Warpath Read online

  “The fellow I told you about yesterday, the former Confederate officer, evidently killed a Mexican last night at one of the cantinas in town.”

  “Is that the one you said you were going to invite to dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he killed somebody? I thought you said he was nice.”

  “He was.”

  “Doesn’t sound so nice to me.”

  “Those cantinas aren’t exactly tea parties.”

  “What kind of man would go to a place like that?”

  “There’s nothing else to do in Santa Maria del Pueblo.”

  She pointed her finger at him. “That’s exactly what I keep telling you. There’s nothing to do here. Why can’t we go back east, Josh? What is it that you like so much here?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” He sat at the table and picked up a knife and fork. “There’s something about the place. It’s a beautiful land.”

  “I thought it was beautiful too when I first got here,” she said, sitting opposite him, “but it became tiresome awfully quick. Maybe one of these days I’ll go to a cantina and kill a Mexican.”

  “Don’t make a joke out of it, Samantha. The man’s life is in danger.”

  “I’m the one you’re married to, remember?”

  “I remember, but I have certain duties and obligations.”

  “What about your duties and obligations to me?”

  “I do everything for you that I can. You knew I wanted to become a soldier when we were married. It’s not as if it’s a big surprise.”

  “I never realized it’d be like this.”

  “I think you ought to stop complaining and start making the best of what we’ve got here. It’s not so bad.”

  “Maybe it’s not so bad for you, because you’re out riding horses with your men all the time, playing soldier boy while I’m stuck here with nothing to do. You’re having fun, but I’m not.”

  He decided to stop arguing with her. It never led anywhere, and he had an appointment with Colonel Braddock that required his attention. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said.

  “One of these days you’ll come home from a patrol, and I won’t be here,” she replied. “Then maybe you’ll wake up.”

  It wasn’t the first time she had threatened to leave. She did it all the time, and he was used to it. She continued to harangue him as he ate quickly, thinking about the report he had to deliver to Colonel Braddock.

  She banged her fist on the table. “You’re ignoring me.”

  He covered his ears with his hands. “Please stop talking so loud.”

  “I hate it when you ignore me.”

  “I told you we’ll talk about it later. I have an important report to make.”

  “Everything is important except me! You have plenty of time for anybody else, but not your wife! You’ll do anything for those stupid drunken soldiers of yours, but you don’t do anything for me!”

  Lieutenant Lowell recalled overhearing the men talking in the barracks once. Sergeant Flynn had told the younger troopers: “The only thing to do if you’re havin’ an argument with a woman is grab your hat and run.”

  He arose from the table, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and walked toward the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?” Samantha screamed.

  “To work,” he called out as he placed his campaign hat on his head. Picking up his leather portfolio, he headed for the front door.

  “Come back here!”

  But Lieutenant Lowell was already on the porch, jumping to the ground, on his way to Colonel Braddock’s command post on the other side of Fort Kimball. Samantha watched him go, a scowl on her pretty face.

  Lieutenant Lowell walked briskly across the parade ground, glad to be away from her, because her nagging was driving him crazy. She’d been wonderful back in Boston, but became a harpy after a few weeks at Fort Kimball.

  Lieutenant Lowell didn’t know what to do with her, but didn’t have time to think about it. He had to prepare for his meeting with the colonel, and he knew he wouldn’t be at his best because Samantha had flustered him. She didn’t understand how she was undermining his career by behaving as she did. A woman should support a man in his career, not continually cut him down.

  He tried to push her out of his mind. Around him, soldiers marched about, sergeants calling the cadence. The sun rose in the sky and Lieutenant Lowell could feel its warmth; it was going to be a hot day. He pulled out his gold watch, a gift from his father, and had forty-five minutes before his meeting with the colonel.

  A trooper walking toward him saluted, and Lieutenant Lowell saluted back. Already he was feeling better. There was something about military life he loved. He didn’t want to spend his life sitting behind a desk, making money like his father, when he could be in the great outdoors, serving his country.

  Samantha didn’t know how he felt. All she wanted was to attend plays and concerts with her friends, and talk about the latest poets and artists.

  The officers’ club was a complex of adobe structures attached to the BOQ (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters). Lieutenant Lowell went inside and handed his hat to the orderly in the white jacket.

  “Bring me a cup of coffee in the library, will you?” Lieutenant Lowell said.

  To the left was the Officers’ Mess, where the unmarried officers were having breakfast. Lieutenant Lowell proceeded down the hallway to the library, a small room with a few bookcases and some chairs. He sat near the window, opened his portfolio, took out his report. The orderly arrived a few minutes later with the coffee.

  Lieutenant Lowell sipped the coffee and looked at his handwritten pages, but his ears still rang with the sound of Samantha’s voice. He could hear her criticizing and cajoling him, and there was no escape. Fort Kimball was a small post. He was either on duty with his men or home with her. He needed to go someplace to rest, but there was no place.

  Sometimes he thought about sending her back east and getting a divorce, but he loved her and didn’t want to be without a woman. Bachelor officers on the frontier became drunk and dissolute fairly rapidly, from what he’d observed so far. Some became involved with loose women in town, which was harmful to their careers. Lieutenant Lowell had observed that officers who’d graduated from West Point and had solid marriages were the ones who achieved high rank, while the others languished in the lower commissioned ranks until they either retired or were cashiered for drunkenness or some other dereliction or malfeasance.

  Lieutenant Lowell loved the Army. It was a healthy decent life, and he was serving his country. He loved the camaraderie of the barracks and admired old war dogs like Colonel Braddock and Sergeant Flynn.

  Samantha was spoiling it all for him with her constant tirades, and when she was among the other officers and wives, she spoke disparagingly of the Army. He realized now that Samantha was something of a snob, and maybe he shouldn’t’ve married her, but she was beautiful and vivacious, and he loved to hold her in his arms. She made him feel alive and special, and he couldn’t wait to get her in bed at night, where she was a wildcat.

  He was in love with her and in love with the Army at the same time, but they were like oil and water; they didn’t mix. His handwriting on the pages before him blurred, and he realized he was thinking about Samantha again instead of preparing for his report.

  He sipped coffee and forced himself to concentrate, but soon found himself thinking about John Stone, who was wounded, on the desert running for his life from Mexican outlaws. Stone had the aura of command about him yesterday, although he’d been dusty and sweaty, wandering through Apache-infested territory like a tenderfoot. It was interesting how former officers like John Stone inspired a lifelong loyalty in enlisted men like Sergeant McFeeley. That surely was the mark of a superior officer, the kind of leader Lieutenant Lowell wanted to become.

  Once again, he realized his mind was wandering. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to focus on his report. I’ve got to be letter-perfect this time, he said to h
imself. I don’t want to make any more mistakes in front of Colonel Braddock.

  Colonel Braddock sat behind his desk, smoking a cigar. He was sixty years old, had white hair thinned out on top, and a swooping white mustache stained with nicotine. Behind him was a window overlooking the parade ground, and to the left of that, hanging from the wall, was a photograph of Ulysses S. Grant, the President of the United States and his former commander during the Civil War.

  Colonel Braddock read a report that Captain Poole, his intelligence officer, had just delivered to him. It said Apaches were marauding worse than ever throughout the area, burning farm buildings, massacring settlers, stealing horses and cattle, and, in general, terrorizing everyone. Local politicians were clamoring for the Army to do something, but Colonel Braddock didn’t know what to do.

  The Apaches played hit and run. They ranged over a wide territory, and disappeared into the desert when they finished their bloody depredations. It was difficult to track them down, even with Apache scouts, and sometimes Colonel Braddock questioned the loyalty of the scouts themselves. For all he knew, they might be spies. Frequently they deserted the Army after receiving new rifles and ammunition. They were unpredictable, unreliable, and unfathomable.

  The principal tribe in the area was headed by old Jacinto, said to be in his sixties now, but still an implacable foe of the white settlers. Colonel Braddock wanted to speak with Jacinto and make a treaty with him, but so far Jacinto had scorned all the overtures that Colonel Braddock had advanced.

  All Colonel Braddock could do was send out regular patrols to visit settlements and farms in the region, so that Jacinto would know that he couldn’t have free rein. But it was largely a futile exercise. Often settlements or farms would be attacked hours after a patrol departed, as if Jacinto were taunting Colonel Braddock, telling him in a roundabout way that his Army was a joke.

  Local citizens had complained to Washington, and reinforcements were on the way, according to the scuttlebutt. But the reinforcements hadn’t arrived yet, and Colonel Braddock had to make do with what he had. It was a frustrating thankless job. If he’d been stationed in the east, he’d probably be a general by now, but instead he was stuck on a remote outpost in the most dangerous and desolate part of the frontier, and he’d probably be a colonel till he died.

  There was a knock on his door, and he recalled his nine o’clock meeting with Lieutenant Lowell, one of the young officers in his command, but young Lowell was having marital problems according to post gossip.

  “Come in!” said Colonel Braddock.

  The door opened and Lieutenant Lowell entered, holding his hat under his arm and his leather portfolio in his hand. He marched toward the desk and saluted stiffly.

  “Lieutenant Lowell reporting, sir!”

  “Have a seat, Lieutenant. Smoke if you want to.”

  Lieutenant Lowell sat on a leather upholstered chair in front of Colonel Braddock’s desk and took the papers out of his portfolio. He sat erectly and proceeded to deliver his report, describing farms and settlements visited, territory covered, and so on. Finally he told of how he and his command had stumbled upon John Stone in the desert.

  “I spoke with him as we rode back to Santa Maria del Pueblo, and found out he was a West Point graduate who served under Jeb Stuart and Wade Hampton during the war. He’d achieved the rank of captain and commanded a troop.”

  Colonel Braddock filled his favorite briar with tobacco and lit it, his head wreathed in billows of blue smoke. It seemed that the frontier was full of former Civil War officers. One was constantly bumping into them. Some had recovered nicely from the war and were systematically rebuilding their lives, while others wandered aimlessly from place to place, unable to adjust to civilian life.

  “Perhaps we should invite him to dinner some night at the Officers’ Club,” Colonel Braddock said. “Perhaps he knows some of the men here.”

  “He does, sir. Sergeant McFeeley of Troop C served under him, but I’m afraid we can’t invite Captain Stone to dinner, and that’s what I wanted to speak with you about. Sergeant McFeeley visited me at my home first thing this morning and told me Captain Stone got in trouble last night at La Rosita. Seems he killed a Mexican outlaw named Rodrigo Vargas, and now Vargas’s bandits are after him. Captain Stone was wounded badly in the fight, and evidently is on his way to Tucson. I was wondering if I could take out a patrol and see if I could find him.”

  “The Army isn’t supposed to involve itself in civilian activity,” Colonel Braddock said.

  “We patrol constantly, sir. This would be just another patrol, but it might help a brother officer.”

  The mention of brother officer touched a deep chord in Colonel Braddock. He believed in the Officer Corps and the allegiance that all officers should have to each other, particularly if they had gone to West Point.

  “How soon can you leave?” Colonel Braddock asked.

  “This afternoon, and there’s one more favor that I’d like to ask, sir, if you don’t mind. Could Sergeant McFeeley be transferred temporarily to my command? He’s most anxious about the welfare of Captain Stone, as I told you.”

  “Tell Sergeant Cowper to draft an order to that effect on your way out.” Colonel Braddock puffed his pipe thoughtfully as he looked at Lieutenant Lowell. “I know you’ve gone on many patrols in the past, Lieutenant, and I know you’re an experienced officer, but I feel compelled to tell you to be careful anyway.” He picked up Captain Poole’s intelligence report. “Jacinto’s Apaches are on the warpath as you know, and they’ve been stepping up their campaign against settlers and any other poor bastard they might find on the desert. Beware of ambush. Watch your flanks and utilize your scouts to the maximum. Remember that knowledge of terrain is sixty percent of any battle. Stay alert, and if you engage the Apache, fight aggressively, because that’s the only language he respects. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good luck to you, Lieutenant.”

  Lieutenant Lowell snapped to attention and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

  Stone opened his eyes and saw a red flower on the green arm of a saguaro cactus above him. Past the flower was the clear blue sky. He was aware of a terrible pain in his left shoulder, and his chest stung from one side to the other. He raised his head and saw Juanita sitting on the ground, watching a small animal roasting over a fire that gave off no smoke. In the distance were jagged buttes standing like grotesque towers of Babel.

  Juanita noticed him. “How do you feel?”

  “Not so good.”

  “You are the craziest gringo I ever saw in my life, and I have seen many crazy gringos.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with you about that. Could you roll me a cigarette?”

  She got to her feet and walked toward him, still wearing the high heels and jewelry she’d been wearing in La Rosita. She looked like a strange mirage arising out of the desert sand.

  She knelt beside him, took out his bag of tobacco, and rolled the cigarette.

  “How did I get here?” he asked.

  “Lobo and I brought you, but mostly Lobo. We had to get out of town rapido, before Rodrigo’s men came.”

  “Where are we?”

  “How should I know? Ask the Indian.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Somewhere out there. He keeps coming and going back, and every time he comes back he brings something. He is so quiet I cannot even hear him. I don’t see him until he is right on top of me. He scares me. Open your mouth.”

  He opened his mouth and she stuck the cigarette in. Then she lit the end with a match. Stone held the cigarette with his right hand and puffed it to life.

  “You are a very crazy man,” she said. “I knew it from the moment I first set eyes on you in church. You are the kind of person who does not understand nothing. How can you get into a fight with a man like Rodrigo? Don’t you know that such a man would have friends?”

  “To hell with his friends.”

  “You see what I mean? A man like th
at — you stay away from him. If it was not for the Indian, you would be dead right now. You are a very estupido man, but also a very brave and good one.” She smiled and touched his forehead. “I will take care of you and make you well. Nobody has ever dare stand up to Rodrigo before for me, but you did. I never forget. You have save my life.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Stone told her. “I don’t like people like Rodrigo. They rub me the wrong way.”

  “Let me tell you something,” she said. “Every day I go to church and pray that Santa Maria will free me from Rodrigo. Then, today, I go to church and see you. I think to myself: Juanita, that is an especial man there. God will answer his prayers.”

  “Now I’m lying on the desert with a bullet in my arm. I wouldn’t exactly call that an answer to my prayers.”

  “You are very lucky to be alive, and you don’t have the bullet in your arm anymore. The Indian took it out with his knife. He boil some leaves and put them on your wound. Anyway, I pray to Santa Maria that she will free me from Rodrigo, and a little while later Rodrigo is dead.”

  “Maybe Santa Maria answered your prayers, but she certainly didn’t answer mine.”

  “How do you know she won’t? You are an estupido gringo. You do not understand Santa Maria. Sometimes she helps you right away, like with me at La Rosita, and other times you might have to wait awhile.”

  Stone placed his cigarette in his mouth and opened his shirt pocket, taking out the picture of Marie. The frame was slightly dented, but otherwise was intact. He looked at Marie for a few seconds, then put the picture back into his shirt. He’d been concerned that the photograph might’ve been damaged or lost in the fight.

  “I do not think she is so pretty,” Juanita said.

  Suddenly she screamed, raising her hand to her breast. Stone turned around and saw Lobo beside him, carrying wood under one arm and a cloth bag in his hand.

  “Do you think you can ride?” he asked Stone.

  “If I had to.”

  “Tomorrow at sunrise we will move on.”