“So it’s the four of you, is it?” Sergeant Ben Cohen, seated massively behind his desk in the Easy Company orderly room, surveyed the battered countenances of Malone, Dobbs, McBride, and Golightly.
“Sarge, it wasn’t our fault.” Stretch Dobbs spoke carefully, trying to work his words around the bruises and cuts on his mouth, the pain in his jaw. “Those damn cow-holes started the whole goddamn thing.”
“Bullshit.”
Dobbs’s left eye popped, the right one being totally closed. “Sarge—”
“We was mindin’ our own business, Sergeant,” Reb McBride started to put in.
“Bullshit.”
“Sarge, we beat the hell out of them fuckers. They insulted the uniform, Sarge, that’s what started the trouble.” Malone spoke strongly as always, even though there was a large blue lump on his jaw, and his left ear looked like a mangled potato.
“Bullshit.”
Sergeant Ben Cohen, the first soldier of Easy Company, sat like a statue of Solomon, his imperial eyes examining the four wretches who stood in varying degrees of distress—physical and otherwise—before the judicial desk. Like Conway and Kincaid, Cohen too was over age in grade. But unlike Conway and Kincaid, Ben Cohen did not suffer in silence. He said nothing in front of the men, but his wife Maggie knew the song backwards and forwards and inside-out.
Now, having delivered his considered, succinct, and wholly colorful appraisal of the passage-at-arms in town, the first sergeant leaned his thick forearms on his desk and said, “By the look of you, Malone, I’d have to say you didn’t do much to uphold the honor of the United States Army of the West.”
“Sarge, we won. There was six of them, and only four of us. We beat the shit outta them...”
The hard eyes swept the four miscreants like a couple of Gatling guns.
“And, uh—the damage?” The thick forehead now creased in sudden innocence, the voice grew softer. “Who, pray tell, is paying for the damage to Mr. Skinner’s establishment?” As that enormously muscled body leaned back, the chair creaked loudly; but the sergeant only raised his eyes to the ceiling, lips pursed, fingers laced across that great chest as he revolved his thumbs. The exemplification of magisterial patience, the Master suffered himself to listen.
A moment passed in which if a feather had fallen it would have been heard.
“Might the first soldier of this organization—this organization which feeds you, clothes you, protects you from wild Indians and, when it can, wild women and other terrors of the frontier—might he ask you...” And he leaned forward swift as silk, his jaws opening like a slashing grizzly as the words crashed into the four hapless defenders of Easy Company’s honor. “.. .just who the hell is going to pay for your fucking wreckage!”
The force of the explosion drove the four backward.
Sergeant Cohen rose like a wall of fire to his feet, and stood there glaring at each one in turn, as though the very force of his eyes would drag an answer out of the culprits.
Billy Golightly had never experienced anything like it, and he began to sniff nervously.
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“Don’t sniff at me, goddammit, Golightly!”
“Sarge...” Malone shifted on his feet, trying to mollify the awesome presence standing in front of them.
“Ah, and wouldn’t you know... wouldn’t you just know it... that right in the middle of it all is—guess who? The Malone! The Malone himself, in person. By God, and is it himself is going to pay?”
“Sarge... we thought... the slush fund...”
“What! The slush fund for you dumb bastards breaking up a whole entire saloon! The rest of the company is going to pay for what you done? By God!” He dropped into his chair, stricken with disbelief.
They stood there trying not to show their discomfort, for fear of drawing a further outburst.
Suddenly those fearsome eyes swiveled to young Billy Golightly.
“Golightly...”
“Yes, Sarge?”
“I hope you have learned a lesson about who not to associate with in this man’s army.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“What have you learned?”
Billy Golightly looked totally nonplussed. He wanted more than anything else to reach up and scratch his head, but the look on Ben Cohen’s face forbade any such indulgence.
“Dammit, Golightly, I asked you a question. What have you learned?”
“I learned... I learned a lesson about who to associate with in this man’s army. Uh, I mean, who not io associate with, Sarge.”
Dobbs, McBride, and Malone looked as though they were going to burst. And so did Sergeant Cohen, although in his case, it was not from laughter.
“Now I know where you come from,” he said, his eyes boring into his target, who had answered him out
of pure innocence. “You are one of those people who knows a lot. One of those who can tell what’ll happen tomorrow, next year. You know ahead of time what’s going to happen to all of us.”
“Why, no, Sarge.”
“I mean anyone so goddamn fucking smart has got to be able to tell the future.” The big head swung across the group as the eyes searched for any movement in the direction of humor. “And what would the Malone say to this?”
“I’d say the sergeant was right, Sarge.”
“That Golightly here can tell us what’s gonna happen?”
“That’s right, Sarge.”
“So, Golightly.. .tell us what is going to happen to the four of you.”
Billy Golightly began to perspire.
“I will help you.” And Sergeant Cohen opened his desk drawer and brought out a stack of spoons. Counting out four, he placed them with their handles toward the four miscreants. “Tell, Golightly.”
Young Billy was gray around the eyes, and he began to sniff. The nudge that Malone gave him in his bruised side almost knocked him down; but somehow he managed to get the signal as, turning, he saw the big Irishman nod toward the window.
“The spoons, Sarge.”
“That’s right.”
“With those spoons, Sarge, we will dig.”
“That is correct, Private Golightly.”
“Now what will you dig?” He waited, and when nothing more was forthcoming from Golightly, he said, “Malone, you are an old hand at spoons and prediction, ain’t you?”
“Yes, Sarge. Sure.”
“Tell Golightly and the others what you will be digging.”
“A perfect six-by-six-by-six, Sarge.”
“That is correct.” The first soldier of Easy Company straightened in his chair. “Soldiers, pick up those spoons!”
Four battered hands dove to the desk.
“And get your asses outta here and start diggin’ back of the paddock. Malone knows where. By God, he’s dug up half the Territory of Wyoming. Git!”
When the door had closed, Cohen sat back in his swivel chair, exhausted, wondering how in the name of whatever one could name he had ever gotten into the position of wet-nursing such a bunch of incompetent assholes.
Suddenly the door to the CO’s office opened.
“Everything all right out here, Sergeant?” Conway’s brisk voice seemed to be lightly laced with humor, and Cohen realized he had probably overheard some of it.
“Yes, sir, everything is fine.”
“I couldn’t help hearing something about cowboys in town, or something. Would that be Cohoes’s men?”
Cohen quickly related the story to the captain, and with colorful effect.
Conway suppressed a smile. “I get the picture. There is plenty of resentment on the part of the cattlemen. But you know, Ben, I do not interfere in your business. I was only asking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who were the four again? Malone... ?”
“Malone, Dobbs, Bugler McBride, and young Billy Golightly.”
“Ah, yes, I wanted to speak to you about him. He’s got a really high score with the Springfield. But he looks awfully young. I mean, he looks sixteen, something like
that. I suppose he’s lied about his age.”
“I’m thinkin’ the same. Captain.”
“I think it’s not so unusual.”
“It happens.”
The captain looked at the back of his hand suddenly. “How is he?”
“He’s a good man. Captain. Willing, works hard, knows horses and guns a lot better than most, and no bullshit. The men like him, sir.”
“1 suppose Malone has broken him in on the entertainments that are possible in town.”
“So far as the saloons go, he sure has, sir. As for the women, I don’t know that any of the four of them had the time or strength left to taste those pleasures. Captain.”
Conway chuckled, his thoughts suddenly turning to his wife, Flora. His eyes found the clock on the orderly room wall. “I’m going over to my quarters, Sergeant. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
With his hand on the doorknob, Conway turned. “And how is the charming and delightful Mrs. Cohen?”
“Maggie’s just fine, sir. Giving me hell as usual, so I know everything’s good with her.”
Conway grinned, nodded, and the grin turned to a little smile at his lips as he thought of Maggie Cohen, the great Irish wife with the blue eyes and copious bosom. And this thought brought him right back to Flora Conway as he closed the door behind him.
When Warner Conway walked into his quarters, his wife called to him through the door that led to the room just off the parlor.
“Warner?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“You’re back early.”
“Sorry, dear, shall I leave?”
“You silly. Come on in, I’m just finishing my bath.”
When he walked through the door, she looked up at him from the tub in which she was almost totally immersed. The soapsuds were making mountains, and some had spilled to the floor. Her long black hair was swept onto the top of her head, and his eyes caught the most delightful ears he had ever seen in his life.
“Warner, what are you staring at?”
“Those wonderful ears.”
She was superb, her face laughing, the skin soft as a baby’s, her brown eyes shining at him. In her late thirties, Flora Conway looked a good bit younger. Warner Conway thought he would be madly in love with her if she were ninetv.
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Stepping over to the tub, he leaned down and kissed her on her full lips.
“Oh, Warner, that’s very nice. Wherever did you learn
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to kiss like that?”
“I learned from a delightful, black-haired, browneyed, spanky-bottomed beauty.”
“Spanky-bottomed beauty indeed!” And laughing, she began soaping herself, keeping her eyes on him as he took off his jacket.
“What did you do with this, uh, instructress, my dear?”
“Oh, we had lessons.”
“Did you learn much?”
“I learned that I loved my teacher.”
“Her spanky bottom?” Flora laughed aloud, and he adored the flush on her face. And she, as always, loved to tease him.
Suddenly she stood up, her firm breasts bouncing right before his eyes. Turning, she reached for her bath towel. “Will this bottom do. Captain Conway?”
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Warner Conway did not answer. He was already almost totally undressed. In a moment he had her on the bed, having earned her across the room. She was still only partly dry from her bath and smelling delicious as she helped him remove the rest of his clothes.
The storm hit after dark, around ten o’clock, with rolling thunder and streaks of lightning flashing across the sky. Its suddenness was almost unnerving, even to the Basques, who were accustomed to storms.
They had made camp at dusk and were now relaxing in their tents with a little wine, some stories, and song. At the first crack of thunder they’d thought it might be rifle fire; old Xerxes even said it could be the Indians.
Now the lightning stabbing across the black sky illuminated the soaking sheep, which were huddled, cowering, against the shining ground.
Inside the wet canvas tent, Otio and Ciriaco had a small fire going. Three other men, squatting close together for warmth, smoked and watched the fire. Otio got to his feet as an especially blinding flash of lightning and sharp crack of thunder shone on the walls of the tent. Stepping outside, he took a look at the churning sky, which now ripped and crackled every few seconds. The sheep were terrified. The rain, mixed with sleet and snow, drove to the ground and onto Otio’s bare head and shoulders; the cuffs of his jacket were soaking at his wrists. When he came back into the tent, he brought the dogs with him. Dripping, they sat in a semicircle, looking at the men with serious eyes.
“How is it out there?” someone asked.
“Not bad.” Otio let a long sigh run through him. “We Eskualdunak, we Basques,” he said, and again sighed, his breath forming a cloud before his face. “It is how we
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live, no? In the storm, in the heat, and in the soft blue days of spring and summer. And so, the bitter comes with the sweet. Is it not so?”
A sudden crash of thunder hit them like a blow, seeming as though it would tear the sky apart. Ciriaco, standing just outside the tent now, watched the flashes of blue lightning sizzle through the black, soaking night, while the thunder boomed like artillery. It was a dance, a great wall of thunder and roiling sky lit with lightning would close in on them, then retreat to regroup and weave into a new pattern and once more sweep down upon them. It was bitterly cold, and inside the tent the men crowded around the fire, and now and then the smoke made them cough.
Around one o’clock the storm stopped, quite suddenly. Silence stretched over the prairie, save for the wet sound of water dripping around the tent.
Ciriaco had already come back inside, and now Otio said, “The others must be all right, but I’ll take a look all the same.” And he ducked outside once again.
In a few' moments he was back. “They are true Basques—not like us. They’re all snoring like mothers- in-law.”
The tent filled with laughter.
“True Basques, indeed,” someone said. “One wonders whether they even knew there was a storm.”
Gradually they fell silent. The dogs had been let out. Ciriaco lay on his back, looking up at the top of the tent. The others, save for Otio, who was sitting up, appeared to be asleep. The tent was warmer with their heavy breathing.
After a long while, Ciriaco spoke. “I have been wondering, Otio, when you will find a wife. It is time. Though it is not my business.”
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Otio grunted. “It is not so easy to find a mate. Uncle. Not all of us can have the good fortune that you had in finding Tante Illista.”
Ciriaco smiled up at the peak of the tent, thinking of his wife of many years. “She is a good cook,” he said simply. And then, “Maria was a good wife, too. But one can neither bring back nor copy the dead, Otio.”
“That I know,” Otio said wearily.
“Otio...”
“Yes, Uncle?”
“Get some sleep.”
“Good night, Uncle.”
After a long moment, Ciriaco said, “What do you think, Otio? Is it good for the ardiak?”
“I will know better tomorrow, or the next day,” Otio said.
Ciriaco laughed. “You are learning, nephew. It is good.”
“The man in buckskins said we must think of the Indians.”
“That is certain,” Ciriaco said.
There was a movement at the front of the tent, and Michel put his head in. “All is well.”
“You want to sleep?” Otio asked. “I am wide awake.”
“Til watch for another hour.” And they heard Michel sloshing away from the tent.
Ciriaco rolled over onto his side, a gentle snore riding the whole length of his nose.
Otio continued to sit by the fire, now and again reaching over to stir it to life. It grew colder in the tent, and he held out his hands, rubbing them over the meager heat. But he did not add more fuel. He wished he had a woman.
In the morning, he was thinking, he might go and see
the soldiers. In the morning, the sky would be clear and then they could see more of the country and how it would be for the sheep.
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