Ambush (14 page)

The sound of the sentry's chair crashing to the floor interrupted him. At the same moment, Ward heard the voice, sharp with anger.

“Kinsman!”

Ward turned his head, and saw Captain Loring in the doorway, the guard standing at stiff attention beside the chair he had tipped over in his haste to rise.

“Step outside with me please!” Loring commanded.

Ward sat a moment, regarding Loring with a mildly quizzical expression, and then he rose and noiselessly walked to the door. Loring wheeled and led the way out into the dusk. When he was well away from the building, he halted, and Ward came up to him.

Loring said ponderously, “The officer of the day issued that pass to you for the purpose of discussing a lost horse.”

“That's right,” Ward said mildly.

“The portion of your conversation I overhead was not concerned with horses. You were discussing with Riordan the incident at the stables that took place the night we left for Craig.”

“Is that forbidden?” Ward asked dryly.

He couldn't see Loring's face in the dusk, but the anger of the man was almost electric.

“Kinsman,” Loring said, “I will not tolerate your interference in Army affairs. I will—”

“Be quiet,” Ward said mildly. The very gentleness of his voice cut off Loring's speech. Ward nodded his head toward the lighted window of the hospital. “The man doesn't even remember speaking to Linus. He holds nothing against Linus. As for gossip connecting the man's wife with Linus, you have nothing to concern yourself about.”

“I am not concerned!” Loring said wrathfully.

“Then you're a fool, Captain,” Ward murmured.

There was a brief silence, and Ward said levelly, “If you mean that, you're a purple fool. Lieutenant Delaney is a good soldier; he's the best officer in your command. A little tolerance from you will save him for your army, but keep reading the rules long enough and you'll lose him.”

Loring's voice was quivering with a cold wrath. “Kinsman, there's something you fail to comprehend. Your advice is not wanted except when it's paid for. The Army has never made a practice of letting every rag-tag-and-bobtail frontier loafer dictate its policies. It never will, as long as I am in it!”

Ward didn't speak immediately, and when he did it was casually. “You, my friend, are a pompous idiot.”

He turned, and had taken a step when he felt Loring's firm hand on his shoulder.

Wordlessly, in a wild flare of temper, he wheeled, arcing a savage blow that struck Loring in the chest.

Loring staggered back a step, lost balance, and sat down heavily.

“Don't ever do that to me,” Ward said thinly.

Loring scrambled to his feet, as if to make a fight, and then he checked himself. “Kinsman,” he said heavily, “I am commanding officer of this post, as you know.”

“All right, I'll leave,” Ward said.

“That's not what I was about to say,” Loring went on. “As commanding officer of this post, I don't propose to brawl in front of my men. But if you can find a spot off the military reservation where we will be alone, I'd be glad to continue this to a finish.”

Ward was mute a brief moment in surprise. “Hance's barn is off the post.”

“I will see you there in fifteen minutes,” Loring said. He turned and was soon lost in the dusk, and Ward watched him go. He felt a momentary and grudging admiration for the spirit of the man, and then he headed for the sentry gate.

When, fifteen minutes later, the door of Hance's barn opened and Captain Loring stepped in, Ward pushed away from the stalls where a pair of mules were feeding, and threw away the straw he had been chewing on.

A lantern was hanging by its bail from a piece of wire hung from a rafter. Loring closed the door, looked at the lamp, then at the wide expanse of scuffed barn floor, at the mules, and then finally at Ward.

“Suit you?” Ward asked dryly.

“Perfect.”

Loring crossed the floor to the buggy which Ward had pushed against the opposite door. Unbuckling his pistol belt, he removed it and threw it in the buggy seat, then stripped off his shirt and put it with the pistol. Then he walked out under the lamp and said, “I'm ready,” and waited, his big chest falling, rising with his slow breath.

Ward put his soft hat in the manger and moved a little ways toward Loring. “All right,” he said, and he lunged in, swinging. He was stopped dead by a blow he had thought be ducked and fell flat on his back, his head rapping the plank floor with an impact that sent stars pin-wheeling before his eyes.

He came quickly to his knees, shook his head to clear it, and saw Loring, hands half raised, standing some feet away, coolly watching him. Unthinking as an animal Ward went at him; he felt his blow land on Loring's shoulder, and then he took a punishing blow in the pit of the stomach before he could set himself, another blow above the heart that half spun him around.

A wild rage gathered in him now, and he swarmed at Loring. But all he struck was air. Loring's face was before him, and Ward struck, swift as a snake, viciously, and felt his blow checked and brushed aside, before the teeth-rattling clout caught him on the cheekbone.

Loring was to the left of him now, and again Ward attacked; he was moved off balance before he could get set, and was hit again, once more in the chest. And now he lowered his head, leaning his body forward, and moved in, swinging savagely, wildly yearning to hit solid flesh and close with the man.

His ribs were sore now, and his breath was heaving out of him in great shuddering sighs, and again and again he felt the battering blows that all but caved in his chest. He saw Loring only moving, never standing still, seldom coming at him, and he knew, with a kind of dread fatalism, that he was spending his strength to no avail.

It angered him out of all reason, and he thought,
I've got to reach him, to corner him
, and now he lunged again, and this time he saw the blow coming and tried to slide by it and it caught him with an explosion of pain that dimmed his ears and blurred his eyes, and he thought wildly,
He's there, right in front of me
. He still moved in, and this time the blow was on the point of his jaw, one great mushroom of pain before blackness.

He was first conscious of the wetness of his back. He moved and felt it puddle on the floor against his backbone, and when he opened his eyes, Loring was standing above him, his shirt on, his hat on, his pistol belt strapped around him.

Ward rolled over and painfully sat up, and looked at Loring, who said, “I suppose this means you refuse service as guide?”

Ward shook his head to clear it, trying stupidly to fathom the meaning of this. When he finally did he said, “No, I'll go.”

“Good man,” Loring said quietly, and turned and let himself out of the barn.

Chapter V

Orders came through next morning that Troops G and I would take the field next day. The ordinary tempo of the post, already warned, did not accelerate noticeably, but everyone seemed to move with a purpose. The boredom and the lethargy vanished.

A quartermaster train pulled in from Craig in mid-morning. Sergeant Mack, observing it, said sourly to Corporal Samson, “Why didn't they dump the stuff along the road, since we'll be packing it back that way?”

“Nah,” Samson muttered cynically, “It'll be blankets, fur caps, and heavy-duty overshoes.”

“You've put in one too many enlistments,” Mack observed mildly, and moved off toward the blacksmith shop. The anvil was never silent that day. Horses were checked, the last of the remounts issued, and the field-hardened non-coms drove the new recruits into checking and repairing all their equipment.

In late morning, Captain Loring summoned all officers to the big room housing the officers mess. It was as hot as any other room, but its size provided more air to breathe. Ward had been summoned from Hance's and when he stepped into the room he noted Frank Holly's presence among the lounging officers.

“Morning, Kinsman,” Loring said briskly. “Have a seat.” There was no hint of last night's triumph in his tone or appearance; it was his usual courtesy, and Ward, sitting down gently and holding his breath against the soreness of his ribs, thought,
I wouldn't wonder if he's forgotten it
.

When all officers were assembled, Loring went over the plain of campaign. It was one originally drawn up by Brierly, submitted to Headquarters, approved, and passed on to the command at Craig. Briefly, it assumed that Diablito's band had chosen a bad tactical position in remaining on the Peak; two troops from Craig were heading west for it today, since they had further to travel. One troop from Gamble would start eastward toward it tomorrow. There seemed faint chance of surprise, and indeed there was little need of it. This was to be an open show of force. Diablito could choose, as the Army hoped, to defend the Peak, and be wiped out, or he could, as the Army feared, run. It had been Brierly's opinion—and Ward admitted his was as good as any, since an opinion seemed necessary—that if Diablito broke from the Peak, he would head south, fighting a series of rearguard and delaying actions, always hoping for an ambush, until he crossed the border and achieved the safety of Mexico. On the assumption he would head south, Troop G under Captain Loring would be placed at Cardinal Springs, a waterhole where the three main trails from the border to Bailey's Peak, and beyond, met. Troop G would travel light, move at night, and remain quiet in day, and it would be informed of Diablito's movements by Wolverton, in Command of Troop I, through a heliograph relay which Lieutenant Tremaine and a signalman would set up between the Peak and Cardinal Springs.

It was the hope, of course, that Troop G could surprise Diablito, intercept and engage him, and hold him until Troop I and the two troops from Craig could finish off the job.

It was a good enough plan, Ward conceded, always provided Diablito fell in with it. But he was just as likely to head north, west, or east; and, contrary to the Army's bland assumption, he would not necessarily move his band as one unit. It was perfectly possible that upon sighting the columns the band would disperse like so many quail, assembling a hundred miles to the west without seeing a soldier or firing a shot, and leaving a score of confused and contradictory trails behind it. It all depended on the mood and desire of the vicious little man who led them.

When Loring was finished, a few questions were asked and answered, and then Loring spoke of Mary Carlyle. He gave a minute description of her, which was to be passed on by officers to all troops. For fear of accidentally shooting Mrs. Carlyle, all troops were ordered to refrain from engaging women unless directly attacked by a female indentifiable beyond a shadow of doubt as Apache. Loring repeated this order for emphasis, then went on to lesser things. Rations for five days would be issued, and a pack train with rations and ammunition would follow Wolverton and I Troop. Troop G would join Troop I for replenishment of supplies and ammunition after the engagement, which was expected to be effected within five days. Frank Holly would serve as guide for Wolverton, Kinsman for G and Loring, with the captured Apache, Tana, as scout for the latter.

“I might add,” Loring went on, “that I am employing Tana in spite of his status as prisoner. He seemed thankful to be captured, and he put up no resistance. He's already been helpful, and he seems to have joined Diablito only because his son-in-law dragged his daughter and her child along with him in the break from the reservation. Since we also captured the girl and her baby, Tana doesn't fear retaliation. I think we'll find good use for him as a scout. Any more questions? Then that's all, gentlemen.”

Ward spent the afternoon choosing a horse from the remounts. He picked an ugly, short-coupled bay whose legs and depth of chest augured well for his stamina, and afterwards drew rations and a carbine and ammunition. Linus, who ordinarily would have enjoyed helping him, was busy with the affairs of G Troop; Ward watched him a moment in the group badgering the quartermaster, and he seemed cheerless and preoccupied. Ward moved over to the sutler's house.

In his room, he poured out water from the bucket by the washstand into the iron washbowl, and then lighted a cigar and stripped off his shirt. From his window he could see Hance's barn, and he stood there a moment regarding, remembering last night. The character of the man who had given him the beating rose in his mind to puzzle him again. The only anger shown last night had been his own. Loring had asked to finish the fight only out of a sense of duty, of honor, of what was expected from him, Ward guessed. Could a really angry man check his rage long enough to remember his position and the proprieties as Loring had done last night? And he had fought the same way—with a cool skill, but without any show of passion or even rancor. Ward wondered now why this quality in Loring mattered to him, and he could find no answer.

He finished his cigar and then began preparation for shaving. The water in the bucket was already warm from the heat of the room. He was half through the job when he heard slow steps mounting the stairs and Frank Holly came through the doorway.

“Take a chair, Holly,” he invited. “What's on your mind?”

Holly was looking at him carefully, and now he said, “Well, he ain't a mean man, anyway, Ward. He left plenty of tracks on your belly and chest, but he never marked your face.”

Ward looked down at the blotched bruises on his chest and smiled faintly. Holly lounged on the cot, and Ward, lifting his razor, said dryly, “He's a considerate man.”

“You know, damned if he ain't,” Holly agreed wonderingly. “He asked if I wanted to send any word to Bowie with the detail for them 'Pache women, and when I told him the only thing I wanted to send was somethin' I didn't have—money—why he shucked five days' pay out of his pocket. My woman'll feed every cousin and uncle and aunt she can find on the reservation on that.”