Da-soda-hae opened one eye slowly to take a glimpse toward the fort. No stir of activity came into his view of the post, so he allowed himself the luxury of dozing off for several more minutes. Then he jerked awake to continue his observations.
He had so far done as Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain had told him to in his vision: he was to take his band near the place where the pony-soldiers lived, then hide himself in a place where he could watch. When the pony-soldiers came out he was to follow them and with his band kill them all. He had told the other boys of the new Owl Society and they had howled their approval.
The young Apache had arrived at this watch post in the early hours of morning. After burying himself to his shoulders in the sand, he kept Fort Dawson under observation through one day and night. He had an army canteen that his father had given him long ago, hardly touched so far. He nibbled on dried venison when he felt hungry, though that wasn’t often. His father had trained him well; he could go incredible lengths of time without food. Reflections on his father made him sad, and he willed himself back into a light doze.
Once again Da-soda-hae opened an eye and raised his head. This time he snapped fully awake. The front gates stood open and three wagons, escorted by a double file of cavalry, rolled out from behind the walls. He watched them until they disappeared over the horizon, then he slid out of the depression where he had lain hidden and scooted backward on his belly. Out of sight of the fort, he slid down into an arroyo where his pony stood hobbled.
He untied the rawhide rope and mounted swiftly, turning toward the direction of the column of pony-soldiers. His vision had told him the white-eyes would go someplace and stop. That was where he and his friends would kill every last one of them. Grimly determined, he followed the easy trail all that day.
The soldiers had done no real patrolling, so the precautions Da-soda-hae took had been unnecessary despite the wisdom. The troops plodded straight ahead until nightfall, when they stopped and made the usual bright and noisy camp. Saddle horses and draft animals were picketed on a long rope. At the directions of a fiery-haired, bowlegged soldier chief, a patrol went out to sweep the surrounding area.
Suddenly Da-soda-hae had to recall all his father’s teachings about caution. It was only with a great deal of difficulty that he managed to avoid detection. Through his ordeal, he kept in mind the one who seemed to give orders to the others.
He was the chief who yelled with great anger at the soldiers. Yet it wasn’t his voice that fascinated the young Apache. It proved to be a phenomenon that Da-soda-hae had never imagined in even his most distorted vision—the pony-soldier chief had a large amount of red hair sprouting from under his nose. It was even darker than that atop his head.
After careful study of this enemy and careful consideration, Da-soda-hae did not feel that this place had been the one where Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain wanted the soldiers to die. So, he decided to watch them all that night and follow along the next day. Between bouts of dozing, his mind tried to perceive what message Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain had meant to send him through the pony-soldier’s red hair.
~*~
“You’ve picked a good camp, O’Callan,” Lieutenant Johnston complimented.
“Yeah. So long as none o’ Halcon’s Apaches decide to pay us a visit. I don’t like bein’ in the open among those heathen devils.”
“Make you nervous?”
“Ye might say as how it does,” O’Callan allowed. “Them savages knows every rock, cactus, and grain of sand out here. It’s their land. The only thing that stops ’em is walls. Good, stout palisades, with firin’ loops. If I had me way, this territory would be all cut up with walls.”
“An ambitious undertaking,” Johnston remarked, distracted by a delightful aroma. “What’s that I smell? Coffee?”
“Sure. is. Arbuckle’s finest Ariosa. Far some reason, Lieutenant, it always gives off a better aroma out here in the wilds. Much richer an’ in garrison where some belly-robber can foul it up with stale water an’ such.”
“How much further to this Dog Leg Butte, Sergeant O’Callan?”
“We’ll be at its foot before sundown tomorrow. Too late to climb, but there’s a nice place there, Painted Rock Crossing. It’s got walls,” O’Callan added meaningfully. “We can start up the trail to the top come daylight the next mornin’.”
“I’ll be grateful for that.”
“Why’s so, beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon?”
“I’m anxious to set up our scientific equipment. It’ll be my first weather station.”
“Hummm. An’ do ye know for certain it’ll work?”
“It should. Provided we follow directions exactly.”
“Sure an’ that’s a comfortin’ thought. If ye’ll excuse me, sor, I’ll go see to that coffee. I’ll bring ye back a cup.”
“That would be kind of you, O’Callan.”
“’Twould be me pleasure, sor.”
~*~
The journey resumed the next day, and Da-soda-hae once again followed stealthily. He never lost sight of the wagons until the journey ended abruptly at another place where the white-eyes had built walls.
“Welcome back to Painted Rock Crossing,” Mexico Schultz bellowed as he offered a hand to Lieutenant Johnston and Boatswain’s Mate Ormond.
“I’ll have to speak the plain truth and say that bein’ the first sailors I’ve ever seen set foot here, ye’re mighty inter’stin’ company. It’ll be nice to hear some more of those sea tales of yours.”
“Very pleased to be here again, Mr. Shultz,” Johnston returned pleasantly. “I understand arrangements have already been made for us to stay the remainder of today and all night.”
“Sure have,” Mexico said. “And if yo’re goin’ up to the top of Dog Leg Butte in the mornin’, you’ll need ever’ minute of it to rest up yore animals.”
“That’s what Sergeant O’Callan told us,” Johnston offered. “And we certainly mean to heed his expert advice. How far is Dog Leg Butte from here?” Mexico pointed to the huge, flat-topped mesa that thrust skyward over the top of the walls. “That’s it right there.”
“Well! It’s not as far as I thought.”
“Don’t let the distances in the desert fool ya, mister,” Mexico cautioned him. “The base of that butte is eleven miles from here. But the ground starts sloping up within a mile. C’mon over to the wall and I’ll show you. You can see where the trail up to the top begins.”
Shultz led the naval officer up the rickety steps of the watchtower. He pointed wordlessly to an obvious change in the desert terrain.
“Ya kin see it from here, easy enough,” he remarked. “But out there nobody kin really tell where the upgrade begins till his hoss starts breathin’ harder.”
“I ... see,” Johnston nodded. “Thank you for the information.”
“Yore right welcome. Let’s get on down to the waitin’ room for some vittles. There’s some good pop-skull waitin’, too,” Mexico added with a wink.
The troopers and sailors had already begun to noisily attack the food. Loud talk and the clatter of tin plates filled the air when the two men got to the dining room. O’Callan and Ormond ate quietly, seated at opposite ends of the long trestle table. Mexico dished out generous platefuls for himself and the officer, then joined Johnston at the table.
“O’Callan tells me yo’re keepin’ a check on the weather up there,” Mexico remarked.
“That’s right. It’s a naval project.”
Mexico shrugged, dismissing the idea as crazy. “There really ain’t much to take note of. It’s either hot or cold, dry or wet ... with a few combinations of that. Sometimes it snows.”
Johnston smiled at the usual lack of awareness on the part of an uninitiate. “We’ll be watching for more than that, Mr. Shultz. We’ll be taking notes on cloud formations, their speed, direction, as well as a strict temperature watch and wind recordings. All the information we gather up will be compiled with that of dozens of other stations.”
“Seems right, uh, inter’sting,” Mexico remarked insincerely.
“What we’re doing,” Johnston persisted, “is to find out if we can establish a pattern of weather. For example: Do certain wind conditions in the desert indicate something that’s happening—or more importantly—will happen on the coast, or out to sea?”
“You want some whiskey, O’Callan?” Mexico called down to his friend.
“I’ll finish me food first, Mexico,” O’Callan yelled back. “Then, after I see to the darlin’ animals, I might jest settle meself down fer a bit o’ sippin’ an’ talkin’.”
“Hey! What the hell about us?” a cavalryman demanded, with scant consideration of rank.
“Well, what about ye?” O’Callan shot back. “Ye see to yer gear an’ help with the critters, an’ then the lot o’ ye kin have a nip or two. As fer the sailors, I’ll leave that up to Boats and Lieutenant Johnston.”
“That’s Mr. Johnston,” Ormond said hotly. “He’s a lieutenant jay gee. If you’re gonna talk to somebody, at least do it right.”
“Jay gee? What in hell’s that?”
“Junior grade, O’Callan. It’s a navy rank.”
“In the army—” O’Callan began hotly.
“It’s perfectly all right, Sergeant O’Callan,” Johnston broke in. “Let’s not have another squabble. The thing is, the title ‘Lieutenant’ in the navy is the same as a captain in the army. My rank, ‘jay gee’ is equivalent to a first lieutenant in your service.”
“Oh ... I ... see,” O’Callan responded, nonplussed for once. “Junior, huh? By yer leave, junior, er, sor, I’ll go see to the horses and mules now.”
~*~
The darkness prior to dawn added to the confusion and sharp cursing of the cavalrymen and the restless stomping of hoofs and creaking of wagon wheels as the little caravan once more formed up.
“Now listen to me,” O’Callan bellowed at his men. “I want Lance Carp’ril Bradley on point with one other man. Barton and Schweitzer will be rear guard.
I want the other twelve o’ ye to keep out as far on the flanks as the trail permits. Ormond, if ye’ll be so kind, I’d appreciate it if ye’d divide yer men up between the wagons an’ have ’em walk along behind to lend some help to the animals when we start the climb. It’ll be bloody steep in places.”
“Right, O’Callan,” Ormond answered as he turned to his sailors. “Divide yourselves up into watches of two men and fall to on the stern of each wagon. When things slow down, it’s ‘all hands heave to with a will’—and put your weight behind it.”
O’Callan mounted and took one last look at the group. He sucked in a deep breath. “Ford, yo-o-o-o-o!”
With creaking wheels and jingling trace chains, they rolled out of the station and began their trek.
At first, the animals pulled their burdens easily. The sailors walked behind, enjoying the uniqueness of their duty. Within an hour they began to sense the slowly growing strain on their legs as the terrain gradually became steeper.
By midday, the sailors were all but exhausted. They had spent much of the morning shoving against the tailgates of the wagons and straining on the spokes of the wheels while the mules snorted and leaned into their harness, hauling the heavy burdens higher up toward the butte. At noon, the sailors ate their field rations in numb silence while their cavalry escort did likewise, except that O’Callan had formed them into a defensive perimeter around the stopping place.
Afternoon became a repeat of the process as men and animals struggled toward the summit. The going grew steeper now, and O’Callan had been forced to call in six of his flank guards to use their strength and that of their horses to ease the mules’ workload.
“Jest be glad this bloody trail is straight and not curved,” O’Callan observed. “Imagine what yere problems’d be if’n ye had to wrestle these darlin’ wagons around a few steep turns. Now put yer bloody backs into it and push them wagons.”
“Sergeant O’Callan,” Johnston called to him from the wagon set. “Wouldn’t it be better if we used all of your men to pull these wagons?”
“I’m afraid not, sor. I don’t want us stumblin’ up a blind trail. Apaches, ye know.”
The naval officer nodded silently and watched the almost-unbearable labor of his men at their posts. Finally they came up over the crest, and the sailors staggered off to one side to collapse, breathing hard and, in some cases, retching. A weak cheer was thrown up, then the cavalrymen galloped off to scout the top of the mesa, while the sailors climbed into the wagons for the short remainder of their journey.
~*~
Da-soda-hae had watched the caravan as it headed up the trail to the top of the butte. He had become puzzled when the wagons began the laborious climb, so he hung back to see what they were going to do.
When the white men did not come back down by dark, he ventured up the trail, walking in order to keep quiet. The moon had barely risen when he sighted the camp. Da-soda-hae shook his head in wonderment. The pony-soldiers obviously planned to stay in this exposed area for quite some time. He smiled to himself and returned down the steep incline at a swift trot. His band of young warriors waited far away. He had to get to them quickly.
These white-eyes didn’t realize it, yet they unconsciously obeyed the will of Spirit-Woman-of-the-Mountain.