Stryker's Revenge (17 page)

Now he stroked the criollo’s nose, enjoying the relatively cool gloom of its stall and he looked at Birchwood, his eyes asking a question.

“It’s about Private Carter, sir. The chest wound.”

“What about him?”

“To be brutally frank, sir, he’s not dead yet.” The young officer hesitated and then said, “I don’t want to leave him behind for the Apaches.”

“Nor do I, Lieutenant. We’ll use the travois again. Mount it behind one of the horses.”

“He won’t survive the journey to Fort Bowie on a travois, sir, and he’ll be in great pain. He’s already suffering dreadfully.”

Suddenly Stryker was irritated. “Then what do you suggest I do, Lieutenant? Shoot him?”

“No, sir. Private Carter is one of my men. I’ll shoot him. But I need an order from you to that effect.”

Irritation turned to anger. “Mr. Birchwood, you wish to salve your conscience with the excuse that you were only following my order. You’re right. Carter is one of your men. If you plan to shoot him, then the responsibility lies with you.”

“I was neither trying to evade my responsibility nor salve my conscience, sir,” Birchwood said stiffly. “Since you are in command, I thought you should give the order.”

Stryker’s anger died. Birchwood was right; he was in command and he was the one to give the order. Besides, he already had blood on his hands. He’d shot Hooper after the Apaches had gotten to him and one mercy killing was much like any other.

But it shouldn’t be like this. It was not meant to be like this. He had never intended to make these life-and-death decisions.

Stryker’s future career had been all mapped out for him, a handsome tin soldier who married the colonel’s daughter and would make an excellent career for himself in Washington. He shouldn’t be here, in a stinking stable in the middle of a stinking desert, listening to a boy second lieutenant ask him for his permission to kill a man.

“Mr. Birchwood,” he said, not looking at the lieutenant, his expression empty, “If Private Carter does not show much improvement by the time we leave for Fort Bowie, I order you to shoot him, to spare him from further suffering and to prevent him from falling into the hands of the enemy.”

Now he looked at Birchwood. “Would you like that order in writing?”

For a moment the lieutenant seemed scandalized. He had grown up in a society where a gentleman’s word was his bond and was never questioned. To doubt Stryker, an officer and a gentleman by writ of Congress, would be to betray his own class and everything it held dear.

“That, sir,” he said, his face pale and tight around the mouth, “will not be necessary.”

Stryker understood perfectly and did not press the matter. “Very well, Mr. Birchwood, carry on.”

The young man saluted sharply and left. Stryker looked around the shadowed barn and whispered aloud, “Where the hell are you, Joe? I need you.”

The only sound was the stomp of Birchwood’s bay as it shook off flies and a distant shout from one of Abe Warden’s drovers.

Stryker walked into the bright sunlight and his eyes moved to the hills where the Apaches waited. . . .

Waiting for what?

“I figure to drive the herd right through Apache Pass, taking the old military road, then swing south to Fort Bowie,” Abe Warden said. “We should arrive there by nightfall if the pass ain’t grazed out, we don’t get a prairie fire and the Apaches don’t stampede the cattle.”

“How about water on that route?” Stryker asked.

“There’s water at Apache Springs, Lieutenant, and grass. We can rest the herd there for a spell.”

“Then we should move out immediately. Where do you want my men?”

“My drovers will stay close to the herd. Maybe a couple of sod’jers out on the point and the rest can bring up the drag.”

“I’ll ride point, Mr. Warden.”

“Suit yourself, Lieutenant. Just give me plenty of warning if you bump into hostiles.”

“There will be cavalry patrols in the pass. I believe the Apaches will stay clear.”

Warden nodded. “Well, sir, I don’t put that much stock in the Army or the Apaches. Both will do as they please. And, in the case of the Apaches, the last damn thing a man expects.”

The rancher’s eyes lifted over Stryker’s shoulder. “Charlie!” he yelled. “Start moving ’em out. We’re heading for the pass.” He glanced at Stryker. “If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant . . .”

“Of course.”

As Warden bustled away, Stryker walked to the adobe and stepped into its stench. The wounded soldier lay on a cot in one of the rooms, Birchwood standing over him.

“How is he?” Stryker asked.

It was an unnecessary question. Private Carter’s chest bubbled blood and fluid with every labored breath and lilac death shadows were gathering under his eyes and in the hollows of his unshaven cheeks.

“He’s dying, sir. But not fast enough.”

“We’re moving out, Mr. Birchwood. Your men will follow the herd and flank it where the terrain allows.”

“Yes, sir.” Birchwood was only half listening.

Stryker stepped into the cabin and looked down at the red-haired woman, who seemed much younger than he’d first thought. Kelly was still in her arms, her eyes frightened. “What is your name?” he said, trying to pitch his rough voice in a softer tone.

To his surprise, the woman answered him, her green eyes on his. “My name is Fedelia Lacy. I am twenty-three years old.”

“Can you ride a horse, Fedelia?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’re headed for Fort Bowie. I’ll give you a horse and you will ride with Kelly. Do you understand?”

“Kelly is nice, but she’s so sad. Her mother was killed by the Apaches.”

“Yes, I know. Now you must come with me and I’ll saddle your horse.”

The woman rose to her feet and held Kelly close to her. “Will you hang me?”

Stryker was taken aback. “No, of course not. Why would I do such a thing?”

“I killed a man. Over there in the hospital. He wanted to touch me and I’ve been touched by too many men. His gun was in his holster and I grabbed it and I shot him.”

“Fedelia, he was a bad man. You were only defending”—Stryker almost lapsed into a false, gentlemanly language and said, “your honor,” but instead he said—“yourself.”

“He killed the soldier who had stayed behind to look for me. The soldier was asleep on a cot and the bad man broke his legs with an ax. He dragged the soldier away and later he shot him while offering him water. Then he said he’d killed a Mexican who’d begged him for his life. He said he’d killed the Mexican just for fun. He said the same thing would happen to me if I wasn’t nice to him and be his whore.”

“Then you shot him and ran away into the hills?”

“Yes. The Apaches left me alone.”

“Fedelia, the bad man’s name was Jake Allen. I don’t know why he came back here.”

“He said he was going to kill a cavalry scout. He was looking for him.”

Gently, Stryker took the woman’s arm, but she cringed away from him. “Sorry,” he said. “Let’s go get your horse.”

He turned and saw Birchwood standing at the door to the cell, his Colt in his hand.

“I’ll saddle your bay, Mr. Birchwood.”

The young lieutenant said nothing, his eyes empty. Stryker was halfway to the stables when he heard the shot.

 

Two different ecological systems collide in Apache Pass. The high, hot Chihuahuan Desert of New Mexico to the east weds with the lower, and much hotter, Sonoran Desert to the west, and barbarous bouquets of prickly pear, agave, yucca, sotol and cholla mark the union. Mountain mahogany, piñon, wild oak and juniper grow higher in the canyon, completely covering its raw, rocky slopes.

Stryker had been riding for an hour and the herd was a mile behind him. He was learning from bitter experience that the Apaches were a formidable, merciless enemy, desert fighters who had no superior. He feared them greatly and he knew he was right to do so.

He rode the criollo at a walk, Joe Hogg’s Henry across his saddle. Here in the pass it was very hot and there was not a single cloud in a sky the color of bleached-out denim. His eyes constantly scanned the ridges, but he saw no movement, and there was no sound but the steady hoof falls of his horse and the creak of saddle leather.

He had seen no cavalry patrols.

Smelling water, for Apache Springs was not far ahead, the criollo tossed its head, the bridle ringing, and was eager to go. Stryker held it back, his uneasy eyes studying the land around him.

He found partial shade under a rock overhang and drew rein. He built a cigarette and lit it, liking the harsh, dry taste of the tobacco. He was still weak from his wounds and very thirsty, tormented by memories of the foaming steins of Anheuser-Busch beer that were always on hand for the enlisted men when Fort Merit celebrated holidays.

Stryker finished his smoke and stubbed out the butt against the heel of his boot. He kneed his horse into motion and headed for the springs.

As he’d expected, the only water source for miles around was guarded by a reinforced infantry company, and the officer in charge kept him in his field glasses until he rode closer and could be identified.

Stryker sat his horse and saluted the infantry captain. “Sir, I’m bringing in twelve infantry from Fort Merit under Second Lieutenant Dale Birchwood. Those, and three hundred head of cattle and six drovers.”

The captain looked beyond Stryker back to the pass.

“They’re about half an hour behind me, sir, depending on how fast those beeves walk.”

The captain was small and slender with a trimmed, spade-shaped beard. Stryker thought he looked prissy, a spit-and-polish soldier. He felt shabby and dirty by comparison. “Lieutenant, we were under the impression that you were bringing in old Yanisin’s people, to be returned to the San Carlos,” the captain said.

“Skedaddled,” Stryker said, purposely using one of Joe Hogg’s words. “Every last one of them had gone to join Nana and Geronimo.”

“Did you pursue?”

Stryker looked around him. The spring, crystal clear, bubbled out of the earth and fell into a rock basin shaded by juniper and wild oaks. Emerald green moss clung to the rocks around the basin’s rim and among the exposed roots of the oaks. The air smelled clean, of wet fern and of the water that splashed with diamond brightness into the tank.

Finally he said, “No, Captain. All the signs showed the Apaches heading north and I suspected they planned an attack on Fort Merit. I sent half of my infantry company ahead, and later we reached the post by a forced march. Unfortunately, we were in turn besieged by the Indians.”

“And you decided to march here.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I decided.”

The captain was silent for a while; then his flitting eyes moved to Stryker’s face, quickly sliding away as though they’d been burned. “All things considered, Lieutenant, you could have done better. But you can explain your actions to General Crook.”

“You weren’t there, Captain. Neither was he.”

Anger flushed in the officer’s sallow face. “Don’t be impertinent, sir!” Before Stryker had a chance to answer, he said, “Dismount. Have yourself a drink, then come look at this.”

Stryker swung out of the saddle, accepted a canteen from a soldier and drank deep. He then followed the captain to a low rise just east of the spring. The officer pointed. “Your Apaches passed that way not an hour ago, headed into the Chiricahuas. I sent a message to the fort to report the movement and I have no doubt General Crook will pursue the hostiles immediately.”

“Did you engage them, Captain?”

“My orders are to guard the spring, not to engage the enemy.”

“Still, you could have slowed the Apaches and given the general some time to mount an attack.”

“I repeat, those were not my orders.”

Stryker nodded. “Maybe, but all things considered, Captain, you could have done better. But you can explain your actions to General Crook.”

The officer looked like he’d been slapped, his cheekbones rouged with rage. “Damn you, sir, you are impertinent. Report immediately to the general and know that I plan to inform him of your insubordination. I will direct the others when they get here.”

Stryker saluted smartly, turned on his heel and swung into the saddle. As he rode toward the fort he felt the captain’s eyes burn into his back. He had just made an enemy.

“Lieutenant Stryker?”

General Crook’s startled question hovered in the air like a wounded moth.

“Yes, sir.”

“Jesus Christ, man, I hardly knew ye. What happened to your face?”

“A shackle iron, sir.”

“Explain.”

Stryker did and Crook fell silent afterward. Crook did not look like a soldier, in his shabby canvas jacket and battered pith helmet. His beard split at the chin into two forks that hung on his chest; he could have been a slightly deranged poet, not a famous Indian fighter.

“And the girl you were to marry, that Colonel What’s-his-name’s daughter?”

Stryker touched his face, but said nothing.

“I see. Better off without her in that case.”

He waved a hand. “Sit down, Lieutenant, and make your report. Be brief; I don’t have much time.”

Going into a little more detail than he had with the captain, but using as few words as possible, Stryker told of his failed mission to bring in Yanisin’s tribe and his fights with the Apaches.

He then mentioned the former sergeant and murderer Rake Pierce and his gun-running and scalp-hunting businesses.

“I believe by now he’s back in the Chiricahuas somewhere,” Stryker said.

Crook nodded. “Interesting. And a pity about Yanisin. He’s about as tame as an Apache can get.” He sat back in his wicker chair and stroked his beard, thinking. Finally he said, “Lieutenant, I feel there is little to criticize in your actions. You did as well as can be expected with the limited force at your disposal. You will give me your report in writing, of course.”