Dahlquart, Texas was a small town that made up for its lack of size with boisterous noise, unceasing activity, and murderous violence. Senseless killings on the main street between drunken, enraged frontiersmen were such frequent happenings that they hardly drew any attention. Colonel Gatley was perfectly content in the knowledge that the wild community was too far away from Fort Alexander to offer its saloons and whorehouses to his troops.
Although known officially as a railhead, the town was more of a rail’s end. The tracks coming down from Missouri and across Louisiana ran straight across the greater center of Texas and ended abruptly at Dahlquart in the west. The town grew up around that termination of steel rails and wooden ties.
The rail accommodations offered were not enough to distract the great cattle drives from their moves north into Kansas. The train services at Dodge City and Wichita were much more superior. But Dahlquart did serve as a convenient gathering and meeting place for people wishing to conduct business—legal and otherwise—in northwest Texas.
The appearance of an army ambulance carrying a driver and woman and escorted by four mounted soldiers attracted no more than cursory glances from the loafers, working folks, and visitors on the street. Most of these looks were decidedly unfriendly. The respect the civilian population—even the lowest drifters—had for the soldiery depended on the extent of hostile Indian activity. The more raids, the more regard. Most of the time a trooper got no more than snubs or insults. But when the Kiowas and Comanches kicked up their heels, there was nothing good enough for the boys sporting army blue.
Sergeant Guy DuBose, leading the small group, turned in his saddle and motioned the driver to head toward the railroad depot. The teamster clicked his tongue at the mule and pulled on the reins. Martha Tate, sitting beside him, hollered over to Guy. “It ’pears the train has already come, Mr. DuBose.” She pointed to the stack of freight and other unclaimed goods on the platform.
“So it does, Mrs. Tate,” Guy responded. He rode on a bit faster with Privates Tim Donovan, Ben Horn, and Paddy McNally sticking close behind him. When they arrived at the depot, all dismounted. Guy called the soldiers over to him. “Remember we’re here on official business, so stay right here by the horses,” he said. He gave a particularly meaningful look to Donovan. “I’ll have none of you going to a saloon. Is that understood?”
“Sure and it is, Sargint,” Donovan replied. “As a member of the Good Templars, I’d not do such a thing.”
McNally laughed. “Now there’s malarkey if I ever heard it.”
Donovan growled, “Is it a liar you’re callin’ me, Private McNally?”
“Oh, no, Private Donovan,” McNally replied with a challenging grin. “It’s just that I’ve no faith in yer nature.”
“Then that shows how little ye know me, Private McNally.”
McNally shook his head. “By all that’s holy in the auld sod, ye’re an Irishman. It just ain’t a natural thing fer ye not to drink.”
“That’s enough!” Guy interjected. He wanted no donnybrooks in public between the two Irishmen. “Wait here and stay out of trouble. You can discuss the drinking habits of the Irish race when you’re back on post and, preferably, behind the barracks.”
“Now I’m thinkin’ we’ll do just that,” Donovan said with a meaningful glare at McNally.
Young Ben Horn, still fearful that Donovan would find out he was the one who bashed him the night the old soldier was arrested, hung back nervously. He found the opposite side of his horse very interesting as he adjusted and re-adjusted the stirrup straps.
When the ambulance joined them, Guy helped Martha Tate step down to the ground. She still seemed fresh despite the four-hour trip. “Now let’s go find our little lady , Mr. DuBose. She must be plumb worried what with nobody meeting her.” Martha glanced around. “And in a awful place like Dahlquart! It ain’t fit for decent folks.”
“After you, Mrs. Tate.”
They ascended the wooden steps to the station platform. “I’ll look outside, you check with the station master,” Martha said.
Guy went directly to the barred window and rapped on it. “Mister, did a lady arrive on the last train? We’re supposed to meet one of the officers’ wives here.”
“I think I seen one that fits the bill. She’s inside the waiting room,” the man answered.
“How long ago did the train arrive?” Guy asked.
“Oh, ’bout two hours I’d say.”
“Pretty damned early,” Guy said testily. “How the hell did that happen?”
“It didn’t happen, soljer boy. It’s really about a day late,” the man said with a laugh. “The schedule we’re on is yesterday’s. Dahlquart-bound engines get the last priority outta Shreveport.”
Martha Tate joined him. “She ain’t out here.”
“The waiting room,” he answered. Guy led the way toward the door thinking that he should tell the quartermaster that the railroad timetables used at Fort Alexander would have to be considered days, not hours late. The regiment depended on the railroad for needed supplies as well as transport.
Guy and Mrs. Tate stepped into the small waiting area and noticed a woman sitting on the farthest bench. She faced away from them, but her clothing was definitely in the style and expense that bespoke Washington City society.
“Mrs. Blackburn?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered standing up. She turned around, then her eyes opened wide in shocked astonishment. “Oh, dear Lord!”
Guy clenched his teeth hard. For an instant the emotional wave that swept over him threatened to sink him to his knees. Pauline Berger—his Pauline—stood looking at him through the light veil that flowed down from her hat and covered her face.
“Why, child!” Martha exclaimed rushing forward. Pauline had staggered backward, and only the older woman’s efforts kept her from falling. “What in the world?”
“I—we—everyone—thought you were dead,” Pauline said weakly. She stared as if fascinated beyond reason by Guy’s presence. He was older, a bit more rough looking, but as handsome as ever. “It is you, isn’t it? You are Guy DuBose!”
“Yes. It’s me,” Guy answered in a weak voice.
“I never in my wildest hopes and dreams—” She recovered enough from her near lapse into unconsciousness to begin weeping. “Oh, Guy! Oh, Guy!”
Martha tenderly slipped an arm around her and led her back to the bench. “Now you just sit down and recover yourself.” She looked at Guy. “What is this all about, Mr. DuBose?”
Guy swallowed hard, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Pauline—that is, Mrs. Blackburn and I were once—we were friends in Charleston.”
“You was more than friends, Mr. DuBose!” Martha snapped. “I ain’t dumb and blind.”
Pauline pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. She slipped it under the veil and wiped her eyes. “Selby came back and said you’d been killed at Gettysburg.”
“Selby’s dead,” Guy said coldly.
“I know, Guy. He was sent home with the wounded on a parole,” Pauline said. “They’d taken off one of his legs. He died at his family’s home after only being back a month or so. He said he saw you fall on the last day of the battle.”
The emotions of the moment finally overwhelmed Guy. He turned abruptly and stormed outside to the platform. Now everything he’d joined the army for— forgetfulness, solitude, and escape—were shattered beyond repair. The one terrible occurrence in his life that had driven him away had not only caught up with him, but had been flung straight into his face like a slap from the devil himself. His heart broke anew, and his soul wept with fresh tears.
Guy walked up to one of the crates and drove his fist straight into it, making the wood creak and bend with the force. “God damn it!” he whispered furiously. “God damn it! God damn it! God damn it!”
Moments later the two women appeared. Pauline seemed to be under control, and Martha Tate spoke softly but firmly to Guy. “I think it best that we keep this to ourselves, Mr. DuBose. A army post is a terrible small place with lots o’ big mouths. Gossip can be hurtful. It won’t do nobody no good if folks knowed about you and the lady.”
“Of course,” Guy agreed.
“I ain’t even gonna tell Harry about it,” Martha said. “And don’t you neither.” She smiled encouragement to the woman. “You hear that, dear?”
“Yes—yes—thank you,” Pauline replied.
“Now, Mr. DuBose, Mrs. Blackburn’s luggage is yonder at the edge o’ the platform. You’d best get them boys to fetch it.”
Guy, saying nothing, walked back to where the troopers and the ambulance waited. “You three!” he snapped. “Get the lady’s stuff. It’s at the far end of the platform.”
“Yes, Sargint!” Donovan answered with enthusiasm. As he ascended the stairs with Horn and McNally at his heels, he tipped his kepi to Pauline. “And the top o’ the day to you, Missus.”
Pauline smiled weakly and allowed Mrs. Tate to take her down to the ambulance. It took the three men two trips to get all the baggage. Finally, with the entire load on board and strapped down, the ambulance, with escort, was again on the road.
Guy purposely stayed fifteen yards in front of the wagon. The last thing he needed at the moment was contact with Pauline. The two women sat in the back on the bench seats. They talked softly and intimately together as instant feelings of trust and friendship grew between them. Donovan, Horn, and McNally were positioned in a semi-circle covering the rear of the vehicle. They wondered what had soured their sergeant’s disposition to such an extent.
The trip continued across the rolling terrain for another two hours. The three troopers and the driver were not sure, but something seemed out of the ordinary to them. Even the lady they’d fetched was out of sorts. Obviously something had happened between her and Sergeant DuBose, but none could figure out what it was. The sergeant had acted downright surly toward them on a couple of occasions when they had made friendly overtures toward him in the guise of jokes and bantering.
Now, properly subdued, the soldiers settled back to see what was going to happen on the trip. Finally, Martha Tate turned around in her seat and called out loudly to Guy:
“Mr. DuBose! Mr. DuBose!”
Guy ignored her for a few moments, but knew he would have to answer. He reluctantly and slowly wheeled his horse around and allowed the animal to slowly walk back. “Yes, Mrs. Tate?”
“I do think it’s time for a rest stop,” Martha Tate said sweetly. She indicated a copse of redbud trees.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The driver, without waiting to be told, turned the correct direction. He drew up to a stop and hopped down. “I reckon I’ll stretch my legs,” he said diplomatically as he walked over to join the other soldiers who had drawn off a discreet distance. Guy started to follow them, but Mrs. Tate called to him.
“Please stay by the wagon and help me down, Mr. DuBose.”
“Of course.” He dismounted and offered his hand.
“I’ll be back directly,” Martha said. “You wait here.”
Guy, feeling awkward, stood in silence beside the ambulance. He fumbled through his pockets for a cigar.
Pauline spoke in a soft voice. “Do you still like those Spanish cheroots, Guy?” The words were casual and friendly, but her voice trembled with barely controlled emotion.
“I can’t afford them on sergeant’s pay,” he said tersely.
“Guy, we must speak,” Pauline said. “It is so important to me.”
“It wouldn’t be proper, ma’am,” he replied. “You’re an officer’s lady and I am an enlisted man.”
Pauline sighed audibly. “Guy! Please! I have never in my life experienced such overwhelming shock and surprise. I do not see how we can avoid each other. It will be impossible.”
He finally looked her straight in the eyes. “Pauline, there is nothing for us to talk about. The past is gone and dead. I would prefer that we leave it that way. Our lives are now on different levels.”
Pauline started to speak again but reconsidered. She simply said, “Yes, Guy.”
Martha returned. “Mrs. Blackburn?”
Guy, without waiting to be asked, offered his arm. Pauline took it and stepped down. Her touch went to the core of his being like a gently persistent probe of lightning.
Fifteen minutes later the journey to the garrison resumed. The final two hours, like the first, were ridden in strained silence. When they finally went through the gate, Guy broke off to report to Captain Blackburn.
He found him in the orderly room with old Captain Dan Wayne. Guy saluted. “Sir, your wife has been delivered to your quarters.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Blackburn said. He offered his hand to Wayne. “Good luck to you in your retirement. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go see my wife. I’ve not seen her for more than two months now.”
Guy felt a pang of jealous hurt. Wayne walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, Sergeant DuBose, I must say goodbye to you of all people.”
“Goodbye, sir. It was an honor serving under your command,” Guy said.
Wayne laughed. “The hell it was! I’ll not deny my inattention to duty at this point in my life. Because of it, you and Tate had to work harder than any other line sergeants in the regiment. But, at any rate, you are one of the finest non-commissioned officers I have ever known.” He paused. “Now get the hell out of the army, DuBose!”
“Sir?”
“You don’t belong here, young man. You’re stagnating. What’s left for you? A sergeant major’s post when you’re a pot-bellied old drunkard? Or, if you’re really unlucky, you’ll end up with a court-martial from some son of a bitch like Blackburn?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Guy said shaking his head.
“There’s damned little future for even a commissioned officer,” Wayne said. “Because of having served the Rebel cause, you will never wear shoulder straps. And you’re not cut out to be an enlisted man.”
Guy remembered his conversation with the Tates. “I’ve heard that before,” he admitted.
“When is your hitch up?” Wayne asked.
“I’ve another eight months,” Guy answered.
“I’ll tell you what, Sergeant,” Wayne said. “I’m going to join my brother in a land business down in Dallas. When I get there I’ll send you my new address. Perhaps if you decide not to re-enlist, you would be interested in an offer of a position.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I can’t promise you anything of course, but perhaps the situation will be to your benefit.”
“I appreciate the consideration,” Guy said. At that point, after seeing Pauline, even getting out of the army to sweep saloons seemed a blessing.
Wayne offered his hand again. “I hope to see you again, Sergeant. I truly do.”
But now Guy wasn’t listening. His mind, despite all efforts to stop it, was full of Pauline. She looked only a little older and a bit sadder. But her beauty, as radiant as ever, still pulled at his heartstrings. The mental picture was pleasant, but soon another thought pushed it aside with cruel persistence.
Now he could imagine the agonizing picture of Pauline in the arms of Captain Gordon Blackburn.