He had not slept. The constant Apache sniping and the prospect of cutting off Private Stearns’ leg had kept him awake throughout the night, though cigarettes and whiskey had helped.
Birchwood, exhibiting the resilience of the young, looked fresh and rested. He stepped beside the wounded soldier and his face fell.
“It’s worse, Lieutenant, huh?” Stryker asked.
“Yes, sir. It has to come off soon.” The young officer looked directly into Stryker’s eyes. “It will kill him if we don’t.”
Birchwood had said “we.” But Stryker knew there was no “we.” There was only “you.” What the boy was really saying was “It will kill him if you don’t, First Lieutenant Stryker.”
Back at the Point, this was called “the burden of command.” He was the senior officer present, and it was his call. That’s what Birchwood expected, and that’s what the soldiers expected.
Stryker looked around him, searching the young, troubled faces that were waiting for him to say something, words of strength and wisdom that would reassure them. He gave up the search. There was no one else, only Steve Stryker. He had to do it.
“One of you men, bring a bottle of rotgut from the bar,” he said. “I want this soldier good and drunk.”
Stryker placed the flat of his hand on Private Stearns’ heaving chest. “I have to take your leg off, son,” he said. “There’s no other way.”
The teenager tried to smile. “I like to dance, sir. I was good at it back home in Tennessee. My . . . my sisters teached me, and my ma.”
“One time at a cotillion I saw a man dance on one leg,” Stryker lied. “He did all right.” He leaned closer to the youngster. “What’s your given name, soldier?”
“Sam, sir. My pa set store by that name, said it was crackerjack.”
Stryker smiled. “It sure is a crackerjack name, just like your pa said.”
A soldier brought a bottle and with a rough, kindly gentleness raised the youngster’s head. “Get this whiskey down you, Sammy, boy,” he said. “I want to see you hymn-singing, snot-slingin’ drunk.”
A bullet shattered a window pane and thudded into the far wall, followed by a furious fusillade of fire that threatened to shred the adobe into Swiss cheese. The soldiers at the windows were shooting, but no hits were scored. Apaches moved like wraiths and were hard to kill.
A big, bearded trooper yelped as a bullet cut across his bicep and another got a faceful of splinters as a shot exploded the dry timber of the window frame.
Stryker watched Stearns try to drink, but the raw whiskey would not stay down and the youngster threw it back up, now tinged with scarlet blood. The inside of the adobe was thick with drifting gunsmoke, the stink of sulfur hung in the air and the amber light of the burning stove transformed the adobe into an antechamber of hell.
The coffee was boiling, but Stryker had a large, flat meat cleaver in the coals, the iron glowing dull red, and the fire stayed lit.
“Got one!” a soldier yelled.
“The hell you did!” somebody answered. “He’s still running.”
Birchwood had a half dozen men kneeling behind him at the door. He looked at Stryker who was standing motionless beside Stearns.
“Permission to sortie, sir,” he said. “I can bring more of our rifles to bear.”
Like a man waking from a dream, Stryker moved to a window. Outside, the Apaches were tightening the ring around the ranch, taking advantage of every scrap of cover. As Stryker watched, an Indian rose up, fired, and then disappeared again like a fleeting shadow.
A direct attempt to storm the adobe anytime soon was unlikely. The Apaches were playing a waiting game, trying to whittle down the number of men inside before launching an all-out assault.
Already two soldiers were wounded, both slightly, but the Apaches were finding the range and their fire was becoming more economical as they chose their targets.
Stryker stepped away from the window and raised his voice above the roar of gunfire. “Deploy in line, Lieutenant,” he said, “and see if you can drive them back. A couple of volleys; then get inside again. For God’s sake, don’t linger.”
He looked around him. “You men at the front windows, give Lieutenant Birchwood some covering fire.” As the Springfields crashed, Stryker nodded to Birchwood and yelled, “Go, Lieutenant!”
The door swung open and Birchwood and his men dashed outside.
Immediately the tempo of the Apache fire increased, the flat bark of the Springfields a drumming counterpoint to the sharp ring of the Indian Winchesters.
There are times when a man does a wrongheaded thing and later he can’t explain the why or the wherefore of it. Stryker knew he was in command, aware of the fact that he should not risk his life rashly and unnecessarily. Yet he drew his Colt and plunged from the adobe, his eyes seeking a target the instant he got outside.
Birchwood’s men were kneeling in line, firing steadily. The Apaches, sensing the kill, had left cover and had formed into a loose arc, working their Winchesters.
Stryker emptied his revolver at an Indian wearing a red headband and fancy Mexican vest, and was sure he’d scored a hit. But the man vanished from sight and there was nothing to mark where he’d been but a wisp of dust.
An Apache fell to Birchwood’s fire, and then one of his men toppled forward, his faced covered in sudden blood. A bullet tugged at Stryker’s sleeve and a second kicked up dust at his feet. Another Apache went down, and they began to give ground, moving back, seeking cover again.
“Inside, Lieutenant,” Stryker yelled. “We burned them.”
He had reloaded his Colt and fired it dry before following Birchwood and his men into the adobe. The soldier who’d been shot was dead and they left him where he lay.
As he slammed and bolted the door behind him, Stryker’s reeling mind betrayed him. Unbidden, the thought came to him, “Please, God, let Private Sam Stearns be as dead as the man outside.”
Suddenly ashamed of himself, he stepped beside the young soldier. Stearns was still alive, his blue eyes huge and frightened in his ashen face. As bullets rattled into the adobe, Stryker spared a quick glance at Kelly. The girl was terrified, but she was still huddled silent in a corner and was unhurt.
The lieutenant turned his attention to Stearns’ leg. Someone, probably Birchwood, had ripped the youngster’s pants to allow for the gangrene’s grotesque swelling. The leg itself was black, stinking, shining in the half-light like a gigantic, loathsome slug.
“Sir . . .” Stearns began. He could say no more, the words dying on his lips.
Stryker nodded. “I know, son. I know.” He laid his hand on the boy’s fevered forehead. “Very soon you’re going to have to be very brave.”
“Yes, sir, I know.” His eyes were haunted as if he stood, trembling, at a door marked FEAR. “The trouble is, sir, I’m not very brave.”
“Soldier, you’re doing just fine so far,” Stryker said. “When this is over I’m going to have Lieutenant Birchwood make you a corporal.”
The boy managed a wan smile. “I’d like that, sir.” “Those stripes will be on your sleeve in no time.” Stryker turned. “Lieutenant, I need two men.” When the soldiers stepped to the table, he said, “Hold him down.”
A bullet ricocheted off the iron stove, sang its vindictive song, then buried itself in a wall. At one of the windows a soldier fired, cursed, and fired again.
“You’ve got a good hold of him?”
One of the soldiers, yet another frightened youngster, nodded, pressing down hard on Stearns’ shoulders.
“Then let’s get it done,” Stryker said. He picked up his instruments, a razor sharp kitchen knife and a bone saw. It was not yet time for the saw and he laid it aside.