Carter laughed. “Don’t listen to Gibson,” he said. “He’s spoutin’ off that barracks-law bullshit. Don’t fool yourself, kid. If they find us, they’re goin’ to hang us.”
“Even if we’re carrying these pistols like Corporal Gibson said?” Wilson asked.
“Hell, yes, even if we’re carryin’ these pistols. Fact is, that’ll make it worse. They’ll hang us for desertin’ the Army and for stealing Army property,” Carter said, laughing.
“Shit,” Wilson said. “I wish I was back in Missouri.”
“Doin’ what? Walkin’ behind a plow horse?” Gibson asked. “Is that what you want to do for the rest of your life? Plow?”
“So if you don’t want to plow, what do you want? To spend the rest of your life in the Army?”
“No, I don’t really want to do that either. I wasn’t exactly what you would call a good soldier,” Wilson said.
Carter laughed. “I can’t argue there. As a soldier, Wilson, you wasn’t worth shit.”
“Maybe not, but you was both good soldiers. Both of you have been sergeants.”
“That’s true,” Carter said. “Fact is, we both been sergeants more’n a couple of times.”
“I still can’t believe that you both deserted.”
“Unauthorized absence,” Gibson said. “We didn’t desert. You keep sayin’ we deserted like that and you will wind up gettin’ our asses hung.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry none ’bout us gettin’ hung, Gibson,” Carter said, all the humor suddenly gone from his voice. “We prob’ly ain’t goin’ to live that long.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Over there,” Carter said, pointing to the next ridgeline.
“Holy shit.”
Six Apache Indians were coming toward them, riding fast and spread out in a long line.
“Hell, there’s just six of ’em,” Gibson said, pulling his pistol. “We’ll take cover behind those rocks over there.”
“Corporal, I only got about three bullets in my gun,” Wilson said.
“I’ve got a box of ammunition in my saddlebag,” Carter said.
“Forget it, Carter,” Gibson said, holding out his hand to stop him. “You’ll never make it to your horse.”
The Apaches opened fire and bullets began frying the air around the three soldiers, hitting the rocks alongside, then whining off behind them.
The Indians began riding back and forth in front of them. They were excellent horsemen, and as they passed by in front, they would lean down behind their horses, always managing to keep their horses between them and the soldiers.
The three returned fire and for the next several seconds, the valley rang with the echo of gunfire.
“I’m out of shells!” Wilson screamed in panic.
Carter fired, then pulled the trigger to fire again. His hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“Damn! I am too!”
“I saved three bullets,” Gibson said pointedly.
“Saved three bullets? What do you mean?” Wilson asked. “Three bullets ain’t goin’ to do us no good! There’s six of them!”
“But there’s only three of us,” Gibson said pointedly.
“Three of us? What do you mean?”
“Let’s do it,” Carter said, understanding immediately what Gibson was talking about. He got down on his knees, crossed himself, then bowed his head.
Seeing him, Wilson realized what was about to happen.
“Oh, shit,” Wilson said quietly, shaking his head. “Oh, shit, no. We can’t do this!”
“Johnny, trust me, you don’t want those heathens to take you alive,” Gibson said. It was the first time he had ever called the young soldier by his first name.
“Do it, Mickey,” Carter said to Gibson. “Do it before it’s too late.”
Gibson looked at Wilson.
Wilson’s bottom lip was trembling, but he nodded his head in the affirmative. “Yes,” he said. “Do it.”
“God be with us, boys,” Gibson said. He put the gun to Wilson’s temple and pulled the trigger.
“Hurry, Mickey, hurry!” Carter said.
Gibson shot Carter. After that, he put the barrel in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Nothing!
Had he miscounted?
He tried again, still nothing.
By now the Apache realized what he was doing and, incensed by being cheated of their prisoners, they rushed him.
“No!” Gibson screamed. He grabbed one of the pickaxes they had been working with and had the fleeting satisfaction of burying it halfway into the head of one of the Indians. But before he could pull it out, he was jumped on by three more, and despite his struggles, they were able to subdue him, tying his hands and feet with rawhide.
Falcon stood in the stirrups for a moment, just to stretch away his saddle ache, then urged his horse on. That was when he saw the vultures.
They were circling too warily, too cautiously, for it to be a small animal. And there were far too many for them to be attracted to one thing.
Falcon had seen them gather like this before, over the battlefields during the war in which he and his brothers had fought on opposite sides. He’d seen them since the war as well, during his wanderings through the West. Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, he hurried it on for the next mile until he saw what was attracting the vulture’s attention.
Three naked bodies lay white and bloating in the sun. Two of the bodies were just lying there, and one of those he recognized as Private Wilson, the young private who had challenged him and Sheriff Corbin at the gate when they visited Fort Lowell. Private Wilson and the man lying beside them were not mutilated in any way. Both had gunshot wounds in the temple, the bullet holes black with encrusted blood.
The third man was staked out on the ground, his arms and legs spread out. His penis had been cut off and, from the amount of blood that had pooled between his legs, it had happened while he was still alive. His eyes were cut out, and his scalp had been lifted, but Falcon was more than reasonably sure that this was Corporal Gibson, the corporal he had encountered on that same visit to Fort Lowell.
“What were you three doing out here?” he asked. “I’m sure Colonel Dixon did not send out a three-man patrol.”
Looking around, Falcon saw a shovel, a pretty good-sized hole, and a few rocks that had been broken into smaller pieces. That told him all he needed to know.
“I’ll be damn. You three men were deserters, weren’t you?” he said. “Figured you’d come out here and dig yourself up some of that gold you heard people talking about.” He sighed. “You should’ve thought about it a little more.”
Picking up the shovel, Falcon enlarged the hole enough to be able to take all three bodies. Then he cut the corporal loose and dragged him and the others over to where he had been working. He pushed them down into the hole, covered them with dirt, then moved a few rocks over the top of the grave.
When he was finished, he looked down at the grave.
“Corporal Gibson, you were an asshole, but you deserved better than this. You others as well,” he said aloud.
Then recalling a legend that brought comfort to cavalrymen, he recited a poem:
Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troopers camped,
In a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers’ Green.
According to the legend, no man who had ever served in the cavalry could have possibly lived a life that was good enough to earn him a place in heaven. On the other hand, the cavalrymen had all served enough penance on earth to keep them from going to hell. The alternative to heaven or hell was Fiddlers’ Green, a place where the water was cool, the beer was plentiful, there was always bacon with the beans, and the dance-hall girls were friendly.