“No.”
“There was a big fight here, back in ’sixty-two, during the War Between the States. Chiricahua Apaches and United States troops.”
“I didn’t know that. What happened?”
“It was July, and Captain Tom Roberts got ambushed here. Chiricahuas. He was coming from California to fight the Confederate invasion of New Mexico. He lined up his mountain howitzers and blasted the Apaches. Scared hell out of them.”
“You were here?” she said.
Zak shook his head. “No, but I heard about it.”
“I think we’ve wasted enough time here, Mr. Cody.”
He helped her onto the coach, took his seat beside her. A few minutes later they reached the fort, beyond the pass. It lay in a saddle in the mountains, east of Apache Springs. There were a lot of buildings, some made of adobe, some of stone, others, frame dwellings, made from lumber. A steam pump pulled water from a well. A flagpole stood in the center of the ramada, its banners flapping in the breeze.
“So, this is Fort Bowie,” Colleen said.
“This is the second Fort Bowie. Troops have only been here since ’sixty-nine, so it’s still pretty new.”
He pulled the coach up in front of the corrals and stables. A corporal came out to greet them.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, “welcome to Fort Bowie.” Then he looked at Zak.
“Where’s the regular driver,” the young man asked. “Jenkins?”
“He’s in the coach,” Zak said.
“What’s he doin’ in the coach?” The young man’s face scrunched up in genuine puzzlement.
“Nothing,” Zak said.
“Huh?”
The corporal walked over to the side door and opened it. He jumped back in surprise.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“Mr. Cody,” Colleen said, “will you escort me to meet the post commander?”
“Sure,” Cody said. He spoke to the corporal. “That black horse, rub him down and grain him, will you, soldier?”
“Wh-What about what’s in the coach? Those men are dead, ain’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, I got to report this.”
Zak walked back to his horse, slid the rifle from its scabbard and lifted his saddlebags from behind the cantle. He patted Nox’s withers and walked back to the stunned soldier.
“Can you point out the post commander’s office, son?”
“Over yonder. Where you see the flagpole. He ain’t in, though. Major Willoughby’s acting in his stead. I got to report what’s in that coach.”
“Do it, then,” Zak said.
The corporal ran off toward the guard house, legs pumping, arms flying around in all angles. Zak slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, shifted his rifle to his left hand. He crooked his arm and Colleen slipped her arm in it and they walked toward the large building beyond the parade ground. Soldiers walked here and there, not even mildly curious. Flies buzzed around their heads and the hot sun beat down. The flags flapped on the flagpole, but the air was thick and hot and the breeze brought no cool with it.
A pair of mourning doves whistled overhead, twisting and turning in the air like feathered darts. The sound of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing on iron wafted across the compound. The horses hitched to the coach whickered and swatted at flies with their tails. Two soldiers crossed in front of them. Both looked longingly at Colleen, who returned their smiles and gripped Zak’s arm even tighter.
Two men stood guard at the entrance to the headquarters building. Both wore sergeant’s stripes.
“Miss Colleen O’Hara to see Major Willoughby,” Zak said.
“She can go in,” one of the men said. “You’ll have to show me some papers, sir.”
Zak drew out a leather wallet from his pocket, handed it, open, to the sergeant.
“Yes, sir,” the man snapped, with a salute. He handed the wallet back to Zak.
They entered the building, where more men stood guard, and walked to one seated at a desk.
“What was that all about, Mr. Cody?” Colleen whispered.
“My identification.”
“And you rate a salute? A civilian?”
Zak said nothing.
“Major Willoughby,” Colleen said to the clerk. “I’m Colleen O’Hara and this is Mr. Zak Cody.”
