Following right on the bark of the .41 Remington came a thud as an Apache’s body fell into the wagon box.
“He was pretendin’ to be dead, O’Callan,” Marietta said simply in a strained voice.
“He’s not pretendin’ now, machushla,” O’Callan replied, eyeing the small pistol in her hand and swallowing deeply as he realized how closely death had stalked him.
Marietta’s features had paled, and in the moonlight she looked to be an alabaster statue. Despite the ordeal, O’Callan thought for a moment that he had never loved any woman so dearly, save his sainted mother, now departed.
“Ye did well,” O’Callan told the troopers and soiled doves in a gruff voice. It helped, top, to dispel the strange sensation of gratitude and affection he felt toward Marietta.
At once, the soldiers and girls began to babble.
“We got a ways to go, yet,” O’Callan reminded them. “What with this attack, we’d proper-like ought to head back to Fort Dawson and file a report.”
Though everyone had been shaken up, now they expressed their anxious desire to go on to town. As they made ready to leave, after O’Callan had stripped saddle, bridle, and pad from his dead mount, a patrol came thundering up, led by Lieutenant Claymore.
“We heard firing clear back at the fort, Sergeant. Is there any sign of hostiles?”
“Only the dead ones ye see there, Lieutenant. Ever’thin’s fine now. Ye can just take the boys back to the fort.”
“We’d better give you escort,” the officer pressed. “Never can tell with these gawdamned Apaches ... uh, pardon, ladies.”
O’Callan affected to study on this for a moment. “Very well, but only to the town limits.” He thought quickly. “No need worryin’ the good folks of Lester Wells when the danger’s all passed.”
“Good thinkin, Sergeant,” the young lieutenant agreed. He turned to his own NCO. “Sergeant Malcomb, form a column of twos around the wagons for escort duty to Lester Wells.”
“Yes, sir,” Stewart Malcomb rapped out. Then his face took on a wide, knowing grin as he recognized the ladies to be escorted. Damn that O’Callan, he thought. Only he could come up with an idea like this. And only he could get away with it.
From there on, the ride went smoothly. The patrol halted at the edge of town while the wagons rolled quietly on to Marietta’s establishment. O’Callan grumbled half to himself as the trooper escorts helped the girls down from the high wagons.
“I’ll have to be makin’ a report on this damn ambush. Sure hope nothin’ comes out of all ... this.”
“Relax, O’Callan. It was a fine thing. We’re excited, sure,” Marietta told him. “After all, one doesn’t go to a fancy dress ball and get ambushed by Apaches every night. But it was a darlin’ thing you did.”
They stood side by side at the door as the troopers escorted the girls inside. “Now mind,” O’Callan warned, “no stayin’ far a more intimate goodbye.”
Suddenly Marietta turned to him and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him. “Thank you, O’Callan. That’s the first time I’ve been treated like a lady in fifteen years.”
Several of the girls also kissed his cheek and thanked him as they went in. The escorting troopers smirked. When the grinning cavalrymen remounted the wagons to head back to Fort Dawson, the inmates of Marietta’s—and the proprietress—leaned from windows and doorways, waving fond farewells. The detail picked up the escort on the way. Throughout the trip, O’Callan fretted about the result of the ambush.
“O’Callan,” the lieutenant remarked as they neared the gates, “I suppose you’ll be made a hero, defending the ladies like that and holding off a band of Apaches the way you did. You’re a lucky devil, you are.”
“Sure ... sure, Lieutenant, sir. But ’tis only bad luck I fear is me lot, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir.”
Once back at Fort Dawson the animals were stabled and the wagons turned in. O’Callan walked slowly over to the NCO quarters. He turned as he heard his name called. MacDonald and Brannigan were both waiting for him in the shadows on the sutler’s porch.
“Congratulations, O’Callan,” MacDonald gusted out. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you pulled it off beautifully.”
“Ye were damned clever, Terry,” Brannigan added with a smile. “An’ savin’ the, er, ladies from that ambush without takin’ no casualties only makes it the better. That was really the luck o’ the Irish.”
“Whew!” O’Callan burst out, relieved. “In that case, I’m gonna git me a bottle and finish this night off drunk.”
“Mind if I get a jug and join you?” MacDonald inquired.
“Glad to have yer company, Sergeant Major.”
“Call me Harry. We’ll keep this on a friendly basis.”
“Now that’s right nice, Harry.” O’Callan smiled.
“You did such a good job with the party an’ all, that I just might find another challenging task for you,” Harry MacDonald suggested.
“What ... ah, what sort o’ task?” O’Callan asked suspiciously.
“Well,” MacDonald began. “What do you think of the navy?”
“The navy is it? Faith, now, an’ I don’t think I’ve ever given the navy a second thought in all me life.”
“Really?” MacDonald asked. “That’s amazing. The U.S. Navy is one of the finest in the world, they tell me.”
“Is that a fact?” O’Callan jibed.
“I was thinkin’ that perhaps you and I could have a little talk about the navy,” MacDonald prompted.
Brannigan lit his pipe and smiled to himself as he watched them walk away. “Sure, Harry,” O’Callan’s voice drifted back to his first sergeant, “—But before we talk about the navy, I’ve been wantin’ to talk to ye about that mule ...”
O’Callan’s voice slowly diminished as Brannigan watched them disappear in the darkness toward the NCO quarters. Whatever Harry MacDonald had in mind, Brannigan reflected, he’d lay odds Terry O’Callan wouldn’t like it one little bit.