As Navarro turned left on the boardwalk outside the barbershop, he caught someone staring at him out of the corner of his eye. Shuttling his gaze across the hard-packed, hoof-pocked parade ground, he saw the towhead who’d run into him earlier, standing with several other soldiers around a Murphy freight supply wagon before the officers’ adobe duplexes.
The soldiers were taking a smoke break. Leaning against the massive left rear wheel, the towhead looked quickly away from Tom. Seeing that Navarro had spotted him, the kid turned back and flicked a hand in a halfhearted wave, flushing and showing his teeth through a grin.
Navarro returned the wave and maneuvered his crutch toward the post trader’s store, where he bought food, coffee, tobacco, and new trail duds—including a hat, to replace the one he lost on Gray Rock.
When he’d picked out a new Winchester rifle and had stocked up on ammo, he arranged for the trader’s son to deliver the goods to the infirmary. Heading that way himself, feeling fatigued, he promptly collapsed on his cot for a nap.
That night, after taps, Tom played a final game of poker with Captain Ward and Doc Sullivan on a small table beside Captain Ward’s cot. A hanging lamp offered a murky light made murkier by the men’s cigar and cigarette smoke. The building’s shutters were open, awaiting a breeze to stir the heavy desert heat.
Navarro and Ward were the only two patients left in the infirmary, one wounded soldier having died from the Apache lance he’d taken through his spleen. Having mended, the others had been sent back to their platoons.
Ward would have to spend another two weeks in the infirmary before he could be sent back to his company at Fort Bowie.
“You still hitting the trail tomorrow, Mr. Navarro?” Ward asked as he studied his cards, his right leg inclined. The captain sounded disappointed.
Navarro nodded and shoved three matchsticks toward the center of the table.
“Only if he can blow the ‘Q’ out of the quinine can,” Sullivan said.
“I’ll hit the sumbitch,” Navarro growled, wishing he’d never mentioned the personal challenge. He intended to leave in the morning, blown “Q” or no blown “Q.”
“What about your leg?” the doctor asked.
“If my head’s goin’, the leg doesn’t have any choice but to tag along.”
After lights out, and after Ward had gone to sleep, snoring softly on the other side of the aisle, Navarro slipped out of bed and wrapped his cartridge belt around his waist. He left his boots under the cot and the crutch propped against the wall. He padded barefoot to the door, cracked it, and peered outside.
The parade ground was dark, the windows of the encircling buildings unlit. Nothing moved but a silk streamer hanging from a nearby porch beam, stirred by a subtle breeze.
Satisfied the coast was clear, Navarro stepped through the door, closed it softly, listening for the click, then slipped to his right along the boardwalk and hunkered down in the shadows on the other side of an iron-banded rain barrel.
Navarro unholstered his .44 and held it between his knees, curling his right index finger through the trigger guard.
He waited.
Chapter 16
Navarro didn’t have long to wait.
Twenty minutes later, he heard running feet on his left. He leaned back and stole a look between the rain barrel and the building, toward the front door, but he couldn’t see anything. The sounds had come from off the north end of the infirmary, out of sight.
Navarro held the pistol. He waited, listening to the crickets and the yammers of a lone coyote somewhere south of the fort.
Finally, a strained breath. A movement at the northeast corner of the building, on the other side of the barrel. A tap of a heel, then the squawk of a floorboard as a man mounted the porch. Boots thudded softly. Breaths roiled out from tensed lungs.
The doorknob turned with a faint chirp.
Navarro looked over the rain barrel’s lip, saw the infirmary’s front door squeak slowly open. A tall figure passed into the building. From this angle, Navarro could see only a billed forage cap. Another, shorter figure followed, leaving the door open behind him.
Navarro remained behind the barrel, holding his .44 in both hands. Staring across the parade ground before him, he yawned, stretched the kinks out of his neck.
He heard the two men approach the door again, walking on the balls of their Army-issue brogans. When they’d both slipped onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind them, one whispered to the other, “Where the hell is he?”
“The privy?”
“Let’s check.”
Navarro rose slowly and extended his .44 over the barrel. The men had turned their backs as, moving left of the door, they were about to swing around the side of the infirmary, heading for the privy out back.
“I got you both dead to rights,” Navarro said tightly. “Any sudden move, and they’ll be throwin’ dirt over you come sunup.”
The towhead and the taller soldier, who didn’t seem to have the limp anymore, both froze. The tall one stood just off the end of the boardwalk, half turned left. The towhead was still standing at the edge of the boards. They both held Army-issue .44s in their right hands hanging low at their sides.
Both men tensed, turning their heads slightly to get a glimpse of the man behind them.
“Stand still. You two little jiggers know what I look like.” Navarro stepped to the barrel’s right side and place his left hand on it for support; his left leg was weak from nonuse. “Toss those pistols down.”
When the soldiers hesitated, Tom thumbed his .44’s hammer back. The ratcheting click was loud in the silence.
The towhead tossed his Colt Army into the yard ahead and right of the taller kid, who followed suit.
With both pistols in the dust, Tom asked, “Why you boys lookin’ to pull my picket pin?”
After a brief hesitation, the towhead said, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mr. Navarro. We were just comin’ over to chat.”
“We couldn’t sleep,” the other one added. “We wanted to hear some stories about gunfights and such.”
“Boys, if you don’t give it to me straight, I’m gonna back shoot you both, which is hell of a lot more than you deserve for trying to bushwack me while I slept.”
Neither one said anything. The coyote was giving his vocal cords a rest, but the crickets continued their raucous serenade.
“You killed my brother,” the tall soldier blurted, his voice tense. “Three years ago . . . in Abilene.”
Navarro studied the kid’s back, trying to remember. Abilene. Three years ago, Vannorsdell had sent him and Tixier to Abilene to pick up some breed bulls. While there, a kid wanting to make a name for himself had slapped leather on him in a general store. Tixier had seen it coming, yelled a warning, and Navarro had drilled three pills through the kid’s chest.
The kid’s younger brother had been in the bawdy house next door, but he’d run over when he’d heard the shooting. The kid had said nothing to Navarro, but Tom knew from the look in the kid’s eyes, as he’d crouched over the body, that he’d be trouble one day.
That day had arrived.
“Your brother made a mistake, boy. Don’t you do the same.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“No, I reckon I didn’t have to. But if I hadn’t, I’d be pushing up Texas wildflowers.”
“He just wanted to see how fast you were. He didn’t want to shoot.”
“Bullshit.” Navarro looked at the towhead. “What’s your stake in this, private?”
“Me?” the towhead said, turning a grin over his right shoulder. “I just want the honor of turning you under, Mr. Navarro. You know—somethin’ to tell my grandkids about.”