Ambush (12 page)

He put the single sheet of paper down and was staring morosely out the window when the knock came on the door. Corporal Samson stepped in and said, “Mr. Kinsman, sir.”

“Thank you, Corporal. Show him in,” Loring answered. Kinsman stepped inside and Loring waved to the chair in front of his desk. He rose, pulled the sticky shirt from his chest, and said, “Damn such a country. Does a man ever stop perspiring?”

“After about forty years of it, they tell me,” Kinsman said. He slacked into the chair, his movements spare and easy. He wore a pair of disreputable-looking duck trousers, a faded calico shirt, and Apache moccasins with the curled-up stiff toe. Loring, while disapproving the sloppiness of his clothes, envied him his ease.

“I thought I'd send these 'Paches back to Fort Apache as soon as possible,” Loring began. “Do you think further questioning would turn up anything new?” His voice was informal, pleasant; he wanted it to appear that he was deferring to a more experienced man.

Kinsman thought a moment, and Loring studied the man's face in repose. It was a strong face, with a solid bone structure under the eyes and at the jaw; his eyebrows, not pale in color, but a shade lighter than the dark skin of his face, gave him an oddly quizzical look that his amber eyes belied. There was a still secretiveness in them that Loring couldn't fathom, a kind of reserve beyond reserve. Perhaps it came with Kinsman's long association with Indians, who, Loring had always believed, were expressionless for the best of reasons, because they had neither thoughts nor emotions to express.

“I don't think they can tell us any more than they have. I'll try again, though, if you want.”

“Have another go at them,” Loring said easily, and he tilted back in his chair. “What would you think if I kept the man Tana here and used him as a scout when we take the field?”

Again Kinsman was silent a long moment. “I don't know as I would.”

“His story is that he was joining Diablito only to look after his daughter and her baby. Her husband had dragged her into the break from the reservation. He seems intelligent, too. And remember, he didn't fight us.”

“That's what I am remembering,” Ward said quietly.

“Is that against him?”

Kinsman shrugged, and Loring was struck by the similarity of the gesture to an Indian's. “It could be to his credit. On the other hand, it could be that he thought a little faster than the others and saw no reason to rise and die. Maybe he wakened too late to run. I don't know.”

Loring considered this and dismissed it. “If we're cautious, I don't see what harm he can do us. And we can use him as a scout and tracker for I Troop, since G will have Holly.”

Kinsman nodded, and now Loring was brought up square against the question he wanted to ask, and he was not ready to ask it. For a brief second he veered away from it, and then he thought,
he's a semi-literate frontier loafer; what am I shy about?
and he plunged.

“I was surprised you changed your mind about going to Craig. Can a man ask why?”

“A whim.”

Loring smiled with a faint derision. “One post is as good as another, eh?”

“No, some are better than others,” Kinsman answered.

Loring tried to read something into that and failed. He went on, courteously enough, “I am delighted you returned with us. Did the fact that you discovered Mary Carlyle in the band have any bearing on your choice?”

Kinsman nodded.

“Does that mean you'll reconsider your refusal to serve as guide in the field?”

“I have already reconsidered,” Kinsman said slowly. “I'll go along.”

Loring leaned back in his chair, trying to mask the amazement he felt. And then a faint stirring of curiosity, even suspicion, came to him. He asked, with open curiosity, “Again, can a man ask what changed your mind?”

Kinsman looked at him levelly. “I served with Brierly twice, and I know the man. Any of a half-dozen men could have guided him this time, and done as well as I could. The results would have been the same. This time, Brierly won't be along.”

He ceased talking, and Loring waited a brief second for him to resume. When he did not, Loring considered the implications of what he had said, and then he asked coolly, “But now that Major Brierly's hurt you're not so sure of his successor's ability. Is that it?”

Kinsman nodded.

“That's frank, anyway,” Loring said. He felt his face flush with embarrassment. Kinsman still said nothing.

“Personally,” Loring said evenly, “I have no affection for you, either—nor disaffection. However, I think you're a cut above the usual guide, and that's why I'd like to have you with me. So now we know where we stand, don't we?”

“I always have,” Kinsman said mildly. He rose.

Temper edged Loring into speech again, and now he said, “You'll understand, Kinsman, that I am in command of the post now. My ways are not necessarily Major Brierly's ways.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Kinsman asked softly.

“That you will be paid ten dollars a day for advising me when we take the field, and then only. For instance, I shall employ Tana whether or not you approve. You are not a part of this army, is what I am drying to say. I see no reason for a civilian to discipline my troops as you did the night the paymaster's detail left. Also, I see no reason why my officers shouldn't enjoy your company—but only
if
they want it.”

Loring saw a wicked glint of temper touch Kinsman's eyes; then Kinsman turned and walked softly out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. Loring smiled briefly, feeling his own anger fading. He had, he thought critically, handled Kinsman well; the man was a hired hand, here on sufferance, and it was time he was told so.

Now he considered his remaining business. There was the business of Lieutenant Delaney. (He made himself think of Linus impersonally as just an erring lieutenant by the name of Delaney in his command.) He rose now, forcing himself to a decision, and tramped to the door.

“Corporal Samson, my compliments to Lieutenant Delaney, and will you—”

His voice faded, and he ceased talking. No, this was an appalling responsibility and he needed to think it out.” He said, “Never mind, Corporal,” and closed the door again.

Ward stepped out of Headquarters building into the glaring afternoon sunlight and headed straight across the parade ground toward Brierly's house. Except for the afterwash of his sudden anger—an odd restlessness—he was completely indifferent to what Loring had told him. He had given his promise, and he would keep it. As for his welcome on the post, he had gauged that accurately long ago. There was not an officer here who was not his friend and who did not enjoy his infrequent company. Loring's reprimand, in retrospect, brought a stirring of amusement to him, and of understanding, too. A man who was any sort of man liked to do things his own way; for Loring to accept anything in Brierly's pattern would brand him as a man of little character or thought or pride.

The heat of the hard-packed earth reached through his moccasins, and now he saw Linus cut around the corner of the officers' quarters, laundry under his arm, and take to the shade of the veranda. His long legs dragged, and Ward knew he was bone weary. Remembering now, he swerved in his course and called, “I think Captain Loring was looking for you, Linus.”

He heard Linus groan and say, “I'll never get that bath”; Linus waved his thanks and Ward went on, taking the walk to Brierly's steps.

Mrs. Wolverton, wife of Captain Wolverton, came out the door as he mounted the veranda. She was a worn-looking woman, blonde, thin, with a careless, merry smile, and when she saw Ward she said, “You were coming over for supper tonight, but it's my turn to sit here. What about tomorrow night?”

“Like to, Emmy,” Ward said.

From inside the house came Ann's quiet voice, “Don't be foolish, Emmy, I can—” She came to the door then and saw Ward and halted, and then said gravely, “Hello. So you came back?”

“I couldn't leave without one of Emmy's dinners,” Ward said.

“Antelope and fresh peaches,” Mrs. Wolverton scoffed. She turned and said, “No, Ann, I'd rather have him tomorrow night. I'll be over in a little while.”

She untied the apron she was wearing over her dress and threw it over her pale hair and stepped out into the sunlight. Ward smiled faintly at the sight and so did Ann, and Ward said, “A complexion is more trouble than it's worth.”

“So the Indians discovered,” Ann said. “Here, sit here.”

She pulled a rocker around and Ward waited until she was seated and then slacked into it. She looked tired, he noticed, and he inquired about Major Brierly and was told his condition. As she talked, she watched him curiously. Finished, she hesitated, and then asked, “What was your real reason for returning?”

“Work,” Ward said.

Ann hesitated only a moment, then almost intuitively, she asked, “You mean you'll be guide when they take the field?”

Ward nodded.

“What changed your mind? Nothing has happened, except that we know for sure that Diablito has Mary.” She looked at him searchingly, “Was it Major Brierly's accident?”

“Yes.”

Ann said, “Still another question. How does it change things?”

Ward said mildly, “Major Brierly could fight Indians, Army fashion. Without him, there could be trouble.”

“You don't think Ben Loring is a capable field commander.”

“I don't know,” Ward answered indifferently.

“But you could make him a better one,” Ann said, irony in her tone.

“Yes.”

Ann laughed, and then she leaned back in her chair. “I'm sorry, I must be tired. But I should like Ben to hear that.”

“He's heard it,” Ward murmured.

Ann glanced at him now. “Yes? And what was his reaction?”

“Negative, I think it's called,” Ward answered.

Ann smiled slowly, and Ward did too, and Ann said, “You're not being fair, you know. He's a good soldier, and his men like him. He's considerate of them. He really has integrity, and I've been told he did well against the Sioux.”

“He minds sweating,” Ward said.

“Do you mind a man wanting to be clean?”

Ward shook his head. “I mind having him call attention to the fact he's dirty. When he is, everyone knows it and understands why.”

A faint tone of defiance entered Ann's grave expression. “That's not odd. A man can't entirely break with the tradition of governesses and of a sweetly scented childhood. Or of beach homes and hunting lodges and European courts. It's to his credit that he's succeeded in wearing a dirty shirt, a dirty army shirt, so well.”

“He doesn't mind the shirt, dirty or not,” Ward added, with apparent agreement. There was the faintest touch of irony in his speech, and Ann detected it.

“You're being sly,” she accused him.

“Instead of quarrelsome,” Ward agreed. “You're inviting me to attack a man so you can defend him.”

“Then come out in the open and attack him,” Ann said swiftly. “I've said he was a good soldier and a good officer, considerate and kind to everyone, including the men under his command.”

Ward said nothing.

“Do you deny it?”

A swift impatience touched Ward then, and he thought,
How did we get around to this?
Looking levelly at Ann, he saw that she was deeply serious, and that there would always be this between them. No matter if he accepted her challenge, to the subject of which he was utterly indifferent, or declined it, the result would be the same. But if he held his silence, there would always remain with both of them the memory of his being mealy-mouthed and evasive, and strangely, that mattered considerably.

He said gently, “Put it this way. A sensible man is considerate of animals because he knows they understand him imperfectly. He knows they have more instinct than sense, and that they need tolerance from him. In other words, he feels superior to them.” He paused. “He doesn't even have to like them,” he finished still mildly.

Ann looked at him a long moment in silence, and then she said, “You're a hard man in your judgments, aren't you?”

“Only on invitation,” Ward said. He was silent too, looking out over the parade ground. He saw Linus, delayed by something, cut across toward Headquarters building at a pace too fast for this heat. He said then, “It occurred to me that you might have some questions about your sister that these 'Paches could answer. I'm going to talk with them. Would you like to come along?”

“No,” Ann said instantly, and then added. “Thank you, but no. Is it too feminine to say that I don't want to know what she's suffered, that it can't help her or me?” Her voice faltered a little and she added, “I mean, I've come this far, knowing what I do. I'd rather go on this way.”

“That's wise of you,” Ward said, and now he rose. “Will you tell the Major I called?”

Ann said she would, and she rose too. There was a strangeness and unease in their parting that both of them felt. It was Ann who, feeling it the most deeply, altered it with the simple gesture of putting out her hand, saying, “Thank you for changing your mind. It doesn't matter why.”

Ward shook hands briefly, touched his hat, and went down the steps, turning left toward the guardhouse next to the bakery behind the troopers' quarters.

A moment after Linus saw the look of puzzlement on Loring's face following his statement, “You sent for me, sir?” he knew this would be trouble.

“Why—did I?” Loring had said, and then Loring's expression shaded into something that Linus could not accurately read. “Oh, I know. Sit down, Mr. Delaney.”

This is going to be format
, Linus thought, and he took his hat from under his left armpit, sank into the chair in front of Loring's desk, and put the hat on his lap.