“Three days ago, I think. When a woman sees only cabin walls she loses track of time.”
“Joe, we didn’t see wagon tracks on the hogback.”
“There’s another way in and out of the basin, Lieutenant. It’s a narrow, rocky canyon to the east of the cabin, but it’s passable, even for freight wagons. I scouted over that way and found wheel tracks. That’s how the wagons came and went, all right.”
“Why didn’t your husband go with them, Mrs. McCabe?”
“Lieutenant, it pleased him to beat me or rape me, depending on his mood. He didn’t take me into his confidence when he was enjoying either activity.”
Hogg’s boots thudded on the hard packed dirt floor. He laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “We buried him deep, Mrs. McCabe. He isn’t coming back.”
Mary nodded, looking up at him, but said nothing.
Stryker’s mind was still racing. “Joe, why did McCabe split up from the rest of them?”
“Dunno, Lieutenant. Maybe McCabe left on a scout, agreeing to join up with Rake and the others at a certain place. Trouble is, he ran into traveling Apaches who shot first and asked questions later.”
“Can we track those wagons?”
“We can track them.”
Stryker swung his legs out of the bed and discovered that he was naked except for the bandage that circled his waist and looped over his shoulder. “Mrs. McCabe, could you avert your eyes?” He looked at the little girl who was standing close to her sitting mother’s knee, regarding him with wide, solemn eyes. “And the child, if you please.”
The woman smiled, but she and her daughter suddenly found something to do at the stove.
Stryker got to his feet, calling to Hogg to get his clothes.
Then a wave of pain and weakness hit him and he was falling headlong into a bottomless pit of darkness.
Chapter 13
“Lieutenant Stryker, you’re shot through and through and you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Mary McCabe said. “You’re not fit to go anywhere.”
The woman’s face was an oval blur in the wan lamplight. “How long have I been out?” he asked.
“Not long, ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Is Joe Hogg still here?”
“No. He left.”
“Please tell Lieutenant Birchwood I want to see him.”
When the officer stepped into the cabin, Stryker saw concern etched in the frown that had gathered between the young man’s eyebrows.
“How are you, sir?” he asked.
“Well, I tried to get out of bed and fell down. Does that tell you something?”
Birchwood said nothing, but he shifted his feet uncomfortably.
“Tomorrow morning you will break camp before sunrise and proceed south to the Apache village. Bring Yanisin and his people this far, then send Mr. Hogg to fetch me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. I will leave a squad here to protect the cabin should the Apaches decide to attack again.”
“No, you won’t, Lieutenant. You might need all the men you have and then some.” Stryker was tired and in pain. Looking at the fresh-faced Birchwood he suddenly felt old. “There’s a possibility that the Apaches will turn north and attack Fort Merit. For that reason, you will send half the company back to reinforce the post garrison.”
“I was not aware of that possibility,” Birchwood said.
“I’m guessing, Lieutenant, and I know that trying to outguess Apaches is always a dangerous business. But if I’m right, Major Hanson can’t hold the fort against Geronimo and Nana with just a single understrength company.”
He shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Mary McCabe had put some kind of poultice on his wounds and now they itched.
“Joe Hogg says Yanisin is a tame Indian and he shouldn’t give you any trouble. The big question is: How will his young men react? Listen to Mr. Hogg. He knows Apaches better than most. If you reach the rancheria and the young bucks show signs of a fight, get the hell out of there in a hurry. Do not engage them.”
Stryker’s eyes searched the younger man’s face. “Do you understand your orders, Lieutenant?”
“I do, sir. Perfectly.”
Stryker tried to smile and used the young man’s name for the first time. “Dale, I’m sending you out with half a company of infantry when what you really need is a regiment. Just . . . just be careful.”
“I will, sir, as far as my orders allow.” He saluted smartly. “Sir, with your permission I’ll see to my men.”
“Yes, do that,” Stryker said. God, he was weary. “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”
Birchwood saluted again, turned smartly and stepped out of the door.
Stryker had the nagging feeling that he was sending the young man to his death.
Still weak and lightheaded, Stryker managed to drag himself out of bed to see the company leave. Mrs. McCabe was asleep in a chair, her daughter lying on a pallet on the floor.
As quietly as he could, he stood in the doorway, the chill desert night not yet giving way to the dawn.
The company moved out silently, marching toward the hogback. Birchwood saw Stryker, grinned and saluted. He then took his place at the head of his men.
Joe Hogg kneed his horse toward Stryker and drew rein opposite the door.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“And I feel worse.” Stryker’s eyes sought the scout’s face in the indigo light. “Bring them back, Joe,” he said. “Every last one of them.” He hesitated, then added, “And bring yourself back.”
Hogg smiled. “Gettin’ shot done you some good, Lieutenant. You’re suddenly full o’ the milk of human kindness, as ol’ Shakespeare says.”
“You saved my life, Joe. Nobody else could have dug that bullet out of my back.”
The scout nodded. “I think maybe yours was a life worth saving. I sure hope so.” He looked beyond the cabin door to the darkness inside. “Take care of Mrs. McCabe, Lieutenant. Two scarred people should look out for each other.”
He slid his Henry from the boot. “Take this; it’s fully loaded. If you need more than sixteen shots, you’ll be in a war you can’t win anyway.”
Stryker shook his head. “I can’t take your rifle, Joe. You may need it.”
“Hell, I’m surrounded by men with rifles. A Colt won’t do you much good if the Apaches come back.”
Stryker took the Henry, amazed at how heavy it felt in his weakened hands. “Ride easy, Mr. Hogg,” he said.
The scout touched his hat, then turned around and cantered into the darkness. Soon there was no sound but the talk of the coyotes and the morning song of the desert wind.
“Both your wounds look much better,” Mary McCabe said. “They’re healing and I don’t see any sign of an infection.”
“What do you use on the bandage that works such wonders in just three days?” Stryker asked, smiling.
“A tea of chaparral and live oak bark. That and the clean desert air keeps wounds clean. I’ve lived long enough in the wilderness to pick up a few things about Indian medicine.”
“I still feel weak as a kitten.”
“It will take time.”
“I don’t have time. Lieutenant Birchwood and his men will be here soon, herding an entire Apache tribe north.”
“You will go with them?”
“Yes. You and Kelly and me. We’re all going.”
“Do you really think the Apaches will attack Fort Merit?”
“I don’t know for sure. It depends on Geronimo. If he thinks he’s strong enough, destroying an Army post would bring him much renown and respect among his people.”
“How is the bandage? Is it as tight as you wanted?”
“It will do.” The woman had helped him dress earlier, and now Stryker swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Bring me my boots, Mary.”
He tugged on the boots, then said, “Now help me to my feet.”