Warpath

The bugler blew reveille as dawn broke on Fort Kimball. Lieutenant Lowell opened his eyes and groaned. Samantha, his wife, stirred beside him.

Lieutenant Lowell rolled out of bed and lit a thin cigar from the private stock his father sent him regularly from Boston. Then he stood and pulled on his pants. He walked to the window, separating the drapes.

The horizon in the east was orange and red, and before him lay the parade ground, a few scattered soldiers running across it. On the other side of the parade ground were more adobe buildings similar to the one Lieutenant Lowell and Samantha lived in. Enlisted men were billeted at the north end of the fort, with married personnel to the south.

Samantha washed her face in the basin. “Every day I hate this place more. Even when I sleep at night, I get that damned alkali on me.”

‘‘It’s your imagination,” he said, puffing his cigar, thrusting his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. “There’s no alkali in here.”

“Yes, there is. I can feel it. It’s everywhere, and it’s driving me crazy.”

She walked to the kitchen to light the stove for breakfast. Lieutenant Lowell sat on the bed and pulled on his cavalry boots, thinking about his meeting with Colonel Braddock. He had to present the report on his patrol, and Colonel Braddock always asked difficult questions that Lieutenant Lowell tried to anticipate in advance.

Standing, he strapped on his saber. Most officers on the frontier didn’t wear them, but Lieutenant Lowell considered his saber the ultimate symbol of the cavalry. He’d been a member of the West Point Fencing Team.

Samantha dropped something in the kitchen. “Damn!” she said. “Son of a bitch!”

Lieutenant Lowell walked into the kitchen. “You swear worse than my troopers. I wish you’d cut it out. Somebody’s liable to hear you.”

“I don’t care if they do hear me,” she said. “I want the whole world to hear me. I hate this place. I want to get out of here. I know we’ve been over this a million times, but I’m sorry, I don’t see why you don’t ask your uncle to get us a transfer back east.”

“First of all, please lower your voice, because they probably can hear you all the way to Santa Maria del Pueblo. Second, I’ve told you numerous times that I don’t want any special favors from my uncle.”

He came up behind her and hugged her, cupping her breasts in his hands. She closed her eyes and placed her hands on his arms. “I love you, Josh, but you’re never home and I’m here all alone most of the time in this terrible place.”

“I’m not getting used to it. I hate it. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m losing my mind.”

“I never met a duller group of women in my life. Most of them have never heard a concert or seen a play. Most of them don’t even read. All they can talk about is their children.”

There was a knock at the door, and Samantha turned around in Lieutenant Lowell’s arms. “Who’s that?”

Lieutenant Lowell released her and walked toward the door. He opened it and saw a sergeant with a red beard standing in front of him. The sergeant wasn’t in his troop, but Lieutenant Lowell had seen him around the fort and had formed an overall good impression of him.

The sergeant stood at attention and saluted smartly. “Sergeant Gerald McFeeley reporting, sir. I hate to bother you so early in the morning, sir, but there’s something important that I have to talk with you about.”

Lieutenant Lowell was mystified. What could a sergeant from another troop possibly have to talk with him about?

“The gennelman you met up with yesterday when you was on patrol, sir. I understand you and he became friendly, is that right, sir?”

“Cap’n Stone is in trouble, sir. I heard from some of my men that he killed a Mexican outlaw named Rodrigo Vargas last night in La Rosita, and the Mexican’s friends are after Cap’n Stone to kill him. Cap’n Stone was wounded bad, and I was wonderin’ if there was some way you could help.”

“Take a patrol out and look for him. Maybe you can get to him before the Mexicans, because you know what they’ll do if they find him.”

“Cap’n Stone was my commanding officer during the war, and a finer soldier there never was. Do you think you could do somethin’, sir?”

Lieutenant Lowell puffed his cigar as he looked at the tall lanky sergeant standing in front of him. He recalled meeting Stone yesterday and had liked him instantly. Stone had seemed a little jaded by his experiences in the war, but that was understandable. He’d gone to West Point.

“Of course I’ll speak with the colonel,” Lieutenant Lowell told Sergeant McFeeley. “I’ll see him this morning and bring it up.”

A smile came over Sergeant McFeeley’s face. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. One more thing, sir. If you take out a patrol, do you think I could go along.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but tell me something, Sergeant. If Stone was wounded so badly, how did he get away?”

“One of the Apache scouts helped him, sir. He had a Mexican woman with him too, my men told me.”

Lieutenant Lowell returned to the kitchen, where Samantha was placing two platters of eggs and sausages on the table. “What was that all about?”

“The fellow I told you about yesterday, the former Confederate officer, evidently killed a Mexican last night at one of the cantinas in town.”

She pointed her finger at him. “That’s exactly what I keep telling you. There’s nothing to do here. Why can’t we go back east, Josh? What is it that you like so much here?”

“It’s hard to explain.” He sat at the table and picked up a knife and fork. “There’s something about the place. It’s a beautiful land.”

“I thought it was beautiful too when I first got here,” she said, sitting opposite him, “but it became tiresome awfully quick. Maybe one of these days I’ll go to a cantina and kill a Mexican.”

“I do everything for you that I can. You knew I wanted to become a soldier when we were married. It’s not as if it’s a big surprise.”

“I think you ought to stop complaining and start making the best of what we’ve got here. It’s not so bad.”

“Maybe it’s not so bad for you, because you’re out riding horses with your men all the time, playing soldier boy while I’m stuck here with nothing to do. You’re having fun, but I’m not.”

He decided to stop arguing with her. It never led anywhere, and he had an appointment with Colonel Braddock that required his attention. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said.

“One of these days you’ll come home from a patrol, and I won’t be here,” she replied. “Then maybe you’ll wake up.”

It wasn’t the first time she had threatened to leave. She did it all the time, and he was used to it. She continued to harangue him as he ate quickly, thinking about the report he had to deliver to Colonel Braddock.

“I told you we’ll talk about it later. I have an important report to make.”

“Everything is important except me! You have plenty of time for anybody else, but not your wife! You’ll do anything for those stupid drunken soldiers of yours, but you don’t do anything for me!”

Lieutenant Lowell recalled overhearing the men talking in the barracks once. Sergeant Flynn had told the younger troopers: “The only thing to do if you’re havin’ an argument with a woman is grab your hat and run.”

He arose from the table, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and walked toward the bedroom.

“To work,” he called out as he placed his campaign hat on his head. Picking up his leather portfolio, he headed for the front door.

But Lieutenant Lowell was already on the porch, jumping to the ground, on his way to Colonel Braddock’s command post on the other side of Fort Kimball. Samantha watched him go, a scowl on her pretty face.

Lieutenant Lowell walked briskly across the parade ground, glad to be away from her, because her nagging was driving him crazy. She’d been wonderful back in Boston, but became a harpy after a few weeks at Fort Kimball.

Lieutenant Lowell didn’t know what to do with her, but didn’t have time to think about it. He had to prepare for his meeting with the colonel, and he knew he wouldn’t be at his best because Samantha had flustered him. She didn’t understand how she was undermining his career by behaving as she did. A woman should support a man in his career, not continually cut him down.

He tried to push her out of his mind. Around him, soldiers marched about, sergeants calling the cadence. The sun rose in the sky and Lieutenant Lowell could feel its warmth; it was going to be a hot day. He pulled out his gold watch, a gift from his father, and had forty-five minutes before his meeting with the colonel.

A trooper walking toward him saluted, and Lieutenant Lowell saluted back. Already he was feeling better. There was something about military life he loved. He didn’t want to spend his life sitting behind a desk, making money like his father, when he could be in the great outdoors, serving his country.

Samantha didn’t know how he felt. All she wanted was to attend plays and concerts with her friends, and talk about the latest poets and artists.

The officers’ club was a complex of adobe structures attached to the BOQ (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters). Lieutenant Lowell went inside and handed his hat to the orderly in the white jacket.

“Bring me a cup of coffee in the library, will you?” Lieutenant Lowell said.

To the left was the Officers’ Mess, where the unmarried officers were having breakfast. Lieutenant Lowell proceeded down the hallway to the library, a small room with a few bookcases and some chairs. He sat near the window, opened his portfolio, took out his report. The orderly arrived a few minutes later with the coffee.

Lieutenant Lowell sipped the coffee and looked at his handwritten pages, but his ears still rang with the sound of Samantha’s voice. He could hear her criticizing and cajoling him, and there was no escape. Fort Kimball was a small post. He was either on duty with his men or home with her. He needed to go someplace to rest, but there was no place.

Sometimes he thought about sending her back east and getting a divorce, but he loved her and didn’t want to be without a woman. Bachelor officers on the frontier became drunk and dissolute fairly rapidly, from what he’d observed so far. Some became involved with loose women in town, which was harmful to their careers. Lieutenant Lowell had observed that officers who’d graduated from West Point and had solid marriages were the ones who achieved high rank, while the others languished in the lower commissioned ranks until they either retired or were cashiered for drunkenness or some other dereliction or malfeasance.

Lieutenant Lowell loved the Army. It was a healthy decent life, and he was serving his country. He loved the camaraderie of the barracks and admired old war dogs like Colonel Braddock and Sergeant Flynn.

Samantha was spoiling it all for him with her constant tirades, and when she was among the other officers and wives, she spoke disparagingly of the Army. He realized now that Samantha was something of a snob, and maybe he shouldn’t’ve married her, but she was beautiful and vivacious, and he loved to hold her in his arms. She made him feel alive and special, and he couldn’t wait to get her in bed at night, where she was a wildcat.

He was in love with her and in love with the Army at the same time, but they were like oil and water; they didn’t mix. His handwriting on the pages before him blurred, and he realized he was thinking about Samantha again instead of preparing for his report.

He sipped coffee and forced himself to concentrate, but soon found himself thinking about John Stone, who was wounded, on the desert running for his life from Mexican outlaws. Stone had the aura of command about him yesterday, although he’d been dusty and sweaty, wandering through Apache-infested territory like a tenderfoot. It was interesting how former officers like John Stone inspired a lifelong loyalty in enlisted men like Sergeant McFeeley. That surely was the mark of a superior officer, the kind of leader Lieutenant Lowell wanted to become.

Once again, he realized his mind was wandering. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to focus on his report. I’ve got to be letter-perfect this time, he said to himself. I don’t want to make any more mistakes in front of Colonel Braddock.

Colonel Braddock sat behind his desk, smoking a cigar. He was sixty years old, had white hair thinned out on top, and a swooping white mustache stained with nicotine. Behind him was a window overlooking the parade ground, and to the left of that, hanging from the wall, was a photograph of Ulysses S. Grant, the President of the United States and his former commander during the Civil War.

Colonel Braddock read a report that Captain Poole, his intelligence officer, had just delivered to him. It said Apaches were marauding worse than ever throughout the area, burning farm buildings, massacring settlers, stealing horses and cattle, and, in general, terrorizing everyone. Local politicians were clamoring for the Army to do something, but Colonel Braddock didn’t know what to do.

The Apaches played hit and run. They ranged over a wide territory, and disappeared into the desert when they finished their bloody depredations. It was difficult to track them down, even with Apache scouts, and sometimes Colonel Braddock questioned the loyalty of the scouts themselves. For all he knew, they might be spies. Frequently they deserted the Army after receiving new rifles and ammunition. They were unpredictable, unreliable, and unfathomable.

The principal tribe in the area was headed by old Jacinto, said to be in his sixties now, but still an implacable foe of the white settlers. Colonel Braddock wanted to speak with Jacinto and make a treaty with him, but so far Jacinto had scorned all the overtures that Colonel Braddock had advanced.

All Colonel Braddock could do was send out regular patrols to visit settlements and farms in the region, so that Jacinto would know that he couldn’t have free rein. But it was largely a futile exercise. Often settlements or farms would be attacked hours after a patrol departed, as if Jacinto were taunting Colonel Braddock, telling him in a roundabout way that his Army was a joke.

Local citizens had complained to Washington, and reinforcements were on the way, according to the scuttlebutt. But the reinforcements hadn’t arrived yet, and Colonel Braddock had to make do with what he had. It was a frustrating thankless job. If he’d been stationed in the east, he’d probably be a general by now, but instead he was stuck on a remote outpost in the most dangerous and desolate part of the frontier, and he’d probably be a colonel till he died.

There was a knock on his door, and he recalled his nine o’clock meeting with Lieutenant Lowell, one of the young officers in his command, but young Lowell was having marital problems according to post gossip.

“Come in!” said Colonel Braddock.

The door opened and Lieutenant Lowell entered, holding his hat under his arm and his leather portfolio in his hand. He marched toward the desk and saluted stiffly.

“Lieutenant Lowell reporting, sir!”

“Have a seat, Lieutenant. Smoke if you want to.”

Lieutenant Lowell sat on a leather upholstered chair in front of Colonel Braddock’s desk and took the papers out of his portfolio. He sat erectly and proceeded to deliver his report, describing farms and settlements visited, territory covered, and so on. Finally he told of how he and his command had stumbled upon John Stone in the desert.

“I spoke with him as we rode back to Santa Maria del Pueblo, and found out he was a West Point graduate who served under Jeb Stuart and Wade Hampton during the war. He’d achieved the rank of captain and commanded a troop.”

Colonel Braddock filled his favorite briar with tobacco and lit it, his head wreathed in billows of blue smoke. It seemed that the frontier was full of former Civil War officers. One was constantly bumping into them. Some had recovered nicely from the war and were systematically rebuilding their lives, while others wandered aimlessly from place to place, unable to adjust to civilian life.

“Perhaps we should invite him to dinner some night at the Officers’ Club,” Colonel Braddock said. “Perhaps he knows some of the men here.”

“He does, sir. Sergeant McFeeley of Troop C served under him, but I’m afraid we can’t invite Captain Stone to dinner, and that’s what I wanted to speak with you about. Sergeant McFeeley visited me at my home first thing this morning and told me Captain Stone got in trouble last night at La Rosita. Seems he killed a Mexican outlaw named Rodrigo Vargas, and now Vargas’s bandits are after him. Captain Stone was wounded badly in the fight, and evidently is on his way to Tucson. I was wondering if I could take out a patrol and see if I could find him.”

“The Army isn’t supposed to involve itself in civilian activity,” Colonel Braddock said.

“We patrol constantly, sir. This would be just another patrol, but it might help a brother officer.”

The mention of brother officer touched a deep chord in Colonel Braddock. He believed in the Officer Corps and the allegiance that all officers should have to each other, particularly if they had gone to West Point.

“How soon can you leave?” Colonel Braddock asked.

“This afternoon, and there’s one more favor that I’d like to ask, sir, if you don’t mind. Could Sergeant McFeeley be transferred temporarily to my command? He’s most anxious about the welfare of Captain Stone, as I told you.”

“Tell Sergeant Cowper to draft an order to that effect on your way out.” Colonel Braddock puffed his pipe thoughtfully as he looked at Lieutenant Lowell. “I know you’ve gone on many patrols in the past, Lieutenant, and I know you’re an experienced officer, but I feel compelled to tell you to be careful anyway.” He picked up Captain Poole’s intelligence report. “Jacinto’s Apaches are on the warpath as you know, and they’ve been stepping up their campaign against settlers and any other poor bastard they might find on the desert. Beware of ambush. Watch your flanks and utilize your scouts to the maximum. Remember that knowledge of terrain is sixty percent of any battle. Stay alert, and if you engage the Apache, fight aggressively, because that’s the only language he respects. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck to you, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Lowell snapped to attention and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

Stone opened his eyes and saw a red flower on the green arm of a saguaro cactus above him. Past the flower was the clear blue sky. He was aware of a terrible pain in his left shoulder, and his chest stung from one side to the other. He raised his head and saw Juanita sitting on the ground, watching a small animal roasting over a fire that gave off no smoke. In the distance were jagged buttes standing like grotesque towers of Babel.

Juanita noticed him. “How do you feel?”

“Not so good.”

“You are the craziest gringo I ever saw in my life, and I have seen many crazy gringos.”

“I wouldn’t argue with you about that. Could you roll me a cigarette?”

She got to her feet and walked toward him, still wearing the high heels and jewelry she’d been wearing in La Rosita. She looked like a strange mirage arising out of the desert sand.

She knelt beside him, took out his bag of tobacco, and rolled the cigarette.

“How did I get here?” he asked.

“Lobo and I brought you, but mostly Lobo. We had to get out of town rapido, before Rodrigo’s men came.”

“Where are we?”

“How should I know? Ask the Indian.”

“Where is he?”

“Somewhere out there. He keeps coming and going back, and every time he comes back he brings something. He is so quiet I cannot even hear him. I don’t see him until he is right on top of me. He scares me. Open your mouth.”

He opened his mouth and she stuck the cigarette in. Then she lit the end with a match. Stone held the cigarette with his right hand and puffed it to life.

“You are a very crazy man,” she said. “I knew it from the moment I first set eyes on you in church. You are the kind of person who does not understand nothing. How can you get into a fight with a man like Rodrigo? Don’t you know that such a man would have friends?”

“To hell with his friends.”

“You see what I mean? A man like that — you stay away from him. If it was not for the Indian, you would be dead right now. You are a very estupido man, but also a very brave and good one.” She smiled and touched his forehead. “I will take care of you and make you well. Nobody has ever dare stand up to Rodrigo before for me, but you did. I never forget. You have save my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Stone told her. “I don’t like people like Rodrigo. They rub me the wrong way.”

“Let me tell you something,” she said. “Every day I go to church and pray that Santa Maria will free me from Rodrigo. Then, today, I go to church and see you. I think to myself: Juanita, that is an especial man there. God will answer his prayers.”

“Now I’m lying on the desert with a bullet in my arm. I wouldn’t exactly call that an answer to my prayers.”

“You are very lucky to be alive, and you don’t have the bullet in your arm anymore. The Indian took it out with his knife. He boil some leaves and put them on your wound. Anyway, I pray to Santa Maria that she will free me from Rodrigo, and a little while later Rodrigo is dead.”

“Maybe Santa Maria answered your prayers, but she certainly didn’t answer mine.”

“How do you know she won’t? You are an estupido gringo. You do not understand Santa Maria. Sometimes she helps you right away, like with me at La Rosita, and other times you might have to wait awhile.”

Stone placed his cigarette in his mouth and opened his shirt pocket, taking out the picture of Marie. The frame was slightly dented, but otherwise was intact. He looked at Marie for a few seconds, then put the picture back into his shirt. He’d been concerned that the photograph might’ve been damaged or lost in the fight.

“I do not think she is so pretty,” Juanita said.

Suddenly she screamed, raising her hand to her breast. Stone turned around and saw Lobo beside him, carrying wood under one arm and a cloth bag in his hand.

“Do you think you can ride?” he asked Stone.

“If I had to.”

“Tomorrow at sunrise we will move on.”

“Where are we?”

“On the way to Tucson.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t take me.”

“I change my mind.”

“Thanks for helping me out back there in the saloon. I guess you saved my life.”

“You are a fool.”

“You see?” said Juanita. “He says the same thing I do. There is something wrong with you. You cannot fight the whole world all by yourself.”

Lobo dropped the wood to the ground. Then he opened the top of the sack, revealing a variety of berries. “Food,” he said.

“What happened after I passed out?” Stone asked.

Juanita answered: “The Indian stole a few horses and we rode away.”

“I don’t understand why we had to leave,” Stone said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. The man attacked me with a knife, and I defended myself.”

Juanita shook her head impatiently. “You do not understand, gringo. Rodrigo’s men want to kill you.”

“What about the law?”

“The sheriff is only one man. Rodrigo’s men are many.”

“Why doesn’t the Army do something?”

Lobo answered: “The bluecoats fight the Apache, and that is all. The bluecoats are not sheriffs.”

Stone leaned back on the saddle he was using for a pillow. It was the lawlessness of the frontier all over again. Everybody was drunk, everybody carried at least one gun, thieves and murderers were everywhere, and law was scarce.

“Everything be all right in Tucson,” Juanita said. “I get a job in a cantina, and I take care of you. The Indian goes back to his job in the Army. Rodrigo’s men find somebody else to kill.”

“I still don’t think we had to leave,” Stone said. “I know one of the officers at Fort Kimball, and I’m a former officer myself. The Army would take care of me.”

“Maybe for a while,” Juanita said, “but sooner or later you leave Fort Kimball, and then Rodrigo’s men get you. You do not understand the kind of people they are. They are very bad hombres and they know how to wait.”

Juanita sat beside the fire and turned over the rabbit. Lobo walked toward Stone and kneeled beside him. He reached beside Stone and picked up Stone’s two gunbelts. “Your guns are here.” He lifted Stone’s boot. “Here is your knife.”

“Do you expect trouble?”

“Is best to stay ready.” He placed his hand on Stone’s right shoulder. “You are true warrior. I thought he had you. He cut you many times. But you kill him. Your fight was beautiful.”

As the morning sun rose higher in the sky, eighteen Mexican bandits rode in a single column across the desert. Miguel sat on his horse about fifty yards ahead of the rest, acting as scout, studying the ground in front of him, raising his head to the tops of hills, watching for Apaches constantly.

The other Mexicans also were alert, glancing around them at the terrain as their horses plodded over the sand. They wore dirty white pants and shirts, with bandoliers of ammunition across their chests and wide sombreros on their heads.

Antonio led the main column of Mexicans, and he’d been sick ever since he heard that his brother had been killed at La Rosita. Many times he wanted to let go and cry, but couldn’t do that in front of his men. He had to show strength even now in the time of his deepest sorrow.

It still was difficult for him to believe that Rodrigo was dead, and Antonio felt a terrible emptiness. Rodrigo had been with him all his life, guiding him, teaching him, and protecting him. Now Rodrigo was gone, killed by a gringo in a knife fight.

Antonio had seen Rodrigo fight with knives before, and there’d been no one quicker or more deadly. Antonio had thought Rodrigo invincible with a knife, and Rodrigo actually liked to fight with knives. All the bandidos were afraid of him, while Rodrigo had never been afraid of anyone, and now Rodrigo was dead, buried on the desert with a cross made of two branches tied together to mark his grave.

Antonio had no intention of fighting the gringo with a knife when he found him. Antonio intended to shoot him on sight, and afterward maybe work on him with a knife, cut him into little pieces, and feed him to the cucarachas.

Ahead, he saw Miguel raise his arm in the air. Miguel had stopped his horse; evidently he’d seen something. Antonio watched Miguel climb down from his horse, drop to one knee, and study something on the ground.

Antonio and the rest of the column caught up with Miguel. “What is it?” Antonio asked.

“Apaches,” Miguel replied.

Antonio climbed down from his horse and looked at the tracks. A large number of unshod horses had passed by within the past few hours.

“How many would you say?” Antonio asked.

“A large war party, maybe thirty.”

Antonio took off his sombrero and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He and his men wouldn’t stand much of a chance against thirty Apache warriors, and Apaches loved to kill Mexicans even more than they loved to kill gringos, due to the many massacres the Mexican cavalry had perpetrated against Apache villages.

Miguel arose and approached Antonio, looking him in the eyes. “I think we should go back, Antonio. This is not a good time to be here.”

“Go back if you want to,” Antonio told him coldly.

“I understand how you feel, Antonio. Rodrigo was your brother and you loved him very mucho. But the desert is dangerous today. The Apaches are on the warpath.”

“I am on the warpath too,” Antonio replied. “I am not afraid of Apaches. If you want to go back, that is your decision to make. I go on to Tucson to find the killer of my brother, but let me ask you something, Miguel. If you were the one who had been killed by the gringo, do you think Rodrigo would be afraid to go to Tucson to avenge your death?”

Miguel was the oldest member of the band, fifty-three years old, and his mustache and sideburns were streaked with gray. “I will ride with you, Antonio,” he said.

Antonio turned around and faced the others. “Anyone else who wants to turn back, to hide with the women?”

Their eyes were downcast, and no one said anything. Miguel climbed onto his horse and rode forward, to take the scouting position once again. Antonio waited until Miguel was fifty yards ahead of him, then raised his hand high over his head and then swept it forward.

The column of Mexican bandits advanced over the trail left by the Apache war party, and continued on its way to Tucson.

Lieutenant Lowell walked into his house and took off his campaign hat. “Samantha?”

There was no answer. Their Mexican maid, Carmen, came out of the kitchen. She was in her twenties with her long black hair worn in pigtails. “She is sleeping,” she said softly, one finger over her mouth.

Lieutenant Lowell entered the bedroom and saw Samantha sleeping on top of the bedspread, wearing only a thin gown that had risen high above her thighs, showing her long lissome legs dotted here and there with freckles.

He felt a rise of desire for her. She was so beautiful with her pale complexion and slim body. He didn’t want to wake her up, but felt he had to say good-bye to her.

He touched his hand to her shoulder. “Samantha?”

She opened big blue eyes, smiled sleepily, and raised her arms. He dropped on top of her and touched his lips to hers, feeling her firm young body and ripe breasts beneath him.

“I was just dreaming about you,” she whispered.

She pulled him against her and kissed him again. They squirmed against each other, kissing and breathing heavily.

“This is such a pleasant surprise,” she murmured. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I can’t stay long,” he replied. “I’m going out on patrol.”

She stiffened underneath him, and suddenly the mood in the bedroom changed.

“You just came back from patrol,” she said, pushing him away. “How come you’re going out again?”

“Apaches are on the warpath.”

“They’re always on the warpath. There’s nothing new about that.”

“Colonel Braddock wants me to see if I can rescue that fellow named John Stone who I told you about this morning.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You volunteered for the patrol, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” She rolled over and got out of bed, straightening her gown, covering herself up. Then she put on her robe and tied the belt. “So,” she said, “you’d rather be out with your troopers than here with me, as usual. Isn’t that so?”

“I have a job to do. Captain Stone’s life is in danger.”

“What about my life?”

“You’re in no danger that I can see.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll tell you one thing, Lieutenant Joshua Lowell. Your marriage is in danger and you don’t seem to realize it.”

“Do you expect me to resign my commission and stay home with you all day?”

“You can be reassigned to the East Coast if you want to.”

“Field command is important in the career of an officer, and that’s why I need to be here. If you cared about my career, like the other officers’ wives on the post, our marriage would be all right, but instead you’re always complaining and I’m getting sick of it.”

“Is that so? Well I’m getting sick of it too, what do you think of that?”

“I’ve got to get going,” he said. “I’ll talk with you when I get back.”

“That’s the way you always deal with the problems that we have. You’ll talk about them when you get back, but then, as soon as you get back, you go out again, because, damn you, you’re always volunteering for patrols!

She stood across from him, her hands on her hips, and looked utterly stunning in her rage. He took a step toward her.

“Get away from me,” she said, a deadly tone in her voice.

He came closer and was about to wrap his arms around her waist when she slapped him hard across his face. His instinct was to counterpunch, and he raised his fist, but took a deep breath and stopped himself.

“I think I’d better get going,” he said huskily.

“Don’t expect me to be here when you get back,” she replied.

“I’m tired of arguing with you. If you want to go — then go.”

He turned around and walked out of the bedroom, leaving her standing beside the bed, trembling with rage.

“The Indian said to drink this.”

Stone opened his eyes and saw Juanita’s face above him, her lips curled in a faint smile. She held a tin cup in her hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Who in hell knows?”

Stone took the tin cup and drank the bitter fluid. “Tastes terrible.”

“He said to drink it all.”

Stone gulped it down, then handed the cup back to Juanita.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

He moved his left arm, and the pain seemed to be greatly diminished. “I think I’m better,” he said.

“Your color is mucho healthier. I think you be all right.”

“Where’s Lobo?”

“He comes and he goes.”

They were in the middle of a thicket, and the sky overhead had a few puffy clouds. A faint wind blew, rustling the leaves and branches. In the distance he could see a purple mountain range.

“How’re you doing?” he asked her.

“Sometimes I am glad Rodrigo is dead, and other times I am not so sure. I hated him and I was afraid of him, but he took good care of me. I never miss one meal in all the years I was with Rodrigo, but before him I miss many meals. But I know you will take good care of me. I will not miss any meals with you either, I do not think so.”

“Wait a minute, Juanita. I think you’ve misunderstood something. When we get to Tucson, we’re splitting up. You go your way and I go mine. I’m engaged to get married, remember?”

“That is just a game you are playing. That woman is gone and you will never see her again. You have kill Rodrigo, and I was his woman. Now I am your woman. You will understand better when you are recover from your wound, and anyway, Tucson is a long distance away. Maybe we never make it. Maybe the Apaches will get us, or maybe Antonio hunt us down first. Antonio is Rodrigo’s little brother, only he is not so little. He will want to kill you, gringo, and me too. I will bet you that he is somewhere out here right now, looking for the both of us.”

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Stone turned his head and saw Lobo emerge from the desert, carrying his little deerskin bag and some canteens full of water.

“That Indian always scare me so much when he show up like that,” she said, placing her hand on her heart.

Lobo kneeled beside Stone and removed the crude bandage made from the matted torn sleeve of Stone’s shirt. Then he opened his bag and took out some long thin leaves, placing them on the wound.

“You will be well soon,” he said.

Lieutenant Lowell sat on his horse, his saber in its scabbard on his belt, his campaign hat low over his eyes. Before him was his patrol, twenty men armed to the teeth plus two Apache scouts, Tim Connors on his dun, and Sergeant Gerald McFeeley, lined up in two ranks in front of the flagpole.

“All right, men!” Lieutenant Lowell shouted. “You’ve all been through this before and you know what to do! That’s Apache country out there, so keep your eyes open, remember your training, and follow your orders! If we run into the Apache, make every shot count! Stay together and be ready for anything! Sergeant McFeeley — move ’em out!”

Sergeant McFeeley called out the orders, and the two ranks turned left, forming two columns. Lieutenant Lowell galloped to the front, followed by the corporal carrying the guidon, and the patrol followed behind them in a clatter of hoofbeats.

Colonel Braddock watched from the window of his office, holding his hands clasped behind his back. Whenever a patrol went out, he always wondered if it’d come back.

Colonel Braddock’s eyes focused on Lieutenant Lowell riding at the head of the column on a spirited horse that pranced and danced as if it knew it was special. Lieutenant Lowell sat erectly in his saddle, his elbows straight down and not flapping foolishly like an inexperienced rider, and Colonel Braddock remembered when he’d been a young officer leading men on patrol. He envied Lieutenant Lowell and wished he could be young again, full of piss and vinegar, but that was all over for him now.

Sighing, he returned to his desk and stuffed his briar with tobacco. I’m just a high-priced clerk, he thought. Just an old man in a fancy uniform.

High on a mountain overlooking Fort Kimball, Black Bear lay on his stomach and watched the cavalry column move onto the desert. He counted the number of soldiers and scouts, noted that they had no cannon, and watched for a while to determine their direction.

Then he arose and crept back to the fire smoldering beneath the blanket. He gripped the corners of the blanket, then pulled it suddenly off the fire.

A huge billow of smoke rose into the sky over the mountain. Black Bear waited for a few moments, then covered the fire with the blanket again. He waited until the smoke built up beneath the blanket, and removed the blanket once more.

A second bellow of smoke floated into the bright blue sky.

Far away, in a little valley, old Jacinto was constructing a snare out of a thin sapling. Watching him was his five-year-old grandson Perico, attired only in moccasins, a breechclout, and a red bandanna holding his straight black hair in place.

Jacinto was sixty-five years old, wrinkled and gnarled, but still sturdy. He sprinkled some piñon nuts on the ground near the snare. “This is the bait,” he explained. “Bait is the most important part of the trap, because without it the rabbit will not even come near the trap.”

“Look, Grandfather!”

The boy pointed to the sky behind Jacinto, who turned and saw puffs of smoke rising above the mountains.

“What does it say, Grandfather?”

“We’d better return to the camp.”

“Are the bluecoats coming?”

“Maybe.”

The little boy pulled out his knife and stood defiantly with his slender legs spread apart. “Let them come! I am not afraid of them! I will kill them all!”

“This is not a good place to fight, Perico. We are in the open. The best place to fight is where the bluecoats cannot see you, and where the bullets from his guns cannot strike you.”

The boy looked around. “What about those rocks over there?”

“That would be better.” Jacinto pointed. “Do you see that grove of trees over there?”

The boy shielded his eyes from the sun with his right hand as he looked. “There is water there, is that not so, Grandfather?”

“Yes, but you must never go to cool shade, no matter what. If there are bluecoats around, that is where they will be and you will walk right into them.”

The old chief and the little boy moved side by side swiftly over the desert, heading back to their encampment in the hills, while behind them the smoke signals rose higher in the sky.

Antonio and his men gathered in a wide coulee lined with clusters of trees, bushes, and cactuses. They watched the smoke rise from the mountains in the distance.

“What do you think it means?” Antonio asked Miguel.

Miguel shrugged. “I do not know. Maybe they have seen us.”

“Those mountains are very far away. How can they see us?”

“I would not put anything past the Apache. They have eyes like the eagles.”

Antonio wasn’t sure of what to do. Rodrigo usually made the decisions for the band.

Ramon Gonzalez, who had a long thin face, leaned on his saddle horn. “I think we should go back,” he said. “It is too dangerous out here.”

Antonio looked coldly at him. “If you want to go back, go ahead.”

“I think all of us should go back, not just me.”

“No,” Antonio said. “You go back now. Alone. And when you are there, take your blanket and your woman and leave. If I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

“But, Antonio—”

“Get going!”

Antonio’s face was stern and his mouth was set in a grim line. Ramon didn’t budge.

“I have been with your brother for many years,” Ramon said. “I have always been loyal. You cannot make me leave now.”

“You are the one who wants to go back.”

“I said we should all go back. This is Apache country. You do not understand the danger.”

“I understand the danger,” Antonio told him, “but I am not afraid. You are afraid, because you are a coward. Go, before I kill you.”

Ramon’s face was disfigured by anger. “I am not a coward.”

“I say that you are.”

Both men stared at each other as they sat atop their horses. The other bandits urged their horses out of the way.

“I told you to leave,” Antonio said, his hand hovering over his pistol.

“I am not going,” Ramon replied.

They reached for their pistols and fired within a split second of each other, but Ramon’s shot was wild and Antonio’s wasn’t. A red dot appeared on the front of Ramon’s shirt, and Antonio triggered again.

Now two red holes were on Ramon’s shirt. Ramon gazed at Antonio with eyes glazing over, and Antonio shot him again. Ramon fell off his horse and dropped to the ground.

Antonio’s gun smoked in his hand. “Any other cowards want to go back?” he asked.

No one said anything.

“Felix — take his weapons and his horse.”

Felix, short and stout, jumped down from his horse and lifted the revolver from Ramon’s lifeless hand. Antonio holstered his pistol and reached for his canteen, taking a sip of water.

He turned to Miguel. “How far to the next water hole?”

“A few miles.”

Felix slung Ramon’s bandolier over his shoulder and tied the reins of Ramon’s horse to his saddle horn. Then he climbed onto his horse again.

“Move out,” said Antonio.

The bandits urged their horses forward, leaving behind the body of Ramon Gonzalez bleeding onto the sand.

Juanita watched the puffs of smoke arising from the mountains. She and Lobo sat near the fire, which Lobo had just extinguished, while Stone lay several feet away, sleeping soundly. “What is the smoke saying?” she asked.

Lobo returned his eyes to the smoke signals. “Bluecoats have left Fort Kimball.”

“That is very good. I hope we see them.”

“There is much desert here. They might be many miles away. Probably we will not see them.”

“Maybe we should put up smoke of our own, to attract them.”

“Maybe we attract my people, who will kill you and John Stone, and maybe me too. That is not good idea.”

Juanita looked at Lobo’s dark features and thought of the atrocities Apaches committed against Mexicans, yet here she was alone on the desert with one of them.

“Do not be afraid of me,” he said to her. “I will not hurt you.”

“I do not trust you,” she said.

“I do not trust you either. You make much trouble. John Stone is hurt because of you.”

She didn’t reply. It was true. If it hadn’t been for her, Rodrigo would not have fought John Stone.

Lobo looked down at the ground. “I am sorry. I should not say that. It was not your fault.”

Lobo arose suddenly and walked into the chaparral. In seconds he was gone, leaving Juanita alone with Stone.

Juanita looked at Stone. He’d been sleeping soundly ever since Lobo gave him some tea to drink, made from boiled roots of a plant that Lobo had brought to the campsite.

Juanita arose and walked toward Stone, kneeling beside him. Stone lay on his back with his head on his saddle, his chest rising and falling gently as he breathed. A healthy color was returning to his face. Lobo said he’d be able to ride in the morning.

Juanita crossed herself and said a prayer to the Virgin, asking for her protection and assistance. She felt frightened and alone, and in a few hours it would be dark. Wild animals and snakes were on the desert, as well as Apaches, and she still wasn’t sure about Lobo. He was a savage, capable of anything.

If only I had never talked to this crazy gringo, she thought.

The Apache encampment was a scattering of wickiup huts on a plateau surrounded by rolling hills. The wickiups were conical, made of bear grass and other foliage, ranging from eight to fifteen feet in diameter and standing seven or eight feet tall in the center. All faced east.

The encampment couldn’t be seen from a distance, because the hills hid it from view. A stream passed nearby, and horses grazed on the plain.

Perico, the little boy, watched as the warriors gathered in front of Jacinto’s wickiup. They sat on the ground, carrying rifles or bows and arrows, and waited for Jacinto to come out of his wickiup.

Red Feather the medicine man was among them, with Eagle Claw, Black Bear, Nolga, and Tuchee. The last to arrive was Coyotero, one of Jacinto’s sons-in-law and also Perico’s stepfather, a leader among the warriors. Coyotero was short and thick across the chest, wearing a breechclout and no pants; his legs were swathed with lumpy muscle.

Perico admired Coyotero and hated him at the same time. Coyotero had stolen many horses, killed many bluecoats, and possessed three wives, whereas most warriors only had one wife. One of Coyotero’s wives was Perico’s mother, White Cloud, and Coyotero often was cruel to her. That was why Perico didn’t like him. Coyotero treated White Cloud like a slave and favored Chata, his first wife, who also tormented White Cloud.

Perico’s true hero had been his uncle, Lobo, but Lobo went to work for the bluecoats and was considered a traitor. Perico’s father, Zhunosho, had been killed by the white eyes while Perico was still a baby, and Perico didn’t remember him at all.

Perico remembered Lobo, who had played with him when he was small and gave him the knife he carried. Lobo had been a great warrior, and some thought he was even greater than Coyotero, but Lobo and Coyotero had been enemies, and one day they had a big fight. It went on for a long time and both cut each other many times, but Coyotero finally won. He could have killed Lobo, but Jacinto intervened. Soon thereafter Lobo went away to work for the bluecoats.

Perico stood beside the wickiup and watched the warriors assemble. They were the great men of the tribe, and Perico knew that someday he’d take his place among them. He wanted to be a great warrior too, but doubted that he could do it. He was afraid he wouldn’t be strong, fast, or smart enough. Coyotero never taught him anything, and he had to rely on his grandfather Jacinto for lessons, but Jacinto was chief of the tribe and too busy with his many responsibilities to give much time to Perico, who sometimes was afraid he’d never become a great warrior or even an ordinary warrior, and that would be a disgrace.

He also was afraid he wouldn’t become a good hunter, and if he weren’t a good hunter, he would starve to death. No woman would live in his wickiup if he weren’t a good hunter. Perico didn’t sleep well and often stuttered when he was nervous, which was often. He frequently fought with other boys, and felt something serious was wrong with him, that he had a terrible flaw that would ruin his life.

The warriors sat quietly in a circle in front of Jacinto’s wickiup, waiting for him to come out. In other parts of the encampment, women prepared food, made or repaired clothes, gathered firewood, cared for little children. The boys Perico’s age and older watched the warriors intently, their eyes filled with admiration.

Jacinto emerged from his tent and looked strong and healthy although he was old. His posture was regal, and he still was able to kill white eyes in battle.

He took his place in the circle and sat down, crossing his legs. He closed his eyes for a few moments, praying to Yusn, the Great Mystery, then reopened his eyes and said to the gathered warriors:

“I have heard your thoughts even as I sat in my wickiup. I know what you want to do. You want to attack the bluecoats who have come onto our land, and you want to kill them all. But I say to you: you will never kill them all. Whenever we have killed bluecoats, more bluecoats have come. There will always be more bluecoats. And they will never leave us alone, just as the coyote will never leave the deer alone, or the birds will never leave the flowers alone, or the vultures will never leave a carcass alone. Whenever there is blood, there is always more blood. I am sick of so much blood. It has never done any good. Someday we may have to fight bluecoats again, but today there is no reason. That is what I say. That is what I think.”

There was silence for a few seconds, and then most of the warriors turned to Coyotero, because they knew he wouldn’t agree with Jacinto, and would present the opposite side of the argument.

Coyotero opened his mouth to speak. “We respect the words of Jacinto,” he said. “We all know that he has the best interests of our people foremost in his mind. We also know that he has been right about many things in the past, and we respect his wisdom. But I think he is wrong. I think we should kill the bluecoats wherever we find them.” He pulled out his knife and held it point up in the air. “This is all the bluecoats understand.” He held up his rifle. “And this. It is true, as Jacinto says, that there are many bluecoats, many more than we, but that doesn’t mean we should let them pass through our country unharmed. We must fight them wherever we find them. We must kill them whenever we can. It is better to die fighting than run like dogs and hope the bluecoats will leave us alone. The bluecoats will never leave us alone. So let us not be fooled by that argument. I say we must attack and kill these bluecoats who are riding into our country, and if we die, we will die like warriors.”

Coyotero paused and looked at the faces of the warriors in the circle, then he continued. “No matter what we do, more bluecoats will keep coming into our country. If we kill these bluecoats now, or if we don’t kill them now, more bluecoats will come. This is the way it always has been and this is the way it always will be. All we can do is fight. Bluecoats must know that when they ride into our country, they are riding into their graves.”

Coyotero’s face was flushed with emotion when he finished speaking. With abrupt angry movements, he lay his rifle on the ground in front of him and jabbed his knife back into the sheath on his belt.

Jacinto spoke again: “Coyotero is a great warrior and he always wants to fight, but I am an old man and I have seen enough fighting. We have all killed many bluecoats, and are we any safer? No, we are less safe than ever. I have been pondering this for some time now, and I believe we must make peace with the bluecoats. I do not know exactly how to do this, but we must begin by stopping the killing. That is the first step.”

Coyotero snorted derisively. “What kind of solution is that? We must stop killing them, but it’s all right for them to keep killing us? That is madness. Jacinto is a great chief and a great warrior, but I think he no longer understands our situation. There can be no peace with the white eyes until they are dead or we are dead. This small group of bluecoats will not be difficult for us. I say we should wipe them out tomorrow.”

Jacinto looked around the circle, and could see that most of the warriors agreed with Coyotero. They had hot blood, like Coyotero, and wanted to kill bluecoats, regardless of the consequences.

“If this is what you want to do, I will not stop you,” Jacinto said. “Who knows — maybe you are right and I am wrong. But before you put on your war paint, you must seek the counsel of Red Feather.”

Everyone turned to Red Feather, the medicine man, who closed his eyes, turned down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head slowly, indicating that the mountain spirits had told him not to attack the bluecoats. Jacinto arose and walked back to his wickiup, bending low and going inside, pulling the flap over the entrance. Red Feather stood and walked off toward his wickiup, leaving Coyotero with the other warriors.

Coyotero tried to masquerade his resentment. Sometimes he thought Red Feather was a fraud, other times he thought the mountain spirits talked to him. “Red Feather has told us the time is not right for us to kill these bluecoats,” he said, “but that does not mean we can’t kill other white eyes. Come — let us think of what we can do.”

Coyotero got to his feet and walked toward his wickiup. The other warriors followed him, and Perico ran toward Jacinto’s wickiup, pushing aside the flap and going inside.

He saw Jacinto lying on his mat. “Are you all right, Grandfather?” he asked.

“I am tired, Perico.”

“Red Feather sided with you. That means you were right.”

“Only this time. Coyotero wants to kill white eyes, and nothing will stop him.”

Perico pulled out his knife. “I hate white eyes too, Grandfather. I want to kill them too.”

“Leave me,” Jacinto said. “I want to sleep.”

Perico sheathed his knife and retreated out of Jacinto’s wickiup, leaving Jacinto alone. Jacinto looked at the twigs and branches that comprised the roof of the wickiup. I can’t control them any longer, he thought, and soon I will be dead. What will happen to the people then?

Jacinto closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Against his eyelids, he saw the desert covered with blood.

Samantha had a few drinks of bourbon before going to bed that night. She sat alone in her living room and sipped the whiskey in the light of a coal-oil lamp, while through her open window she heard the sounds of the desert, the night birds and coyotes howling for mates, the hooting of owls, the neighing of horses in the corral.

She felt isolated in a place she hated, as though her life were over even though she was only twenty years old. In Boston she’d had many friends and much to do. There’d been parties, concerts, walks on the Common and lots of friends to talk with, an endless round of enjoyable activities, and men had always clustered around her like bees to honey.

She’d selected Joshua Lowell because he’d looked so dashing and splendid in his West Point uniform. Her girlfriends all wound up with men she considered ordinary, lawyers and doctors and accountants, but she’d have a life of adventure as the wife of an Army officer, and travel to far-off parts of the country, and see interesting things.

She’d been the center of attention when she told her friends she was going to the Arizona Territory. It all sounded so romantic and exotic. But now that she’d been in the Arizona Territory for over a year, she was going crazy.

There was nothing romantic about the desert. It was an ugly barren place and she didn’t dare explore it, even if she wanted to, for fear of being murdered by Apaches.

Santa Maria del Pueblo wasn’t much either, a dirty little town full of superstitious Mexicans who liked to fight with guns and knives. The restaurants were disgusting and the food unpalatable. Beggars were everywhere, and there was no social life.

The fort didn’t provide much either. Most of the officers’ wives were frontier women without refinement or culture.

Their primary topics of conversation were their children and the Army. They all acted as if they were grande dames, but they were country bumpkins as far as Samantha was concerned. She hated them all.

Her only companion was her husband, but he was away most of the time. He seemed to love his career more than he loved her. Maybe I should leave him, she thought, as the whiskey made her feel light-headed. Maybe I should go back to Boston and get a divorce.

A tear came to her eye and she brushed it away. If only there were somebody she could talk with. She was thousands of miles from home, in an ugly little house made of mud and straw, and felt like a rat in a trap.

She was getting sleepy; it was time to go to bed. Arising, she walked to the bedroom and washed her face and hands. Then she removed her clothes.

Naked, she stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself in the light of the coal-oil lamp. She thought she was losing her youth and beauty, becoming an old lady. Her skin was pale and her breasts were starting to sag. She was becoming gaunt, and her legs were losing their suppleness.

No wonder he doesn’t care about me anymore, she thought sadly. She dropped her nightgown over her fantastic body and blew out the coal-oil lamp, crawling into bed.

A breeze fluttered the curtains, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She’d been so happy back in Boston; maybe she should’ve married one of those businessmen who’d courted her. They weren’t as dashing as Joshua, but they could’ve given her a decent life, in contrast to the crushing boredom and isolation of Fort Kimball. Anything would be better than this.

A terrible loneliness gnawed inside her, and she rolled over, hugging her pillow tightly, but the pillow was cold and shapeless; it didn’t provide the comfort and solace she needed.

She’d heard stories of Apaches who sneaked into people’s homes and killed them while they slept. Her tears soaked into the pillow. I can’t stand this any longer. I’m too young to waste my life this way.

The cavalry patrol camped for the night in a valley next to a stream of water. Tents were pitched, guards posted, and the dinner meal of salt pork and hard tack was prepared.

The largest tent was Lieutenant Lowell’s. It had an office in front, with a portable desk and chair, plus a small sleeping area in back, with a cot. Lieutenant Lowell was the only member of the patrol who wouldn’t sleep on the ground that night.

Lieutenant Lowell sat on his chair in front of the tent, puffing his cigar, feeling at peace with himself and the world. The patrol had gone smoothly so far and there’d been no problems. They hadn’t found any trace of John Stone, but maybe tomorrow they’d pick up his trail.

Lieutenant Lowell looked up at myriads of stars scattered across the sky. The atmosphere was so clear he could see the mountains of the moon, which was full, bright, and bathed the desert in a pale glow, illuminating the tall saguaro cactuses surrounding the campsite.

He heard the sounds of a military camp in the field. Pots and pans clattered, men sang old Army songs around campfires, other men cleaned their rifles. Occasionally a sergeant barked a command.

Lieutenant Lowell wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything else in the world. He loved the Army and all it stood for, and loved to be in command.

Back at the post, he was only another low-ranking officer, but here in the field, he was the commanding officer. Everyone deferred to him. His word was law. He saw himself in the tradition of great American military commanders such as George Washington, Andrew Jackson, Winfield Scott, Ulysses S. Grant, Philip Sheridan, and even Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee, the Confederate commanders whose generalship had been so brilliant during the Civil War.

Lieutenant Lowell took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrant desert air. It was wonderful to be in command of fighting men. He wished he could win a great victory against the Apaches. Then Washington would take notice of him, and his career would be made.

He was an avid reader of newspapers, and knew many unknown low-ranking officers like himself had become famous because they’d defeated Indians in battle. It was the best way to win decorations and promotions, and maybe the only way. Since his arrival in Arizona, he’d been in a few skirmishes with Apaches, but nothing big. Somehow he had to find a sizable number of Apaches and wipe them out.

He didn’t know exactly how to accomplish that. Luck had a lot to do with it. But he was ready for the confrontation, and indeed looked forward to it. He knew all the latest theories of war, tactics, and strategies. His men had superior weaponry to the Apaches. All he needed was the opportunity to prove himself.

A figure approached out of the darkness. It was Sergeant Gerald McFeeley, who came to attention in front of Lieutenant Lowell and saluted. “The perimeter is secure, sir. I just checked it myself.”

“Have a seat, Sergeant. You may smoke if you like.”

Sergeant McFeeley sat on the folding chair beside Lieutenant Lowell and rolled a cigarette, lighting it with a match. “I been thinkin’, sir,” he said. “It appears that Cap’n Stone ain’t stickin’ to the main trails, so maybe we ought to move straightaway into the desert tomorrow. I figger he’s movin’ west, so maybe we should sweep north and south, and see if we can cut his trail.”

“Sounds like it’s worth a try, Sergeant.”

The two men smoked in silence, staring across the campsite and into the desert beyond it. Insects chirped around them. A soldier walked past Lieutenant Lowell’s tent, carrying an armload of firewood.

Lieutenant Lowell turned to Sergeant McFeeley. “It might be helpful if I knew a bit more about Captain Stone. You served with him in the war. What kind of officer was he?”

Sergeant McFeeley leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Well, he wasn’t much of a talker, and he wasn’t the friendliest officer I ever seen, but all the men liked him and I did too. He always made sure we had enough to eat, and when food was short, he fought for us to make sure we got our fair share. He never asked us to do anything he wouldn’t do himself, and when we went into a fight, he was always up front, leadin’ the way instead of hidin’ in the rear like some officers. He was the strongest man I ever seen, and he was steady under fire. Old Wade Hampton liked him a lot. They was neighbors back home in South Carolina before the war.”

Lieutenant Lowell knew who Wade Hampton was. With no military experience whatever, he’d formed the Hampton Legion at his own expense and was commissioned a colonel of cavalry. He was one of the southerners who opposed the secession, just like Robert E. Lee, but fought for the Confederacy anyway, eventually rising to the rank of major general and becoming commander of the Confederate Cavalry Corps.

“Did you know Captain Stone well?” Lieutenant Lowell

“Not that well, sir. We was never friends. But we got o: all right together. He was a good officer, and I couldn’t say more about any man.”

“You’ve served under him, so you must know something about the way his mind works. He’s out here someplace, wounded, traveling with an Apache Indian and a Mexican woman. What do you think he’ll do?”

“Exactly the opposite of what you think he’ll do, sir. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Later, sitting alone in front of his tent, Lieutenant Lowell pondered what Sergeant McFeeley had told him. Lieutenant Lowell couldn’t help feeling inferior to Captain Stone, because he knew his men didn’t respect him the way Sergeant McFeeley respected Captain Stone. Lieutenant Lowell knew that three or four years down the road, the men who were serving under him now wouldn’t praise him and call him an outstanding officer. It’d be a miracle if they even remembered who he was.

He wondered what qualities an officer had to have in order to inspire loyalty. He’d known officers who were conscientious and decent, but who were held in contempt by their men, and other officers, such as Colonel Braddock, also conscientious and decent, who were much admired by the men.

Lieutenant Lowell wanted to be a great officer and be loved by his men, but didn’t know how to go about it. He suspected it would all come together if he could win a great victory against the Apaches. The men respected fighting skill — that much was clear to him. Lieutenant Lowell hoped he’d be steady under fire and a brave fighter when the time came to charge, and he hoped that time would be soon.

If only I could find Jacinto’s camp, he thought.

Chapter Three