‘MY THANKS, GENTLEMEN.’
Major Cutter lifted his glass in a toast to Sutro and McLain.
‘You did an excellent job. I doubt the hostiles will trouble us for a while. We should have time enough to establish a proper garrison on the Rio Verde. I’ve sent a report to Washington with my recommendations, but meanwhile I intended to locate a force of fifty men in the valley. If Washington approves, I shall send engineers to set up a permanent fort.’
‘Sir?’ Sutro emptied his glass. ‘Who’ll command?’
‘Donnely,’ said Cutter, smiling as McLain frowned. ‘Hopefully, he’s learned his lesson. And after what you did, there shouldn’t be too much trouble. At least, no more than he can handle. Besides, he’ll have good advice: I’ve promoted Docherty to lieutenant. I felt he deserved that, and with just a year to go, he’ll retire from the service with a better pension. Talking of which ...’
He reached back to open a drawer in the desk, pulling out a small pouch that clinked as he dropped it on the cluttered surface, and a folded sheet of paper.
‘Your pay, McLain. And the relevant documents. They say you own the horse and the Army shirts. They also commend you for bravery in support of the cause of the United States of America. You wouldn’t reconsider?’
‘No.’ McLain shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t. Besides, I made a promise.’
‘Of course.’ Cutter smiled. ‘I believe the lady is waiting for you in the sutler’s.’
‘Thanks.’ McLain drained his glass and pocketed the money. It wasn’t much, but enough to see him through for a while. The papers were more important: they gave him ownership of all he really needed to live on: freedom.
He turned to the door. ‘I’ll see you around.’
The sutler’s was only partially filled with off-duty soldiers. Most of the survivors from the Rio Verde were confined to the sick-bay, and the bulk of the rescuing force was already assigned to fresh duties.
Alice Patterson was seated at a table to the rear, with Docherty beside her, looking uncomfortable under the weight of his new insignia.
McLain joined them with a bottle of whisky in his hand. ‘You didn’t need to buy that,’ said Alice. ‘Shawn’s been waiting for you to help finish this one.’
She pointed at the half empty bottle on the table, and McLain grinned. ‘Feels good to buy something with my own money. Besides, I guess the lieutenant will be saving from now.’
‘Jesus!’ Docherty smiled as he said it. ‘Don’t you start, too. I got told I was takin’ a new rank. An’ then I got told 1 was gettin’ married. I’ll save what I can, but I ain’t changing.’
‘Wouldn’t want you to, Shawn,’ said the woman. ‘I like you just the way you are.’
McLain looked at them. Alice was recovered from most of the rigors of the journey across the desert, but her lips were still cracked and her hair looked a paler shade of grey. Blisters had left marks on her face, but they got lost in her smile. And her eyes were bright with excitement and hope. Docherty had a thin scar over one cheek, but that was mostly in the creases, and his right hand was out of the bandages. He still had his left arm in a sling, but it didn’t seem to hamper him much.
‘I got a year to go,’ he said. ‘We can’t marry before then.’
‘Wouldn’t be seemly,’ replied Alice. ‘I’ll wear widow’s weeds for a year, an’ then we’ll have the biggest wedding the Rio Verde ever seen.’
‘Be the first the valley’s ever seen,’ grunted Docherty. Then turned to McLain. ‘You coming back? I could use a friend with Donnely in command.’
McLain nodded. ‘I promised Alice.’
‘And you’ll stay?’ asked the woman. ‘You’ll help us build?’
‘I don’t know.’ McLain sipped whisky. ‘It depends.’
‘You got nowhere else,’ said Alice. ‘Nowhere else you can call home.’
‘Try it,’ urged Docherty. ‘We could get fat an’ rich up there.’
‘I’ll see.’ McLain drank more whisky. ‘For a while.’
He felt grateful to them, but wary of committing himself to one place again. The last time he had done that, it had left him with grief and rage and pain in his heart: he wasn’t sure he wanted to chance the same agony a second time.
And then Frank Donnely came into the room.
He was fresh-shaven, wearing a clean uniform, and sleep and food had taken most of the gauntness from his face. Anger had taken away the paleness, replacing it with red, so that he looked healthy again.
He came over the room to the table as the conversation dropped, and the saloon got quiet.
‘McLain,’ he said, holding his voice flat and even, ‘I’d like to speak with you. In private.’
McLain put down his glass: ‘Talk here, Captain.’
‘In private.’ Donnely stared at him, his fleshy lips set in a thin line. ‘If you would.’
‘Sounds like a challenge,’ McLain said. ‘But we got no cause to fight.’
Donnely said: ‘I think we have, but I don’t choose to do that in front of a lady. Will you stand up, or must I force you?’
‘Sir,’ said Docherty. ‘Don’t.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do, Sergeant.’ Donnely parodied apology. ‘Forgive me. Lieutenant.’
McLain stood up.
‘All right. Where?’
‘No!’ said Alice. ‘This is stupid.’
‘There’s an empty corral directly behind this building,’ said Donnely. ‘I shall wait for you there.’
‘How?’ asked McLain. ‘What you fighting with?’
‘I’d like to shoot you,’ said Donnely. ‘But sadly the regulations don’t allow that. Fists?’
‘Sure,’ said McLain. ‘I’ll be with you.’
Donnely spun round and marched out of the saloon. His back stayed ramrod straight and he moved as though on parade. McLain watched the door swing shut behind him and topped his glass. Already there were soldiers drifting away, turning back to cast surreptitious glances as they waited for his next move.
‘Don’t,’ said Alice Patterson, looking at both McLain and Docherty for support. ‘It’s crazy.’
‘He took it too far,’ said McLain. ‘It’s time it got settled.’
‘He don’t have no choice,’ agreed Docherty ‘Not now.’
‘It won’t settle anything,’ said Alice. ‘Just make things worse.’
McLain knew that she was right. And knew at the same time that there was no other way. He drank the whisky and climbed to his feet.
‘Alice.’ He touched his hat; politely. ‘I’ll see you later.’
She stood up. ‘You think I’d miss this?’
‘Blood-thirsty wife I’m getting,’ grinned Docherty. ‘Pound the shit outta the bastard.’
The corral was midway between the cabins and the perimeter wall. It was a small stockade where horses could be broken, or easily found. The circular fence was no more than ten feet high, entered through a narrow picket gate just wide enough to allow a single pony through.
Donnely was waiting at the center. He had stripped down to pants and undervest, retaining only his dark blue pants with the yellow stripe of the Cavalry down the side, and his boots. There were troopers hanging off the rails, and more coming running as the word of the fight spread. McLain halted at the gate and unbuckled his belt. He passed it to Docherty, and said: ‘Don’t let anyone stop this.’
The newly-appointed lieutenant pointed at the windows of Major Cutter’s quarters and said, ‘I don’t think they will.’
The windows were closed.
McLain understood the message and stepped in through the gate.
It swung shut behind him with the finality of a coffin closing.
He walked over the sand to where Donnely was poised, fists clenched, right arm drawn back behind the left.
‘You know what you done to me?’ snarled the officer. ‘I’ll be held down to captain for years. Maybe for my full term.’
‘You did that yourself,’ answered McLain. ‘All I ever did was save your ass.’
‘Bastard!’ Donnely feinted a blow. ‘You took all the credit.’
‘You fouled up.’ McLain didn’t bother to duck: the punch came from too far away. ‘You didn’t know what you were doing.’
‘I know I’m stuck in Rio Verde.’ Donnely danced back and round. ‘Thanks to you.’
‘No.’ McLain watched the man: fighting by the book again. ‘You’ve got it wrong. All on your own.’
Donnely charged in then, which was what McLain had wanted. He didn’t know anything about West Point boxing tactics, but he knew how to fight.
He ducked under Donnely's punches and rammed the left side of his body against the captain’s belly, lifting up as he felt the weight descend across his side. Donnely was lifted from the ground, sprawling clear of McLain as the big man shifted upright and the West Pointer rammed flat on his face.
Donnely spat sand from his mouth and cannoned to his feet, coming back in a swirl of blows. McLain blocked off most of them, though a couple stuck his cheeks back against his teeth, before he lifted his right foot out and kicked Donnely hard in the knee.
The officer went skipping back and McLain kicked again, slamming his left foot in a curve against the man’s ankles. Donnely fell down again and McLain’s boot swung forwards, angling at his face. At the last moment the Missouri man shifted the tangent, easing the boot upwards from Donnely’s yelling mouth.
He stood back: suddenly realizing that he was at a greater disadvantage. To beat Donnely would be easy: they were fighting to different rules. He could beat the officer; kill him, if he wanted. But all that would achieve was the enmity Donnely assumed from the start. And if McLain did kill the man, then the Union troopers watching might well take their own officer’s part.
He backed away, waiting for Donnely to rise.
‘Come on, Captain!’
‘Kill him!’
‘Show the Reb!’
‘Dump him!’
He wasn’t sure which cries supported him and which supported Donnely. All he knew was that he couldn’t fake the fight. Couldn’t let Donnely win, not any more than he could understand how he could win without killing the man. That was the only kind of fighting he understood. Any other kind was pointless, surely? Fighting wasn’t fun: it was painful; so avoid it. Don’t ever look for a fight, but be ready for one coming. And when it did, take it to the ultimate limits.
He watched Donnely stagger to his feet and decided that he needed to change his entire point of view.
He ducked under the swirling blows and rammed his head into the captain’s belly. At the same time he clasped his arms around Donnely’s waist and carried the man backwards in a charging run that ended against the fence. Donnely grunted, and McLain felt hot breath gust over his back. He dropped the body, lurching clear so that he had room to swing both hands into the face. They were clenched, biting fingers down tight into the palms, but he didn’t turn the knuckles into fists, rather slapped twice, landing the flats against Donnely’s cheeks, knocking the head to left and right.
And then stood back as Donnely slumped against the poles of the fence surrounding the corral. Blood spilled in thin trickles round both sides of his mouth, angling up as they hit the bruised indentations of his cheeks, then trickling downwards to drip off his chin and fall on to his scarlet undervest.
His eyes opened once – wide – then shut tight. And he slid down into oblivion as McLain moved back.
There was a hush that McLain ignored as he went over to the gate and took his gunbelt from Docherty. He buckled it on and walked over to the saloon.
Two days later a full column left the fort. It was commanded by Sutro, and unlike the earlier column it had a wagon along, with Alice Patterson riding the seat beside the driver. It was unusual to see a lieutenant in the United States Cavalry driving a wagon, but Lieutenant Docherty was wounded, and not fit – Major Cutter had decided – for any other duty.
The column was sixty strong, fifty men assigned to the Rio Verde garrison, and the remaining ten, under Sutro’s command detailed off to take the troopers he had left in the valley back to Fort Davis.
He planned to stay there for seven days. Long enough to send scouts out to ascertain the likelihood of fresh attacks by hostile Indians. If, during that time, there was no sign of hostiles in the surrounding country, Captain Sutro would return to Fort Davis, leaving Captain Donnely in command. Captain Donnely was to establish a solid command post and avoid contacts with hostiles if possible. Above all, he was to protect his men, not start any forays other than those outlined by Major Cutter or the exigencies of the situation.
When McLain and three other scouts went out, there was no sign of fresh Comanche attacks.
The hills west of the valley were clear, only the remnants of the camps left, like sad reminders of a broken dream.
The saddest of all – to McLain, at least – were the bones that spread over the grassland beyond the cane west of the river.
He recognized them by the broken lance that was caught amongst the chewed yellow of the ribs. Most of Walking Bear’s body was gone: coyotes and vultures had picked out the stomach, and the arms and legs had been chewed. A triple column of ants foraged amongst what was left, using the broken lance as an entry point to the corpse.
McLain got down off his horse and gathered the bones together. He didn’t know how the Nokoni buried their own dead, so he scooped out a hole in the ground close to the river and settled Walking Bear’s remains there, planting the broken lance over the mound before he rode back over the river to the mission.
Alice Patterson was busy inside the saloon when he returned.
She gave him whisky from the stocks that were still left, and said:
‘I want to show you something.’
McLain nodded.
‘I want to show Shawn, too,’ she said. ‘Fetch him, will you?’
McLain put his glass down and went out to find Docherty.
The lieutenant was shoveling dirt along with his men, building a fresh perimeter around the mission. McLain told him what Alice had said, and they went back to the saloon.
‘Bar’s closed now,’ she called. ‘Everyone out!’
She waited until the last trooper had gone, then swung the doors closed and propped a chair against them.
The cabin was dark, still smelling faintly of ordure and sweat and powder. Alice reached under the gaping face of the bar, wincing as the splinters of Comanche bullets tore her hand. She produced a bottle: wide, with a cork that was fastened to the neck with wire threads.
‘Champagne. I never thought it’d last. But now we’re here.’
She lifted the wire loose and eased the cork out. There was an explosion like a small gun going off, and spume fountained against the ceiling. She turned her hand over three glasses, filling them with foaming liquid. McLain didn’t like the taste much, but he drank it because it seemed to make the woman happy.
‘Now,’ said Alice. ‘I’ll show you.’
She came out from behind the bar with a knife in her hand. Crossed the room to the center of the floor and pushed a table aside. Then she went down on her knees as McLain and Docherty stared in open, gape-mouthed surprise.
She dug the knife into the boards, slicing it down a foot’s length before she tugged it clear and carved out a second line. She hacked two more lines over the woodwork and then dug the blade sideways against the wood.
‘Remember I wanted to come back here to collect something?’ she grinned at McLain. ‘This was what.’
A gap showed in the boards and she pressed down on the knife, levering a section of planking loose so that a hole showed under the boards. McLain craned forwards, and saw a metal cashbox about a foot square.
Alice stood up. ‘Lift it out and bring it over here.’
McLain went down on his knees, reaching into the hole to grasp the handle at the center of the lid. The box was heavy. He grunted as he hauled it clear and passed it to Docherty. The soldier carried it over to the bar, his face curious.
Alice reached inside the front of her dress and pulled out a key hung round her neck on a length of silver chain. She set the key in the lock. Turned it. Then smiled as she lifted the lid. It went back on oiled hinges, revealing a cluster of wash-leather bags, each one fastened at the neck with rawhide drawstrings. She took one out, hefting it in her palm for a moment before dropping it on the bar. It clinked.
‘There’s ten of those,’ she smiled. She looked pleased with herself. ‘Look.’
She untied the drawstring and tipped the bag. Gold coins clattered over the wood. Docherty whistled softly. McLain saw Mexican eagles and Yankee dollars, coins he didn’t recognize: all he knew for sure was there was a lot of money.
‘Two thousand dollars, all told.’ Alice was beaming now. ‘It took a long time to save that much. Took longer to find the right place.’
‘You could start a ranch,’ murmured Docherty. ‘Or go back East.’
‘I don’t want to start a ranch,’ she said softly. ‘And I don’t want to go back East. That’s the start.’
‘Of what?’ asked McLain, knowing the answer.
Alice Patterson looked at him, her eyes more alive than he had ever seen them, then she turned to Docherty, and her smile encompassed them both.
‘My town. My dream.’ She looked as though she might start to cry. ‘I’ll be running this place for a year before Shawn gets his discharge. Then we’ll use this money to build. We’ll get something good started: a real town here.’
‘I hope you’ll be happy,’ said McLain. ‘Both of you.’
‘All of us,’ she said, pouring more champagne. ‘You’re staying, too.’
‘Am I?’ he queried, though again he felt he knew the answer.
‘Aren’t you?’ she replied.
He looked at her: a woman past her prime, no longer beautiful, except when her face lit up. Like now: when the dream showed through the lines.
‘Why the hell not?’ he said.
And they raised their glasses and began to laugh.
‘John T. McLain,’ said Alice, ‘welcome home.’