Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 11

Stryker saw a startled Apache rise up from the pile of boulders. He snapped off a shot. Missed. The Indian fired and Stryker felt the bullet burn across his canvas suspender where it crossed his shoulder. A rifle crashed from the rise and the Apache looked even more startled as a blood red rose appeared on the chest of his white shirt. He went down hard.

The cabin was closer now.

Bullets from all sides of the basin stung the air around Stryker. He thumbed off a fast shot at the Apache by the corral post. Another miss. Behind him Hogg was firing steadily but didn’t seem to be scoring hits either.

The Apache stepped away from the corral and threw his Winchester to his shoulder. He and Stryker fired at the same time. The Indian’s bullet crashed into the bay and Stryker cartwheeled from the saddle, landing hard on his back in a cloud of dust.

A man who is thrown by a galloping horse doesn’t get up in a hurry. Stryker lay stunned as bullets kicked up startled exclamation points of sand around him. Finally he raised himself into a sitting position. Feet pounded to his right, coming fast. The Apache, grimacing in rage, had grabbed his rifle and was readying himself to swing a killing blow at the white officer’s head.

A shot.

The Apache went down, screaming, half of his skull blown away. Stryker turned his reeling head and saw a woman standing at the cabin door, a smoking Sharps still to her shoulder. Gun in hand, he struggled to his feet and staggered toward the sanctuary of the open door. It seemed like it was an eternity away.

He almost made it.

Just as the woman stepped inside, pushing open the door for him, a bullet thudded into Stryker’s right side, just above his cartridge belt. He felt like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer and slammed hard against the door jamb. Another bullet thudded into the rough pine of the door, driving splinters into his face.

Then he was through, stumbling into the darkness of the cabin on rubber legs.

A few splintered impressions quickly hurled themselves at Stryker. A woman slamming the wooden bolt shut behind him . . . a wide-eyed child cowering in a corner . . . empty shell casings scattered around the dirt floor . . . the woman’s frightened face, showing him the Sharps, telling him she’d used her last bullet, the one she’d been saving for her daughter . . . blood, his own blood, dripping down his legs . . .

A heavy body threw itself against the door. Stryker raised his Colt and fired twice through the timber. He heard a yelp of pain. Then the roar of volleyed rifle fire slammed across the basin. More shots, this time a ragged salvo, soldiers firing at will.

A few minutes passed, then, “Lieutenant Stryker!” It was Joe Hogg’s voice, calling from outside. Stryker opened the door and stepped into daylight. Hogg was standing in front of the cabin, the Henry cradled in his arms. Behind him Birchwood’s soldiers were checking the bodies of the dead Apaches.

“We killed two of them,” the scout said. “And you winged another. The rest skedaddled when the troops arrived.”

Stryker nodded, but said nothing.

Birchwood led his horse to the cabin. “Heard the firing, sir,” he said. “Figured it had to be you.”

“You did well, Lieutenant,” Stryker said. He felt very weak and had trouble standing on his feet without swaying. He grimaced back a wave of pain. “I’ll mention . . . mention that in my report.”

Suddenly he was aware of the woman standing beside him. She glared at Hogg and Birchwood. “Can’t you two see that this man is hurt?” she snapped. “Help me get him inside.”

Hogg was shocked. “Did you take a bullet, Lieutenant?”

The woman answered for Stryker. “Yes, he took a bullet. Now are you going to help or not?”

Birchwood and the scout sprang to help. Stryker was a big man, and they half dragged, half carried him inside.

“Lay him down on the bed, over there,” the woman said.

A brass bed was pushed against the far wall of the cabin, its patchwork quilt adding the only splash of color to the drab room.

“I’m fine,” Stryker protested as he was pushed on his back and the woman lifted his dusty, booted feet onto the bed, ignoring the damage it might cause to her quilt. “I will proceed to the Apache village on Big Bend Creek as I was ordered.”

Hogg clucked his tongue, his face troubled, looking at the spreading scarlet stain on Stryker’s side. “Lieutenant, you ain’t going anywhere for a spell. If you ain’t gut-shot, then you’ve come mighty close.”

The woman pushed the scout aside and began to unbutton Stryker’s shirt. She slipped the suspenders off his shoulders and gently pulled the shirt over his head.

Stryker struggled to a sitting position and looked at the wound. It was ugly and red, raw meat around the edges of the bullet hole.

“How bad is it?” Stryker asked, seeking some reassurance that the injury wasn’t as bad as he feared.

The woman met his eyes but said nothing.

Hogg was not so reticent. “It’s bad, Lieutenant. As bad as I’ve seen, ’cept on a dead man.”

“The bullet is still inside him,” the woman said. “It’s got to come out.”

“Not if it’s in his gut,” Hogg said.

“Or close to the spine,” Birchwood added.

Stryker let out a roar of exasperation. “Damn it, I’m still here, you know! And I can hear every word.” He looked at Hogg. “Joe, see if you can find the damned bullet.”

“Leave it, I’ll examine him,” the woman said, pushing Hogg aside again.

Stryker noticed two things about his nurse. The first was the gentleness of her hands, the second, much more obvious, was the livid white scar that cut across her tanned cheek from her left ear to the corner of her mouth. The cut that caused it had been deep, meant to inflict the maximum damage.

Stryker looked at the scar and wondered. Who had done that to her?

An Apache maybe, but that seemed unlikely. A jealous lover? The woman was homely, made plainer by hard work and the hot desert sun, not the sort likely to attract such men. Her husband, if she had one?

Stryker had no answers and he did not speculate any further as she rolled him over on his belly.

After some gentle probing, the woman turned to Hogg. “The bullet is there,” she said, pointing to a spot just under the ribs on Stryker’s left side. “I can feel it.”

“Let me take a look-see,” the scout said.

Hogg’s hands were no less gentle than the woman’s. “I feel it,” he said finally. “It has to be cut out of there.”

“Can you do it?” the woman asked.

“I can do it,” the scout said. “It’s a mite deeper than I’d like, but I can do it. I’ve cut worse out of folks and critters alike, an’ most of them lived.”

Stryker felt panic rise in him. “Joe, can’t the bullet sit there? Just bind me up real good and let it stay until we get back to Fort Merit.”

Hogg nodded. “It can stay, Lieutenant, but then it will spread its poison and kill you quicker’n scat. You’ll never reach Fort Merit.”

Stryker let his head thud onto the pillow. “Then cut away, and be damned to you, Joe Hogg.”

“Ma’am, I do not mean to imply in any way that ardent spirits hold any attraction for you,” Hogg said, “but do you have whiskey in the house?”

The woman smiled. She looked strained, exhausted, the horrors of the Apache attack finally catching up with her. “We always have whiskey in this house,” she said. “I’ll bring the jug.”

Hogg accepted the jug, pulled the cork and drank deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered it to Birchwood, who declined.

After he’d helped Stryker into a sitting poison, he said, “Drink as much as you can, Lieutenant. That there busthead will dull the pain if it don’t kill you first.”

Stryker was irritated, piqued. “Seems to me the one with the bullet in him should have drank first.”

Hogg shook his head. “No, first the surgeon, and then the second lieutenant, and then the patient. That’s how it’s done in medical circles.” He smiled at Stryker like a benign uncle. “Now drink up—there’s a good officer.”

Stryker did as he was told; then Hogg said, “More.”

“Damn it, Joe, this stuff is awful.”

“So is havin’ a bullet cut out of your back, Lieutenant. More.”

For the next few minutes Stryker drank deeper and longer. When he lowered the jug, his head spun and the people in the room suddenly began to shift shape, as though they were walking out of a heat shimmer.

“Damn, but that’s good whiskey,” Stryker said, holding the jug at arm’s length. His uncertain gaze fell on the woman, who had just lit a lantern and brought it closer to the bed. “Will you join me, ma’am?” He looked at Hogg. “What was it you called this, Joe?”

“Busthead.”

Stryker nodded. “Damn right. That’s what you called it. Will you join me, ma’am, and partake of some gen . . . geninin . . . genurine Arizona Territory busthead?”

“I’d love to, Lieutenant.”

After he handed her the jug, the woman took a swig. “Thank you,” she said. “I needed that.”

“A pleasure, ma’am, a great pleasure.” Stryker’s broken face took on a surprised look. “I don’t know your name, ma’am.”

“It’s Mary. My last name is McCabe.”

“And mine is Steve. My last name is Stryker. I come from a long . . . oh, a long, long line of Strykers.” He tried to focus on the woman. “Wait, I used to know a song about a woman called Mary. We sang it at the Point sometimes.” He held up a hand in horror. “Oh, but I can’t sing that, ma’am. Not in this polite company. See, it’s about Dirty Mary who worked in a dairy and . . .”

“You’re ready, Lieutenant,” Hogg said.

“Another drink, Joe.” Stryker took a pull on the jug. “Joe,” he said, gasping from the raw fire of the whiskey, “you are a very intelligent man. You know all about busthead.” He tapped the side of his flattened nose with a forefinger. “Only—only very intelligent men know what you know.” He hiccupped. “About—about generinuine busthead, I mean.”

Stryker held the jug to his chest, and gazed at Hogg like an owl. “Joe, I never—” he gulped a breath—“no, I didn’t, I never, ever, asked you about Trooper Kramer’s frog. Did you cure his asam-asth—”

“Hell, no,” the scout said. “He took to liking the frog so much, he decided to keep it as a pet. Fed it mashed biscuit and flies and the damned thing never did die.”

“So he still has his—”

“Gaspin’ worse than ever,” Hogg said. “Now roll over, Lieutenant.”

Stryker saluted. “Yes, sir.”

He rolled over—and immediately started to snore.

“Get the jug, ma’am,” Hogg said.

He took a folding knife from his pocket, then said, “Pour the whiskey over the blade, ma’am.” He saw the confused look on the woman’s face and smiled. “I saw the young post doctor at Fort Bowie do that one time. I don’t know why, but he must have had a good reason.”

“When did you last use the knife, Mr. Hogg?”

“To gut an antelope, ma’am, a six-month ago.”

“Maybe that’s the reason.”

“Could be, ma’am. But there’s just no accounting for why Army doctors do things.” He waved the woman closer. “Bring the lamp over here. I’m about to start the cuttin’.”

Lieutenant Birchwood made his excuses and left, the opening and closing of the door allowing a blast of desert heat and dust inside.

“It’s deep,” Hogg said. His fingers and the knife were red with blood. Stryker groaned in restless sleep, the wound on his back like a scarlet, open mouth.

Sweat dripped from the scout’s forehead and he cursed under his breath. “Damn it to hell, but it’s deep. I’m cuttin’ too much, ma’am. Way too much.”

The woman called Mary’s voice was level. “The bullet has to come out, Mr. Hogg.”

“Get a rag, ma’am. Wipe away the blood so I can see what I’m doing.”

Mary used a cloth to swab the blood from the wound, then held it for Hogg. “Wipe your hands and the knife.”

The scout did as she said, and then his eyes met hers, his face a worried mask of orange light and shadow in the flickering glow of the oil lamp. “I could be killing him.”

“Get the bullet, Mr. Hogg. If you don’t, he’ll die anyway.”

Outside, Lieutenant Birchwood was yelling orders to his men, his voice distant and muffled. Stryker was breathing heavily, in short, tortured gasps. A random desert breeze rattled the shutters over the cabin windows and from the corner, a child’s voice pleaded softly, “Ma . . . ma . . .”

“In a minute, Kelly,” Mary said. “Just a little minute.” The woman said to Hogg. “She’s very afraid of men.”

The scout was concentrating on his knife, his mouth set in a hard, tense line. “Bad for a little ‘un to be that way, ma’am.”

“Her father terrified her.”

Hogg nodded. “I reckon that would do it, ma’am.” His slippery knife skidded, scraped on bone. He let loose with a string of hair-raising curses, then muttered, “Sorry about that, ma’am.”

“Air out your lungs if you feel the need, Mr.

Hogg.”

“You’re most gracious, ma’am.”

A minute passed, then another. . . . Hogg’s knife dug deeper. . . .

“Damn it to hell’s fire, I got it!” the scout yelled. “The son of a bitch is a .44-40 ball, unless I’m much mistaken.”

Mary leaned over the bed. “How is he?” “Sleeping. Or just unconscious.” Hogg looked into the woman’s eyes again. “He’ll need care.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Hogg.”

The door swung open and Birchwood stuck his head inside. “I heard you yell that you’d recovered the bullet, Mr. Hogg. Now could you come outside at your earliest convenience and look at something?”

“What is it?”

“I was hoping you could tell me, Mr. Hogg.”

The scout wiped his bloody hands on the cloth. “Be right there, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, and ma’am,” Birchwood said, “I have some questions for you.”

He did not sound friendly.