Chapter 9
At five minutes after seven that evening, as the day shaded into night and a cool, desert wind gusted the rising moon, Trooper Louis Ruxton, age twenty-seven, birthplace Cork, Ireland, was condemned to death by firing squad for the crimes of inciting mutiny, insubordination and the attempted escape from lawful military custody.
Sergeant Miles Hooper, age thirty-eight, birthplace Birmingham, England, was found guilty in absentia and sentenced to death.
At seven-forty-five, without benefit of the last rites, there being no Catholic chaplain present at the post, Trooper Ruxton was shot to death by firing squad, the coup de grace administered by Major Hanson.
Small mercies had been extended to the condemned. The firing squad was chosen from the Twenty-third Infantry, and not from among Ruxton’s own comrades, and Colonel Devore ordered the condemned to be given as much brandy as he could drink.
That Ruxton puked all over himself as he was being taken to the place of execution became a topic of discussion among the post’s enlisted men. A few said it was due to cowardice, but most agreed that a surfeit of brandy had been his undoing.
Stryker watched the proceedings impassively. There were many deaths. Trooper Ruxton had merely been one of them.
“I don’t particularly like you, Lieutenant,” Joe Hogg said, laying his glass on the rough pine counter of the Bull’s Head saloon, a sod and canvas building a hundred yards from the fort. As was his habit, the scout looked Stryker in the eye. “You hate too much, and that could get us all killed.”
“Liking or not liking doesn’t come into it, Joe. Damn it, man, I need you to scout for me.”
“The scouts have been called in. We’re ordered to report to Fort Bowie with the cavalry tomorrow.”
“I know—Colonel Devore told me. He said I could talk to you. I have to bring in a chief by the name of Yanisin and his people. Long John Wills says there’s about twenty-five bucks of fighting age in the village.”
“I hear you’ve got a company of the Twenty-third.”
“Yes, if thirty-four men and a second lieutenant fresh out of the Point can be called a company.”
Hogg picked up his glass. “Drink up; it’s my call.” Stryker downed the raw whiskey in a gulp, then built a cigarette as the bartender poured for them.
“Did you ever hear of ol’ Yanisin afore today?”
Stryker shook his head. “Can’t say as I did.”
“He’s a tame Apache, maybe the only one. When you get to the rancheria, Lieutenant, he’ll be there with the women, children and the old folks. But his young men will be long gone, jined up with Nana an’ them.”
“My orders are to return Yanisin and his people to Fort Bowie. If the bucks are not there, I’ll hunt them down.”
Hogg shook his head. “Not with thirty-four infantry you won’t. Them twenty-five Apaches have you outnumbered, Lieutenant.”
Stryker tried his whiskey and liked its harsh taste. “Then scout for me, Joe. Hell, you’re worth an extra ten soldiers.”
“Is that all?” Suddenly Hogg seemed distracted. “I thought I was worth a heap more’n that.” He was looking over Stryker’s shoulder, his eyes wary and puzzled. “Feller over yonder making noise,” he said.
Stryker turned and met the belligerent stare of a tall, exceptionally thin man dressed in a stained black frock coat, checkered pants and a battered top hat.
“What the hell you looking at, soldier boy?” the man asked, smearing each word with insolence. “I don’t like being looked at by the damned freak who murdered my friend Lou Ruxton tonight, as fine a man as ever lived.”
The man had the look of the frontier gambler/ gunman and some primitive instinct warned Stryker that he was best left alone. Beside him sat a younger man in dusty range clothes, but the gun on his hip was clean enough and his grin held a challenge.
But, despite himself, Stryker’s anger flared. He stiffened, his hand dropping to his holstered Colt.
“Lieutenant, let it be,” Hogg whispered.
The tall man heard. “That’s right, pappy—let it be,” he said. “For now at least. Jake Allen is in a killing mood tonight.”
There were a dozen men in the room, and a hard-eyed saloon whore, in a shabby yellow dress, her cheeks and lips the same shade of crimson, her eyelids bright green. She grabbed a bottle from the bar and walked toward Allen’s table. “Have a drink, Jake,” she said, smiling. “This one’s on me.”
“Get away from me, you tramp,” Allen said. “I’m hungry, and you wanna know what I like when I’m hungry? A dead man for supper, served up blue.”
He glared around the bar, his eyebrows lowered. “All right, somebody speak up. Who wants to die tonight, or do I have to pick a volunteer?”
No one in the room made a sound, including three tense young cavalry troopers sitting at a table with a bottle of rotgut. All three were unarmed.
“You, Allen or whatever the hell you call yourself, sit down and behave or I’ll place you under arrest,” Stryker snapped.
Allen grinned, showing a few, blackened teeth. He looked elated, the unholy joy of a man whose finger had just found a trigger. “Is that so?” he said. He swept back the skirts of his frockcoat with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish, revealing a fancy two-gun rig. “Then why don’t you arrest me, ugly soldier boy?”
Behind him, the younger man had also gotten to his feet. His eyes had an eager, reckless light, the acolyte prepared to sweep up the master’s leavings.
Stryker knew it had come down to it, but he’d never faced a draw fighter before and his flapped and buttoned holster gave him pause. How many bullets could Allen get into him before he unlimbered his artillery? Could he take the hits standing and return fire?
As it happened, he had no need to answer those questions, because Joe Hogg stepped into it.
“Jake Allen, do you know me?” he asked.
Allen sneered. “Why the hell should I know you, grandpa?”
“Because I know you. You’re Jake Allen, out of Waco, Texas, the famous back-shooter and woman killer.”
Allen had wanted to kill before, but now he was in a homicidal rage. “Damn your eyes, give your name,” he snarled. “Let me hear it before you die.”
“Why, it’s Joe Hogg, as ever was.”
Allen didn’t move an inch, but everybody in the saloon saw him mentally back up a step. “I have no quarrel with you,” he said. His cheeks were suddenly chalk white. “My gripe is with the soldier boy.”
The young man had quietly resumed his seat. Suddenly he wanted no part of what Joe Hogg had to offer.
“Lieutenant Stryker is my friend, Jake. If you have a gripe with him, you got one with me.” He smiled. “You’re wearing double irons, Jake, let’s see how fast you shuck ’em and get to your work.”
Allen swallowed hard. Eating crow never comes easy, but he had to force this down. “No harm done, Joe. I was somewhat in depressed spirits this evening, is all. Now, if you’ll give me the road, I’ll be on my way.”
The scout made a bow and a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Just make it a long way, Jake.”
Allen hesitated. “Hell, man, the Apaches are out.”
Hogg smiled. “I know.”
Allen, aware that every eye in the saloon was on him and of the triumphant smile on the carmine lips of the whore, knew he had it to do. He could walk out with his tail between his legs or trust to his gun.
How many men had Joe Hogg killed? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to remember. All that mattered was that a man who had plans to go on living didn’t draw down on him.
Stryker gave him an out.
“Get on your horse and ride, Allen,” he said. “If you are not off the post in ten minutes I’ll toss you in the guardhouse and throw away the key.”
