Читать книгу Apache Ambush - Will Cook - Страница 5

Brevet Major Sidney A. Calvin scanned, for the fifth time, the report lying on his desk. Calvin was a gaunt, haggard-eyed man with more trouble than he deserved. At least, this is what he told himself at frequent intervals. As commanding officer of Fort Apache, the welfare of the territory east of Seven Mile Draw, south to the Gila Mountains, and the entire San Carlos Apache Reservation was allocated to him, enough responsibility to gray an officer’s hair in short order.

Add to this the unpredictable escapades of Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen, and Major Sidney A. Calvin found his nights insomnious, his food insipid, and his military career fraught with uncertainty.

After rereading Mr. Osgood Sickles’ complaint against Lieutenant O’Hagen, Major Calvin tossed it in a drawer where he could no longer see it. He told himself that only children hid their mistakes for fear of punishment. “I’m a mature man,” he told the four walls, but still the complaint remained in the drawer. Confining Lieutenant O’Hagen to the stockade had seemed so sound in theory, but actually, Calvin regretted the decision, regretted the whole thing. An officer was never confined, except for a major crime. He drummed his mind for an explanation, one that would satisfy General George Crook. But there could be no explanation. The complaint was his only hope, his only justification.

Twin desk lamps radiated light onto the rough pine floor. In the outer room, a corporal sat in the corner, reading a month-old Harper’s Weekly. Major Calvin paused in the doorway and the corporal’s feet thumped the floor when Calvin said, “Any further word on General Crook’s party?”

“No, sir.”

He returned to his office, leaving the door ajar. His face was hollow-cheeked and a mustache hung dejectedly past the ends of his lips. He put a match to his cigar and sat for a while, head and shoulders shrouded in smoke. When his fingers began to drum the desk he knew that his nerves were breaking. He opened the drawer and withdrew the complaint.

May 9, 1872

To: Commanding Officer, Fort Apache, Arizona Territory Subject: Complaint and charges, to wit:

On May 9, 1872, First Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen, did willfully assault with intent to do bodily harm, malign, and profanely abuse the undersigned, for reasons undefined and without justification. It is hereby requested that First Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen be arrested and confined, and tried on these charges.

Signed: Osgood H. Sickles, Agent-in-Charge

San Carlos Apache Reservation

Arizona Territory

“Damn!” Major Sidney A. Calvin said and crossed to the side window fronting the darkened parade. A far row of lights marked the enlisted men’s barracks. To his right, officers’ row and the quartermaster buildings were backed against the palisade wall. Calvin puffed his cigar to a sour stub, then gathered his kepi and cape. To the corporal in the outer office, he said, “I’m going to the stockade for a few minutes.”

He went out and walked across the parade toward the north gate and mounted the guardhouse steps. A trooper stationed by the door presented arms smartly and Major Calvin went inside. Lieutenant Meeker, the officer-of-the-day, came to attention while Calvin returned the salute absentmindedly. “I want a word with Mr. O’Hagen.”

Meeker seemed genuinely confused. “Sir—I mean, he has a visitor, sir.”

Voices from the rear cell block invaded the room and Calvin frowned when he heard O’Hagen laugh. Calvin could not, by the farthest stretch of his imagination, see anything humorous in this abominable mess.

“I don’t remember authorizing visitors for Mister O’Hagen,” Calvin said.

Meeker was a man on the near edge of a reprimand and he knew it. “Sir, it’s Miss Libby Malloy. I—I thought it would be all right.”

“Mister,” Calvin said, “we will discuss your ability to think, in my office—later.” He turned on his heel and went down the dim corridor to O’Hagen’s cell. Libby Malloy was standing close to the bars. O’Hagen was holding her hands.

“Well,” Calvin said, “I’ve often wondered how a man in the stockade passed the time.” His glance toward Libby was stern and fatherly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. This is hardly the place for you.”

“I don’t mind the stockade,” Libby said. “I fit in anyplace.” She watched Major Calvin with a certain amusement in her pale eyes. Libby Malloy was taller than most girls like to be, yet she was shapely. She was young, not yet twenty. Her eyes were veiled by long dark lashes which contrasted sharply with her champagne hair.

Major Calvin did not like her and he told himself that the reason lay in her frankness, yet he knew this was not true. Her brazenness affronted his sense of propriety. He believed that any woman who had borne an Apache child should feel shame, and Libby Malloy evidently did not.

She was too straight for Calvin. Too honest. Libby was almost a sister to O’Hagen for they had the Herlihy’s as common adopted parents. So she came to the guardhouse. Like a common—Calvin pulled his mind back to business.

“Libby, does Sergeant Herlihy know you’re here?”

“I think he does,” she said, smiling. Her face changed, lost its cynical amusement. Her eyes were wide spaced above a nose that was straight and slightly pointed. She had full lips, and the habit of catching the bottom one gently between her teeth. “Do you want me to leave, Major?”

“It would be best.”

“For whom?” She glanced at O’Hagen. “I’ll be back, Tim.”

“Good night,” O’Hagen said and watched her walk down the corridor. He remained by the cell door, a tall man in his late twenties. His hair was brick-red and he possessed none of the studied gravity that exemplified the frontier army officer, a fact that Major Calvin found disconcerting. O’Hagen’s face was bluntly Irish and he was clean-shaven, something of an oddity in the days of sweeping mustaches and sideburns, Calvin supposed.

Since O’Hagen had been arrested upon his return to the post, his clothes still held the rank gaminess of a mouth-long patrol. His saber straps dangled limply against his thigh and his pistol holster was empty. Dust still powdered the dark blue of his shirt, sweat-soaked into the weave. There was a stiffened salt rime around his suspender straps and under his arms.

He leaned against the cell door and said, “You look worried, sir. You wouldn’t have a cigar on you, would you?”

“No cigar. And you’ve given me plenty to worry about.” Calvin wrinkled his nose distastefully. “You could do with a bath, Mister.”

“The facilities are poorly,” O’Hagen observed. “But you didn’t come here to see if I was comfortable, sir.” He grinned and his eyelids drew together, springing small crowsfeet toward his cheekbones. There was this rashness about O’Hagen that a general’s rank would not have concealed, and Calvin found himself becoming irritated by it.

“And then again, sir,” O’Hagen went on, “it could be that you’re goin’ to let me out. According to regulations, an officer is to be held in arrest of quarters, not confined.” He smiled. “Better let me out before General Crook arrives, sir. His finding me here will be a bigger mistake than locking me up in the first place.”

“I can justify my actions!”

“Want to bet, sir?” He watched Major Calvin gnaw his lip, then switched the subject. “Tell me, sir—how’s Mr. Osgood H. Sickles? Is his fat head still achin’?”

Major Calvin whipped his head around. “Mr. Meeker!” The officer-of-the-day appeared on the double. “Release Mr. O’Hagen.”

“Release him, sir? But I thought you said—”

Calvin’s patience was nearly rent. “Mr. Meeker, I am under the delusion that I command this post. Please be so good as to correct me if I’m in error in this matter.” He impaled Lieutenant Meeker with his eyes and watched the junior officer grow increasingly nervous.

Keys jangled. The cell door swung inward and O’Hagen followed Major Calvin outside. Crossing the parade to headquarters, Calvin said, “You fool, O’Hagen! Couldn’t you keep Libby away?”

“Maybe I like her company,” O’Hagen said.

“And I suspect you like Mrs. Sickles’ even more. She’s quite concerned about your welfare, Mister.”

“And you told her my health was superb?”

“I told her to forget about you,” Calvin said, “and that was good advice. I’d give that advice to any woman who was interested in you.”

“Sometimes you’re so kind I get all choked up,” O’Hagen said.

Calvin stopped in his tracks and glared at O’Hagen. “You’re like an Apache, O’Hagen; you don’t have respect for anything.” He walked on and entered the orderly room, slamming his office door. “Sit down,” he said and went behind his desk. “For your information, Mr. Sickles has recovered rather well.”

“Then I didn’t hit him as hard as I thought,” O’Hagen said with genuine regret.

“Don’t extend my patience beyond the limit I” Calvin stormed. He regarded O’Hagen bitterly, momentarily regretting that this officer was under arrest, for while he had prisoner status he was not bound by military courtesy. O’Hagen could literally say what he pleased without fear of reprisal.

Calvin blew out a long breath and rekindled his cigar. As an afterthought he offered one to O’Hagen. “Mr. Sickles’ eye has healed, although some discoloration remains.” Calvin’s teeth ground into his cigar. “Mr. O’Hagen, you’re more trouble to me than all the Apaches put together.”

“That comes with the uniform,” O’Hagen said softly, meeting Calvin’s eyes through the cigar smoke.

“I don’t hunt for it,” Calvin said. “Mr. O’Hagen, what ever possessed you to believe for a moment that Osgood Sickles would submit to this treatment? You’ve been trying to link him with the Apache raids for over a year now, and I tell you it’s gone far enough.”

Calvin was balancing his weight on stiffened arms, the knuckles crushed into the desk. He looked like a man about to leap into a fight. Finally he turned and stared out the window at the inky parade ground. “General Crook is arriving in the morning and since he has expressed a desire to meet you personally, I’ll let him sit on this matter. You’re quite a favorite with the big brass, O’Hagen. You’ll stand a better chance with him than you would have with me.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Mrs. Sickles’ marriage was a little sudden, wasn’t it?”

“She made up her mind,” O’Hagen said and the bitter wind blew through him.

“But you don’t like it,” Calvin said. “Tim, tell me—was that why you hit him? Because he married a woman you wanted?” He shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. O’Hagen, but that wasn’t in the cards.” Opening a drawer, he plucked a yellowed folder from a stack and tossed it on the desk. “There’s the reason you could never marry her. Want me to read it to you? That’s a file, O’Hagen. A report of Apache atrocities. A long time ago, O’Hagen, but men never forget those things. Especially when a white boy does them.”

O’Hagen raised a hand and wiped the back of it across his mouth. His eyes were hard glazed and when he spoke, his voice was like wind through tall trees, soft, yet clear. “What are you trying to do to me, sir?”

“Put you in your proper place!” Calvin snapped. “O’Hagen, you don’t fool me. This is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.” He slapped the folder. “It’s all here: you, Contreras, Choya, and two others, the complete account of that freight wagon massacre. How can you blame Osgood Sickles? Are you trying to whitewash yourself by smearing someone else?”

“What are you trying to cover up, sir?”

This brought Brevet Major Calvin around on his heel, his eyes bright with anger. “Get something straight! I don’t like you and now I’ve told you to your face. You want to know why? The army’s some personal weapon to you. You’re a soldier when you feel like it and when you don’t, you run all over hell chasing Apaches. And you get away with it because you know Apaches. The big hero, getting patrols through country no other officer could get near. You don’t make enough mistakes, O’Hagen. You don’t talk enough. Sometimes I’ve gotten the feeling that you’re a damned Apache beneath that white skin. There’s others who feel the same way too.”

O’Hagen rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and stared at Major Calvin. “You’re scared,” he said. “What are you afraid of? That I’d go over your head if you made a decision on Sickles’ complaint? You didn’t have to hold this up and dump it in General Crook’s lap.”

“Don’t presume to tell me how to command!” Calvin snapped. He sat down at his desk and dribbled cigar ashes onto his tunic. He brushed at them absently, leaving a gray smear. “Mr. O’Hagen, get it through your head that Mr. Sickles is not just another civilian who can be pushed around. He is an Indian agent, a representative of the United States government, and I bring to your attention that he, in a direct manner, commands the disbursement of military forces in the San Carlos Agency.”

“So you are afraid of Sickles.”

“Worry about yourself,” Calvin advised. “You may find that poking an Indian agent in the mouth can cost you your commission.”

“As long as I get Osgood H. Sickles, I don’t care.”

Calvin smiled. “Is it Sickles you want or his wife?”

O’Hagen came half out of his chair and Major Calvin pointed his finger like a gun. “Come any farther and I’ll have you shot!”

Sinking back slowly, O’Hagen studied the major. “Are you after me, sir?”

Calvin studied the end of his cigar. He seemed sorry for his outburst, yet was unable to summon an apology. “No. No, Tim, I’m not. Believe what you want, but I’m not after you.”

“Then you’re in trouble,” O’Hagen said, “and looking for a goat.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this, Major. You could have placed me under arrest of quarters, but instead you licked Sickles’ boots and locked me in the guardhouse.” He knocked ashes off his cigar. “Do you think I’m after Sickles because of his wife?” O’Hagen’s voice was troubled and he did nothing to conceal it. He had a bluntly honest manner that occasionally disturbed the major.

“That was anger talk,” Calvin said. “There’s talk going around, but I haven’t spread any of it. Men are always adding two and two and getting five.” He pawed through the papers on his desk until he found O’Hagen’s patrol report. “This,” he said, waving it, “is what is eating me, Mister. In this you state that the reservation Apaches in Contreras’ band are out. Mr. Sickles has given me every assurance that none of the Indians are off reservation.”

“Lovington’s didn’t catch fire by itself,” O’Hagen said. “And Sickles wouldn’t tell you if there were Apaches loose. I saw the sign and they’re out, a band of Mimbrenos. The hills are crawling with Apaches that have never gone to the reservation—White Mountain, Chiricahuas, Coyoteros, Mescaleros, Jicarillas—they’re movin’ about, small bands of ’em. To hell with what Sickles says. I believe my eyes.”

“My job is to police the reservation, not conduct a personal war against Apaches,” Calvin said. “Mister, I can assume nothing more than the fact that you are trying to make a liar out of me with this patrol report.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Let’s try to keep a tidy house, Mister. There’s no need to report every Apache band you run across.” He held up both hands when O’Hagen opened his mouth to speak. “All right! So a ranch is hit, a mine sacked, some teamster killed. Are we to shout, ‘Indian War’?” He shook his head. “A report or two like yours and we’d have a peace commission out here, wanting to know what was going on.”

“That’s a question I’d like answered, too,” O’Hagen said. “Major, there’ll never be a wholesale banding of Apaches; they don’t do that. Apaches are the only Indians who’ll raid alone, or in small bunches of three and four. The ambush is their war, and when they hit some small place, they wipe it out, clean.”

“There’s no sense in discussing it further,” Calvin said. “It’s up to Crook in the morning. You’re now under arrest of quarters; is that legal enough to suit you? Absent yourself only to attend mess.” He fingered O’Hagen’s report, wanting to tear it up, deny its existence, but he was army and would send it through channels. “You’re positive you don’t want to alter this?”

“No, sir. Is that all, sir?”

Calvin nodded and O’Hagen went outside, there pausing to draw the cool night air into his lungs. The guard was changing by the main gate and he watched the sergeant walk up and down the rank, a lantern bobbing with each step. He listened to the sounds for a minute, tipping his head back when he caught the faint scent of soap. Libby Malloy stepped from the blackest shadows and said, “I was listening through the wall, Tim.”

“That’ll get you in trouble,” O’Hagen said, a pleasure breaking the usual solemnity of his face.

“Why don’t we both get out of here,” Libby said. “I mean it, Tim. We could find some place where people didn’t look sideways at us.”

“Where is that place? Do you really know, Libby?”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “I guess I don’t. I’d still have an Apache baby and you’d still remember that you left a man buried in the sand.” She touched him fleetingly, then came against him. “Tim, Tim, whatever’s going to become of us? I wish you had never found me. I really wish that!”

“No, you don’t.” He brushed her hair gently. “Libby, there’s an answer some place. There’s an answer for everybody.”

“Sure,” she said and stepped back. “You wanted to marry a woman like Rosalia because she has position. A woman who can make you forget, but she can’t. I love you, Tim, and I can’t make you forget.”

She turned quickly and he watched her hurry across the parade to the long row of enlisted men’s quarters and when she entered Herlihy’s place, he left the headquarters porch. His boots rattled on the duckboards and he entered his small room, fumbling for the lamp.

He built a fire in the sheetiron stove and stood with his back to it, toasting his hands. His eyes roved around the room, once bare with a Capuchin drabness as most army quarters were. But it was no longer so. The planked walls were covered with bright serapes and Indian blankets. Here, a shirt worn by Mangus Colorado, the great Apache chief. There, the colors of a long-dead cavalry patrol, the standard re-wrested from the bands of Contreras and Choya.

Crossed knives, crudely made but deadly in Apache hands, decorated one wall. A half dozen war lances were stacked in one corner next to a long-barreled needle rifle. Aside from the pine dresser, the one chair, table and bunk, this could have been an Apache trophy room, filled with hard-won items. The accumulation of his lifetime on the frontier.

Over his bunk were the mementos of his youth. A never-to-be forgotten youth in a Coyotero wickiup with Contreras and Choya as older brothers. Hanging by the head board was a buffalo-bone bow with elkhide quiver still half-filled with arrows; this had replaced the red wagon and sled of other boys his age. His own Apache knife was there. How different from the jack knife in some denim pocket. The clothes he had been wearing when he had been picked up were there, breeches without front or back, the way Apaches cut them. Too small now, but at twelve they had fit him.

Seven years an Apache. More than seven, for he found that the fetters in his mind were not put aside easily. Apache lessons were always long remembered.

O’Hagen moved to his desk and rummaged for a cigar. He took his light from the lamp and sat down in the lone chair, his eyes veiled and meditative. He was not a happy man; small mannerisms revealed this. He was an officer in the United States Army, class of ’63, yet he was not of this army. He knew too much about Apaches, and as he had discovered, knowing too much could be worse than not knowing enough. The language, their thinking, their rituals—he knew them all. And he knew what no other white man knew, the secret of their signals flashed on polished silver disks!

Timothy O’Hagen was a white Apache midst an army of green officers who bungled along, outrun, outfought. He did not belong to this group. Misery loved company, he found out, and because he did not have the misery of defeat to share, he, found himself on the outside looking in.

After carrying water into his quarters, O’Hagen drew the curtains and stripped for his bath. He had that ‘patrol’ smell, the unwashed rancidity of four weeks without water. Now he had the guardhouse smell. He decided that one was as bad as the other.

He could dimly recall his father saying that a man never missed what he never had, yet Timothy O’Hagen felt a sharp lack. A woman could do that to a man. A woman like Rosalia Sickles. She had never been his and yet he missed her. He wondered what it added up to. She wasn’t like Libby Malloy. Libby rode a horse like a man and he had heard her swear. Yet Libby had been real where Rosalia was not. All he had left was the memory of polite conversation, a forgotten rose pressed between the pages of Philip St. George Cooke’s Cavalry Tactics—and a three year romance that had never really bloomed had ended.

O’Hagen dressed. Looking back he could see the impossibility of his dreams. He had the Apache stink about him; Rosalia could trace her family back to Cortez. Add to this his Irish impetuousness, his aggravation at her ever-present duenna—a female watchdog to see that her chastity was preserved, and the odds of courtship became almost hopeless.

He pulled himself away from further speculation.

Knuckles rattled his door and he crossed the room. Sergeant Herlihy stepped inside, a grizzled man with each troubled year of his life etched into his face. He wore a walrus mustache, gray-shot, but his hair was darkly kinky.

“Glad to see he let you out, sor,” he said. “Th’ back of me hand to th’ lot of ’em, meanin’ no disrespect, sor.” He looked around the room. “Would you be havin’ any drinkin’ whiskey about?”

“You already smell like a hot mince pie,” O’Hagen said. “Under my shirts in the dresser.”

Herlihy crossed the room and found the bottle. His spurs raked across the rug, sounding like dollars in a coat pocket. He sprung the cork, upended the bottle, then gasped.

“Tiswin! Jasus, sor, an Irishman can’t drink that Apache slop!” He wiped his watering eyes and put the bottle away. “Th’ rumor’s out that Crook’s due in.”

“Yes,” O’Hagen said. “He’ll let Sickles off and it’s too bad. I thought I had him this time.”

“Not on th’ strength of th’ raid, sor. He’s got a ready out if it gets tough for him. He’ll say you were right and make a fool of you.”

“I made a fool of myself,” O’Hagen said. “Dammit, Mike, I got mad because—” He waved his hand and turned to the wall.

“Seein’ as how I’ve been sort of a father,” Herlihy said, “there is a thing or two I’d like to say. Ivver since you seen that Spanish colleen you’ve been actin’ like a fool. Sickles hates you, lad. And he won’t sleep until he gets you. An’ he’ll get you through the Spanish girl because he knows a man who thinks he’s in love is a fool.”

O’Hagen blew out a long breath and jammed his hands deep in his pockets. “I ought to resign my commission. Then I could get Sickles. I ran those mountain trails for seven years, Sergeant. Seven years with a breech clout and a filthy sweat-band around my head. I can make it so miserable he’ll hate the sound of the wind!”

“That’s not th’ way to do it!” Herlihy said quickly. He turned to the door and paused there. “Don’t quit th’ army, sor.”

O’Hagen smiled. “Now you’re talking like Libby.”

“The girl makes sense,” Herlihy said and went out.

O’Hagen emptied his bath water and hung the wooden tub against the outside wall. The post was quiet and he stood in the shadows, watching. From the far end of the long porch he heard the light tapping of heels and saw someone flitting across the lamplight thrown from the spaced windows. He waited for a moment, then recognized Libby Malloy. She stopped to give him a glance then went into his quarters without invitation. O’Hagen followed her.

After closing the door, he said, “Do you want to get me in trouble?”

She turned to look at him, the lamplight building shadows around her eyes. “You’re in trouble now. A little more won’t hurt.”

“Herlihy know you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t tell you, did he? I thought he’d lose his nerve.”

“Tell me what?”

“Rosalia wants to see you. She’s at Herlihy’s place now.”

O’Hagen looked at her and Libby turned away from him. Finally he said, “I can’t go to her, Libby. You know that.”

“But you will go to her,” she said. “You’re that much of a fool.” He moved deeper into the small room so he could see her face. She sat down at the table and laced her fingers together, gripping them tightly. “I know you, Tim. Better than anyone else. I’ve watched you volunteer to take patrols to Tucson just as an excuse to see her. Just to sit in her fancy parlor and—” She raised a hand and brushed her forehead. “Oh, why don’t I shut my mouth?”

O’Hagen put his hands on her shoulders. “Libby, I don’t love you. How can I apologize for that?”

“Don’t!” She gave her shoulders a twist so that his hands fell away. “Go to her—that’s what you’ve always wanted, an excuse. All right, you got your wish; she’s asked for you. Go and make a fool of yourself. I’m not interested one way or another!” She turned around quickly, rising and knocking over the chair. “Tu-no vale nada! You’re no good!”

He slapped her, a stinging blow that drove her back against the table, nearly upsetting the lamp. She straightened slowly, the imprint of his hand clear on her cheek. Tears formed in her eyes and began to spill over.

She came into his arms when he reached for her and they were tight against each other. Her voice was muffled against the rough weave of his shirt. “Why did you have to find me, Tim? I’d almost forgotten what it was to be white. Oh, darling, don’t hate me; I couldn’t stand that. She’s no good for you because she can’t love anyone. She doesn’t know what love is, Tim. You flatter her with your attention and she has to have that or she’ll wither. Tim, go away with me. I need you; she doesn’t need anyone, not even Sickles.”

“You better go back now,” he said, putting her away from him.

She dried her eyes. “The situation never gets better for us, does it, Tim? I want you to love me, but I only succeed in making you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Libby.”

“I guess you don’t,” she said and went to the door. “You just hate Apaches, and what they made you do to yourself. Every time you look at me and my baby, you’re reminded.”

“Libby—”

“You’d better go to her,” she said and went out, her shoes rapping lightly along the porch. He waited a few minutes, then let himself out. On the porch he paused to look right and left. Bars of lamplight bathed sections of the porch and he heard a woman laugh somewhere along the row. He studied the parade carefully; there was no movement. Across from him, the commanding officer’s house sported lights in the parlor. Headquarters was on the left, near the north gate.

He stepped down and walked leisurely toward Suds Row.

Sergeant Herlihy’s quarters was on the near end and he rapped lightly. The door opened immediately and O’Hagen stepped in, doffing his kepi. His eyes went to Rosalia. Mrs. Herlihy, a heavy, graying woman, gathered her shawl. “Mrs. Callahan asked me to drop by,” she said and left.

“I’ll look in on th’ troop,” Herlihy said and followed her.

Rosalia Sickles was very young. Too young to be Osgood H. Sickles’ wife. Her hair was blue-black, parted in the middle and swept into coils behind her head. She was slender; some would have said frail, but O’Hagen knew she was not. Her face was heart-shaped, almost classic. She said, “I am so sorry, Teemothy. Are we still friends?”

“No more than friends?” He heard a stir in the other room and opened the door. The baby was on the bed, a boy of two, and O’Hagen picked him up. Immediately a pink hand grabbed his nose and the boy laughed.

He carried him back to the other room and Rosalia Sickles frowned slightly. O’Hagen said, “You want to hold him?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Teemothy, what are you going to do if things go badly in the morning?”

“You mean if I’m kicked out of the army?” He hoisted the boy high in the air and listened to him laugh. The boy grabbed O’Hagen’s ear and tugged. “I figure I’ll go to Tucson. There’s a little something between myself and your husband that’s not finished.”

The boy released O’Hagen’s ear and bent away, both fat arms reaching for Rosalia. She backed up a step involuntarily. O’Hagen said, “He just wants you to hold him.”

“I don’t want to hold him!” She spoke sharply and then bit her lip. The boy stared at her, his dark eyes round and curious. He had the fair skin of his white mother, but his hair and eyes were dark. Apache blood! “Teemothy,” Rosalia said, “I would wither if you hated me.”

O’Hagen’s expression was puzzled. “Rosa, what is it you want? You married him. I’m out, regardless of how I feel.”

She raised a hand and brushed her forehead. “Please, can’t we go on—I want it that way.”

O’Hagen stared at her while the boy pulled his hair. “I’m not sneaking around behind Sickles’ back! What do you expect, my regards? Rosa, I’ve asked you a dozen times to make up your mind. All right, you did. That ends it.”

“You know better,” she said, a smile tipping her lips. There was a shine in her eyes that he could not understand; then Rosalia’s eyes swung past him as the door opened. Libby Malloy looked from one to the other before taking the baby from O’Hagen.

“If I’m interrupting something, I’m glad,” she said.

“Why do you dislike me so?” Rosalia said bluntly. “I hardly know you.”

“But I know you,” Libby said. “How many men do you want? Or is it, how many do you need to make you happy?” Hoisting the boy on her hip, she carried him back into the bedroom. Through the half open door O’Hagen could hear her cooing and the boy’s delighted laugh.

When Rosalia spoke, the sound of her voice startled him, for he had forgotten she was in the room. “Teemothy, would it help if I said I love you?”

Boots stamped along the porch and across the parade; the bugler blew tattoo. He said, “Why do you tell me that? What am I supposed to say?”

“That you still care for me,” Rosalia said, smiling. “Teemothy, don’t ever be far away from me.” She turned her head toward the bedroom. “She wants you, but you would be destroyed by her. You want a woman highly desired by other men, not one no man would promise to marry.”

“Shut up!”

She shrugged. “I’ve told you the truth.”

“Don’t make me out a bigger fool than I’ve already been,” O’Hagen said. “I have to go now.”

The movement along the porch stopped and the door opened. Osgood H. Sickles paused there, looked from one to the other, then closed the door. He was a man in his middle thirties, big, square faced, but not unhandsome. He wore fawn-colored trousers and a long coat. His left eye was darkly discolored and there was a lingering puffiness near the jaw hinges. Rosalia stood motionless, embarrassed at being caught here.

Sickles said, “Mr. O’Hagen, I’ve been quite tolerant of your attentions to my wife. Overlooked a great deal. I’m a broadminded man. But these lover’s trysts are over, be assured of that.”

“Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” O’Hagen said.

“I’m not. It’s yours that works overtime.” He spoke to his wife. “I believe you’d better return to Major Calvin’s quarters. I’m sure Mrs. Calvin is worried about you.” His smile was disarming. “Mr. O’Hagen and I have a matter to discuss.”

Rosalia hesitated, but the habit of obedience is strong in Spanish girls and she went out. Sickles listened to her footsteps recede, then turned his head when Libby Malloy came out of the bedroom.

“I had no idea you were there,” Sickles said.

“I’ll bet you didn’t,” Libby said and put on the coffee pot. Sickles studied the swell of her hips, the slimness of her waist, until Libby turned suddenly and said, “This is easier than peeking in windows, isn’t it?”

Sickles flushed and O’Hagen’s eyes brightened with interest. “What’s this all about?”

Libby laughed and set two cups on the table. “I raised my shade one night and found him standing on the porch, looking in—or at least trying to.” She poured the coffee, handed a cup to O’Hagen and ignored Sickles completely.

“I don’t have to stand here and be insulted by her,” Sickles said. “Who does she think she is? There isn’t a white man on the post who’d have her after the Apaches—”

O’Hagen flung his cup aside and went into Sickles, but the dark-haired man moved with surprising speed and surety. He blocked O’Hagen’s punch, slipped under the arm and belted the young officer flush in the mouth. O’Hagen went over the table, taking cloth and dishes to the floor. The door flew open and Herlihy and his wife came in.

“Good hivvens!” Mrs. Herlihy cried. “That was th’ last of me good dishes!”

Sickles meant to go around the upended table after O’Hagen, who was on all fours, but Herlihy moved between them. He stood there, an idle man with the threat of violence heavy in his manner. Sickles massaged his bruised knuckles and said, “Just so you don’t get the idea I’m soft, O’Hagen. We’ll have to try it again sometime. I think I could do you in without raising up a sweat.”

“Get out,” Herlihy said bluntly, “you’re stinkin’ up me house.”

“You’ll be a private in the morning,” Sickles promised. “I’ve always held it against you for finding him in the first place. If he’d have stayed with the Apaches, my life would be more pleasant.” He shook his finger at Herlihy. “A private! Remember that.”

“And I’ve been that before,” Herlihy said. “Go on—git before I give you a taste of me fist!”

Sickles flung the door open and stomped along the porch. Timothy O’Hagen righted a chair and sat down. This was the finish, he decided. He might as well go back to his quarters and pack. Tomorrow Crook would drum him out of the army for this.

Mrs. Herlihy began recovering the broken dishes. Her shoes ground into the finer fragments and the crunching was loud in the room.

“What happened here?” Herlihy wanted to know.

“Nothing,” O’Hagen said. “Forget it, Sergeant.”

“How can I forget it?” He flicked his glance to Libby, who waited, her face smooth and expressionless. “I’ll ask you, Libby.”

“Tim was being gallant for me. He didn’t have to be. Everyone knows about me.”

“Shut up!” O’Hagen snapped.

“We’ve got the Apache stink, Tim. It won’t rub off.” She tried to meet his eyes, but failed. Whirling quickly she ran into her room and slammed the door.

The silence was deep; then O’Hagen said quietly, “If he hurts her, I’ll kill him for it.”

His voice, calm and soft, caused Mrs. Herlihy to stop her sweeping. “Libby or Rosalia?” When O’Hagen did not answer she went back to her broken dishes.