Hogg got down on one knee, and motioned to Stryker. “Take a look at that, Lieutenant.”
Stryker bent and saw what the scout was showing him. It was a track, small, narrow, made by a woman’s shoe.
“More of them heading toward the bluff,” Hogg said. “I scouted over that way a piece, but didn’t see hide nor hair of anybody. It’s like the gal who left this track just vanished into thin air.”
“Joe, who the hell is she?”
The scout shrugged. “White woman, slim, young enough to hightail it fast. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Lieutenant Birchwood, take some men and search the bluff. Find that woman, whoever the hell she is,” Stryker said.
After the young officer left, he and Hogg walked back into the hospital building. The scout looked at the body. “Somebody sure saved me a bullet.” His eyes ranged over the man’s naked groin, and he smiled. “Ol’ Jake sure is stiff, ain’t he?”
Stryker nodded. “Before he rode two bullets into hell, he had the woman here.” He shook his head. “What was Jake Allen doing at Fort Merit alone?”
“Maybe he wasn’t alone, Lieutenant, at least not at first. For some reason he stayed behind.”
“The woman?”
“As good a reason as any.”
“It might help explain why he died, but it doesn’t explain the deaths of the soldier and the Mexican.”
“They’re all tied together somehow, Lieutenant, and only the woman can tell us how.”
“We’ll find her,” Stryker said. “Now it’s time to take a look at the commanding officer’s office.”
Unlike the jacals and adobes around the post, the office showed no sign of a hurried departure. Everything was in its place and even the half-dozen sharpened pencils on the desk lay in a neat, soldierly row. A fresh sheet of paper was in the desk blotter and the coffeepot, empty and clean, sat on the stove.
Major Hanson had left no note.
“And why should he?” Stryker said to Hogg. “He figured we were heading for Fort Bowie with Yanisin and his people.”
The scout nodded. “It looks like somebody higher up had a lick of sense and knowed Hanson couldn’t hold Fort Merit with a company of infantry. I reckon he was ordered to pull out with the cavalry.”
“But why leave a soldier behind?”
Hogg shrugged. “A deserter maybe, or a straggler from the half company you sent to reinforce the garrison?”
There was no answer to those questions and Stryker let them go. He glanced around him, not liking the echoing, ominous silence of the office, and stepped to the window. A couple of soldiers were pushing the brass cannon back on its wheels and a few more, their rifles at the ready, were checking out the saloons and general store.
After a while Stryker said, without turning, “We’ll cross Apache Pass and head for Fort Bowie. I don’t want the Apaches to catch us here.”
This time he turned, smiling. “Joe, Mrs. McCabe and Kelly are walking across the parade ground beside the wounded soldier’s travois.”
“Will you excuse me, Lieutenant?” Hogg asked.
“Of course.”
Stryker watched as Hogg and Mary embraced; then the scout put his arm around the woman’s waist, took Kelly’s hand and walked toward the post’s married quarters. He felt a sudden twinge of envy that he instantly regretted. It was true that no one was ever glad at his coming or sad at his leaving, but that did not give him the right to be envious of the happiness of others.
Stryker turned away from the window, and built a cigarette. He was lighting it when, to his surprise, Hogg stepped quickly inside. The man seemed agitated.
“Lieutenant, you can forget Fort Bowie, on account of how we’re not going anywhere,” he said. “There’s talking smoke all around us.”
Stryker didn’t hesitate. “Call Lieutenant Birchwood and his men down from the bluff. I’m going to round up the others.” He looked at the scout. “Hell, this is bad, Joe.”
“About as bad as it gets,” Hogg answered.
Chapter 19
“No sign of the woman, sir,” Birchwood said, his face pale under his deep tan. “But I found out what happened to the relief column. For some reason Corporal Yates and twelve men made a stand on the bluff. They’re all dead and stripped of their arms. I don’t know what happened to the six others.”
Stryker turned to Hogg. “Joe, I hate to ask you this with the Apaches so close—”
“I’ll check it out, Lieutenant.”
The scout left as he always did, silently, like a puff of smoke.
“How many effectives do we have, Lieutenant?” Stryker asked.
“Fourteen, sir. The wounded man, Private Stearns, you already know about.”
“Where is he?”
“In the hospital.”
“We’ll have to move him. We can’t defend the entire post.”
“Sir, his . . . Private Stearns’ left leg is black and it smells like rotten meat. I fear gangrene. It will have to be cut off if we are to save his life. I thought perhaps Mr. Hogg . . .”
“Perhaps. I’ll have a word with him. In the meantime I want to look at the saloons and the hog ranch. One of them may be more defensible than any of the post buildings.”
“What about the cannons, sir?”
Stryker smiled. “I don’t think those relics have been fired since the war. Besides, Lieutenant, only white men stand in line and make themselves a target for grapeshot. The Apache fights a war of movement and he never stays long enough in one place for that.”
Birchwood nodded. “You know a lot about the savages, don’t you, sir?”
Stryker shook his head. “I don’t know anything about Apaches, Lieutenant. But I do know, with a few men, we’re being called upon to defend a military post against the best guerilla fighters in the world. Does that thought fill you with confidence?”
“No, sir.”
“Me neither.”
The Bull’s Head saloon, where Stryker had first encountered Jake Allen, was a sod and canvas building and would offer no protection from bullets. The other saloon was a small, windowless adobe and was even less promising.
The hog ranch was farther out, a squat, adobe with an attached corral and to the right of that, a small barn, a chicken coop and an outhouse. There was also a well, usually dry.
Stryker and Birchwood walked in the direction of the ranch, their heads on swivels, constantly watching the smoke rising from the foothills on three sides of them. The Cabezas Mountains did not possess the same pillared majesty of the Chiricahuas, but they were raw and rugged, and the Apaches knew them well.
Stryker had the feeling he was being watched, that somewhere Geronimo was standing on a rocky plinth studying him with cruel, raven eyes that glittered with black fire.
It was not a reassuring sensation and it brought prickly beads of sweat to the lieutenant’s scarred forehead.
The adobe had been built well, with thick walls and a sod roof that would resist fire. It had two windows to the front, one at the side facing away from the corral, and two at the back. There was a door leading to the outhouse and another at the front. Both were made of stout timbers to keep out the summer wind and the winter cold.
Inside, the single, dirt-floored room was partitioned into a half dozen tiny cells, each with a blanket for a door. A small bar stood at one end, the shelf behind holding a dozen or so bottles, and there was a rough pine table and benches.
Birchwood looked around him, his voice almost reverent. “So this is what a brothel looks like,” he said.
“It’s what a hog ranch looks like,” Stryker said. “There are brothels and brothels, Lieutenant.” He looked at the young man. “You’ve never been in one before?”
“Oh no, sir. I promised my betrothed on the day I graduated from West Point that I would not consort with fancy women and that my lips would ne’er touch whiskey. I stand by those promises.”