“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.
Chapter 12
Lieutenant Steve Stryker woke to lamplight and a pounding headache.
He tried to sit up in the bed, but he was defeated by pains in his side and back that were living entities, clawing at him, warning that they would give him no rest.
He laid his head back on the pillow and a groan escaped his lips.
Suddenly Mary McCabe was at his side. She placed a small, cool hand on his forehead. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”
Stryker groaned again. “What did Joe Hogg hit me with? A rifle butt?”
Mary smiled. “No, just a jug of genuine Arizona busthead. Then he cut the bullet out of your back.”
“Good. If Hogg’s whiskey doesn’t kill me, I can ride tomorrow.”
Mary let that slide. “Hungry?”
“You know, I could eat something, hardtack and salt pork maybe.”
Mary stepped to the stove where a fire burned. She returned with a bowl and a spoon. “Beef broth,” she said. “It will give you strength.”
Stryker tried to take the bowl, but the woman moved it away. “You can’t feed yourself. Let me do it.”
Rather than argue, which in any case he did not have the energy to do, Stryker opened his mouth submissively and let the woman feed him. The soup was good, rich and hot, and Stryker ate the bowl empty and was wishful for more.
From outside drifted snatches of talk from the soldiers, and the scrape and clatter of tin forks. “Lieutenant Birchwood camped here,” he said. “That makes sense. We’ll move out at first light tomorrow.” He looked at the woman. “You and your daughter will have to come with us, ma’am. The savages will be back.”
“It’s Mary McCabe.”
“Yes, I vaguely remember. Then Mary McCabe it is.”
The door opened and Hogg stepped inside, letting in the night that loomed dark and vast behind him. He smiled. “Still alive, I see, Lieutenant.”
“No thanks to your whiskey.”
“Numbed the pain though, huh?”
“That’s what happens when busthead makes a man’s heart stop.”
“He has no fever, Mr. Hogg, and his wounds are clean,” Mary said.
The scout turned to the woman. He seemed very big and shaggy in the lamp-shadowed gloom of the cabin. “Don’t pay no heed to Lieutenant Birchwood, ma’am. Right now he’s a mighty worried young man.”
“I told him the truth, Mr. Hogg. My husband didn’t tell me what he was doing and I never asked.”
“But you saw the wagons.”
“Yes, I did. I was ordered to stay in the house, but I could see from the window. There were six or seven men with the wagons, including an Apache. One of the men was called Williams, another, who seemed to be in charge, went by the name of Rake, or maybe it was Jake, I can’t remember.”
Despite his pain, Stryker struggled erect in the bed, his face intent. “Ma’am, Mrs. McCabe, was the boss’s
