed it was the natural reaction of a man leading a womanless life, but it was more than that. For eight years, ever since his shrew of a wife had finally carried through her threat of a decade's standing to leave him and the accursed Army, he had been wonderfully content with his solitary existence. He didn't dislike women; he merely thought that as a color-blind artist makes an inferior painter, so he, a proved poor judge of women, would make another inferior marriage. Ann, however, had broken down all the mental reservations he had set up about her sex.

She turned to him now and said, “Is Craig a good post, Major?”

“No,” Brierly said shortly. “I'd be tempted to resign my commission if I drew it.” Then he added slyly, “He won't stay there long.”

“Where will he go?” Ann asked.

“Why, he'll return, unless he runs into 'Pache sign.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “I'm talking about your favorite captain. Weren't you?”

Ann laughed softly. “No, I'm afraid I wasn't. I was thinking of Kinsman.”

Now that's curious
, Brierly thought. He looked at the quadrangle where the lamps were out after taps. “I dunno. He's an off-ox, hard to understand. Reminds me of one of these Englishmen who've been educated up to their eyes so they can come west and live like a mule skinner.”

“Is he reliable?”

“Completely.” Brierly's head turned at the sound of a trooper jogging up the far side of the quadrangle. He was only curious, not alarmed, since he had complete faith in the alertness of his men and officers. His attention returned to the subject they'd been discussing. “I regret his stubbornness at times. Like now.” He paused. “He'd be a help.”

“Where will he go now?”

“Fishing, hunting, visiting, maybe working, maybe prospecting. He dealt faro one summer, quit, turned around and broke the house he dealt for, and then disappeared. He never explained any of it. I think he recognized that a man needs some money, took time off to get as much as he wanted, and then went his own sweet way.”

“I wonder if it's sweet,” Ann asked quietly.

“It is, for him,” Brierly said. He heard more running now, this time toward G Troop's barracks. It puzzled him, and he pitched away his cigar and rose. “Odd,” he said, and then, “Excuse me a moment, my girl.” He strolled down the steps and angled across the parade ground. He heard Sergeant Isaacs' voice through the open door, calling out names.

Lieutenant Tremaine came out of barracks and saw Brierly and came to a stiff attention. Brierly said, “Mr. Tremaine, any trouble?”

“A prisoner broke away from Evans, sir. Evans thinks he's hiding down around the hay barns.”

“Riordan?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brierly said, “Well, round him up. The man's drunk, so be careful. Who's taking the detail—Isaacs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Report to me when you find him.”

Brierly turned and strolled back toward his house. Riordan, he remembered, was a bad actor. A pity, too, because he had a pretty wife. Of course, he could be put on mail escort, which would take him off the post, but that would separate him from his wife, too. Field duty was in the offing, though, and Riordan was a good man in the field. Maybe that's what he needed.

Back on the porch, he said to Ann, “A drunken trooper is all. Nothing to worry about.”

Ann said, “I think I'll go to bed, Major. Good night.”

As Brierly bid her good night, she rose and went inside. Brierly sat down in her chair, the more comfortable one. The detail vanished down the side of the quadrangle, and then Brierly heard the distant laughter of the sentries who had met on the line.

Now, in the darkness, alone, he put his attention to the problem that had been in the back of his mind all day. He had postponed his decision a full twenty-four hours; tomorrow, he must make a decision. Headquarters would be waiting his judgment as to the possibility of confirming Mary Carlyle's presence with Diablito's band. Now that Kinsman had refused the job, he saw no possible way of confirming it, since Holly, the other guide, was incapable of the job, and that fact galled him deeply. While his orders had included those two saving words “if possible,” which was Headquarters' way of expressing complete confidence in him, he knew he had failed. He knew the consequences, too. On his telegraphing admission of failure, orders would come through to take the field against Diablito. Once this ponderous machinery was in motion, nothing could stop it. Mary Carlyle might, or might not, survive it, and according to Kinsman, she would not. And he, Mary Carlyle's godfather, ironically enough, might be the instrument of her death.
That's the Army
, he thought grimly, and then corrected himself.
No, that's just life
.

He considered this broodingly, hearing a quick step at the far side of the quadrangle. He saw someone enter Troop barracks, and presently six more men turned out on the double, headed for the hay barns.

A faint annoyance touched him. Was the officer of the day going to turn out the whole post to look for one drunken trooper? He thought of Lieutenant Tremaine with understanding and some compassion. The boy was new, in deep earnest, very young, unsure of himself, wanting ferociously to do his job well. Overzealous though he was, he would be a good officer some day. As for this absurd chore, his own men would punish him in their own small ways, until he was an officer they liked to serve under. He would make other mistakes a lot graver than this, and Brierly smiled into the night, remembering his own excesses as a new lieutenant.

He was, suddenly, sleepy and tired. He had half pulled himself from his chair when he remembered his request to Tremaine to report to him when Riordan was found. Settling back in his chair, he drew out a fresh cigar.

He had smoked it down, and yet another one, when his patience finally ended. Rising, he left the veranda, and turned back toward the stables. As soon as his view was clear, he saw a half-dozen lanterns down near the forage sheds, and he tramped in that direction. Tremaine's crisp voice, answering Isaacs, was the only sound in the night: “All right, Sergeant, then move the sacks. Look alive, now!”

Tremaine heard Brierly's footsteps and turned. Unconsciously, he stiffened. “No luck yet, sir, but I'm positive he's in the forage sheds.”

“Why are you?” Brierly asked dryly.

“If he's drunk, he'll want to sleep, sir. The softest stuff to sleep on is in here.”

Brierly couldn't resist asking, “Do you base that on personal experience, Mr. Tremaine?”

Tremaine hesitated and then answered painfully, “Personal observation, sir.”

“You're probably right. Still, we can't keep the men awake all night. It seems to me the only danger is from fire.” He hesitated a moment. “Finish your search of this shed, and then dismiss the detail. Have the guard make a round of the stables and forage shed every quarterhour. Now, good night, Mr. Tremaine.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, sir,” Tremaine answered. Brierly turned and started back for the quadrangle. He was rounding the corner of the parade walk, when he glanced up at the dark veranda of the officer's quarters. Lieutenant Storrow had a lamp lighted, and by its diffused light that filtered dimly through a window, Brierly saw a figure standing on the veranda. His incurious glance held the figure a moment, left it, and then, curiosity jogged, his glance returned. He thought he had distinctly seen the figure moving, but it was with a lurching unsteady stride. The thought occurred to him that one of his officers, with ho head for liquor, had not survived the dinner for Harcourt without trouble.

He halted, watching, a deep disapproval gathering in him, and then moved up the gravel walk toward the figure. If one of his officers couldn't carry his liquor, he had no business confessing it in public.