Stryker's Revenge

Chapter 18

There was something wrong. . . . Seriously wrong . . .

Stryker again scanned Fort Merit with his field glasses. The adobes and jacals were deserted, but, given the threat of an Apache attack, that was to be expected. But there was no sign of life at the saloons or the hog ranch and the army buildings also seemed empty, a couple of barracks doors hanging open, moving back and forth in the wind.

No flag flew above the parade ground and one of the brass cannons was tipped over on its side.

“Damn it,” Stryker whispered to himself, “where is everybody?”

He handed the glasses to Hogg. “Joe, what do you make of this?”

As Stryker had done, the scout studied the post for a couple of minutes, the glasses ranging all over the terrain and the mountains beyond.

Finally he lowered the glasses, his face troubled.

“Looks like they left in an almighty hurry, Lieutenant.”

“I don’t see any sign of an Apache attack.”

“Or Apaches either,” Birchwood said, his own field glasses hanging on his chest.

“Mr. Hogg, let’s ride ahead and take a look,” Stryker said. “Lieutenant, if the coast is clear I’ll wave you on, and you may bring in the company and Mrs. McCabe. If I don’t show after thirty minutes, hightail it for Fort Bowie.”

“Yes, sir.”

Under a high, hot sun, Stryker and Hogg rode through the deserted jacals, and everywhere there were signs of a hurried departure. The tents of the infantry company had been struck and were nowhere in sight. Even the dogs that roamed around the post were gone.

Then they found their first dead man. The Mexican was sprawled outside the door to his adobe, facedown in the sand. A few silver coins were spilling out of his outstretched right hand and in his left he held an ornate crucifix. Blue flies buzzed around the bullet wounds in his back.

Sitting against the wall of a neighboring jacal was another body, this time one of Major Hanson’s infantrymen. The man had died in the act of raising a canteen to his mouth and his eyes were still wide-open, staring intently into nothingness. There was a neat bullet hole between his eyes.

Hogg got off his horse and kneeled beside the dead soldier. After a while he looked up at Stryker. “Both his legs are broke, Lieutenant.”

“What do you make of it, Joe?”

The scout shook his head. “I don’t know. It could be the work of Apaches, but I don’t see any pony or moccasin tracks. Plenty of sign left by boots, though.”

“How long ago?”

“Not long. Early this morning, maybe.”

“Pierce?”

Hogg shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll check headquarters. Maybe Major Hanson left us a note.”

Stryker waited until Hogg mounted, and then they rode slowly toward the parade ground. The scout had his rifle across the saddle horn, carried himself high in the saddle, and looked ready for anything.

It wasn’t long in coming.

A shot rang out from the direction of the post hospital. A pause, then another.

Stryker pulled his Colt and kneed his horse into a fast canter. Beside him Hogg broke a little to the left, putting some fighting space between him and the lieutenant. The scout reached the hospital building first and leaped from his horse. Stryker watched him dash inside, then vanish from sight.

Hurting, Stryker swung stiffly out of the saddle. He turned and saw Birchwood and his men running across the parade ground toward him, rifles at the slant. His boots clumping on the hard-baked earth, Stryker stepped into the hospital—and almost tripped over a dead man.

Jake Allen lay on his back, shot twice in the belly at so close a range the skin around the wounds was blackened. He was unbuttoned and his pants and drawers had fallen down around his ankles. A combination of surprise and pain had already stiffened on his face and his eyes still held the horror he’d felt at the timing and manner of his dying.

Hogg and Birchwood stepped into the hospital at the same time. The young lieutenant saluted and said defensively, “Sir, your orders said nothing about gunshots, so I took it on my own initiative to come immediately to your aid.”

Stryker smiled. “You did the right thing, Lieutenant.”

Now he looked questioningly at Hogg and the scout said, “Something you should come look at.”

All three men stepped out the rear door of the hospital. Beyond lay a hundred yards of sand, rock and cactus that gave way gradually to a low, mesquite and juniper-covered bluff. Behind the rise soared the vast bulk of a mountain peak, its upper slopes green with pine.

Hogg got down on one knee, and motioned to Stryker. “Take a look at that, Lieutenant.”

Stryker bent and saw what the scout was showing him. It was a track, small, narrow, made by a woman’s shoe.

“More of them heading toward the bluff,” Hogg said. “I scouted over that way a piece, but didn’t see hide nor hair of anybody. It’s like the gal who left this track just vanished into thin air.”

“Joe, who the hell is she?”

The scout shrugged. “White woman, slim, young enough to hightail it fast. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Lieutenant Birchwood, take some men and search the bluff. Find that woman, whoever the hell she is,” Stryker said.

After the young officer left, he and Hogg walked back into the hospital building. The scout looked at the body. “Somebody sure saved me a bullet.” His eyes ranged over the man’s naked groin, and he smiled. “Ol’ Jake sure is stiff, ain’t he?”

Stryker nodded. “Before he rode two bullets into hell, he had the woman here.” He shook his head. “What was Jake Allen doing at Fort Merit alone?”

“Maybe he wasn’t alone, Lieutenant, at least not at first. For some reason he stayed behind.”

“The woman?”

“As good a reason as any.”

“It might help explain why he died, but it doesn’t explain the deaths of the soldier and the Mexican.”

“They’re all tied together somehow, Lieutenant, and only the woman can tell us how.”

“We’ll find her,” Stryker said. “Now it’s time to take a look at the commanding officer’s office.”

Unlike the jacals and adobes around the post, the office showed no sign of a hurried departure. Everything was in its place and even the half-dozen sharpened pencils on the desk lay in a neat, soldierly row. A fresh sheet of paper was in the desk blotter and the coffeepot, empty and clean, sat on the stove.

Major Hanson had left no note.

“And why should he?” Stryker said to Hogg. “He figured we were heading for Fort Bowie with Yanisin and his people.”

The scout nodded. “It looks like somebody higher up had a lick of sense and knowed Hanson couldn’t hold Fort Merit with a company of infantry. I reckon he was ordered to pull out with the cavalry.”

“But why leave a soldier behind?”

Hogg shrugged. “A deserter maybe, or a straggler from the half company you sent to reinforce the garrison?”

There was no answer to those questions and Stryker let them go. He glanced around him, not liking the echoing, ominous silence of the office, and stepped to the window. A couple of soldiers were pushing the brass cannon back on its wheels and a few more, their rifles at the ready, were checking out the saloons and general store.

After a while Stryker said, without turning, “We’ll cross Apache Pass and head for Fort Bowie. I don’t want the Apaches to catch us here.”

This time he turned, smiling. “Joe, Mrs. McCabe and Kelly are walking across the parade ground beside the wounded soldier’s travois.”

“Will you excuse me, Lieutenant?” Hogg asked.

“Of course.”

Stryker watched as Hogg and Mary embraced; then the scout put his arm around the woman’s waist, took Kelly’s hand and walked toward the post’s married quarters. He felt a sudden twinge of envy that he instantly regretted. It was true that no one was ever glad at his coming or sad at his leaving, but that did not give him the right to be envious of the happiness of others.

Stryker turned away from the window, and built a cigarette. He was lighting it when, to his surprise, Hogg stepped quickly inside. The man seemed agitated.

“Lieutenant, you can forget Fort Bowie, on account of how we’re not going anywhere,” he said. “There’s talking smoke all around us.”

Stryker didn’t hesitate. “Call Lieutenant Birchwood and his men down from the bluff. I’m going to round up the others.” He looked at the scout. “Hell, this is bad, Joe.”

“About as bad as it gets,” Hogg answered.