Apache Ambush. Will Cook

eyes grew round. “You’re insane, Mister. You’ve been on too many patrols.”

      “Get something through your fat head,” O’Hagen said. “I was at Lovington’s and saw these Apache dogs. My troopers saw them. And we ran them all the way back here. Wiggle out of that if you can.”

      “Let’s go to the office and settle this like sane men,” Sickles suggested.

      “You want me to make out a report in seven copies?”

      “At least that approach is realistic,” Sickles said. “My job is to preserve peace with the Apaches, while you seem determined to undermine my efforts.”

      “Your efforts stink!”

      “There’s no need to get insulting about it,” Sickles said. “Are you coming to headquarters or not?” He turned to the wickiup door.

      O’Hagen sighed. “Assemble the troop, Sergeant. I’ll leave two squads here. You come with me.” He followed Sickles outside.

      While the troop gathered, O’Hagen mounted and rode to the headquarters building with Osgood Sickles. Herlihy and five troopers trailed at five paces. Gerald Hastings, the assistant agent, was waiting on the headquarters porch. Lamps were glowing through the front windows and O’Hagen gave his horse to a trooper, going inside immediately. The building was log and large; a fire crackled in the fireplace across the large main room.

      A side door opened and a woman stood framed there, her dark eyes round with surprise. O’Hagen sucked in his breath sharply and said, “Rosa! What are you doing here?”

      “Allow me to present my wife,” Sickles said, a smile lifting his thick lips. He was a handsome man, heavy through the shoulders, and his mustache was a thick brush on his upper lip. “We were married three days ago. She is staying here with me until the Tucson town house is completed.”

      O’Hagen stared at the woman like a man horse-kicked. The color had drained from his face and bleak lines pulled at the ends of his lips. “Why?” he said softly. “Why did you, Rosa? I thought that we—”

      “I am sorry,” she said. Her small hands fluttered nervously; then she composed herself, drawing strength from her husband’s presence. She wore a long velveteen dress with the Spanish lace at cuffs and collar. Her hair and eyes were ink black, her skin extremely white, an almost unvarying mark of the pure Castilian. “What can I say?”

      “There is no need to apologize,” Sickles said smoothly, turning his attention to O’Hagen. “I suggest we settle our business for I have no wish to detain you.” He smiled again. “After all, I would like some time alone with my wife.”

      O’Hagen faced Sickles, his long legs spread for balance. He needed a shave and a bath and a good night’s sleep. Deep lines etched shadows across his high forehead and around his pale eyes. “Sickles,” he said, “you got a licking coming.”

      “Don’t swing the subject on me,” Sickles said. “You came here because of the Apaches, but now you’re trying to turn this into something personal. O’Hagen, you knew I kept company with her. Don’t act so surprised. She made the choice.”

      “Sure,” O’Hagen said. “All figured out, just like everything else.” He switched his glance to Gerald Hastings who leaned against the mantel. Hastings was young and very serious. He wore glasses and had a nervous habit of adjusting them continually. “Mister, I’m going to cause some trouble. Are you going to keep out of it?”

      “He’ll do as I say,” Sickles said quickly. “O’Hagen, I’m not afraid of you, but this time you’re biting off too much. Gerald, throw him off the reservation!”

      O’Hagen did not glance at Hastings when he said, “You want a broken arm, then try it.”

      He moved toward Sickles, like a stiff-legged dog. Putting out his hand, he shoved the agent back, and then Sickles exploded into action. He came against O’Hagen with a rush, axing a blow into the stomach, but O’Hagen went back with it. Then O’Hagen hit him, the sound dull like the snap of a stout twig. Sickles reeled backward, the back of his thighs coming against a low table. He went over this, arms flailing, and when he came erect, he had a hand clamped over a bleeding eye. O’Hagen stalked him with a flat-footed patience and when he came within range, leveled Sickles with one blow.

      The man went completely flat and lay there, moaning slightly. Rosalia Sickles stepped deeper into the room, a primitive pleasure in her eyes. Hastings had left the fireplace and was backed against the wall, clearly out of this. Rosalia said, “Tee-mothy, please—”

      He swung to her, anger a stamp on his features. “You like it? You want me to fight over you? Rosa, why did you do it? Tell me why so I can understand.”

      Her shoulders stirred and the light faded in her eyes. She spoke in a cool, almost distant voice. “My father arranged it. He considered Senor Sickles a proper man.”

      “What about you?” O’Hagen was shouting now. “Don’t you have a mind? Can’t you think for yourself?”

      “Don’t say that,” she said and turned away from him, showing him only the stiff, offended set of her shoulders.

      He let out his breath slowly, speaking to Sergeant Herlihy. “Help Sickles outside and have a team hitched. We’re all going back to Fort Apache together.”

      “Her too, sor?”

      “Dammit, yes!”

      “Yes, sor,” Herlihy said and went to the door, calling in two troopers.

      O’Hagen waited on the porch while the ambulance was being hitched. Rosalia came out, bundled in a coat, but they did not speak. This was the way with lovers; a quarrel can place them at immeasurable distances.

      Herlihy came up, made a brief report and O’Hagen mounted the troop. Sickles, now able to walk a bit, chose to lie down in the back of the ambulance. “Move the troop out,” O’Hagen said and turned his horse toward the reservation road.

      For an hour he let them settle again to the routine of march, and when they approached the gorge leading to the river crossing, spoke softly to Herlihy. The sergeant nodded and passed the word back and when it reached the last man, softly spoken Apache was the language used for communication.

      Through this wild and dangerous country they moved, the wheels of the ambulance making a soft crunching in the gravel. Through jagged hills and into the awe-inspiring silence of the gorge, the column clung to a parade walk. The sheer walls were the closing jaws of a giant vise. The night was deepest black here, with only a gray sliver of sky showing when you looked straight up. At the end and near the top, an Apache signal fire burned brightly.

      Yet O’Hagen took his patrol through, not silently but noisily. The men laughed and chattered back and forth in Apache. No jangle of equipment betrayed them. Near the far end, an Apache at the high camp threw a burning stick to the canyon floor where it exploded in a shower of sparks. O’Hagen called up to him and the Apache yelled back his greeting, laughing at this huge joke.

      Then they were through and swinging left. The land changed, becoming less barren, and foliage dotted the trailside in dark clumps. O’Hagen normally enjoyed this part of the patrol, the ride through this forested section with the clean, wild flavors of oak and pungent pine. He enjoyed the first glimpse of Fort Apache through the timber opening, but now he found no pleasure.

      Behind in the ambulance rode a man he hated and the woman he loved. And there was the old rat-gnaw of defeat to nag him. Contreras and Choya would not be brought into the post for a hearing; he felt sure of this. Osgood Sickles would figure a way out for them, just as he had always done, and O’Hagen drubbed his mind for an answer.

      I’ll have to kill both of them; he decided. Sickles, too.

      This thought startled him. He did not altogether like it.

      At four o’clock he passed through the palisade gates and with Herlihy dismissing the troop, went to headquarters.