Finally he said, “No, Captain. All the signs showed the Apaches heading north and I suspected they planned an attack on Fort Merit. I sent half of my infantry company ahead, and later we reached the post by a forced march. Unfortunately, we were in turn besieged by the Indians.”
“And you decided to march here.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I decided.”
The captain was silent for a while; then his flitting eyes moved to Stryker’s face, quickly sliding away as though they’d been burned. “All things considered, Lieutenant, you could have done better. But you can explain your actions to General Crook.”
“You weren’t there, Captain. Neither was he.”
Anger flushed in the officer’s sallow face. “Don’t be impertinent, sir!” Before Stryker had a chance to answer, he said, “Dismount. Have yourself a drink, then come look at this.”
Stryker swung out of the saddle, accepted a canteen from a soldier and drank deep. He then followed the captain to a low rise just east of the spring. The officer pointed. “Your Apaches passed that way not an hour ago, headed into the Chiricahuas. I sent a message to the fort to report the movement and I have no doubt General Crook will pursue the hostiles immediately.”
“Did you engage them, Captain?”
“My orders are to guard the spring, not to engage the enemy.”
“Still, you could have slowed the Apaches and given the general some time to mount an attack.”
“I repeat, those were not my orders.”
Stryker nodded. “Maybe, but all things considered, Captain, you could have done better. But you can explain your actions to General Crook.”
The officer looked like he’d been slapped, his cheekbones rouged with rage. “Damn you, sir, you are impertinent. Report immediately to the general and know that I plan to inform him of your insubordination. I will direct the others when they get here.”
Stryker saluted smartly, turned on his heel and swung into the saddle. As he rode toward the fort he felt the captain’s eyes burn into his back. He had just made an enemy.
Chapter 25
“Lieutenant Stryker?”
General Crook’s startled question hovered in the air like a wounded moth.
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus Christ, man, I hardly knew ye. What happened to your face?”
“A shackle iron, sir.”
“Explain.”
Stryker did and Crook fell silent afterward. Crook did not look like a soldier, in his shabby canvas jacket and battered pith helmet. His beard split at the chin into two forks that hung on his chest; he could have been a slightly deranged poet, not a famous Indian fighter.
“And the girl you were to marry, that Colonel What’s-his-name’s daughter?”
Stryker touched his face, but said nothing.
“I see. Better off without her in that case.”
He waved a hand. “Sit down, Lieutenant, and make your report. Be brief; I don’t have much time.”
Going into a little more detail than he had with the captain, but using as few words as possible, Stryker told of his failed mission to bring in Yanisin’s tribe and his fights with the Apaches.
He then mentioned the former sergeant and murderer Rake Pierce and his gun-running and scalp-hunting businesses.
“I believe by now he’s back in the Chiricahuas somewhere,” Stryker said.
Crook nodded. “Interesting. And a pity about Yanisin. He’s about as tame as an Apache can get.” He sat back in his wicker chair and stroked his beard, thinking. Finally he said, “Lieutenant, I feel there is little to criticize in your actions. You did as well as can be expected with the limited force at your disposal. You will give me your report in writing, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
A tap-tap on the office door. “Enter!” Crook yelled.
Colonel Mike Devore stepped inside and Stryker sprang to his feet. The colonel stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Lieutenant, and all in one piece.”
Stryker took the man’s hand and smiled. “I was carrying Apache lead for a while, sir. But I’m on the mend.”
“You’ll have to tell me about—”
“Yes, yes, Colonel, I’m sure Lieutenant Stryker will later. Is your regiment ready to leave?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then keep in close contact with Geronimo and his people. I’ll follow on with the infantry and mountain howitzers.”
“Yes, sir.” Devore hesitated, then said, “Did you sign the authorization for Lieutenant Stryker’s promotion?”
Crook looked baffled.
“I left it on your desk, sir.”
Crook glanced at the piles of papers scattered across his desk and shook his head. “That will have to wait, I’m afraid.”
Stryker grinned. “Probably just as well, sir. The captain in command of the detail at the spring plans to report me for insubordination.”
“Ah, Captain Forrest,” Crook said. “Damn that man—he’s forever reporting people. I’ll give him a hearing, as I always do, and then forget I even spoke to him.” He looked at Devore. “I’m sure you’re anxious to lead out your regiment, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir.” Devore smiled at Stryker, silently made the word, “Sorry,” with his mouth and emphasized it with a roll of his eyes.
After Devore left, and as Crook buckled on his cartridge belt and holstered Colt, Stryker said, “Sir, I’d like to join the expedition. I am willing to serve in any capacity.”
Crook, slender, wiry and well over six-foot tall, smiled. “Thank you for volunteering, Lieutenant, but the answer is no. You look like hell, standing there like a bent old man. You will therefore remain here at Fort Bowie and recuperate from your wounds. I’m sure Captain Forrest will find tasks for you.”
“But, sir—”
“Rest and recuperate, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” Stryker was weighed down by a sense of defeat. Rake Pierce would head south with Silas Dugan, trailing Geronimo like coyotes on the edge of a buffalo herd. The man would not come near Fort Bowie where he was known and would be arrested.
Stryker cursed his luck. All he could do now was loaf around the post, as useless as tits on a bull.
First Lieutenant Steve Stryker stood to rigid attention in Captain Forrest’s office while the man read, or pretended to read, the contents of a large manila envelope.
Four days had passed since Crook had left with three regiments and seventy-five Apache and Navajo scouts. Since that time, Stryker had supervised the unloading of supplies, inspected the feet of the remaining soldiers, managed the kitchen to ensure the proper preparation and presentation of food, and spent the last two days watching over a detail of six ham-handed infantrymen strip and clean the temperamental steam engine that powered the fort’s well.
The railroad clock on the office wall ticked slow seconds into the room and the rough pine boards under Stryker’s feet creaked when he shifted his weight even slightly. Outside, a dog barked incessantly and the sun pounded the post’s adobe, stone and wood-frame buildings with merciless heat.
Stryker was hot, sweat trickling down his back, running on his cheeks, and the thick air inside the captain’s
