The Peacemaker (2 page)

She hoped the captain was more informed than she. She also hoped he was well trained in the event there was an attack. Acting with speed, or celerity as her father always phrased it, was the key to a success in any battle—no matter who the enemy. Being well informed ranked a close second. After several minutes of entertaining her own thoughts, which were succeeding only in making her more nervous, she decided to broach the subject of her father. Perhaps she could glean some insight into how he would receive her, though she was fairly certain she already knew the answer.

"Tell me, Captain. My father—is he well?" "Yes, ma'am. The colonel is fit as a fiddle." Indy laughed lightly. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone use that phrase to describe Father." A flash of humor lit the  captain's  face. It changed his entire countenance and made her take a second, harder look. She liked what she saw. He was younger than she had first thought when he introduced himself at San Simon. In his late thirties, she guessed. It was the tint of his skin and the tiny sun lines radiating from his eyes that had given her the impression of an older man—the indelible marks of a cavalry officer.

The captain's clean-shaven face was pleasing, though far from handsome—a sincere and kindly face—a face that inspired trust. He had a high wide forehead and his brows rode low over deep-set eyes that were an unusual light blue. A ghostly gray layer of dust covered his well-fitted dark blue fatigue blouse and stole the shine from his boots. Beneath his hat, his hair appeared to be a rusty brown. Both his manner and dress were militarily correct, and he exuded competence, but displayed none of the self-important airs she had seen among her father's friends.

"Will you be staying at Bowie long?" he asked, giving her his full attention.

"Until my father is reassigned, I expect. He's convinced, as I am, that someone in the War Department made a mistake sending him to the frontier, when his expertise is in civil engineering. He appealed to President Grant as soon as he got his orders, but there wasn't time to hear back before he had to report to his new post." Indy paused a moment to bolster her courage before broaching the question that would give her the answer she sought. "Captain, I hope you won't think me presumptuous, but I was wondering— would you happen to know—was Father
terribly
upset when he received word of my arrival?" No sense pretending that she thought her father would welcome her with open arms.

The captain raised one brow and looked away. Out of the side of his mouth he said, "He was . . . surprised."

Indy rolled her eyes. That wasn't the answer she had been looking for. "Please, Captain Nolan, it would help me considerably if I knew just how upset he is so I can prepare myself."

His expression turned grave. "Well, then, Miss Taylor, I suggest you prepare for the worst."

"Oh," she breathed and looked down at her gloved hands. "It's possible I may have underestimated his objections. He did, after all, give strict orders that I was to stay in St. Louis and maintain the house." She lifted her gaze. "Father doesn't like being disobeyed." The captain nodded as if he understood, but of course he didn't really, and she wasn't about to enlighten him. "I hope he doesn't send me back. It's not a trip I would relish making again so—" She broke off, her eyes widening in alarm when the captain took his Spencer carbine in hand. "What is it? What's wrong?" She swung her head left, then right, trying to see what had prompted the action. But there was nothing to see. A second later she realized he had merely been changing his position. Her face colored with embarrassment.

"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to startle you."

She struggled to regain her composure. "I'm afraid I owe my anxiety to one of the stage passengers," she lied, drawing on the incident as she had seen it affect the whiskey drummer. For some reason she couldn't bring herself to admit
her
fear of an attack. "The poor fellow hadn't slept in three days and was convinced that we would be attacked by the Apaches," she continued. "Eventually he became so hysterical that he had to be restrained. He's staying on a day or two at San Simon to rest."

"Things like that happen more often than you'd think. It's a difficult journey, especially now with Cochise, Juh, and Chie leading their braves in all-out warfare, but I'm certain you knew that, what with the colonel being sent here specifically to deal with the Indian situation."

Finally, he was admitting that there was a
situation!
"Yes," she said pointedly. "I'm aware that there have been problems. I don't envy you having to go back for the man."

Nolan looked up. "Begging your pardon, Miss Taylor, but we won't be going back. The colonel has called a halt to civilian escorts until we can get things under control. The gentleman will have to find his own transportation."

"Halted the escorts? But—you came for me."

"No, ma'am, not exactly." Clearly embarrassed, he adjusted the brim of his hat. "Officially we came to pick up the mail. The stage line has refused to deliver it as long as the attacks continue."

"Oh ... I see . . ." There was a catch in her voice and she felt the threat of tears. But for the mail, she would have been forced to find her own transportation just like the poor whiskey drummer. Staring down at the thin canvas mail pouch near her feet, she tried not to reveal her dismay. After a moment, she queried, "Is it customary to send an ambulance after so little mail?"

"No, ma'am, but I told the colonel that I had reason to believe the stage might also be bringing the
Harper's Weeklys
and newspapers we ordered. They're a month overdue and the men are anxious over what's happening in the East with the President and his Indian policies." He inclined his head and grinned.

Indy perceived the small conspiracy and smiled gratefully.

The ambulance rattled along, rocking and swaying like a storm-tossed ship. Jagged-topped mountains ringed the valley floor, one range feeding to another, the crevices and folds purpling as the sun slowly sank into the western sky.

Looking for a more comfortable position, Indy moved to the front of the wagon where she could lean into a solid corner. The ill-smelling Concord stagecoach with its lumpy leather seat cushions, had been luxurious compared to this.

It was nearing dusk by the time they reached Siphon Canyon, a broad, sandy wash, leading into the mouth of Apache Pass. For the past hour the captain had talked continuously about Camp Bowie and the men who garrisoned it. His description of Army life had been so entertaining that she had all but forgotten her fear until Sergeant Moseley rode up next to the ambulance.

"I've ordered the men to flank you through the pass, sir."

"Very well, Sergeant. Let me know if you see any signs of trouble."

"If we see any signs of them, Captain, it'll be too late to do anything about it." The sergeant touched the brim of his cap in salute, then fell back into position with the other troopers.

Indy
had
to ask, "Are you expecting an attack, Captain?"

If the captain was surprised by her question, he didn't show it. "I'm always expecting an attack, especially there." He pointed to where the mountains came close together. "Apache Pass."

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Captain. I read that the pass
used
to be dangerous for travelers and freighters, but I was under the impression that Bowie had been built to protect the route and that, indeed, it had done just that."

"You've got your facts right, Miss Taylor. Once Bowie was garrisoned back in '62, the trouble stopped, but recently—" He floundered before her questioning look. "There's been some incidents," he finished in a low voice.

His hesitancy was disturbing. She wondered what he was trying so hard
not
to say and cautioned herself to leave it alone; it was none of her business. Or was it? A disturbing suspicion crept into her thoughts and she threw caution aside. "How recently, Captain?"

He stiffened, obviously uncomfortable with the question.

"Right around the first of June."

Indy thought back. "That's about the time my father took command, isn't it?" She watched him struggle for a reply and knew that her father had something to do with the reason the pass was no longer safe.

"Yes, I—" He broke off, turning his attention to Sergeant Moseley who had suddenly reappeared alongside the ambulance.

"We've got company, sir." Moseley inclined his head toward a high ledge overlooking the pass.

Nolan grabbed his carbine and swung around, his gaze lifting and searching the mountainside.

Indy followed his gaze. A half-naked Apache warrior sat astride his horse, looking down upon them. A second later another appeared, then another, as if from out of nowhere, reining their war ponies side by side until there were more than a dozen of them.

"I've never seen them sit out in the open like that before," said Nolan, his tone was touched with surprise. "They usually don't show themselves like that." To Moseley, he said, "Keep the men close to the ambulance, Sergeant.  Order them not to shoot until we know their intentions." As soon as the sergeant dropped back to relay the message, Nolan untied his horse and let him go.

Indy crossed her arms and hugged herself.
Dear, God. Please don't let them attack.
 Fearful images of the savage atrocities described in the reports came back to her now in vivid detail— images she had chosen to disregard, thinking that nothing like that could happen to her.

"Can you use a revolver?" asked Nolan, his voice jolting her from her thoughts. He was kneeling in front of her, a worried expression deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. Indy nodded, even though her mind rejected the question. "Here, take this." He took the revolver from its holster and put it in her hand. "You've got six shots. You need to make every one of them count. Don't shoot until I do and don't shoot unless you're sure you can't miss. And, Miss Taylor," he paused, pinning her with a hard look, "I don't know how this is going to turn out, but save the last shot for yourself, just in case. You don't want to be taken captive. Understand?"

Oh, yes, she thought, she understood all too well. This was one time when she wished she didn't.  "Y-yes," she stammered. "I understand." His expression told her he was doubtful that she would be able to defend herself. "Please, don't concern yourself about me, Captain. I know how to use a revolver." Her brother, Justice, had indeed taught her to shoot, and she had become fairly competent, but she had never shot at a human being before, only bottles and painted targets.

Seeming convinced, the captain moved up front to converse with the driver. The man acknowledged Nolan's orders with a nod, then shot a stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth.

All at once, the warriors raised their rifles high over their heads. Shots exploded and they whooped and shouted like demons.

"Go!" Nolan shouted to the driver.

The whip popped and the driver called out a string of profanities sharp enough to slash through the mules' thick hides. Sand and pebbles, kicked up by the team's sudden burst of speed, flew back and stung Indy's face.

She turned her gaze back to the rear of the wagon and saw the Apaches' horses break from their orderly position and come scrambling down the side of the mountain. They had the agility of a mountain goat and the speed of a cougar. Paralyzing terror stole her breath. No one had to tell her what their intentions were, and neither did she have to be a mathematician to know that the detachment was badly outnumbered.

"Get down on the floor," Nolan ordered, shouting. "And take off that hat. It's too good a target."

Indy slid off the seat onto the floor, curling her legs beneath her and unpinned her hat. The wagon's paneled sides rose up two feet from the floor, not much protection, but better than nothing.

An arrow whistled over the top of her head and embedded itself into one of her carpetbags. She stared dumbly at its quivering feathered tail, realizing that but for the captain's command, she might now be dead.

"Yo, you mules. Get on out there." Again and again the driver cracked his whip.

Peeking over the side panel, Indy saw that the Apaches had reached the road and were now bearing down upon the detachment. Their war whoops mingled with the staccato bursts of rifle fire, the shouts of the six troopers, the driver's curses, and the wagon's rattling.

Twisting half around in their saddles the troopers fired their carbines at their attackers. Beside her, Captain Nolan shot straight out the back of the ambulance, then ducked down behind the drop gate to reload.

Indy cried out when the trooper riding directly behind the wagon flew off his horse. Without thinking, she clenched the revolver in both hands, raised it over the edge of the drop gate, aimed, and fired. Her shot went wild, missing the crouching warrior by a cannon length. She tried again, this time taking care with her aim.
Squeeze the trigger gently. Don't pull it!
The long-ago lesson came back to her, detail by detail. She nudged the trigger back another fraction of an inch and the shot exploded. The spine-tingling recoil threw her back against the mail pouch.

"Good shootin'. You got him, ma'am," said Nolan, offering his arm to help her up.

Regaining her position, Indy searched for the warrior and saw that both he and his horse had fallen. She gasped at the enormity of what she had done. Somehow it didn't matter that the Indian would have killed her had he been given the opportunity. He was a human being, and in spite of being a career soldier's daughter, raised in a home where the subject of war accompanied every meal, it went against her grain to deliberately take a human life. Even an Apache's, who, according to her father and everybody else, was something less than a human being.

Mortified, she lowered the revolver and prayed that God would forgive her yet again, if indeed He had forgiven her the first time, seven years ago, when she had killed her mother and brother.

Above the din of pounding hooves, rattling wheels, and savage war cries came the driver's bellow of pain. He stood up, frantically trying to reach his hands around his back to pull out the arrow that had lodged near the center of his spine.