“Damn your eyes, Birchwood!” he roared. “Are you trying to murder me?”
“Advance!” the lieutenant yelled. “Fire at will.”
A half dozen soldiers pounded past Stryker, and then Birchwood was kneeling beside him. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I took you for the enemy.”
Now the fire from the foothills was steadier and Stryker was sure he could hear the staccato bark of Hogg’s Henry.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the fight was over.
Hoofbeats receded in the distance and soldiers were firing a few last forlorn shots at shadows.
Birchwood rose to his feet. “Cease fire!”
The shooting staggered to a halt and soon the only sound was the racket of the rain and the grumble of thunder as the storm moved to the south.
Birchwood helped Stryker to his feet as Hogg emerged from the gloom. “It was Rake, all right, Lieutenant,” he said. “I seen him clear and took a pot at him. Missed him clean.”
Stryker nodded. “Over there, I downed an Apache.” Hogg shook his head. “He’s Kiowa, Lieutenant. That’s how come ol’ Rake found us in the storm. A Kiowa can track damn near as good as an Apache and there are some who say even better.”
“Where’s Dugan?”
“Gone. An’ three dead soldiers over there who tried to stop him.”
“And Pierce’s men?”
“The Kiowa dead and maybe a couple more of Rake’s men winged, or maybe not.” The scout hesitated a moment, then said, “They surprised us, Lieutenant, attacking out of the storm like that.”
His failure to protect his men was a bitter pill to swallow.
Stryker turned on Birchwood. “Any other casualties?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Then goddamn you, Lieutenant, find out!”
His young face stricken, Birchwood saluted and strode away.
“How are Mrs. McCabe and Kelly?”
“They’re fine.” Hogg tried to find Stryker’s eyes in the rain-lashed darkness. “A bit hard on the boy, wasn’t you, Lieutenant? He did well, rallied his men under fire and mounted a counterattack.”
Stryker smiled. “It doesn’t do second lieutenants any harm to be reprimanded now and again. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure his actions are brought to the attention of Major Hanson.”
Birchwood reported back a few minutes later. The news was bad. Three dead and one seriously wounded, a seventeen-year-old named Stearns who was shot through both legs.
Stryker was worried. This meant another delay, but there was no way around it. “We’ll spend the night here, Lieutenant,” he said. “At first light, rig up a travois for the wounded man. Use the Kiowa’s pony.”
Birchwood saluted and turned to go, but Stryker’s sense of fair play would not let him remain silent.
“By the way, Lieutenant, your behavior during the engagement was exemplary, and I will inform Major Hanson of this when we reach Fort Merit.”
The young man smiled and saluted again. “Thank you, sir.”
Watching Birchwood leave, Stryker wondered if he’d ever been that young. Then he realized he had once, when Millie had been in love with him. A thousand years ago.
Chapter 18
There was something wrong. . . . Seriously wrong . . .
Stryker again scanned Fort Merit with his field glasses. The adobes and jacals were deserted, but, given the threat of an Apache attack, that was to be expected. But there was no sign of life at the saloons or the hog ranch and the army buildings also seemed empty, a couple of barracks doors hanging open, moving back and forth in the wind.
No flag flew above the parade ground and one of the brass cannons was tipped over on its side.
“Damn it,” Stryker whispered to himself, “where is everybody?”
He handed the glasses to Hogg. “Joe, what do you make of this?”
As Stryker had done, the scout studied the post for a couple of minutes, the glasses ranging all over the terrain and the mountains beyond.
Finally he lowered the glasses, his face troubled.
“Looks like they left in an almighty hurry, Lieutenant.”
“I don’t see any sign of an Apache attack.”
“Or Apaches either,” Birchwood said, his own field glasses hanging on his chest.
“Mr. Hogg, let’s ride ahead and take a look,” Stryker said. “Lieutenant, if the coast is clear I’ll wave you on, and you may bring in the company and Mrs. McCabe. If I don’t show after thirty minutes, hightail it for Fort Bowie.”
“Yes, sir.”
Under a high, hot sun, Stryker and Hogg rode through the deserted jacals, and everywhere there were signs of a hurried departure. The tents of the infantry company had been struck and were nowhere in sight. Even the dogs that roamed around the post were gone.
Then they found their first dead man. The Mexican was sprawled outside the door to his adobe, facedown in the sand. A few silver coins were spilling out of his outstretched right hand and in his left he held an ornate crucifix. Blue flies buzzed around the bullet wounds in his back.
Sitting against the wall of a neighboring jacal was another body, this time one of Major Hanson’s infantrymen. The man had died in the act of raising a canteen to his mouth and his eyes were still wide-open, staring intently into nothingness. There was a neat bullet hole between his eyes.
Hogg got off his horse and kneeled beside the dead soldier. After a while he looked up at Stryker. “Both his legs are broke, Lieutenant.”
“What do you make of it, Joe?”
The scout shook his head. “I don’t know. It could be the work of Apaches, but I don’t see any pony or moccasin tracks. Plenty of sign left by boots, though.”
“How long ago?”
“Not long. Early this morning, maybe.”
“Pierce?”
Hogg shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Lieutenant.”
“We’ll check headquarters. Maybe Major Hanson left us a note.”
Stryker waited until Hogg mounted, and then they rode slowly toward the parade ground. The scout had his rifle across the saddle horn, carried himself high in the saddle, and looked ready for anything.
It wasn’t long in coming.
A shot rang out from the direction of the post hospital. A pause, then another.
Stryker pulled his Colt and kneed his horse into a fast canter. Beside him Hogg broke a little to the left, putting some fighting space between him and the lieutenant. The scout reached the hospital building first and leaped from his horse. Stryker watched him dash inside, then vanish from sight.
Hurting, Stryker swung stiffly out of the saddle. He turned and saw Birchwood and his men running across the parade ground toward him, rifles at the slant. His boots clumping on the hard-baked earth, Stryker stepped into the hospital—and almost tripped over a dead man.
Jake Allen lay on his back, shot twice in the belly at so close a range the skin around the wounds was blackened. He was unbuttoned and his pants and drawers had fallen down around his ankles. A combination of surprise and pain had already stiffened on his face and his eyes still held the horror he’d felt at the timing and manner of his dying.
Hogg and Birchwood stepped into the hospital at the same time. The young lieutenant saluted and said defensively, “Sir, your orders said nothing about gunshots, so I took it on my own initiative to come immediately to your aid.”
Stryker smiled. “You did the right thing, Lieutenant.”
Now he looked questioningly at Hogg and the scout said, “Something you should come look at.”
All three men stepped out the rear door of the hospital. Beyond lay a hundred yards of sand, rock and cactus that gave way gradually to a low, mesquite and juniper-covered bluff. Behind the rise soared the vast bulk of a mountain peak, its upper slopes green with pine.