Authors: Georgina Gentry
Colt (23 page)
“What could be worse?” The captain wiped his sweating face.
“You don't want to know,” Colt said and moved a little, trying to make his muscles stop aching.
“What do you suggest? That we wait and let them pick us off at dawn?”
“Sir, you got us into this. What would the West Point rule book say?”
“That's insubordination, Lieutenant. I'll have you court-martialed for that!”
“Captain, if we get out of this alive, I'll be glad to face a court-martial. Anyway I'm due to reenlist or get out next week, so it looks like I'm not gonna have to make that choice.”
“Send a man to the fort for help,” the captain said.
“Is that an order, sir?” Colt asked.
“Yes.”
“Then let me try it. Rascal is a mustang and he's got a better chance, and I know the trails. I might make it.”
“No.” The captain's voice shook. “If something happens to you, I've got this on my own, and I'm not sure IâI know what to do.” He hesitated.
In the background, the Indians sang and the drums echoed. “Sergeant!” the captain yelled. “Sergeant Mulvaney!”
“No, don't make him do it,” Colt argued. “He's near retirement.”
Mulvaney crawled over to them. “Sir?”
“Sergeant,” the captain whispered, “do you think you could sneak out of here and ride to the fort for reinforcements?”
The old soldier hesitated. “Sir, I reckon I could if anyone can.”
“Let me do it,” Colt protested.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but no.” The old Irishman shook his head, “Lieutenant, if something happens to the captain, you'll be the only officer left. The men will be leaderless.”
That was true, Colt thought, and the men had no confidence in the green West Pointer.
The captain said, “Sergeant, ride to the fort and get us some help.”
“Yes, sir.” The old man saluted.
Colt frowned. “Mulvaney, at least take my horse. Rascal will have a better chance of gettin' through than these fancy grain-fed show horses.”
“I'll do that, sir.”
“Wait 'til you're sure no one's watchin' you,” Colt cautioned. “There's bound to be sentries posted to keep us from escapin'.”
The sergeant grinned. “I been in Texas a long time, sir. I can smell a Comanche a mile away.”
“Don't try to fight your way out,” Colt warned. “Just ride like the devil is on your tail.”
“I can do that, sir.”
Colt hesitated. “You know what's at stake here, and you know what your chances are.”
“None too good, I reckon.” The old man winked at him, and then Colt grabbed his arm and shook his hand. “Good luck, Sarge.”
“Thank you, sir. I've already prayed to the Blessed Mother. I know I need a miracle.” Mulvaney crossed himself, then crept away into the darkness.
Colt swallowed the lump in his throat. “Captain, you've just sent one of my best men on a suicide mission.”
“I didn't know what else to do. Isn't he the man you'd recommend?”
“I would have been glad to try it myself,” Colt said.
“I need you here.”
Colt said a silent prayer for the old man and mentally cursed green officers. The night grew silent again, and a breeze picked up, carrying the sound of the drums and the chanting. Somewhere in the arroyo, a wounded soldier moaned softly.
“Poor devil.” Colt took his canteen and crawled through the brush to where the man lay. The full moon lit up his tortured features. Hey there, soldier, how are you doin'?”
The man tried to smile. “Fine, sir. But I've seen better days.”
“Ain't we all?” Colt joked. “Here, I've got some water.”
The man shook his head. “There's others need it worse than me, sir.”
“This is an extra canteen,” Colt lied, although it was his own. “You don't need to feel guilty about drinkin' some.”
The man drank gratefully and Colt licked his own cracked lips. God, what he wouldn't give for a cold, fresh spring to dive in right now. He imagined swimming naked in it, splashing and diving and drinking gallons of it.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Jones, you think you can ride if we get a chance to get out of here?”
“I'll do my damnedest, sir.” the man promised.
“No one can ask more than that, soldier.” He looked at the man's wounds. His side was blood-soaked. The chances of him riding were nonexistent.
“Hang in there, soldier. Remember, we're Texans.”
“Yes, sir.” The man managed a weak grin.
Colt crawled on to the next wounded man. He could see the dirty bandage in the moonlight. “Soldier?”
No answer.
“Soldier, it's Lieutenant Prescott. How are you doin'?”
No answer.
Colt crawled up to him. The man looked peacefully asleep. Colt reached out and touched his face. Stone cold.
Colt gritted his teeth. Here was a soldier who had died in the line of duty without complaint, without whining. By midmorning tomorrow, they all might be in the same condition. He crawled back to the captain.
“What's going on?” the captain asked.
“One wounded man still alive, the other dead.”
The captain sighed. “Somehow this isn't the way I imagined it at West Point.”
Colt felt sudden pity for him. “Fightin' Comanches isn't like fightin' any other enemy. They will die bravely and they expect you to do the same.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Never mind. Just save the last bullet in your Colt for yourself.”
“Good Lord, are you joking?”
“I wish I was.”
The captain's blue eyes were wide in the moonlight. “You suppose the sergeant's got a chance?”
“I don't know. He's smart enough to wait until the moon goes behind a drift of clouds, but still, Comanches have eyes like hawks. My mustang will outrun most Indian ponies because Rascal is better fed, and Mulvaney has the advantage of surprise. All we can do is wait.”
Minutes dragged by and Colt leaned back against the rocks, thinking this was going to be the longest night ever. The incessant drumming and chanting kept up until it was pounding in his head. It would drive any man insane. He wondered again if the sergeant had managed to get away and go for help. As if by answer; in the distance, he heard shots echoing and reechoing.
The captain looked at him. “You think that's the sergeant?”
Colt nodded. “I just hope he outrode them.”
“When will we know?”
“That's a stupid question,” Colt snapped. “Towards morning, if reinforcements come chargin' in, he made it.”
“Otherwise?”
Colt didn't want to think about it. “Otherwise, he didn't.”
The wind picked up and changed direction, blowing toward the Indian camp now. It made the sound of the drumming fainter, which was as big a relief as the cool breeze. Colt looked up and down the arroyo at his men. They were sprawled behind rocks, rifles at the ready. Some appeared to be dozing. They might as well sleep, Colt thought. Unless Sergeant Mulvaney made it back to the fort, they'd all be picked off one at a time when the sun rose.
After a few minutes, he heard a new sound, a high-pitched shriek that sounded like an animal in mortal pain.
The captain sat up. “What the hellâ?”
Colt's heart sank as he heard the scream again and again. “They got Sarge. He didn't make it after all.”
Chapter 15
“Oh, good Lord!” The captain's hands shook as he held his rifle. “Are they killing him?”
Colt swore. “I wish they were. They'll keep him alive as long as possible, knowing it will spook the rest of us to hear his screams.”
Sergeant Mulvaney shrieked again and the sound drifted on the air over the drumming.
In the dark shadows of the arroyo, Colt saw the men stirring uneasily. He crawled out from behind the boulder and went to the first bunch of men. “It's okay, soldiers. There's nothin' we can do about it.”
“Oh, God, Lieutenant, is that gonna happen to us?”
Colt shook his head with more confidence than he felt. “We'll figure out something.”
He crawled down the crooked canyon, stopping to pat each man on the shoulder. “Buck up, fellas. We're the crack Second Cav, we'll get through this all right.”
Mulvaney still shrieked in agony as Colt turned and crawled back to the captain, who was vomiting. “I can't stand it! I can't stand to hear that man scream!”
“Shut up, man! If you get hysterical, what do you think the men will do?” Colt was furious with the captain. After all, he was the one who had sent Sarge out on this impossible mission, but there was no point in mentioning that. The captain was falling apart and Colt needed him now.
Sarge screamed again and Colt swore long and loud. “He doesn't deserve to die like this. I've got to do something.” He checked his rifle.
“Whatâwhat are you going to do?” The captain sobbed in terror.
“I'm gonna do what I have to do.” Colt's voice was grim. “Sarge and I have been friends since we served together in Mexico. I'm gonna crawl up there and put him out of his misery.”
“You can't do that! Shoot one of our men? You can't do that!”
Sarge cried out again.
Colt winced and swore under his breath, looked at the blubbering captain. “Then you do something.”
“IâI don't know what to do,” the other officer confessed. “They didn't cover this at West Point.”
Colt grabbed his rifle and crawled up toward the lip of the arroyo. “Sarge would do it for me.”
He heard a sound and glanced back to see the captain crawling after him, protesting. “I didn't give you an order. This is mutiny, Lieutenant. I'll have you busted for this.”
“Bust me and be damned!” Colt swore and kept crawling.
“Don't leave me here, I don't know what to do,” the captain sobbed behind him.
“Shut your goddamned mouth!” Colt hissed, “before some warrior hears you.” He began to crawl again through the rocks toward the jagged rim of the arroyo. It occurred to him there might be tarantulas, scorpions, and big diamondback rattlers among these rocks, but he'd have to take that chance.
Behind him, the captain made enough noise crawling to make Colt uneasy. Only Sarge's shrieks drowned out every possible sound.
Colt crawled carefully, the rifle in his left hand making progress slow. Now he was up over the rim of the arroyo and there didn't look to be enough vegetation to hide a lizard. He lay on his belly a long moment, getting his bearings. Ahead of him were three big boulders and in the distance, he saw the faint glow of the Comanche campfire. Behind any one of those giant rocks might be a Comanche warrior. He'd have to take that chance. As he put his hand gingerly atop a stone and pulled himself forward, he thought again about rattlesnakes and poisonous insects.
Maybe worse than dying from Comanche torture was the thought of dying slowly by snake bite, the venom making your arm swell and turn black while your pulse pounded like a drum in your head and your arm split open and you writhed in agony. He'd seen a man stung by a scorpion once who was in such pain, he tried to cut off his own hand before anyone could stop him.
Colt's mouth felt so dry, he was unable to swallow. Okay, so there was a chance he was going to crawl right into a snake or deadly spider and get bit. In a few minutes, he'd be so feverish, he wouldn't know the difference, maybe.
Stop it, Prescott
, he scolded himself.
None of that can happen to you
â
you can't leave this patrol leaderless.
Stop it, Prescott
, he scolded himself.
None of that can happen to you
â
you can't leave this patrol leaderless.
Sarge screamed again and the sound drifted on the hot night air.
Behind him, he could hear the captain crawling and he made as much noise as a horse rolling in the dust. The captain commanded in a hoarse whisper, “Lieutenant, come back here! Come back here, that's an order.”
“I've suddenly gone deaf from the gunfire,” Colt flung over his shoulder. “Now if you're goin' with me, Captain, you'd better shut your mouth. These warriors have ears that can pick up a sigh, much less shoutin'.”
The captain quieted immediately to a soft moan. “Please, I don't want to go out there.”
“You think I do? Goddamn it, then stay here and show your men you're as big a coward as they think you are.” Colt kept crawling forward. Now he reached the three boulders and tensed, listening for the slightest sound of a moccasin crackling on dry brush or the soft gritty sound of sand.
Nothing. Nothing but the rising wind, Sarge's screams, and the drumming and chanting. Most of the sentries must have gone to camp to enjoy the torture of the captured prisoner. If what he planned wasn't a success, they'd have two more soldiers to torture soon.
The captain crawled up beside him and took a deep breath. “I guess if you're going, I need to come with you.”
Colt grinned back at him. “You've suddenly got more guts than I gave you credit for, Captain.”
“I guess I'm crazy or too scared to care anymore or maybe I figure if there's anyone in this patrol who's got a chance of getting out alive, it'll be you.”
“I wouldn't count on that,” Colt said. “If they get us, the torture will be twice as bad because you're a big chief and I used to be one of them. One of their main leaders, Spider, is dead because of me.”
“Oh hell, now you tell me.”
“Watch those clouds.” Colt pointed upward. “When they scud across in front of the moon so it gets darker, I'm gonna start crawlin' through the buffalo grass toward their camp. With any luck, I can get a ways before the moon comes out again.”
“And then what?” The other man's voice shook.
“I'm not sure.” Colt shrugged. “They might spot us, but I figure they're too interested in their captive.”
“I had a chance at a desk job in Washington, but no, I wanted to win some medals.” The captain moaned.
“It's a little late for regrets. By the way, Captain, look out for rattlesnakes and scorpions.”
“What? Sonovabitch, why do you mention that now?” He scrambled like he intended to jump up.
Colt grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him down hard. “Goddamn it! Stay down. You'll get us both killed. Now watch the moon.” Colt signaled for silence as the few clouds drifted across the face of the moon, throwing the flat landscape into darkness. “Get up and move!” he commanded, and the two of them scurried in a low squat across the landscape and into a bunch of claret cup cacti. Their blooms were as scarlet as fresh blood. Very appropriate, Colt thought.
The captain whimpered and cursed, and Colt beckoned him to silence. “Damn it, you're a liability to me, you crybaby! Shut up. If the Injuns get you, they'll make a little cactus seem like a bed of roses.”
Ahead of Colt, he saw a distant campfire and warriors silhouetted against the flames as they drummed and danced.
Sarge screamed again and Colt cursed under his breath. The captain crept up close to him. “If you fire a shot, won't that alert the Indians and they'll come after us?”
“Of course.”
“Damn it, man, you're putting both of us in danger!”
Colt took a deep, shuddering breath to keep from slugging the other man as hard as he could. “Captain, go back to the arroyo, if you're yellow. This is something I've got to do for a friend.”
The captain, lying on his belly, looked behind him. “It's a long way back to the arroyo.”
“Well, goddamn it, make up your mind! I'm movin' ahead. Sir, you do what you want to.”
The captain looked uncertain in the moonlight. Then the moon slid behind clouds again and Colt began to crawl forward.
“Wait, don't leave me here alone!”
Colt kept crawling. To be honest, he didn't think he had much of a chance of making it back to the arroyo after his mercy mission, but that didn't matter. He had to bring peace to Sarge. The Comanche could keep a prisoner alive for days before he got the mercy of death. He didn't intend that should be the old Irishman's fate. Colt kept crawling, the captain at his heels, and then the moon came out again and he stopped behind the body of a dead white horse. God, it stunk.
He lay there catching his breath and thinking. Maybe if the soldiers in the arroyo could hold out long enough, it might occur to the major that they'd run into trouble and he'd send out reinforcements. However by the time the major decided that, the trapped men would probably already be dead. Come dawn, the warriors would be shooting down into the arroyo again, picking off the soldiers one at a time.
Colt cursed the captain again for getting them into this mess. He didn't give a damn if the captain put him up for court-martial; Colt didn't expect to live to see the fort again.
The captain lay close to him. He was so scared Colt could smell his sweat and his voice quavered. “Howâhow close do you intend to get?”
“Close enough to get a clean shot,” Colt said and started crawling across the dead horse.
When he looked back, the captain was retching and Colt sighed, wondering why it had been his luck to be saddled with this green officer?
“Stay here!” he ordered. “You're a burden to me.”
He left the captain cowering behind the dead horse and crawled forward through sticker burrs and sparse buffalo grass. He could smell the smoke from the big campfire now and see the outline of warriors dancing around the flames and the drummers over on the side. There was a picket line of horses and Rascal was tied there. If he could reach his horse, Rascal, he might have a chance of escaping, but that would mean deserting the soldiers who depended on him.
Oh, God. He saw Sergeant Mulvaney tied down out on the sand, his hands and feet staked out. Mulvaney screamed again, and Colt closed his eyes, sickened at the sight of what the Comanches were doing to the brave old soldier. For a moment, he almost retched, and then he scolded himself, knowing he had to stay strong. If he didn't do something to help Sarge, the old man could last for days in terrible agony.
And yet, if he were captured, they would do the same to Colt or even worse since he had once been one of them. He was tempted to turn and crawl back to the relative safety of the arroyo because he knew that the minute he fired his rifle, the warriors would be after him. Plus he had the burden of the green captain to look after.
Colt crawled closer, feeling every sticker and pebble underneath him as he moved. The Comanche were all intent on torturing their prisoner, so no one seemed to be looking his way. Could he force himself to do this? He brought his rifle up and aimed and his hands began to shake. He cursed himself under his breath. “You chicken-livered bastard, this is no time to get weak. You owe this last favor to Sarge.”
He aimed his rifle, took a deep breath, and tried to say a prayer, but it had been a long time since Colt had been in church. It was terrible for the old man to die without a priest or any friends comforting him, but this was what he would want. It was difficult to get a clear shot with the warriors dancing around the fire. He watched the soldier writhing in pain as he aimed and said a final prayer for his faithful sergeant, blinked back tears, and asked God to steady his shaking hand.
“I only hope you'd do this for me if the tables were turned, old buddy,” he whispered, and then he fired.
It was a direct shot and the writhing man stopped moving, at peace at last. The warriors abruptly ceased dancing, puzzled at what had happened. Then they seemed to realize their victim was dead and they began to shout and look around, trying to figure out from where the shot had come. However, Colt was already on his feet and running back toward the arroyo. He could hear the outraged Indians behind him setting up a cry and pursuit. They had been done out of their pleasure and they would have their revenge.
Colt dived across the dead horse and almost landed on the cowering captain. “Let's get the hell out!” he shouted, grabbed the other by the sleeve, and, half dragging him, started back toward the safety of the canyon.
The Comanche were now in hot pursuit, shouting and shrieking as they grabbed up rifles and spears, chasing the two through the moonlit night. Colt could hear them as he and the captain ran, stumbling over rocks and cactus.
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