Lieutenant James Carter was relieved to see the scout coming back towards the camp. The shrinking patrol was a mile or so out on the plain, close in to the looming foothills. In the classic circular defense pattern. But even all the care and vigilance hadn’t stopped a lone Apache warrior coming sneaking in on his belly, crawling a half mile that slow, painful way. Hitting them just before dawn and slitting the throat of one of the troopers on guard.
Powdery snow was easing itself down from a sullen sky as Crow reined in, to be immediately told the news of the killing by Corporal Chandler.
“And where’s Dale and Harris? Holding a point up ahead?”
“Dead,” said Crow, swinging down from the saddle.
“Jesus. That’s three gone and all we’ve done is butchered a Chiricahua kid,” said Haydon.
“Can only get better,” said one of the soldiers, standing at the head of Crow’s horse.
“Last man I heard say that fell in front of a train a couple of minutes later and lost both legs. Died the same night,” said Crow.
They held a conference. Starting with only Carter, Haydon and Chandler, sitting with Crow to try and discuss what they should do. But with such a small patrol the rest of the ordinary soldiers grouped around and every man there had his say.
The shootist did little except tell them that the friendlies had disappeared with Cyrus Quaid into the tangle of trails that crossed in among the hills ahead of them.
“You see them?”
Crow shook his head. “No. They’re somewhere in there. I guess Small Pony’s taken them in his camp. Must have been one of his men came and killed the sentry.”
The young officer was barely winning the battle to keep control over himself and his fears. The scream as the trooper was slaughtered the previous night had shaken him to the core. That an Indian could come that close and kill so easily without them even seeing him!
“What’s the feeling, men?” asked Carter.
The snow was beginning to fall with a real sense of purpose. Suddenly wiping the mountains from the sight of the soldiers as though they’d never been there in the first place.
“We could use this to cut and run for Fort Garrett,” suggested Haydon, looking from the corner of his eyes at Crow. Trying to judge whether the shootist supported his idea or not. Crow said nothing, his face expressionless.
Carter saw his career at the crossroads. If he went back he’d have nothing to show but three dead troopers. But if he went on…?
“The snow can cover us from the Apaches, can’t it, Crow?”
“If it holds.”
The officer looked around. Reaching out a hand, like a spinster considering whether or not it was the kind of day to wear gloves.
“Seems to me this is in to stay.”
The shootist breathed out, looking down at the earth, rather than up at the sky. “Smells like it could be in for a day or more. It’ll make it hard to move fast, if’n we have to.”
“But it will cover our approach?”
“I guess so.”
Carter looked round at the ring of grim, stubbled faces. “What’s it to be, men? Is it to be a retreat with every Indian both sides of the Pecos laughing at us? Or is it to be honor and glory? Saving the hide of that young rascal, Cyrus?”
He didn’t get the overwhelming response that he’d hoped for. There was a murmur that was probably agreement, but could just as well have been dissent.
Haydon coughed, hawking up phlegm. Looking for somewhere discreet to spit it out, then changing his mind. “Beggin’ pardon, Mr. Carter, Sir. I guess the men figure that we come here to get the kid. We lost three good men. Be damned bad to go back to Garrett with that on our record. I say we go on.”
“Corporal?”
Chandler nodded. “I say go on.”
“Mr. Crow?”
“I just scout for you.”
Carter frowned. “But what is your opinion on our plan?”
The shootist shook his head. “I told you, Carter. I’m here to save myself from trouble with the military. If’n it was down to me I’d have ridden on. You want to go in those hills after Small Pony and … maybe fifty warriors, then you go.”
“But you’ll…”
“Hell, Lieutenant. I said I’d scout. So, I will. If you want to use this snow, we’d best be movin’.”
They broke camp in deteriorating weather. The cold Blue Norther was swooping down on them, dashing spattering hail and snow in their eyes. Spooking some of the horses, making them rear and buck.
Eventually they formed into a rough column of twos, with Carter and Crow at the head. Then came Sergeant Haydon, followed by the surviving seven troopers. The dependable Corporal Chandler brought up the rear.
It only took them a half hour to reach the first of the soaring foot-hills, vanishing upwards in a veil of flickering whiteness. Somewhere in those mountains was a band of Chiricahua Apaches, with a variety of women and children. And the breed, John Dancer, with the teenage white boy, Little Cyrus Quaid.
All they had to do was pluck the needle from the wilderness and return safely to Fort Garrett.
That was all.
Once they were among the high-walled arroyos of the red hills the snow became less of a problem. Crow took the lead, relying mainly on experience and guesswork. The driving blizzard had totally obliterated any tracks that the friendlies might have left as they pushed on for safety. Twice he climbed down from the saddle, digging with his hands through the four inch covering. Baring the earth underneath, brushing away the freezing snow. Checking carefully what lay beneath. Finding a small mound of pony droppings, rummaging them between his fingers. Sniffing at them, and crumbling them to dust.
“Guess this was them,” he said. “Fresh enough and it’s Cavalry feed all right. Must be the friendlies. Day or so old.”
They kept moving.
“Which way?”
Crow sat silent. Pondering the choices. There was the main trail; having dipped down it was beginning to rise again, deeper into the hills. But there was a side trail, slicing off to the right. The ground here was solid rock, giving no clue to where their prey might have gone.
“What do you think, Crow?” asked Lieutenant Carter again.
“I don’t know. Never been this way before. Anyone got any knowledge?”
Chandler heeled his gelding forward from the back of the small column. Blowing hard in the biting cold.
“Yeah.”
“Come on, then, Corporal,” urged Carter. “Day’s movin’ towards noon.”
“There’s water down there,” pointing towards the side trail.
“Much?” asked the shootist.
“Yeah, Crow. Kind of a large stream. Or a small river. There’s a spit of land sticking out into the creek, and I once saw a group of wickiups there when I was out scouting with Ginger ... I mean with Major Lovick.”
“What’s it called? The river?”
The Corporal pushed back his hat, scratching at his chin. “Don’t rightly recall. Sandy Creek. Somethin’ like that.”
Crow spoke. “This time of year Small Pony’ll be readyin’ to move from summer to winter quarters. His warriors go first. Women, old men, children bring up the rear a few days later.”
“When?”
“Generally around now, Lieutenant. This snow might have held them back.”
“Good.”
“Or it might have moved them out faster than usual.”
The young officer was confused. The wind and snow beating in his face seemed to have numbed his senses. More and more he was filled with an odd feeling of unreality. What was he doing out there? Chasing phantoms that never appeared. Spirits that had stolen a child and had even killed one of his men in the night.
One of his men.
“I don’t know,” he said, slowly.
Haydon looked meaningfully across at Chandler and then at Crow. He’d seen fresh young officers coming out from the East. Seen some of them make it. Ageing years in weeks. Seen some not make it. Running off on furlough and never coming back. Or one or two who’d taken the faster route out. “The hemp express” as they called it in the Cavalry.
Now James Carter was showing clear signs of going the same way. Bewildered by the ever-changing situation and unable to relate it to anything that he’d been taught at military college.
Crow was disgusted by the obvious weakness. “Christ!” he exclaimed angrily. “We can sit here all day, Lieutenant. How ‘bout an order?”
“Yes. We’ll. What do you think, Mr. Crow? Ahead or right?”
“Right.”
The answer was so terse and rapid that it took the callow officer by surprise. “Oh. Right?”
“Sure.” As though he was explaining a simple addition sum to a child of five. “What Sergeant says is interesting. Their summer camp’s probably still there. This weather’s come fast. Odds are the whole damned tribe is still down by that Sandy Creek. If they aren’t, it’s no problem to come back here and try the high trail. But that’s the most dangerous.”
“You take the safe option first,” said Sergeant Haydon.
“Right,” nodded Carter. “Then right it is. Move on out!”
At least he gave that last order with a measure of confidence.
They were still there.
A huddled collection of around forty small wickiups, visible every now and again as the wind tore holes in the curtain of heavy snow.
“There,” said Carter, unable to contain the excitement that pulled ragged edges from his voice.
“They haven’t gone into the hills,” Haydon said quietly.
“No men out on watch in this kind of weather,” contributed Chandler.
Crow said nothing.
“Wouldn’t look to have a patrol down on their necks in this weather,” called out one of the troopers, drawing his carbine.
“Set that gun back, soldier,” snapped the Sergeant. “Don’t want them sons of bitches frightened off before we’re in among them.”
“We’ll get in closer,” said Carter. “Walk on down yonder. Four of you men go with Sergeant Haydon and circle over to the left. Cross the creek higher up and cut off that neck of land.”
“Yeah,” grinned Chandler. “That way we’ll have ’em all tighter than a rat in a sack. No way out to run but the water. And we’ll wait for ’em on this side and close the door on their faces.”
“What about the boy?” asked the shootist.
They’d forgotten Cyrus Quaid. In the rush of adrenalin that comes with the prospect of violent, bloody action, the whole patrol had forgotten the boy!
“Well, he …” began the officer, stopping as the problems came in.
“He what, Lieutenant?” asked Crow.
“He’ll be in one of them huts.”
“Unless they’ve split their forces.”
“If they have then … Long as we all take care who we shoot Cyrus’ll be just fine and dandy.”
“Guess you’ve never been in this kind of raid, have you?” said the shootist wearily.
“No. No, as it happens, Mr. Crow, I haven’t. But I know what to do, if that’s botherin’ you.”
“Doesn’t bother me none, Lieutenant. Your plan’s good as any.”
“But?”
“But you don’t know. Don’t realize what happens to men in this kind of charge. Blood madness comes in behind the eyes. You see through a kind of red cloud. Gets so you shoot anything that moves. Even your best friend. I seen it happen.”
“Somethin’ in that, Sir,” said Chandler. “I seen the way troopers get kind of …”
Carter held up a gauntleted hand. “I know about that. Fighting fever was what my instructor called it. Long as we know ‘bout it, there’s no danger.” Raising his voice. “You all hear me? Kill only men. Warriors. Or any Apache that threatens you. But watch out for the white boy.”
“Sure. That’ll hold them,” said Crow, shaking his head in disgust.
Carter missed the sarcasm.
“Any questions?”
“Signal to start?” asked Haydon.
“Sure, Sergeant. Good question. You and your four men begin the action as soon as you get ready. We’ll be there to support you. Remember what I said. Only kill if you are threatened, men.”
There was a mumble of something that could have been agreement.
“You will ride with me, Mr. Crow. Unless you would prefer to stay and watch from a safe distance.”
Carter smiled, confident that things were, at last, going his way.
The smile disappearing like the dew at morning as Crow stepped in close to him. The officer’s fingers groped for the butt of his Colt, but he’d have been far too late.
The shootist’s voice was quiet as ever. But it held a chilling note of menace. A sound of totality. A promise of death.
“Don’t you ever speak like that, boy,” said Crow. “Not now and not ever.”
Everyone watched to see what the Lieutenant would do, faced with such a clear threat.
Carter did nothing. Swallowing hard and turning away from the shootist.
“Best not show me your back like that, son,” continued Crow. “You get your men ready and off for this big raid you got planned so damned well.”
“I will, Mr. Crow. I will,” answered Carter, barely controlling the shaking in his voice. The wings of the angel had brushed him and by God but he knew it!
The snow came down with renewed violence, blanking out sight and sound. Haydon and his men had disappeared into the white-out, muffled and hooded against the cold and wet.
Carter, Crow and Corporal Chandler waited with the three remaining troopers, on the near side of Sandy Creek. Beyond stood the wickiups of the Chiricahua.