2

Brick Noonan, in the few days’ time alloted him, had studied his man thoroughly. He was aware that the Fort Mohave detail was camped several dozen yards behind the Ehrenburg House. He was also aware that Lieutenant Overman, with the privilege of rank, was staying at the hostelry and he had made a study of the lieutenant’s habits.

Like most junior officers, Lieutenant Overman was not averse to a bit of alcohol, especially during the evenings when a man in Ehrenburg had only three diversions—the cheap Indian and Mexican women, gambling, and drink. It had been Noonan’s observation that the first two did not appeal to Lieutenant Overman, while the third did. Apparently the lieutenant favored the discreet small bar in the Ehrenburg House where the more prosperous businessmen and mine owners adjourned each evening for a quiet game of cards and even quieter drinking. Accordingly, it was into this small, one-room bar, holding two gambling tables and several easy chairs, that Noonan came that night. He was wearing a well-worn sergeant’s uniform over which he had carefully sifted dust.

Stepping into the lamplit, whitewashed room from its street entrance, Brick Noonan saw his man immediately. Overman, glass in hand, was watching the poker game, and Brick smiled inwardly. You don’t gamble on a lieutenant’s pay, he thought. He walked across the room and halted beside Overman’s chair. When Overman looked up, Brick gave a respectful, casual salute that startled Overman, who returned it even more casually.

“May I speak to the Lieutenant, sir?”

Overman, the top two buttons of his blouse unbuttoned, rose and moved the eight feet to the bar, on which he leaned.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“I’m Sergeant Noonan, sir, reporting back to Fort Whipple from leave.”

“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“Sir, it’s like this. I spent my leave with my brother at Dos Palmas. The night before I was to leave I got lucky in a card game and won a horse. He’s a good one, sir.”

Lieutenant Overman looked puzzled but polite as Noonan continued.

“I sent all my gear on the stage and rode my horse to Ehrenburg. After I crossed on the ferry I went into a bar and met one of your troopers, sir.”

“That’s very likely,” Overman said drily.

Noonan smiled dutifully and continued. “He told me your detail was headed for Whipple. I’d like your permission to join the detail, sir.”

“When’s your leave up, Sergeant?”

“I’ve got a week of it left, sir.”

Lieutenant Overman straightened up and smiled. “You’re more than welcome, Sergeant Noonan. There aren’t too many of us and we could use an extra rifle.”

Noonan smiled. “And I could use company, sir. One man isn’t much against a bunch of murdering Apaches.”

Overman nodded. “You’ve got your papers?”

Noonan shook his head. “No, sir. They’re with my gear on the stage. I didn’t figure I’d be as lucky as this or I’d have carried them.”

Lieutenant Overman smiled. “Well, Sergeant, if you were intending to desert, you wouldn’t be going back to Whipple.”

Noonan grinned. “No, sir. I’d be going the other way.”

Lieutenant Overman handed his glass to the bartender. “We’re leaving at dawn tomorrow, Sergeant. We assemble at Harmon’s warehouse. Your horse in good shape?”

“The best kind of shape, sir. Thank you. And I’ll be on hand when your detail is.” He came to attention, saluted, and walked out.

Lieutenant Overman returned to watch the card game, regarding himself as a lucky man.

Later that night, back in the cottonwood motte Sergeant Noonan rode up to a fire around which ten of his men were gathered. He could see the other two men guarding the remuda. There were other fires within sight, the fires of broke miners who had been thrown out of work by the gradual closing of the placer mines of La Paz, five miles to the north. They were too poor to live in the cheap boarding houses of Ehrenburg, or to travel. They were hungry, desperate, and reckless, and would willingly steal an unguarded horse. Indeed, half of the ten men lounging around the fire had been carefully recruited by Noonan from these ranks.

Kirby was lounging on his blankets, the farthest from the fire, taking no part in the conversation. As befitted the man who would lead this riffraff, he purposely remained aloof. After Noonan had unsaddled, and turned his horse into the rope corral, he went across to Kirby.

“How’d it go, Brick?”

Noonan sat down. “Just like I knew it would.” He could not entirely keep the smugness out of his voice. “No questions asked, except about my leave papers. I reckon he was glad to see me.”

“You carry your luck with you, don’t you?” Kirby said admiringly. “All right, what do you want us to do?”

“Better start moving the men out in an hour or so. I want you to be well ahead of us.”

“Where’s the first water?” Kirby asked.

“A place called Tyson Wells. Tell your bunch to get water there, then scatter out of sight till dark.”

“We ain’t got much grub, Brick.”

“We won’t need much grub if this works, Kirby. If it doesn’t, you couldn’t pack enough grub.” He started to rise, and then as an afterthought said, “Be careful of that woman, Kirby, and also be damned careful of me. I’m the only man with sergeant stripes. Remember that.”

It was barely daylight when the seventh loaded wagon pulled out from Dave’s wagon yard and joined the six others strung out in a line down the street. They were big wagons, high-sided, with rear wheels as tall as a man, and to most of the wagons were hitched four teams of mules. Two of the wagons, loaded with lighter goods, had teams of horses. The near wheel horse of each team was saddled for the teamster who would drive his team by the jerk line running to the bits of the lead teams. On each wagon a long leather brake strap extended from the brake pole and buckled on the saddle horn so that the teamster in the saddle could still brake his load.

A dozen teamsters and stevedores were gathered around the circular water tank in the wagon yard, watching Dave Harmon conduct a fairly routine chore.

Two of the teamsters, who had been drinking through the night, were ducking their heads in the trough and rubbing the backs of their necks in an attempt to sober up. The third man lay at their feet, dead drunk.

When the two teamsters came up sputtering, Dave regarded them critically.

“Well, if you can stand up, I reckon you can sit in a saddle. Now pitch him in,” Dave said, indicating the teamster on the ground.

“No use, Dave. We had to carry him here,” one teamster said.

“Throw him in anyway. At least it’ll keep him cool for a few hours.”

The two teamsters leaned unsteadily over their companion, seized him by arms and feet, lifted him up and rolled him over, face down, into the two feet of water in the big tank.

When the teamster did not struggle, Dave moved over swiftly, grasped the man’s hair and lifted his head above water. The ducking, he saw, had not even succeeded in opening the man’s eyes, and if he were left here he would drown.

“All right, pull him out, Solly,” Dave ordered.

The two teamsters lifted out the dripping form of their companion and set him in the mud, his back propped against the tank. Dave looked about him at the circle of men. “I reckon you’ll have to go in his place, Bailey.” He had singled out a slight young man in rough clothes, who only nodded indifferently.

Now the teamster of the seventh wagon came into the yard and went directly up to Dave. “The escort just come, Dave. They’re ready.”

Dave looked at his men. “All right, let’s go.”

He went out through the gate and saw the escort waiting in the street. There were seven mounted troopers, and their sun-faded blue blouses were salty with dried perspiration from their ride down from Fort Mohave. They were armed with sabers, carbines, and pistols, and one of them was a bored and seasoned-looking, red-haired sergeant. Young Overman was leaning down, talking to John Thornton, who would drive the Army ambulance in which he was seated. Beside him was Juliana Frost.

Dave touched his hat to Juliana.

Lieutenant Overman glanced beyond Dave and saw the teamsters mounting up as Dave said, “We’re ready if you are, Lieutenant.”

At that moment Thornton said to him, “Where do you want us, Lieutenant?”

Overman turned his head to look at Thornton. “Why, in the lead, so you’re out of the dust. Move ahead slowly, Mister Thornton. We’ll catch up with you.” He turned to look at Dave. “You’re sure we’ll reach water tonight, Harmon?”

“I’m sure.”

“I wish I weren’t a stranger to this road,” Overman said with wry good humor. “Looks like you’ll be taking care of us instead of us taking care of you.”

Dave smiled. “Not if it comes to trouble, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Well, that’s fair enough,” Overman said. “You can take off now.”

Harmon left him, and Overman pulled his horse around and rode back to his men. He named Sergeant Noonan and Trooper Cleary as advance guard, and called off the names of two more troopers who would serve as flankers. Then his orders put the detail in motion.

Just past the last house of Ehrenburg he caught up with the ambulance. Noonan and Cleary were riding a hundred yards ahead. Lieutenant Overman signaled out his flankers, then drew alongside the ambulance.

This wasn’t much of an escort, First Lieutenant Richard Overman thought, and he wished that his first assignment since he received his promotion last month had been a less burdensome one. The reason for its being burdensome was seated beside John Thornton, he admitted to himself. He not only had the responsibility of protecting the teamsters, his own troopers, and a male passenger, but he had the added responsibility of protecting Juliana Frost, a major’s daughter. In case of trouble what was the best way to protect her? She was a beautiful girl and, being army, she must certainly know that death was preferable to capture and torture by the Apaches. It wasn’t that he was afraid she would be captured, though, but that she might be hurt in an exchange of gunfire.

He decided, then, that in case they were attacked the thing to do was to order Juliana to protect herself inside one of the freight wagons. He would ask Harmon if some freight couldn’t be shifted to provide for this emergency. That, then, was settled.

This quick decision was characteristic of Lieutenant Overman. He was five years out of West Point and had served all of them in Western posts—in Dakota Territory, in Texas, and at Fort Mohave. The son of a wealthy New Yorker, he considered himself the most unfortunate of men. His love affair with the Army had begun at the age of three, lasted through the Civil War, and would last as long as he lived, he knew. He had spurned Harvard for West Point, over the objections of his family. He had rejected all offers of his family to use influence to get him soft, safe jobs in Eastern posts or in Washington. Coming from the very lap of luxury, he made a point of living on his lieutenant’s pay. He was, in short, doing exactly what he wanted to do, with nobody’s help and with nobody’s advice.

One bit of luck that had come his way was his promotion. It followed on the heels of the Army’s housecleaning of last year, when incompetent officers were weeded out to make way for men of promise who would build a better Army. All in all, Lieutenant Overman was a happy man—serious when he was practicing the profession of arms, and lighthearted when he was not.

Juliana Frost, despite the fact that this was not the first trip she had made under military escort, couldn’t help but feel a quiet excitement this morning. This was the last leg of a journey that began in New York, traversed the Isthmus of Panama, to be resumed on another voyage on the open seas, and in its next-to-last stage saw her disembarkation from a schooner onto a river steamboat. It seemed to her that she had come halfway around the world so she could be again with her parents.

It had been five years since she had seen them, years that saw her graduate from a girl’s school in New York and then teach there. They had been good years but lonely, and she had unaccountably missed the Army life which, because of her years in an Eastern school, she could only dimly remember. Now, just to listen to Army talk, to discuss men she had known once and forgotten, to share again in that friendly camaraderie peculiar to service families, was a pleasant thing. The past few days here, while miserably hot, had been enjoyable. Part of the enjoyment, she suspected, was because young Overman, starved for the companionship of women, had made her stay a gay one—he and John Thornton.

She glanced obliquely at Thornton, who was in easy conversation with Lieutenant Overman riding beside the ambulance. She and Thornton had met in Panama while both were waiting passage on the Sprite. When they discovered they were both headed for Fort Whipple, pleasant friendship began and was still maturing. He was a city man and make no pretense of being otherwise, yet he was tolerant of the rough frontier ways and was amused by them.

The lieutenant now dropped back to order flankers farther out as they entered broken and barren country.

“Where are they going?” Thornton asked.

“To watch for Indians,” Juliana said.

“What if they find some?”

Juliana laughed. “They’ll warn us in time so we’re prepared for them. Indians like to surprise you. They don’t like a set fight.”

“And where did you learn all of this, Juliana?” Thornton asked, amusement in his voice.

“A thousand hours of listening.”

Now Thornton’s attention was diverted by the slowing of the ambulance. Neither Juliana nor Thornton had noticed they were entering a stretch of blow sand that made their sweating teams labor. The point troopers had crossed the long stretch of sand and reined up at its edge on the road ahead. When the ambulance crossed the blow sand, which sent up a stifling heat, wave after wave, Noonan raised a friendly hand to check them, and Thornton reined in.

“Sir, I think you and the lady had better wait here for a while. The wagons will have to double-team this blow sand and I don’t think the lieutenant would like you to drive on alone.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll wait,” Thornton said.

Noonan’s prediction proved right. The heavy loads on the wagons mired them almost hub-deep in the sand, and Dave, taking spans from the other wagons, hitched them to each wagon to pull the load through the sand. Juliana, turning in her seat, watched the first wagon through. Dave was standing on his saddle so as to reach as far as he could toward the lead team with his long whip. As the wagon cleared the sand and the laboring horses came to a halt, Dave stepped down to unhook the lead teams. When he passed them Juliana noted that his shirt was plastered to his back with perspiration. He was so engrossed in his job that he paid them no attention.

“There’s something strange about that man, John,” she said. “You know he was a captain of cavalry before he left the service.”

“I don’t think I’d trade an officer’s job for what he’s doing now.”

“According to Lieutenant Overman, I don’t think he had any choice. With the sight of only one eye, the Army had to let him go.”

Sergeant Noonan had dismounted now and was helping Dave unhitch the teams.

“What happened to blind him?” Thornton asked.

“Fighting the Sioux,” Dick Overman said.

“Well, what’s strange about him, except he’s half blind?” Thornton asked drily.

Juliana thought a moment. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that a man with West Point training should settle for this?”

Thornton smiled. “Come to think of it, it does seem strange. You’d think his education would qualify him to be an engineer or a lawyer. He should be in a profession.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Juliana said.

“I wouldn’t let him know you do,” Thornton said. “He strikes me as a man who isn’t looking for pity.”

Now Dave, driving the extra teams back, passed them again, and again he did not look at them. Oddly, his concentration on the task at hand made Juliana feel useless and almost frivolous.

Troopers Reardon and Adams had left the detail at the water hole after sundown. Their orders were simple. They were to travel north at night by moonlight, using Lieutenant Miller’s hand compass as a guide, and walk until they intercepted the stage road. When eventually they reached help, they were to report their compass reading so that the rescuers could locate the detail. Reardon could not read a compass nor be taught how to read one, so the task fell on young Trooper Adams.

As darkness fell and moonlight replaced daylight, it seemed to Trooper Adams that he and Reardon were the only two men alive, and that they were traversing the face of the moon.

After what they judged to be an hour, but was only half an hour, they rested. Reardon’s friends had polled together their tobacco so that his pocket bulged with plugs. Now he cut off a corner, lifted it to his mouth, tucked it in his jaw, then carefully licked the knife before putting it away.

A lean man with a dark, ravaged face, Reardon had served in the Army seventeen of the forty years of his life, having re-enlisted three times under different names. Although he hated Army life and suffered its hardships grudgingly, he knew that he was doomed to remain in it until he died. There was a reason for his certain knowledge; he could not live outside the Army.

Three times he had tried to leave it and each time he had failed, for Trooper Reardon had a love for drink that could not be appeased. Each time he had been separated from the Army with a little money, and each time he spent the money on a spree. Sick, sodden with whiskey, he was unable to find anything but the most menial work. Whatever he earned at these jobs went not for food and clothing, but for more whiskey. Eventually, barely able to drag himself to the nearest place of recruitment, he enlisted again.

Reardon had found that with few interruptions, such as this detail, he could stay quietly drunk on an Army post. There was always the sutler’s store or the cheap saloons called “hog pens” off the post where whiskey could be bought. The Army clothed him and fed him and did not work him hard enough to bother him. The trick was to drink just enough so as not to attract notice. A few times when he drank too much, he cheerfully served extra duty or time in the guardhouse, where his friends smuggled in whiskey. The Army, mercifully, was fairly tolerant of drinking by enlisted men, and it had its own control of sorts. This control consisted of paying its men so little that it was hard to afford the luxury of drink.

Now Trooper Reardon placidly softened his chew of tobacco with the few teeth left him. He really had not minded drawing the next to shortest straw this morning. It meant that if he lived, he would be again close to whiskey far sooner than his companions. If he died, then his companions would die too. Besides, he had a secret.

Reardon spat. “The lieutenant kept telling us to watch the country, watch the shape of it, so we’d recognize it on the trip back. You see any shape to this country, sonny?”

“My name is Jack,” Trooper Adams said quietly.

“All right, sonny, it’s Jack.”

“No, I don’t see no shape to it,” Trooper Adams said.

No seventeen-year-old has much of a history, and Trooper Adams had less than most. He was slight, barely the Army’s minimum height, and no amount of exposure to the desert sun could tan his narrow, sallow face. Left an orphan at three, he had no family of any sort. To this day he did not know who had placed him in the Ohio orphanage where he spent his first fourteen years. It had been a heartless place, and Trooper Adams’ small stature was probably due to the wretched and inadequate food of that institution.

As far back as he could remember he had feared and disliked adults, and a good bit of his life had been dedicated to evading their orders, lying to them, stealing from them, and confusing them.

When, at the age of fifteen, the orphanage dismissed him as of working age, there was no place for him to go. He knew no trade or occupation save that of a kitchen helper and truck gardener. His meager schooling had been careless and had been received half-heartedly by him. Joining the Army then was a natural solution, he reasoned. There he would be fed, housed, and paid. His genuine talent for avoiding work and his sharp instinct for survival would get him by.

It had turned out just that way. His total lack of responsibility, his cunning dodging of work, his distrust of his superiors and even of his equals guaranteed that he would be disliked and never promoted. In two years the thought of desertion had never occurred to him, for in the world outside the Army, work was demanded of all if they were to eat.

He had not been surprised when he had drawn the short stick. All his life he had been receiving some form of the short stick, so why shouldn’t it happen this time? It really didn’t matter to him, for he had a simple conviction, stemming from his youth and experience, that he would survive. This belief, coupled with his native shrewdness, his selfishness, and his tough young body actually made him an excellent, if unplanned, choice for this mission.

Now Trooper Adams twisted one of the canteens around his belly, unscrewed the cap and took a drink of water. Reardon, observing him, reached back for one of his canteens, unscrewed the cap and took a healthy swig.

Trooper Adams lifted his head and began to sniff. “What’s the funny smell?” he said.

“Whiskey,” Reardon said calmly.

Adams slowly capped his canteen by feel; he was watching Reardon almost with disbelief.

“Where’d you get any whiskey?” he demanded.

“Now, you’ve been with me for a week, sonny. Where do you think I got it?”

“Brought it with you?”

“Course I brought it with me. You never see an officer sniff a man’s canteen, do you?”

“But what’ve you done for water?”

“Another canteen, sonny. Haven’t you noticed a lot of the boys carry an extra?”

Trooper Adams had no reply to this, but a feeling of uneasiness came to him. He had a premonition that this journey would require stamina and would push them to the limits of their endurance. He also knew that alcohol and the blasting desert daytime heat did not mix. He felt he should caution Reardon, but he did not want to antagonize the older trooper so early in their association.

“You been drinking that stuff every day?” Adams asked.

Reardon chuckled. “Oh, I’d take a nip when I was alone or on sentry duty. No use saving it now though.” He looked at Adams. “I don’t figure you’re the kind to report me.”

“No,” Adams agreed.

“Wouldn’t do you any good anyway. By the time we reach help, it’ll be gone.”

“You ought to go easy on it, though,” Adams said.

“I was living with this stuff before you were born, sonny. Just don’t try and teach your grandmother how to suck eggs.”

“Sure,” Trooper Adams said meekly. Now he rose. “Well, the sooner we start off, the sooner we’ll get there.”

“No denying it,” Reardon agreed. He got up, hitched up his belt, and together they marched off into the north.

At noon next day, after a morning of blazing heat in which they had seen no living thing except an occasional high, curious vulture, the road dipped down into the barren Possos Valley to the well at Tyson. Here was blessed shade among the stunted cottonwoods and an opportunity for the train to water their teams and mounts. The troopers naturally clustered with the teamsters and away from their officer. Lieutenant Overman was helping John Thornton lay out a blanket for a picnic spread. The troopers began stolidly to eat their bacon and bread.

Dave climbed up on a wheel of his wagon, reached in his grub box, and brought out the beef sandwiches with which he had stocked up in Ehrenburg. They were edible for only a day or so in this smothering heat, but they saved making a fire in a land that was hot enough already, and one in which a man had to carry his own fuel. Cooking would come later when he had run out of prepared provisions. He was headed for the group of teamsters and troopers when Lieutenant Overman called out, “Oh, Harmon, come join us, won’t you?”

Dave halted, and hesitated almost too long. He did not really want to join them, and during his hesitation he wondered why this was. He supposed it was because there was a better than even chance he would be quizzed about his Army past, which he did not especially want to discuss. On the other hand, he did not wish to appear unnecessarily rude, so he veered to his right, saying, “Glad to.”

When he approached and Juliana saw the sandwiches in his parcel, she said, “There’s more than enough here. Why don’t you save your food, Captain?”

Here it comes, Dave thought. He removed his hat, sat down, and said pleasantly, “Not captain any more, Miss Frost. I might as well eat my food before it spoils.”

“All ex-Army men are called by their rank, I always thought,” Juliana said.

“I’d reckon that was a hangover from the war,” Dave said. “Nowadays there aren’t any misters except old men. All the rest are majors, captains, lieutenants, or sergeants.” He paused. “It’s a custom that takes the honor away from the rank, I think.”

He began to eat while Juliana studied him with a faint curiosity. “I’d never thought of that,” she said slowly. “It does seem unfair to the field soldier to address him by the same title you use to a pot-bellied banker who got a Civil War commission by raising his own company.”

“But what if the banker served his country honorably?” John Thornton put in. “Isn’t he entitled to be called by his rank?”

“But now he’s a civilian,” Dave said. “He isn’t serving his country any more, but there are men who are. They are the ones entitled to be addressed by rank.”

“I’ll go farther than that,” Lieutenant Overman said, and his pale eyes held a glint of humor. “Rank is for the military structure only. It’s only sensible use is to Army personnel, because it tells who’s in charge over whom. Outside of that, I can’t see any use for it, not even for cotillions. The higher your rank, the uglier girls you draw. It’s the second lieutenants who always have the prettiest girls.”

Juliana laughed. “Just how would you like to be addressed, Lieutenant Overman?”

“As Dick. It was good enough for my mother, and it should be good enough for all of you.”

They all laughed quietly, except Thornton. Juliana turned to Dave. “Are you of Dick’s school, Mister Harmon?” At Dave’s nod of assent, she said, “Then it’s Dick, Dave, and John. That should make me Juliana to all of you.”

“Miss Juliana,” Overman corrected her. “Women have to be addressed by rank so we men know who we’re free to kiss or to propose to.”

Juliana chuckled, but there was a frown on Thornton’s face. Lieutenant Overman’s harmless whimsy and gallantry apparently did not amuse him, Dave noted.

At that moment Sergeant Noonan approached the group, came to attention, and saluted. “Permission to relieve Carruthers, sir.”

Lieutenant Overman looked up, slightly startled. “Why, Sergeant?”

“I’ve eaten, sir. He’s still out on the flank.”

“Permission granted,” Lieutenant Overman said. “Get somebody to relieve Malone, too. Leave your sabers and bring in theirs. They’re only a nuisance in this heat.”

As Noonan went over to his horse, Overman said, “He looks like a good man. I wish he were in our troop.”

“Isn’t he?” Juliana asked.

“No, he’s at Whipple. Been on leave and is only traveling with us.”

Dave looked off and studied Noonan as he mounted and rode out toward the bluff. “That’s a good horse, and not Army branded.”

Lieutenant Overman nodded. “He explained that. It’s his own. Since he’s on leave and not on duty, I reckon that’s his own affair.”

Dave only nodded, but as he watched Noonan ride out to relieve Carruthers, he wondered. A cavalry trooper’s pay, even a sergeant’s, was too meager to afford a horse as good as this one. Still, Dave remembered, a good gambler trooper who stayed sober could parlay a small stake into a sizable sum. When a trooper did, he usually deserted because he had the money to get him away from a locality where he could be apprehended. On the other hand, some good gamblers stuck with the Army for the simple reason that while paymasters on their rounds seldom visit Army posts, when they did they left a substantial sum with the troopers. If a good gambler got to the troopers before they had drunk up their back pay, he could come off a big winner. Since this sergeant was returning to his post and riding an excellent horse, the chances were he was one of the better and shrewder gamblers.

They ate in silence for a moment, and then Thornton said abruptly, “Tell me, Captain, how did you get in the freighting business?”

Dave’s single eye regarded him coldly. “Why, the way you get in any business. I bought into it.”

“But why in Ehrenburg?” Thornton persisted.

“Lord, yes, why there?” Lieutenant Overman added.

Dave knew what they meant and smiled faintly, his resentment at Thornton’s impertinent question dissolving.

“The freight for the north part of the whole territory comes through Ehrenburg. I’ve hauled as far as New Mexico,” Dave said, adding, “Somebody’s got to haul it. It might as well be my outfit.”

“I’d never have guessed that,” Juliana said.

“Neither did I until I was stationed in New Mexico. When you wait on guns and ammunition you’re pretty sure to know where they come from. They come from Ehrenburg.”

“Any to Edwards at Whipple in this load?” Thornton asked.

Dave shook his head.

“What do you charge for the freight you’re hauling?” Thornton asked.

“Five cents a pound.”

“And that’s cheaper than the Army can haul its own goods?”

“They must think so, or they wouldn’t have contracted me,” Dave said.

“Doesn’t Edwards have his own freight wagons?” Thornton persisted.

Dave said, “He tried it, but it was too expensive. He wasn’t big enough to keep teams, wagons, and teamsters busy freighting the year round. As a matter of fact, I bought four wagons from him when I started freighting.”

“Five cents a pound seems outrageous,” Thornton said bluntly. “I’m going to look into his figures.”

“You don’t have to,” Dave said. “When he freighted his own goods, they cost him sixteen cents a pound laid down at Whipple.”

“It wouldn’t cost me that,” Thornton said. “I’m too good a businessman to tolerate that.”

“So was Edwards,” Dave said drily. “That’s why he’s contracting his freighting.”

By now Dave was of the opinion that he had antagonized Thornton in some way he didn’t understand. He wondered if Thornton had held a Civil War commission and secretly wished to be addressed by his rank. Perhaps Dave’s words had goaded him into the unpleasantness. It didn’t matter, Dave thought, since he’d see as little of Thornton as possible on this trip.

When the train formed for the afternoon, Noonan was kept as the right flanker. His thoughts turned now to the presence of the girl in the train. This presented a problem, but only one of sorts. If his men had to lay siege to the train the girl would inevitably be in danger, and he wondered if his men would remember her presence. He was sure they would, for he had left instructions with Kirby to have a man watching his departure, so Kirby would know the number he was up against.

Kirby, too, had turned out to be a problem, but one that was easily disposed of. Once the rifles were in hand it would be easy enough to provoke Kirby into a gun fight, or even ambush him.

All in all, Noonan thought, this job should be fairly easy. The detail was small, and the teamsters wouldn’t contribute much. Doubtless Harmon was capable, but his men wouldn’t die for him. Harmon, he judged, would be the man to watch and, if possible, to kill first. He knew nothing of Harmon except from hearsay, but already Harmon was indirectly responsible for the death of two of his men. Noonan wished now he had checked more thoroughly on this taciturn one-eyed man. He had thought he would be dealing with average riffraff teamsters who were not about to lay down their lives for a wagonload of groceries, or even rifles. Now he was dealing with the freight-line owner, who had not only his freight but his reputation at stake. He would have to learn more about the man from the troopers when they camped tonight.

All through the afternoon Noonan kept a sharp lookout. Once he saw some dust in the broken country to the south, but it was a dust devil.

They made camp that night on a rocky bench below which was a bitter spring whose water the animals disliked but drank. Afterwards a rope corral was fashioned, the anchor posts being the wagons, and the horses and mules were turned into it. Two separate fires were built, one for the soldiers and the teamsters, the other for the lieutenant, Juliana, and Thornton. Harmon, Noonan was happy to see, was going to eat with his teamsters. As daylight faded, Lieutenant Overman put out two sentries to guard the corral.

One of the troopers volunteered as cook, and the teamsters’ rations were thrown in with the Army’s. Harmon was seated cross-legged on the ground talking to one of his men. Watching him, Noonan wondered curiously if the loss of the sight of one eye wasn’t a considerable handicap. Well, there was one way to find out, Noonan thought.

Very quietly, he moved over to Harmon’s left. There were half a dozen conversations going on and Noonan was certain that his approach was undetected, yet he was a bare six feet away when Harmon turned and looked at him.

Noonan said affably, “I just wondered how far you reckon we made it today.”

“I’d judge twelve to fifteen miles, Sergeant.”

“That’s about what I figured.”

“We won’t make that tomorrow,” the other said. “We’ve got more sand coming up.”

Noonan shook his head. “Don’t see how you fellows buck this country,” he said pleasantly. “At Whipple we’ve at least got some shade.”

“Captain Carter still at Whipple, Sergeant?”

Noonan thought quickly. “I don’t think he’ll be there when I get back from leave. There was talk of a transfer when I left.”

Harmon nodded indifferently. Was Harmon trying to trap him, Noonan wondered. Did he suspect there was something strange about him?

Noonan moved away. No, he was imagining things, but still he’d better keep away from Harmon. After tonight, though, Noonan knew Harmon would no longer be concerned with his white little lies.

When supper was finished the two teamsters who had started out drunk this morning rolled up in their blankets under one of the wagons and went to sleep, Dave observed. Now he watched Thornton and the lieutenant stringing up a blanket from the front to the rear wheel of the supply wagon. Later a folding cot was hauled out from the ambulance and placed behind the blanket. He supposed this would be Juliana’s bedroom this night.

Singly and in pairs the teamsters and troopers began to desert the fires for their blankets. Dave moved over to his wagon and was lifting down his blanket roll when he saw Juliana moving toward the wagon. When he stepped down, she had halted. The fire behind her made a corona of her pale hair.

“You deserted us for supper, Dave.”

Dave said patiently, “No, I didn’t desert you. I’m a teamster, Miss Juliana.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Juliana asked.

“Only that you’re a guest of the Army, and I work for them.”

“But you were an officer,” Juliana persisted.

“So were a lot of men. I daresay some of them are in jail now.”

She had no reply for that, but Dave could see a faint resentment in her face. He noted that Thornton was watching them, a scowl on his soft face. Perhaps he had been overly blunt with this girl, Dave thought, but he did not want to be put in a false position. While she was pleasant and very likely good company, he could tell that Thornton had assumed a proprietary interest in her. Dave’s presence at their shared meals would make for an increasing awkwardness as the days went on. It was much simpler to settle it now.

“Are there Apaches this close to Ehrenburg?” Juliana asked quietly.

“They’re where you find them,” Dave said. “The only good thing about them is that they won’t fight at night.”

“At least we sleep, then,” Juliana said.

Dave nodded. “They like the first light.”

Juliana shivered a little, but Dave felt it was from the night chill, not fear.

“Then beware the first light, is that it?”

“That’s for the Army to worry about, not you,” Dave said, and smiled faintly.

Juliana smiled then, too, and said good night. She turned and walked back to the fire to join Thornton. Lieutenant Overman was out checking on his sentries. When Juliana came up to the fire she noted the frown on Thornton’s face. He was seated on a saddle and got up when she came over.

“You think that’s wise, Juliana?” he asked quietly.

Juliana gave him a blank look.

“Talking with Harmon, I mean,” Thornton continued. “That may give some of these men a wrong impression.”

“Of me?” There was incredulity in Juliana’s voice.

“It just doesn’t look right,” Thornton insisted. “He runs a rough lot of men in a rough business. If they see him taking liberties they will, too.”

Anger came into Juliana’s eyes. “Just how is he taking liberties, John?”

“Talking to you.”

“But I went up and talked with him.”

“That makes no difference. If he feels free to associate with you, they will, too.”

“But he was a captain in the Army!” Juliana protested.

Thornton’s voice was almost cool. “Right now he’s one of seven rough, dirty teamsters. I just don’t think you should associate with him, Juliana.”

“Apparently he thinks the same thing, John. So, all right, I won’t associate with him and he won’t associate with me. Now, I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Good night, Juliana.” Thornton watched her as she walked over to the supply wagon, and on his face was an expression of lingering petulance.