4

Troopers Reardon and Adams had instructions from Lieutenant Miller to travel by night and sleep by day. After the first day of the shadeless blasting heat, both men knew it wouldn’t work. They dare not try to sleep with their faces uncovered. If they tried to cover them with their blouses, they were close to suffocation. Both men knew that if they were to survive they must travel by day so they could get some sleep at night.

Since the one drink Reardon had taken on the night they had left camp, the older trooper had been abstemious. But by the middle of this day a series of events had driven Reardon to desperation. To begin with, he had spent a near sleepless night stretched out on the rocky desert floor. His feet were already blistered and his bones ached with the unaccustomed chore of walking all day in the blasting sun. The heat today had seemed to dry out his body, and a dozen times in the night he had roused for a drink of water.

Thus, at the beginning of this day’s march Reardon was tired, still thirsty, sore-footed, and surly. An hour out of their camp he was stumbling with Adams along the edge of some hardpan which held scant vegetation. Reardon was paying no attention to what was underfoot, so that it was too late when he heard the rattle. The snake struck at his leg just above the boot top. It was Adams who killed the snake while Reardon, in panic, stripped down his trousers to see what the snake’s bite had done. He could see that the marks of the fangs had barely broken the skin. Was it serious enough to bother with or not? Trooper Adams thought it was. Reardon wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t afford to take the chance that it wasn’t.

Accordingly, Reardon ordered Adams to slash the flesh where the fangs had broken it. Adams, nauseated at the thought of having to cut into human flesh, was even more afraid of not doing a thorough job. He cut deeply and painfully into Reardon’s leg, then sucked at the gushing blood of the wound as Reardon directed him. The trouble was the wound was too deep and it bled freely for half an hour before they could check it. Once the blood stopped flowing, Adams, again on Reardon’s orders, hacked off Reardon’s shirt tail with his knife and made a crude bandage.

It was then that Reardon thought of the whiskey. Everyone, including Trooper Adams, knew that whiskey was the ancient antidote for snakebite.

In the broiling sun then, Reardon gulped down a generous portion of the raw, blood-warm whiskey, following it with a minute gulp of water. He did not want to dilute the sheer pleasure of the raw whiskey churning in his belly.

Hauled to his feet by Adams, he tried walking. Not only did his swollen feet hurt now, but his leg ached and throbbed with every movement. Still he had no choice but to slog onward. Behind his pain, of course, were unanswered questions. Had Adams doctored the bite in time? How long did it take for the venom to work? How did a man die of snake bite? After fifteen minutes pondering these questions Reardon took stock of his state of physical and mental health, found them both bad, halted, and took another drink of whiskey. He observed Trooper Adams watching him dispassionately in the blinding heat.

After gagging down the warm whiskey and catching his breath, Reardon said, “That eases it a little, sonny.”

“If it does, then you’d better save it for later,” Adams said. There was nothing save disapproval in his tone—no force, no attempt to dominate the situation, and no pity. He had spoken as if to record his disapproval with his conscience.

Reardon knew that his wound had slowed their pace to a crawl, but whiskey made him indifferent to the fact. He was doing the best he could and the whiskey helped. He could feel the slow ooze of blood down into his boot, and still it did not greatly concern him. He was simply doing the best he could.

All through the morning at their hourly stops Trooper Adams would gnaw on a piece of bread or bacon, then lie flat out with his hat over his face as if he were gathering strength from the earth. At each of these stops Trooper Reardon, eating nothing, had another drink of whiskey. By midday he was drunk and hurting.

It was at one of these stops that Trooper Adams, again sprawled out, lifted his hat off his face to regard Reardon, who had just finished a drink. Even sitting down, Reardon swayed as he muttered to himself something that was unintelligible to Adams. It was then the thought came to Trooper Adams: I’m going to have to leave him. But when and how? With food and water? What good would they do, Trooper Adams thought coldly. With both of them moving toward help perhaps they had enough food and water, but if they stayed in one place waiting for Trooper Reardon to sober up and his leg to heal, they would surely die. This afternoon would tell whether Reardon could pull himself together, stop his drinking, and labor on, or whether he would simply give up.

It was an afternoon of exquisite hell for Trooper Adams. He not only had the memory of the snake incident with its possible aftermath riding him, but he had to come to some decision about Reardon. The older man, now that he could openly claim his drinking was medicinal, managed to put away more than half the contents of his whiskey canteen. The oven-hot sunlight was hard enough for Trooper Adams to bear, but Trooper Reardon’s drunken reactions to it were almost unbearable to watch. He was, Trooper Adams knew, in a kind of crazy delirium. He kept imagining they were approaching Camp McDowell, and apparently he could see it in his mind. For once, in spite of his condition, he started to run with great staggering, lurching steps until he fell to the desert floor. At times he knew Trooper Adams, and at other times he would ask Adams his name, as if he had no memory of him.

At their hourly rest period Reardon went to sleep and Trooper Adams used up fifteen minutes slapping him, punching him, and pinching him before he would open his eyes. It was probably a combination of drink and heat that caused it, but his broad face had turned an alarming shade of flaming red. Trooper Adams had no idea whether this resulted from drink or from the remains of the snake venom, and as he hauled Reardon to his feet, he knew real despair. They had made only half a mile in the last hour and now Reardon could scarcely stand upright.

Backing away from him, Trooper Adams said coldly, “Get going, Reardon.”

Reardon looked at him blankly. “Where we going?”

For answer, Adams only lifted his arm and pointed north.

Reardon lurched into motion and then his legs collapsed. He fell on his knees among the low mesquite and stared at the ground. Trooper Adams came over to him and stood before him, hands on hips.

“Get up or I’ll leave you, Reardon,” he said in an almost gentle voice.

Reardon appeared not to hear him. He hoarsely mumbled something that Adams could not make out. Adams now went up to him, knelt before him, put a hand on either shoulder, and shook the older man savagely. Reardon’s head rolled loosely and his hat fell off. Adams retrieved it, slapped it on Reardon’s head and then, still kneeling, said angrily, “Do you understand me? I’m leaving. Come along if you want.”

The shaking seemed to have brought Reardon to his senses, and he shook his head as if rousing from a dream and looked at Adams with blood-shot eyes. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

Then Trooper Adams’ temper really flared. “You damned drunk!” he said savagely. “You’re killing us both! Our water’s almost gone. So’s our food. The men are depending on us, and here you are in the middle of nowhere so drunk you can’t walk.”

Reardon shook his head again. “Let me sleep it off, sonny.”

“You’ll die!” Adams yelled at him. “Pour your booze on the ground. Then walk it off or I’ll leave you!”

Sweat, both from heat and from fever, was pouring down Reardon’s face, but his hand clamped protectively over the canteen. As Adams watched him, Reardon’s eyes glazed over and he toppled over on his side. Adams looked at him for a long moment in helpless wrath. How far did his obligation to a fellow human being go? It wasn’t Reardon’s fault that the snake had bitten him, that his leg had been cut, but neither was it Adams’ fault. It was clearly Reardon’s fault that he now lay in a drunken stupor and probably would lie in one for the rest of the day and night, and start in again tomorrow. Only the Lord knew if, when he awakened, he would be too sick to move.

Trooper Adams’ shrewd instinct for survival spoke to him now. What do I owe him? he thought. My life? Although he had told Reardon that ten men’s lives depended on him, this fact did not figure in his decision now. He was going to stay alive if brains, courage, and endurance could stave off death. Nobody, least of all a sodden trooper, was going to interfere with that. He would leave Reardon with the food and drink that he was carrying. If Reardon could survive, well and good. If he couldn’t, Adams was not going to die with him.

Trooper Adams got to his feet, toed Reardon roughly with his boot, and said harshly, “I’m going.”

Reardon didn’t answer. On an impulse Adams couldn’t explain, he reached down, picked up Reardon’s hat and put it over his face; then he turned and started north.

He had walked perhaps fifteen yards when an alien sound caused him to halt and turn to look back at Reardon. What he saw was Reardon’s pistol cocked and pointed at him.

Trooper Adams simply fell to the ground in the low greasewood as Reardon’s gun went off. Adams was clawing open the holster of his own gun when a searching shot close to him whistled through the mesquite. Pulling out his gun and rolling over on his belly, he peered through the sparse brush and made out the outline of Reardon’s body. He sighted carefully and pulled the trigger. An awful grunt following told him that he had hit Reardon.

He lay there for an interminable minute, then rose and cautiously made his way to where Reardon lay. He halted, saw that his bullet had caught Reardon in the chest and that he was unmistakably dead.

Trooper Adams, in a kind of trance, stared at the body, examining his own feelings. He had killed Reardon in self-defense, but who would believe him? Then the thing to do when he reached help was to say that Trooper Reardon had died of a sunstroke. Coldly now, Adams calculated on the best way to dispose of Reardon’s body. He couldn’t bury it, and there were no rocks around to pile upon it. What did it matter, he wondered. What did he owe to Reardon’s memory? Nothing. The man had tried to kill him.

Trying not to look at Reardon’s face, Adams slipped the two remaining canteens off Reardon’s body and over his own, and took Reardon’s bread and bacon. Then he set out north, a calm and resolute young man who had survived again. Only once did he look back, and he saw the vultures overhead sweeping in long descending spirals before their rendezvous with Reardon.

Reardon and Adams hadn’t been gone from camp a day before Lieutenant Miller realized that something would have to be done to keep up the morale of his men. Their ordinary chores, such as mounted drill, keeping their horses groomed and their equipment in shape—in fact all the duties and occupations of a trooper—were lacking, since the reasons for doing them were gone. Cooking assignments were negligible. Policing the camp took fifteen minutes. When the latrines were dug, that ended the duties. The men contrived to manufacture some shade with their ground sheets and blankets and simply lay listlessly under them on the supply wagon through the blazing day.

That evening Lieutenant Miller called Corporal Chasen over to his tent, which was out of earshot of the other seven men. Chasen saluted and Lieutenant Miller said, “At ease, Corporal. Sit down.”

Chasen obeyed, although reluctantly. When Lieutenant Miller was standing, Corporal Chasen towered over him and it gave him a psychological advantage that bred confidence. Seated, he lost this advantage.

“Notice the men today, Corporal?”

“Notice how, sir?”

“Once the camp was cleaned up, they just drowsed in the shade, playing cards, talking, and sleeping.”

Corporal Chasen frowned. “There isn’t much else they can do, Mister Miller.” Usually Chasen addressed Lieutenant Miller as Lieutenant, a subtle form of flattery since only a first lieutenant was entitled to be addressed as one. A second lieutenant was normally addressed as “mister.”

Chasen’s form of address now did not escape Lieutenant Miller, and it irritated him. “If there’s nothing else to do, we’ll make something else. We may be here ten more days, Corporal. I’m not going to have men under my command sleeping or yarning the day through.”

“What did you have in mind, sir?” There was a wariness, almost dread, in Chasen’s tone of voice.

“Tomorrow you’ll take out a search detail of three men, Corporal. I want you to circle the camp, always keeping it in sight, but just barely. The other two men will just barely keep you and each other in sight.”

“And what are we searching for, sir?”

“Rocks.”

Corporal Chasen was quiet a moment, then asked slowly, “What do we do with the rocks, sir?”

Lieutenant Miller ignored this. “When any of you find a suitable amount of rock, you’re to return to camp.”

“With the rock, sir?”

“A sample. The rock has to be the size that a man can carry.”

Corporal Chasen nodded and asked, “What will the rock be for, sir?”

Lieutenant Miller evaded the answer again. “While you’re searching, I’ll have the remaining three men digging out this seep. The rock is to wall it up and make a well.”

Corporal Chasen frowned. “We’re getting more than enough water now, sir, especially with the horses and two men gone.”

Lieutenant Miller’s normally aggressive features settled into even more aggressive lines. “Corporal, you’ve had the point explained to you and have missed it. I want to keep my men active and in good condition. I want them exercising their muscles. You understand that now?”

“I understand, sir.”

Lieutenant Miller continued. “If we have the well finished before help arrives, then we’ll build a stone corral, even if it’s to hold horses for only one night. These men will be kept busy every waking hour. You understand that, Corporal?”

Corporal Chasen nodded. “It’ll be murdering work in this heat, sir.”

“But work it will be. That’s all that will save the sanity of these men—work.” He paused. “Choose the men you want to take along with you, and start as soon as there’s enough light to see by.”

Corporal Chasen assembled the six men, who squatted in the shade of two ground sheets tied together while they listened to him.

It was fat Wilson, from under whose nose the Apaches had stolen their horses, who spoke first, and angrily. “What in hell does he want this seep rocked up for? It ain’t on any road or trail and never will be.”

“It’s just made work,” another man said angrily.

Corporal Chasen answered him mildly. “It’s meant to be, boys. It’s meant to be. You’re all getting soft and you’re idle, says the lieutenant.”

There was a muttered obscenity from Wilson about what the lieutenant and all officers could do, and Chasen blandly agreed. Then he said, “Wilson, you’ll come with me along with Ryan. The rest of you will stay here and dig out the seep and take turns cooking.”

Next morning Chasen, Ryan, and Wilson, heavily armed, set out on the search for suitable rock, while the remaining three men began excavating the seep with their mess tins. Lieutenant Miller read and slept while the excavators muttered curses and obscenities. To all six men this job was a senseless cruelty. It was as if they had been ordered to build a twenty-foot-high castle out of sand on some remote beach just so it could be washed away by the next tide.

If Miller had put it squarely to them that this was a game to keep their hands and minds occupied and had then joined in the game himself, they might have gone along grudgingly. But to hear their officer snoring in the tent while they labored under the blazing sun in their sweat-drenched uniforms was almost intolerable.

At their midday break for food the lieutenant was awake but aloof. He never left the shade of his tent. An hour later, when Chasen and his sweat-drenched search party trudged into camp, Chasen had to rouse Lieutenant Miller.

“Sir, we found the rock.” He tossed a melon-sized piece of rock at Miller’s feet.

Lieutenant Miller yawned. “How far away, Corporal?”

“We figured about two miles, sir.”

“Good.” Lieutenant Miller’s face expressed real pleasure. “How do you propose to transport the rock, Corporal?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, sir,” Chasen said sullenly.

“Well, think about it now.”

“The horse packs we brought in the wagon?” Chasen asked.

Miller nodded. “And slung over a rifle, a man at each end.”

“Two men couldn’t lift a pack full of stones.”

“Then carry as much as you can. Get something to eat before you start out, Corporal.”

Corporal Chasen and Troopers Wilson and Ryan had the usual noon meal of bread, bacon, and dried apples that were tough as a mule’s ear in spite of their soaking. The excavating crew were already at work again in the blazing sun tearing rock off the pit. While he was chewing stoically, Corporal Chasen, even though slow of wit, made an observation.

He had his noon smoke, rose, and went over to Lieutenant Miller’s tent. Miller, stripped to the waist and sweating, was sitting cross-legged, writing his daily report. At Chasen’s approach he paused and waited for Chasen to speak.

“Sir, I’ve just had an idea,” Chasen said.

“Tell me.”

“We’re digging enough rock out of that seep to wall it,” Chasen said.

Lieutenant Miller looked at him pityingly and then gave a soft groan. “You still don’t understand, Corporal. Maybe we could use those rocks and have the seep walled up by night. What would the men do tomorrow?”

Chasen said with a touch of surliness in his voice, “After the day they’ll have put in, I reckon they’ll rest tomorrow.”

“They’ll rest during the night, Corporal,” Miller said tartly.

Corporal Chasen regarded him in a long and barely respectful silence, then he said, “Another thing, sir. Three men hauling rocks doesn’t make any sense. If you want rocks you should detail one more man to haul them. It’ll take two to a pack. Or if you want the well dug deeper, you should take a man off a hauling detail and put him on the digging.”

Lieutenant Miller pondered this a minute, then smiled faintly and said, “Good idea, Corporal. Take Schermer off the digging detail and put him on the hauling.”

“Yes, sir.” Corporal Chasen saluted and went back toward his men. He was seething with anger, but he was too good a soldier to let it show in his face. Curtly he summoned the German-born Schermer to join them. After sorting out two of the stoutest, newest horse packs, or aparejos, which were simply two large canvas pouches joined together that could be thrown over a horse’s back if the country got too rough for a wagon, the detail set out across the desert. The whole flat, seemingly endless, blazing landscape shimmered in the sun, and it was only Corporal Chasen’s tracking that guided them to the rock bar thrust up just above the floor of the desert. When they reached the rock bar and fell exhausted to the ground, they found the rocks so hot they could not lie on them. There was nothing to do but load as quickly as possible and get back to camp. The handling of the rocks was a minor torture, for they were so hot that they could be held only for a second or so before the heat burned through their gauntlets.

The first mile of their return they found that both pairs of men had been over-optimistic about the load they could pack and consequently they jettisoned a part of their load. By the time they reached camp and unloaded they were dizzy and sick from their labor. They rested a few minutes in the shade and then, goaded by Lieutenant Miller’s silent surveillance, they set off again.

When it came time for the evening meal, every man in camp save Lieutenant Miller was too tired to eat. They lay on the ground drained of all energy, too exhausted to argue or even to talk. When blessed darkness came, they rolled into their blankets.

To a man, they watched Lieutenant Miller’s small tent. He had directed the cooks to save their bacon drippings, and out of them, by twisting a short length of rope into a wick in a tin cup, he had made himself a lamp of sorts. His was the only light save the stars, and the only sounds were the exhausted snoring and the measured tread of the weary sentries. Chasen, watching the light, hated Lieutenant Miller as he had never hated a man before.

“Corporal.” He heard this whispered behind him, rolled over, and saw that Wilson had thrown his blanket down beside him. Chasen was still unforgiving toward this thick-set, cynical, and aggressive trooper who had spent a third of the time since Chasen had known him in the guardhouse or doing punishment for insubordination. Chasen’s grunt of acknowledgment held no welcome.

Now Wilson whispered, “The lieutenant’s gone crazy.”

“He don’t think so,” Chasen whispered back.

“We going to do this tomorrow?”

“So he said.”

“I got blisters on my feet a half-inch high.”

“Cut off your shirttail and make bandages out of it,” Chasen whispered angrily. His own calloused feet were sore to the point of blistering.

“If we got to do this, why don’t we do it at night?”

Chasen’s double-word answer, “The lieutenant,” brought a grunt of disdain from Wilson.

“By God, I’m going to report him,” Wilson said.

“You better hope you got grounds,” Chasen muttered.

There was a long silence and then Wilson spoke again. “I’m reporting sick tomorrow.”

“Go ahead. See where it gets you.”

“By God, I will!” Wilson whispered vehemently. “They can’t do this to a man!”

“Where have I heard that before? Now shut up,” Chasen said.

Next morning Wilson was not allowed by Miller to report on sick call, and the same torturous day began. As punishment to Wilson for dogging it, Corporal Chasen and Schermer were allowed to change places with the digging detail. Wilson and Ryan were kept on the rock detail.

The only variation from the routine of the previous day was that Lieutenant Miller made a visit to the rock bar. Here in the furnace heat he watched the men gingerly load the fire-hot rocks into the aparejos. After yesterday’s experience, each of the rock-hauling crew had cut out a couple of swatches from their blankets and used them as pads over their gauntlets to shield their flesh when they picked up the rocks. However, bandages couldn’t help Wilson’s feet; his blisters had broken and his soles were cracked and bleeding. Observing Wilson’s painful hobble, Lieutenant Miller only commented cheerfully, “They’ll soon toughen up, Wilson.”

Wilson did not bother to answer, and Lieutenant Miller, apparently satisfied that his troopers were working, returned to camp, stripped again, and went to sleep. That evening at supper the men were more exhausted than they had been the night before, and Corporal Chasen had to warn them that however tired they were they must eat to keep up their strength.

After they had eaten, Corporal Chasen put a pinch of tobacco that he was hoarding carefully into his pipe, lighted it, and then contemplated the camp. There was a mound of gravel and rock beside the seep, which was now excavated to a depth of five feet. Beside this mound was another mound of rock, higher and broader. The useless labor represented there sickened Chasen and he wondered how much taller the mounds would grow. Unless help came within the next few days a sizable piece of desert real estate would have been transported two miles for no reason at all. The only good that had come of digging out the seep was that they now had more water—more than they could use.

“Corporal Chasen!” It was Lieutenant Miller’s voice, and Chasen rose and made his way toward Miller’s tent. As he passed the tarpaulins he saw that the two men who had drawn early morning guard duty were deep in the sleep of exhaustion. Wilson, now that the sun was almost down, was sitting off by himself, moodily contemplating the vast reach of desert before him. His wrists were on his knees and his hands hung down from them like two chunks of tender meat. It seemed odd to Chasen that only Wilson’s feet had blistered so badly; then he remembered that for many months Wilson had been the quartermaster’s clerk and his only job was to sit at a desk and count and make a note of supplies issued.

Corporal Chasen halted before the tent and saluted languidly. “Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Miller had been reading his report book and now he looked up. “Corporal, I went over our remaining rations today. I think we’d better cut down.”

“They’re pretty thin now, sir, for men doing hard work. If we cut down on rations, we’ll have to cut down on the work, sir.”

“Have to?” Miller’s tone was cutting. “Are you giving orders, Corporal?”

Chasen felt his face go hot. “I meant to say we should cut down, sir.”

“That’s better,” Lieutenant Miller said. He thought a moment. “We can alternate the rock detail with the digging detail. Digging is easier, I gather.”

The corporal only nodded.

Miller continued, “All except for Wilson. He stays on the rock detail. That’s all, Corporal.”

Afterward, to the men who were still awake, Chasen imparted the news of half rations and alternating details. The men heard him out listlessly, too apathetic from exhaustion to protest. He looked at Wilson, who had now joined the others. He was sitting down and each blistered bare foot was cradled on the opposite thigh.

“All except you, Wilson. The lieutenant said you’re to stay on the rock detail.”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” Wilson said, in a strangely quiet voice. “I knew it already.”

The sentries were put out before darkness came, and afterward the rest of the men turned in. Corporal Chasen chose a spot away from Wilson tonight, for he didn’t want to be kept awake by Wilson’s grousing. Again Lieutenant Miller was writing in his tent by the light of his home-made lamp. Watching him, Chasen was seized by a sudden depression. Would it be possible, when they were rescued, to report Miller’s senseless cruelty? His enlisted man’s wisdom told him no. For that matter, would they ever be rescued? There was no guarantee that Reardon and Adams would reach help. Maybe they were all spending the last days of their lives here; seven men laboring themselves to death and the eighth man sitting in a tent whiling away his last hours scribbling with the stub of a pencil in a book.

It wasn’t exactly scribbling, since Lieutenant Miller wrote a neat and precise hand acquired as the regimental historian at the Presidio. This night he wrote: “Today was uneventful, but I think the men are beginning to respond physically as a result of my well-building project. They are not as sluggish, and they no longer kill time by talk and cards. Tonight I told Corporal Chasen that I had taken an inventory of our remaining supplies and that we would be forced to go on half rations. This was not entirely true, but I did it for two reasons. If rescue does not come within a few more days, I am determined to make a march of it to the north. I want my men to be lean and durable, with not an extra ounce of fat on their bodies. The second reason for putting them on half rations is that we do not know how long our march will be. However long, we cannot make it without sufficient food.”

Lieutenant Miller closed his book, rose, and saw that the sentries were circling camp; then he extinguished his lamp, lay down, and slept.

Next morning at bare dawn the sentry awakened Corporal Chasen, who roused the men. Since the surrounding dry and sparse mesquite had been exhausted for fuel, they were now breaking up the pack frames for fuel for their one fire a day. Pan bread had to be baked and bacon fried to last the detail until the following morning.

The camp stirred with activity. Some of the men washed with water poured from canteens, while others filled their canteens from the well whose muddy water had settled during the night. Corporal Chasen eyed Lieutenant Miller’s tent and saw that the lieutenant was still asleep. He did not understand how a man could sleep most of the day, and all night through the dawn. He had to concede, however, that usually Lieutenant Miller was up with his men. Perhaps he had stayed awake late into the night writing in his book.

However, when the food was ready Corporal Chasen walked over to the low tent and said loudly, “Morning, sir. Food’s ready, sir.”

There was no answer.

Corporal Chasen knelt down and looked into the tent. Lieutenant Miller, stripped to the waist, lay on his face. Chasen’s hand was moving to shake his shoulder when he saw the blood on Lieutenant Miller’s back. From a knife wound in the back the blood had flowed down the lieutenant’s side and had pooled on his blanket before leaving a wide dark stain.

For a stunned moment Chasen stared at the wound, then reached out and touched Lieutenant Miller’s shoulder. The flesh was cold. The corporal snatched his hand back, then he rose, turned, and bellowed, “Over here, on the double!” The men looked at him a moment and then came running.

To the first man who arrived, Schermer, the corporal said, “Take a corner of that blanket and help me haul him out.”

Schermer and Chasen, each on a corner of the blanket, pulled the body of Lieutenant Miller out into view where the assembling troopers could see him.

Watching their faces, the corporal saw many emotions reflected. The younger troopers stared at the body with a kind of fascinated horror. The older troopers looked indifferent, almost relieved. It was Ryan who first found his tongue. “Apaches?”

The corporal addressed himself to the sentries on the first watch. “Either of you know anything about this? Did you see anything or hear anything?”

Both men shook their heads.

Chasen asked the same question of the two troopers who had relieved them, and received the same answer. One of them added, “It was moonlight when we took over. We’d have seen anything that moved.”

Slowly, Corporal Chasen looked into the face of each man. There had not yet been a single expression of regret or pity from any one of them, and Chasen was an old enough soldier to know why. Miller had bred no loyalty, only abiding hatreds. The corporal was sure, in his own mind, that one of the detail had murdered Lieutenant Miller.

Chasen said abruptly, “Let me see your knives.”

Each man in the detail had a different sort of knife; they ranged from pocket knives to hunting knives. Obediently the men extended them, and as Corporal Chasen made a slow circle he examined each knife for bloodstains. When he came to Wilson, the sullen trooper held out a hunting knife in his palm. It was as clean as the rest.

This was foolish, Corporal Chasen concluded. To destroy evidence all a man would have to do would be to wash off his knife with water from his canteen.

Again Corporal Chasen looked at each man individually, and each met his eye with an expression of indifference that could have been a normal expression of innocence. He looked longest at Wilson and saw nothing in the man’s cold stare that hadn’t been there before.

Chasen said heavily, “It looks like my rank says I take command.” He paused. “Anybody feel like arguing it?”

“You’ve got the only rank in the bunch of us,” Ryan said. “Looks like you got to take command.”

When the others nodded, Chasen said, “Then I’ll give my first one. Go eat.”

The men drifted away to their small fire, but Chasen remained. Out of some obscure sense of propriety he knelt in the opening of the tent, reached for Lieutenant Miller’s blouse and covered his upper body and head with it; then he rose, circled the tent, and looked for tracks. There were tracks everywhere, Chasen saw, and there was no possible way of telling their age or identity. He stood and stared at the ground, wondering what he must do with this new responsibility. For the first time in his soldier’s career he realized the awesome burden placed on an officer. He, as Lieutenant Miller had been, was responsible for these men’s lives.

Half an hour later the whole detail, save for the crippled Wilson, trudged the two miles to the rock bar, Corporal Chasen sometimes leading, sometimes taking his turn carrying the blanket-wrapped body that was slung on another blanket whose sides were stiffened by rolling them around two rifles.

At the rock bar Lieutenant Miller’s body was laid on the ground and at Corporal Chasen’s orders the men began to pile rocks on it. When the mound was perhaps a yard high, Corporal Chasen called a halt. The men surrounded the grave and at the corporal’s orders removed their hats. Then Corporal Chasen, reaching into distant memory, stumbled through the words of the Lord’s prayer. Afterwards he signaled for the men to return to camp.

“We work today, Corporal?” one of the detail asked. They were all listening for his answer.

“We rest today,” Corporal Chasen replied.

They were scarcely back at camp before Corporal Chasen noted the subtle difference in the attitude of the detail toward him. Now that he was giving orders, the men eyed him warily, and since he had succeeded the commanding officer he lay down in the commanding officer’s tent, which was almost as hot as the scalding sunlight outside.

Inevitably his thoughts turned to Lieutenant Miller’s murderer. Corporal Chasen knew he was not a bright man, but he thought he should be able to do more than he had to ferret out the lieutenant’s killer. The trouble was there wasn’t a man in the detail who didn’t have reason to kill Miller. He had abused them all—but especially he had abused Wilson.

Now Corporal Chasen pondered what he knew about Wilson. He doubted very much if Wilson had enlisted under his own name. He was from an eastern city, Chasen judged, because his loud, aggressive cynicism was foreign to country or small-town men. Most troopers, Chasen knew, accepted their chores and assignments with a kind of fatalism, but not Wilson. He maneuvered and bribed among his equals; he fawned upon his superiors when they allowed it, but when they did not his actions verged on insubordination. Fawning had got him his job as quartermaster clerk, where he was excused from many of the chores required of the other troopers. He was derisive of any man wanting to advance himself, and was a gambler of real talent. A man with an extraordinarily lewd mind, Wilson had been a pimp in civilian life, Chasen guessed.

All in all, Chasen could find no virtues in Wilson, and all the vices attributable to a bad soldier. In his own mind he was certain that Wilson had killed the lieutenant. However, there was one more factor that should be weighed. What did his fellow troopers think of Wilson?

He cast back over the roster. Schermer hated Wilson because Wilson never addressed Schermer except as “You block-headed Dutchman.” Prince hated him because Wilson consistently cheated at cards and Prince could not discover how he was doing it. As he went down the roster, he could find some reason for every man disliking or fearing Wilson.

Corporal Chasen was slow to make up his mind, but once it was made up he was a man of action. He raised up on an elbow and called, “Wilson, come over here.”

All of the troopers had sought shade. Four of them were lying under the supply wagon, and Wilson was one of these.

Now Wilson called back, “Come over here, Corporal. My feet hurt.”

Corporal Chasen rose, lifted the flap of his holster, pulled out his pistol, and strode over to the wagon, halting in front of Wilson.

“I’m commanding this outfit and I give the orders. I gave you an order, Wilson. Obey it.” His deceptively pleasant voice held a menace that was not lost on Wilson, but to the fat trooper this was a matter of saving face.

Wilson said, “What you’ve got to say, you can say to me here, can’t you?”

For answer, Corporal Chasen shot into the dirt an inch or so from Wilson’s feet. “On your feet, trooper,” the corporal said flatly.

Wilson scrambled up on all fours, cleared the wagon, and stood up. “I’ll report that, Corporal,” Wilson said.

“Do that,” Chasen said drily. “Now get over to the tent.”

Wilson limped over to the tent with Chasen following him. When he halted, Chasen circled him and surveyed him a long moment, hands on hips.

“You’re pullin’ rank you ain’t got, Corporal. Remember that.”

Chasen didn’t answer, and Wilson said, “Can I sit down?”

“No.” Chasen looked beyond Wilson at the men, who were all watching him. Then his glance settled onto Wilson. He said quietly, “You killed Miller, didn’t you?”

Wilson grinned crookedly. “Prove it, Corporal. What are we talking for?”

“For me,” Chasen said slowly. “You hated the lieutenant.”

“So did you. So did every man here.”

“Yes, we all hated him, but you killed him.”

“Like I said, prove it.”

“I can’t,” Chasen answered. “Still, I’d like to hear you admit it.” He looked around him. “Nobody can hear us, and there were no witnesses. Court-martial can’t touch you.”

“What are you going to report, Corporal?” Wilson asked slyly.

“Only that Lieutenant Miller was stabbed to death by someone in this detail.”

“You’re sure you won’t say you suspect me?”

Chasen nodded. “If I’m asked, I will; but what evidence has anybody got?”

“None,” Wilson said smugly.

“All right, then, did you kill him?” the corporal asked.

Now it was Wilson’s turn to look around the camp, making sure nobody but Chasen could hear him. He turned back and smiled crookedly. “Sure, I killed him,” he said softly. “It was either him or me. You heard him keep me off the sick call. You saw him give me double work. What was I supposed to do, let him kill me?”

Corporal Chasen said calmly, “No, the lieutenant had it coming. I think he was a little bit crazy. I don’t reckon I blame you for killing him, but I blame you for the way you did it.”

Wilson laughed soundlessly. “You think I should have pulled a gun on him and shot him where all of you could see it?”

“No. But I don’t think you should have stabbed him in the back while he was sleeping.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Wilson asked.

Corporal Chasen’s hands were still on his hips. Now he took a half-step forward, then moved with the swiftness of a striking snake; his ham-shaped right fist sledged into Wilson’s shelving jaw, which was wet and slippery with perspiration. But the blow was exactly aimed and the sound of it could be heard through the camp. It was the sound of flesh on bone that was being broken. Wilson, caught by surprise, simply fell backwards, unconsciousness coming so swiftly that he did not even attempt to break his fall.

The men who had been watching came to their feet and, looking at each other, moved up to Chasen and Wilson. They ringed the two men, looking alternately at Wilson and then at Chasen.

Finally Prince asked, “Why’d you hit him, Corporal?”

“He’ll tell you if he wants; I won’t,” Chasen said flatly.

One of the men knelt beside Wilson, put a hand on his jaw, and moved it. The jaw gave easily, loosely, as it was moved from side to side, and the unconscious Wilson seemed to have no knowledge of it.

The trooper looked up. “You broke his jaw, Corporal.”

Corporal Chasen nodded. “I figured to.”