Apache Rampage (8 page)

There was excited chatter among the watchers. Waco was abusing Mark in no uncertain manner for making him miss a good fight while the Kid stood grinning. The soldiers and Big Em were clearly delighted, although at any other time they would have been all for the Army men in a fight with civilians. The Stockade guards were in a different class and did not count as Army in the eyes of the soldiers. Only one person was not in that excited, wildly gesticulating, talking group.

Phyllis stood back from the others, her face sober and thoughtful. She knew there must be some trickery and secret skill in the way Dusty handled Bogran, but there was nothing of that nature in how Mark took the corporal. Phyllis knew more than a little about fist-fighting, male as well as female. She knew that the average pugilist was simply a wild swinger who won only if he could hit harder and take more punishment than his opponent. It was the same with the girl fighters she’d met. They copied the men. Yet she’d heard rumours of a new fighting style which was supplanting the old toe-to-toe method. This way of Mark’s must be the new style, and with it he could take any pugilist she’d ever seen.

Her eyes went to Big Em, noting the size of the woman and the big, muscle-packed arms. Phyllis was no fool. She knew the fighting game well. Big Em, under the old style of fighting, had everything in her favour; youth, strength, size and reach. Phyllis knew that her own extra knowledge and experience could hardly offset all the disadvantages. Her only hope was to have a talk with Mark Counter and learn all she could from him before the fight.

Dusty turned his attention to business again, looking at Magoon who was beaming enough to set the grass on fire. ‘Release the prisoners, Sergeant.’

For once in his life Paddy Magoon hesitated before obeying an order given to him by Dusty Fog. He knew one of the prisoners and could guess at the kind the other two were. He was willing to allow Bronson to go free, for Magoon did not regard the southerner as a prisoner, but not the others. He stood for an instant, without moving to obey, then said:

‘Reckon we should, Cap’n?’ He indicated the big, sullen-looking man who’d been riding next to Bronson. ‘Harris there’s in for life, killed a sergeant in a drunken brawl. I don’t know about the other two, but with the shortage of recruits, they don’t get sent to the Stockade if there’s any chance of them making something.’

Dusty did not reply to Magoon. He looked the men over then spoke, ‘I’m releasing you now and when we ride tonight you’ll each be given a carbine and twenty bullets. If we’re attacked while we’re here you’ll be armed, if not you’ll get the carbine just before we pull out. See to it, Sergeant Magoon. Take the carbines from your three best pistol shots. I’ll attend to Bronson myself. The three men will ride with your detail, where the Stockade non-coms. can keep an eye on them.’ He looked back at the men. ‘You’d best all know this. The Apaches are up, out in force. The whole country’s swarming with them, and you won’t get a mile if you run. If the Apaches don’t get you, my men will. At the end of the trouble you will be handed over to Sergeant Bogran again.’

‘Big deal,’ growled Harris sullenly, his eyes dropping to the revolver on the ground.

‘It’s the only deal you rate in your present position, soldier,’ snapped Dusty. ‘And a better one than you’d get with Bogran. But if you want it that way I’ll let him and his men take you on to the Stockade right now.’

‘We’ll ride with you,’ grunted Harris. He was under no doubt as to what his chances would be with Bogran. If they ran into Apache trouble and things became in any way dangerous, Bogran would not hesitate. He would leave the prisoners as bait to slow down the Apaches and make good his escape. This way, by staying with Dusty Fog’s party, there was a chance of escaping either on the trail in the darkness, or after the fighting was over.

‘Then you ride under my terms,’ replied Dusty and turned to Magoon. ‘Release these men, Sergeant. Keep them under escort all the time, except for Chet Bronson. I want to talk with him. And Sergeant,’ Dusty saw the gleam in Harris’s eyes. ‘See you collect the Stockade noncoms’ weapons. They might give somebody ideas.’

For a moment Harris’s face darkened in anger, then a smile came to it. He did not know who this small, soft-talking Texan was; knew nothing except that he acted and talked like a tough officer who knew what he was doing; but he was no man’s fool. Harris stood while his handcuffs were removed. He watched Corporal Tolitski collecting Bogran and the unconscious corporal’s sidearms and shrugged. That revolver which Tolitski picked up had formed part of Harris’s escape plan. Now it was out of his reach.

Bronson walked with Dusty to where the Texans’ saddles lay. Dusty bent and drew his carbine from the boot, passing it to the dark man. Then opening his saddle pouch, Dusty removed a box of bullets for the gun and gave them to Bronson.

‘Sorry I don’t have a spare handgun along, Chet,’ said Dusty. ‘The carbine’s the best I can do for you. It’s full loaded. How come you’re in with this bunch?’

‘I’m going to the Stockade—for thirty years.’

Dusty looked hard at the soldier. Mark was by his side now and stared at Bronson, hardly able to believe his ears. Bronson was a soldier and a good one, the two knew his reputation both in the war and since. He was a natural, a born leader of men and could have risen to officer status, but he would not accept the bars in the Union Army. It did not seem possible he could commit so serious a military offence as to warrant that punishment.

‘How’d it come about?’ Mark asked, for he was an old friend, a comrade in arms. He could ask a personal question such as this without offending Bronson.

‘Called it striking an officer in the face of the enemy.’

‘He must have pushed you hard before you’d do that,’ Dusty observed.

‘Could say that, although the court-martial didn’t,’ replied Bronson. There was just a touch of bitterness in his voice. ‘I was riding scout for the troop that hit Ramon’s camp. There was a shave-tail lieutenant in command, fresh out from the Point and a real Indian-hater. Our patrol was headed across the reservation. There were rumours that Lobo Colorado and his bunch had held meetings with other tribes, and the colonel wanted to know about it. The lieutenant sent me out on a point and took the patrol on. I heard shooting and headed for it, right into Ramon’s village. I tell you, that boy went kill crazy. He was off his hoss and lining his gun on an old squaw’s head, just going to shoot her. I hit him to stop him and got the troop out. Back at the fort he had me arrested, tossed in the guard-house and charged me with striking him. He made out I took him wrong and laid the blame for the whole thing on me. The troop were all recruits. They didn’t know sic ‘em about what was happening, so the court-martial was forced to take things at their face value. I reckon they didn’t believe his story, but they had to stand by the brass. I’d have been shot otherwise.’ He looked down at the carbine in his hands. ‘Thirty years in the Stockade. I’d rather been shot.’

Dusty nodded towards the other three prisoners. ‘How about them?’

‘Taller and Morgan are snow-birds who got caught,’ Bronson replied. A snow-bird was a man who enlisted in the Army when winter was coming on and deserted in the spring. ‘Harris, well he’s the sort you get. A real good fighting man and a good soldier in action, but no good when there is none. He was on a small post and killed his trooper sergeant in a drunken fight. I don’t know the full story of it, but I knew the sergeant, and I don’t reckon Harris was all to blame. You watch him, Dusty, and Bogran won’t get to Baptist’s Hollow alive. Bogran’s been riding Harris all the time, telling what’s going to happen to him at the Stockade, trying to make him run. You’d have done better to leave us tied.’

‘Us?’ Dusty repeated gently.

‘Me and Harris at least. Give us half a chance and we’ll both be gone.’

‘No, you won’t, Chet,’ answered Dusty. ‘You’re a soldier, a good one. You’ve seen Apaches on the rampage before now and know what they can do. You know what this rising means to the folks in Arizona territory, it’ll end this part of the world for another twenty years. You’ll stick by us.’

Molly walked up to them. ‘How about bringing your friend to the fire, Dusty?’ she asked. ‘We’ve coffee on the boil, and he looks like he could drink some.’

Bronson followed Dusty to the medicine show fire. The carbine hung heavily in his hands, the box of bullets bulging his pocket. His regular mount stood near at hand, a big, powerful horse which won plenty of money in the fort races. Once on the horse he would stand a better than fair chance of escape, even matched with the Ysabel Kid’s white stallion.

Then Bronson looked at Molly, at her sisters sitting at the fire, then back at Dusty Fog. He cursed himself for a stupid fool. This was no time to be thinking of others. For all that, he knew he would. He could imagine the girls when the Apaches got through with them. Like Dusty said, he’d seen Apache work on men, women and children. He could not leave these girls to face such a death. Bronson tried to tell himself this was his sole reason for staying on, but he knew he was lying to himself. He was too much a soldier to desert his duty.

Dusty introduced Bronson to the girls, noticing the way the soldier held Molly’s hand just a shade longer than was necessary. At other times he would have regarded this as a normal thing, a man showing a keen eye for a pretty girl. Under the prevailing circumstances it was no use. The girls accepted Bronson. They’d seen him come into the camp with the other prisoners, but that meant nothing to them. If he was all right with Dusty Fog, the girls were willing to accept him.

Across the open space Bogran was sitting up, moaning and holding his head. He forced himself on to his feet and staggered to Big Em’s wagon and pulled the dipper from the water-keg on the side. He soaked his head in the water, then swung around, hand clawing at his empty holster.

‘I’ve got it, Bogran!’

Bogran turned to meet Paddy Magoon’s mocking eyes. He took the revolver held out to him, and his hate-filled eyes turned to where Dusty Fog was standing talking to Bronson. His hand shook as he held the revolver, for Bogran was in a rage almost beyond controlling. ‘I’ll kill that short-growed bitch,’ he snarled.

‘You just now tried,’ scoffed Magoon. ‘He bested you with his bare hands and no trouble to it. You go against him with a gun and he’ll not even bother to kill you. He’ll just smash both the knees of you, he’s that fast.’

‘Who is he, Magoon?’ snarled Bogran. ‘Is he Army?’

‘Do you think I’d touch me hat to any man who wasn’t the best damned fighting officer alive?’ Magoon demanded. He never regarded Dusty as a civilian. ‘You talk soft, easy and real polite around him, Bogran. He’s a kind and gentle man unless he’s roused—and you haven’t seen him roused yet.’

Bogran watched Magoon walk away and started to say something, then shut his mouth. Magoon was no man to give respect because of rank, only where such respect was well merited. This small man must be someone of importance. It was something for Bogran to think about. There was a fast growing group of officers who were trying to stamp out the brutalities of the Stockades. This might be one of that group, and Bogran knew his actions were wide open to question. If the small man was of the group trying to end Bogran’s way of running the Stockade, he’d seen too much right here. Bogran slouched to his conscious corporal and squatted down with him, snarling a curse to the man’s inquiry after his health. Bogran had reached a decision. Somehow, some time, real soon, that small man must die.

Soon after, while the girls prepared a meal, Dusty called his three friends, Magoon, Thornett, Big Em and Bogran to him. Bogran came sullenly and squatted down to listen to what was said. For all his hatred of Dusty, the Stockade sergeant had to admit there was little in detail he missed. Duties were allocated so that everyone of them knew what to do and what the others would be doing. There was only one interruption. It came when Dusty was telling of the Kid, Waco and Bronson as scouts.

‘Bronson’s a prisoner,’ growled Bogran.

‘And he’s the best scout we’ve got,’ replied Dusty. ‘Unless you’d like to take the point, Sergeant.’

Bogran’s angry growl could have meant anything, but he did not offer to take the risky duty of riding on ahead as scout. With the objection dealt with, Dusty went on making his arrangements.

‘Doc’s wagon’ll be a mite crowded, so you’ll have to take the injured Stockade corporal on your wagon box, Miss Em. Sit him between you and Phyl.’

Yo!’ Big Em gave the cavalry reply, even though she did wish to have any part of helping a Stockade guard.

‘Sergeant Magoon,’ said Dusty, a thought coming to him. ‘Pick out a good man. I’m sending a message to the fort to tell them what we’re doing. Take the best man you’ve got, other than Corporal Tolitski. I need him here.’

‘I’ll send Crayhill, he’s rode despatch before now and knows the country,’ answered Magoon and called a tall man with long tawny hair, side whiskers and huge moustache.

Dusty told the man what he wanted done, then got a pencil and paper from Thornett and settled down to compose a letter to the commanding officer of Fort Owen.

Fifteen minutes later, after a meal, Crayhill was riding out, headed overland for the fort. The rest settled down to wait until it was time to move out, all relaxing except for the alert and watchful pickets.

Phyllis got her chance to have a talk with Mark. The result was partly satisfying to her even though there was no chance of doing more than talk at the moment. She found herself helping hitch the team to Big Em’s wagon before she could more than talk with Mark. With that done she went to her daughters and warned them about how they should act on the following day. On her way back she came face to face with Corporal Tolitski, an old friend from other Army camps. They’d not managed to find time to speak with each other before this and she smiled.

‘How’d you lose it this time, Ranko?’ she asked, indicating the mark where a third stripe had been stitched.

‘Celebrating,’ Tolitski replied with a grin. Losing and gaining his third stripe was no novelty to him. ‘You mind that big Osage squaw of Ring Goodwin?’

‘Sure,’ agreed Phyllis. ‘You matched me against her and lost two month’s pay betting her to win.’

‘I did,’ Tolitski answered. ‘Well, she took on Big Em toe-to-toe.’

‘Who won?’

‘Big Em. Took her easy in fifteen rounds.’

Phyllis gulped down something which suddenly seemed to block her throat. Tolitski was called away at that moment, and Phyllis was more than worried when she went to Big Em’s wagon. In her fight with Ring Goodwin’s Osage squaw she’d taken twenty hard fought rounds to win and considered herself very lucky to have done so at all. If Em won easily in fifteen rounds Phyllis was in bad trouble.

Now more than ever, Phyllis knew she must learn Mark’s system of fighting.