“Pierce left me for dead, but I was picked up by a passing stage and returned here.” Stryker managed a smile. “The post surgeon did his best, but Pierce is a big man and strong, and the damage was too great. The handsome specimen you see before you is the result.”
Hanson, obviously embarrassed, tried to say the right words, but finally gave up, his mouth working.
“Major, I’ve grown used to children running from me in fear and women shrinking away when I turn and they see my face. The Mexicans call me la Fea Una, the Ugly One. I don’t know what my own men or the Apaches call me.”
“Let me just add that Lieutenant Stryker is a fine officer, and I’m glad he’s here and not playing drawing room soldier in Washington,” Devore said quickly. He looked at Stryker. “I plan to recommend you for promotion to captain for your successful action against the Apaches, Lieutenant. I think I still have enough influence among the old Civil War generals to see that it’s done.”
Stryker nodded. “Thank you, sir, but I’d rather have your permission to go after Pierce.”
Devore said nothing. But when he laid the Winchester on his desk, then opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle and three glasses, it seemed to Stryker a polite preface to a vehement no.
“A glass of whiskey with you, gentlemen,” the colonel said. “To celebrate Lieutenant Stryker’s success against the Apaches and his coming promotion.” He filled the glasses and raised his own. “To the confusion and defeat of Nana and Geronimo, damn their dirty hides.”
When the glasses were drained, Devore refilled them. He offered cigars. Hanson declined, but Stryker gladly accepted. It was said the colonel’s cigars were the finest, sent to him regularly by General Grant, his old comrade-in-arms.
The colonel told Stryker to pull up a chair, and when he was settled he resumed his own seat behind his desk and studied the younger officer through a cloud of blue smoke.
“Lieutenant, as to your orders: Tomorrow at sunup you will take a full company of Major Hanson’s infantry and march south, full packs, no mules or supply wagon.”
Stryker was appalled, like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer.
Infantry! He’d never catch up to Pierce with a bunch of green web-feet weighed down by knapsack, haversack, blanket, overcoat, canteen, rations, cartridge box, waist belt, bayonet scabbard and the nine pound Springfield rifle.
But military protocol demanded that he remain silent and he did.
Devore was still talking. “You will march to where Big Bend Creek enters the Pedregosa Mountains, about two miles south of the Packsaddle, and take into custody the Apaches you find there.”
The colonel relit his cigar, taking his time, his eyes on Stryker. The lieutenant’s ruined face no longer reflected his emotions, but his stiff, upright posture in the chair eloquently betrayed how he felt.
“The rancheria is more or less ramrodded by an old chief who goes by the name Yanisin. He’s always been friendly to whites and we want him to remain that way. You will move the old man’s people to Fort Bowie, and, contingent on further orders, to the San Carlos.”
Stryker said nothing, but Hanson’s question filled in the silence. “How many Apaches are involved, Colonel?”
“According to Long John Wills, about a hundred and fifty, at least twenty-five of them warriors.”
The major nodded. “I can see why you want to keep them away from Nana and Geronimo.”
“Indeed, Major, if they joined Nana and his band, that would be a disaster,” Devore said. “You can understand, Lieutenant, why speed of march is of the essence. I want those Apaches in Army custody as quickly as possible.”
“Then give me a troop of cavalry, sir,” Stryker said. “If memory serves me correct, Saddleback Mountain is about fifty miles due south of here. If I push the horses I can be at the rancheria in two days. Infantry weighed down by seventy pounds of rifle and backpack could take nearly twice that long.”
“Lieutenant, I assure you that my men will still be marching when your cavalry mounts are lamed up and weak from lack of water,” Hanson said edgily, revealing the foot soldier’s hereditary antagonism toward the mounted warrior. “The Twenty-third can cover that distance as fast as horses and will still be capable of fighting when they get there.”
Stryker studied Hanson more closely. It was true that the man looked like a baby-faced boy masquerading in an officer’s uniform, but he wouldn’t have gotten to be a major in the frontier army unless there was steel in his backbone, and he’d just proved that.
“There’s no point in arguing about something that won’t happen,” Devore sighed. “Lieutenant, all the cavalry has been recalled to Fort Bowie, and I mean all. And the scouts have also been called in, but if you can make an arrangement with Joe Hogg, then I’m willing to turn a blind eye. At any rate, at dawn tomorrow you will begin your march to Chief Yanisin’s rancheria with Company E of the Twenty-third Infantry as ordered. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. But perhaps the colonel can tell me how I feed and water one hundred and fifty savages on the march back to Fort Bowie. I understand that Camp Rucker had been abandoned, so I can’t look to supplies from there.”
Devore’s smile was good-natured, without a trace of malice. “There are plans to reoccupy Camp Rucker, but not in the immediate future. Lieutenant Stryker, one of the reasons you were commissioned into the United States Army from West Point is because you were judged to possess the initiative to solve problems as they arise, including the proper care and feeding of Apaches.”
Now Stryker smiled, but he looked anything but good-natured. He was hard-eyed and cold. “I’d solve the problem by marching into the Apache village, killing Yanisin and his twenty-five young bucks, and leaving the women and children to shift for themselves.”
“It’s a way, Lieutenant,” Devore said, almost wearily, “but it’s not the right way. We’re trying to pacify the Apaches, not wipe them from the face of the earth.”
Before Stryker could say more, the colonel rose to his feet and glanced at his watch. “I’m sure you gentlemen are eager to get back to your duties,” he said. He held out a hand. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”
Then, to Hanson, “Major, I’ll need you later for the court-martial of Trooper Ruxton, and bring another of your officers. I’ll tell you when.”
“I’m at your service, sir.”
“And you will testify to this soldier’s guilt, Lieutenant,” the colonel said.
Before Stryker followed Hanson out the door, Devore’s voice stopped him. “By the way, Lieutenant, you have the right to dislike Apaches, even hate them if you must, but remember, they’re still God’s children.”
Stryker nodded, but said nothing.
Chapter 9
At five minutes after seven that evening, as the day shaded into night and a cool, desert wind gusted the rising moon, Trooper Louis Ruxton, age twenty-seven, birthplace Cork, Ireland, was condemned to death by firing squad for the crimes of inciting mutiny, insubordination and the attempted escape from lawful military custody.
Sergeant Miles Hooper, age thirty-eight, birthplace Birmingham, England, was found guilty in absentia and sentenced to death.
At seven-forty-five, without benefit of the last rites, there being no Catholic chaplain present at the post, Trooper Ruxton was shot to death by firing squad, the coup de grace administered by Major Hanson.
Small mercies had been extended to the condemned. The firing squad was chosen from the Twenty-third Infantry, and not from among Ruxton’s own comrades, and Colonel Devore ordered the condemned to be given as much brandy as he could drink.