Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (13 page)

 
          
 
"Shut up!" Ritchie turned his head
and looked at the rough 'dobe wall. The pain in his hand seemed to feed the
ache behind his eyes. He closed them, but his thoughts still went around and
around. It wasn't Herndon's fault that
Winters
had
been too stubborn and contrary to report his feet soon enough. Of course it
wasn't! But where was Herndon now and what devils must be plaguing him in his
particular dark!

 
          
 
Through the wavy glass of the small window
Ritchie could see across the barracks square. From the flagpole the Colors were
forced into a stiff bar by the force of the wind, a wind which also scoured and
broke down the drifts it had but moments before built. Dark figures were
performing the evolutions of drill veiled with swirls of driven snow. He
fancied he could hear the guttural snorts with which Kristland warmed up the
mouthpiece of his instrument before he attempted to play the calls.

 
          
 
"Who is here?"

 
          
 
Ritchie snapped to attention and then relaxed
as he identified the man in the door of the convalescent ward.

 
          
 
"Ritchie Peters, Sergeant Woldemar."

 
          
 
"Peters—ach—yah.
It is your hand, is it not? What says the surgeon of it now?"

 
          
 
"I'm on light duty 'til he gives the
word."

 
          
 
"Light duty?" Woldemar rubbed his
chin. "Maybe I have now the answer for that. Light duties I have
altogether too much of. Come now with me, Peters."

 
          
 
Ritchie lost no time in pulling on his jacket
and cap. He was so eager to be through with the dull monotony of doing nothing
at all that he almost pushed Woldemar through the door ahead of him. But the
pace of the young German continued to be quite deliberate as they crossed the
edge of the parade ground to the orderly room.

 
          
 
Inside, an iron stove gave off just enough
heat to toast anyone who might be pressed close to its round side. But the
outer corners of the small room had an arctic tinge. Two rough tables piled
with papers and a chair for each, with backless stools for—apparently—sinners
required to do penance, completed the furnishing. One chair was already
occupied.

 
          
 
"Look you upon my find, Scott."
Woldemar unwound the vast muffler which covered him from shoulder to eye level.
"Here is a 'light duty' to serve us. Do you write a clear hand, young
man?" He turned upon Ritchie suddenly.

 
          
 
"If I don't, it wasn't for want of
feruling." Ritchie fumbled awkwardly with the fastenings of his coat. He
hadn't learned even yet how to manage very well with only one hand. But now
Herndon's fingers slipped the troublesome top button out of its hole, and he
was free.

 
          
 
"Sit here." Woldemar pointed to one
of the stools. "These shall be copied—so.
And no smudges
upon them afterwards."
Woldemar laid out the papers. "If your
ink begins to ice, hold it to the stove. Now then, we work— yah?"

 
          
 
Ritchie set to writing, the pen oddly light
between his fingers. At first he was interested in what he copied, but the
monotonous lists of supplies finally made him sleepy. Woldemar picked up the
first sheet he had finished and passed it on to Herndon. The Troop Sergeant
studied it for a moment before he nodded to confirm Ritchie in his job. Private
Peters flexed stiff fingers and pulled the second sheet to him.

 
          
 
"Well, well." Woldemar regarded a
letter which had come up on top in his pile. "Camels
is
it now?"

           
 
That caught the attention of both of his
companions.

 
          
 
'Is Beale making another cross-country
gallop?" Herndon wanted to know. "Thought he proved his point last
year—that camels can be used."

 
          
 
"Not Beale now—this is a Captain
Sharpe—Captain Thornton Sharpe—an engineer with the camel fever."

 
          
 
"The Chama job!"
Herndon threw down his pen. "When, Fred?"

 
          
 
"Summer here it says. And
camels—Pah!"
The Sergeant spat accurately into the box
of sand by the stove.
"Where shall we put camels? They make horses
and mules go mad —I have seen it happen."

 
          
 
"But Beale proved them successful on long
marches," Herndon said thoughtfully. "They can live off desert
country better than horses or mules—don't have to carry fodder for them—"

 
          
 
"Yah.
And they
stink, and they bite, and the decent animals—they hate them! Give me no camels
I beg of you!" Woldemar begged. "Ha—and what have we
now—visitors?"

 
          
 
There was a hollow thumping outside the door.
Woldemar got up and opened it to let the visitors in. Beside a huge gray,
rough-coated dog padded the Apache boy.

 
          
 
"So."
Woldemar regarded them with raised brows. "It is already that time, is it?
Well, come not to me; I have not the supplies. Go to him who has—"

 
          
 
Both boy and dog favored him with a single
solemn glance and then passed on, to stand in front of Herndon's table. Quite
matter-of-factly the Troop Sergeant opened a tin box and picked out two small
blackish lumps of the native sugar, which he put on the edge of the board. A
long pink tongue flicked one away, and a brown fist closed over the other.

 
          
 
"Away with you
now."
Woldemar made shooing motions with both hands. But the
visitors withdrew no farther than the corner of the room, where they bedded
down together for a nap.

 
          
 
Ritchie ventured to ask a question of his own.
"What is the Chama job?"

 
          
 
Woldemar pushed back his chair. "Ach, for
that story you must ask Sergeant Herndon. It is partly his dream—is it
not?" he asked over his shoulder.

 
          
 
Herndon was frowning at the paper he held.
"We haven't time for chatting."

 
          
 
Ritchie flushed and gave his full attention to
his list. Their quiet was broken only by the mess call, but it was with relief
that Ritchie put on his coat. But he couldn't escape that easily. Woldemar fell
into step with him as they went out of the orderly room with the staghound and
the Apache for escort.

 
          
 
"That is one smart dog," Woldemar
commented. "He is a staghound—belongs to Lieutenant Gilmore. But he is
very, very smart, that one. Once he was bitten by a rattlesnake. The Lieutenant
did what was to be done, burned out the bite-with gunpowder, and brought him
fast to Dr. Billings. Again they hurt that hound bad, cut away skin, burned
with caustic—all bad,
hurting
things. But the hound
—he knows it was good for him.

 
          
 
"So once again he is bitten. This time
the Lieutenant is not with him—he had run away to hunt rabbits alone. So in he
comes, all by himself, and he goes to Dr. Billings' quarters, and he holds up
to the doctor that bitten paw to be treated. Yah, he had brains, does that
hound. If I were going upon a trail, I would wish him with me. At bull-hunting
he is very good—"

 
          
 
Ritchie swallowed the boiled pork, the stewed,
dried apples, and the scalding coffee. Since he had had no orders to the
contrary, he supposed he must report again to the orderly room. But the thought
of spending the afternoon at work under Herndon's disapproving eye was a little
daunting. He lingered over his food as long as he could and was pleased that
Sturgis caught up with him on the way back.

 
          
 
''When are you coming back to our palatial quarters?"
the Southerner wanted to know. "I've kept an eye on your bunk and—"

 
          
 
"The Doc won't let me go yet. I'm in the
orderly room-copying stuff—"

 
          
 
Sturgis whistled. "Boy, you were born
with Lady Luck beaming right down at you. Nice warm orderly room—and me out
freezing on this plain. If it weren't for the Colonel's bright eyes, I might be
in all cozy with you. He's made and broke me so often I put my chevrons on with
hooks and eyes. Now he just doesn't try to raise me from the lower ranks any
more. How's working with His Lordship? Good thing he's keeping to cover right
now. The men aren't any too pleased over
Winters
. But
it was better for the poor chap to peg out the way he did than drag out life as
a cripple."

 
          
 
Ritchie stopped. "Why does every one
blame Sergeant Herndon for that?
Winters was
stubborn
enough not to let anyone know he was frosted until too late. Was that the
Sergeant's fault? And when he discovered what was wrong, he certainly did what
he could. I was there—I saw how they worked over
Winters
'
feet. They rubbed almost all night long! If they're blaming Herndon, it's a
blasted shame!"

 
          
 
Sturgis was laughing.
"Turkey
cock!
Goin' to burst some day if you don't watch out.
What're you so worked up about anyway? Old High-n-mighty isn't any special
friend of yours—or is he?"

 
          
 
Ritchie did not miss the veiled hostility
coloring those last three words. "No, he's no friend of mine. I don't
think he wants any friends. But I've got a hand on my left wrist. And if it
wasn't for Herndon and a couple of others, I wouldn't have. It was he who kept
us on our feet and going; we would have died in our tracks if he had let
us!" i

 
          
 
"I'll admit he has guts," Sturgis
agreed more soberly. "They say his hands were frozen fast to the bridle of
the horse that was carryin'
Winters
, and they had to
peel his gloves from his hands, strip by strip. But he's such a cold fish that
nobody likes him. Can you get a pass for tomorrow?"

 
          
 
"Why?" asked Ritchie
flatly.
"I'm broke too now—"

 
          
 
"Once in town with me was enough,
eh?" Sturgis grinned. "Oh, but this time is different. I'll swear to
that. Company K's thinkin' about Christmas. The paymaster never got here, but
one or two of the boys think they can borrow, and we're makin' up a party to
explore the resources. No bar trips, I assure you—"

 
          
 
"I'll see—" Woldemar was turning in
at the orderly room. He'd better hurry before he gave Herndon a chance to be
sarcastic.

 
          
 
The cold—that certainly
spelled Christmas.
But—Ritchie eyed the orderly room with frank
disfavor—the surroundings were not conducive to belief in that festive date. He
blew vigorously and with some show on his fingers and scowled down at the
papers before him.

 
          
 
However, their afternoon of toil was not to be
without interruption. The knock which brought up three heads a little while
later had enough authority in it to lead Ritchie to expect the Colonel at
least. And he stared somewhat slack-jawed at the muffled creature which
shuffled in at Herndon's call.

           
 
A broad-brimmed black hat had been turned into
a sort of bonnet by the device of tying a scarf tightly over its crown until
only a thin slit of daylight could be seen by its wearer. Shaggy buffalo hide
formed the enveloping coat, which must have wrapped almost twice around the
body it concealed.
And from under its hem flapped a sort of
black skirt, the sight of which made Ritchie jump to his feet— though he was
sure that this could not be the Colonel's wife, Mrs. Major Jackson, or any of
the other fort ladies.

 
          
 
But the very masculine
voice
coming out of that strange assembly of coverings and the gnarled hands busy at
shedding them were
anything but feminine. Both Herndon and Woldemar came
forward to greet the visitor with real pleasure, and he was pushed by their
combined efforts into a chair by the stove.