Trask walked over to O’Hara, the map in his hands. He knelt down in front of the lieutenant, put his hand on O’Hara’s chin, tilted his head back up. O’Hara’s eyelids fluttered open. His blue eyes were watery, unfocused.
“You awake, Lieutenant O’Hara? We’re not going to put your face in the water no more, son. We just want to talk.”
O’Hara opened his eyes wider, stared at Trask.
“Not going to tell you anything.”
“That’s all right. You’ve been through hell, and it don’t make no difference no more. We found your map. It tells us what we want to know.”
“Map?”
Trask held up the map. O’Hara looked down at it.
“This field map we found on you. You recognize it?”
“No,” O’Hara said.
“That’s fine. It’s got numbers on it. Know what they mean?”
“No.”
Trask smiled. “Well, take a good look, Lieutenant. Maybe you do.”
O’Hara turned his head away. He struggled with his bonds, then gave up fighting it. They didn’t loosen.
“Sir, you’ll pay for this,” he said. “Holding me prisoner. The army will probably hang you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. You’re not hurt, are you? You maybe swallered some water, got your hair wet, is all.”
“I was kidnapped. At gunpoint.”
“Not by me.”
“Who are you?” O’Hara asked.
“That’s not important. I came to help you. You want to go back to Fort Bowie all in one piece. Your sis is there, waiting for you.”
“Colleen?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s her name.”
O’Hara breathed a sigh, gulped in air. His eyes began to clear. “How do you know this?”
“Why, she rode this man’s stage to Fort Bowie. There were two soldiers with her. Some damned Apaches attacked the stage. Killed and scalped the two soldiers, but the driver got her away and set her down safe in Fort Bowie. Ain’t that right, Hiram?”
“Sure is.”
“So, you can go back there, too. I just thought you might want to help me with this map here.”
“No. I can’t help you. Those numbers don’t mean anything to me.”
Trask stood up. O’Hara followed him with his gaze, looked up at him.
Trask’s manner had changed. The smile was gone, the face hard again.
“Listen to me, you sonofabitch,” Trask said, his voice a husky rasp, “if you don’t want to see me cut your sister’s throat, right here, right in front of you, you’d better tell me what these numbers on the map mean. Are they Apache camps?”
Before O’Hara could answer, there was a commotion outside. Hoofbeats and the rumble of a wagon or coach. A moment later Lou Grissom blasted through the door as if he were on fire.
“Mr. Ferguson, Jenkins’s coach just rolled in.”
“Jenkins all right?”
“I don’t know. He ain’t drivin’ it.”
“Well, who the hell is?” Ferguson snapped.
“Somebody wearing a United States Army uniform, and they’s an army escort pullin’ up right with him.”
“Shit,” Ferguson said.
O’Hara opened his mouth as if to yell. Trask clamped a hand over his mouth, drew his pistol, held it like a hammer and brought it down hard on top of O’Hara’s head. There was a sharp crack and O’Hara’s head dropped like a sash weight as he fell unconscious.
“Just don’t let the bastards in here, Hiram,” Trask said. “Get out there and find out what’s going on.”
Ferguson needed no urging. He was out the door a second or two later, Grissom on his heels.
Trask stared after them. Cavins and Rawlins stood frozen by the stove. The coffeepot burbled, spewed steam into the air.
Trask put a finger to his lips and holstered his pistol.
There was a silence in the room as if no one was there.
