“Again, I don’t know. Forty, fifty, at least.”
“They’ll be back.” Warden thought for a while, then said, “I’ll have the boys cut out a couple of head and leave them here. Apaches are always hungry and they may wait to fill their bellies before they come after us.”
“They might,” Stryker allowed.
“Or they might not,” Warden said. “Comanches are notional, so are Kiowa, but they don’t come close to Apaches in contrariness.”
A half hour later, Warden’s bony herd spread out along the creek. “They’ve been living on mesquite beans since damn near we left Tucson,” the man offered by way of explanation. “I think every blade of grass is burned down to the roots between here and the Colorado.”
The rancher’s three other riders were just as shaggy and trail-worn as their boss, but they looked like tough and competent men and they kept their tongues still and rifles close.
While the cattle watered, Birchwood’s infantrymen buried their dead, including the soldier and Mexican from the jacals, both of them already badly decomposed.
“Sir, we have a problem,” Birchwood said, saluting.
To Stryker’s surprise, he’d found all three of their horses still in their stables. It seemed that the Apaches, confident of victory, had left them there to be picked up later.
Now he stroked the criollo’s nose, enjoying the relatively cool gloom of its stall and he looked at Birchwood, his eyes asking a question.
“It’s about Private Carter, sir. The chest wound.”
“What about him?”
“To be brutally frank, sir, he’s not dead yet.” The young officer hesitated and then said, “I don’t want to leave him behind for the Apaches.”
“Nor do I, Lieutenant. We’ll use the travois again. Mount it behind one of the horses.”
“He won’t survive the journey to Fort Bowie on a travois, sir, and he’ll be in great pain. He’s already suffering dreadfully.”
Suddenly Stryker was irritated. “Then what do you suggest I do, Lieutenant? Shoot him?”
“No, sir. Private Carter is one of my men. I’ll shoot him. But I need an order from you to that effect.”
Irritation turned to anger. “Mr. Birchwood, you wish to salve your conscience with the excuse that you were only following my order. You’re right. Carter is one of your men. If you plan to shoot him, then the responsibility lies with you.”
“I was neither trying to evade my responsibility nor salve my conscience, sir,” Birchwood said stiffly. “Since you are in command, I thought you should give the order.”
Stryker’s anger died. Birchwood was right; he was in command and he was the one to give the order. Besides, he already had blood on his hands. He’d shot Hooper after the Apaches had gotten to him and one mercy killing was much like any other.
But it shouldn’t be like this. It was not meant to be like this. He had never intended to make these life-and-death decisions.
Stryker’s future career had been all mapped out for him, a handsome tin soldier who married the colonel’s daughter and would make an excellent career for himself in Washington. He shouldn’t be here, in a stinking stable in the middle of a stinking desert, listening to a boy second lieutenant ask him for his permission to kill a man.
“Mr. Birchwood,” he said, not looking at the lieutenant, his expression empty, “If Private Carter does not show much improvement by the time we leave for Fort Bowie, I order you to shoot him, to spare him from further suffering and to prevent him from falling into the hands of the enemy.”
Now he looked at Birchwood. “Would you like that order in writing?”
For a moment the lieutenant seemed scandalized. He had grown up in a society where a gentleman’s word was his bond and was never questioned. To doubt Stryker, an officer and a gentleman by writ of Congress, would be to betray his own class and everything it held dear.
“That, sir,” he said, his face pale and tight around the mouth, “will not be necessary.”
Stryker understood perfectly and did not press the matter. “Very well, Mr. Birchwood, carry on.”
The young man saluted sharply and left. Stryker looked around the shadowed barn and whispered aloud, “Where the hell are you, Joe? I need you.”
The only sound was the stomp of Birchwood’s bay as it shook off flies and a distant shout from one of Abe Warden’s drovers.
Stryker walked into the bright sunlight and his eyes moved to the hills where the Apaches waited. . . .
Waiting for what?
Chapter 24
“I figure to drive the herd right through Apache Pass, taking the old military road, then swing south to Fort Bowie,” Abe Warden said. “We should arrive there by nightfall if the pass ain’t grazed out, we don’t get a prairie fire and the Apaches don’t stampede the cattle.”
“How about water on that route?” Stryker asked.
“There’s water at Apache Springs, Lieutenant, and grass. We can rest the herd there for a spell.”
“Then we should move out immediately. Where do you want my men?”
“My drovers will stay close to the herd. Maybe a couple of sod’jers out on the point and the rest can bring up the drag.”
“I’ll ride point, Mr. Warden.”
“Suit yourself, Lieutenant. Just give me plenty of warning if you bump into hostiles.”
“There will be cavalry patrols in the pass. I believe the Apaches will stay clear.”
Warden nodded. “Well, sir, I don’t put that much stock in the Army or the Apaches. Both will do as they please. And, in the case of the Apaches, the last damn thing a man expects.”
The rancher’s eyes lifted over Stryker’s shoulder. “Charlie!” he yelled. “Start moving ’em out. We’re heading for the pass.” He glanced at Stryker. “If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant . . .”
“Of course.”
As Warden bustled away, Stryker walked to the adobe and stepped into its stench. The wounded soldier lay on a cot in one of the rooms, Birchwood standing over him.
“How is he?” Stryker asked.
It was an unnecessary question. Private Carter’s chest bubbled blood and fluid with every labored breath and lilac death shadows were gathering under his eyes and in the hollows of his unshaven cheeks.
“He’s dying, sir. But not fast enough.”
“We’re moving out, Mr. Birchwood. Your men will follow the herd and flank it where the terrain allows.”
“Yes, sir.” Birchwood was only half listening.
Stryker stepped into the cabin and looked down at the red-haired woman, who seemed much younger than he’d first thought. Kelly was still in her arms, her eyes frightened. “What is your name?” he said, trying to pitch his rough voice in a softer tone.
To his surprise, the woman answered him, her green eyes on his. “My name is Fedelia Lacy. I am twenty-three years old.”
“Can you ride a horse, Fedelia?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’re headed for Fort Bowie. I’ll give you a horse and you will ride with Kelly. Do you understand?”
“Kelly is nice, but she’s so sad. Her mother was killed by the Apaches.”
“Yes, I know. Now you must come with me and I’ll saddle your horse.”
The woman rose to her feet and held Kelly close to her. “Will you hang me?”
Stryker was taken aback. “No, of course not. Why would I do such a thing?”
“I killed a man. Over there in the hospital. He wanted to touch me and I’ve been touched by too many men. His gun was in his holster and I grabbed it and I shot him.”
“Fedelia, he was a bad man. You were only defending”—Stryker almost lapsed into a false, gentlemanly language and said, “your honor,” but instead he said—“yourself.”
“He killed the soldier who had stayed behind to look for me. The soldier was asleep on a cot and the bad man broke his legs with an ax. He dragged the soldier away and later he shot him while offering him water. Then he said he’d killed a Mexican who’d begged him for his life. He said he’d killed the Mexican just for fun. He said the same thing would happen to me if I wasn’t nice to him and be his whore.”