Apache Ambush. Will Cook

goes nothing but trouble,” O’Hagen said to no one and went inside to wait while the officer-of-the-day woke the major.

      Calvin came in a few minutes later, his face sleep wrinkled. He grumbled to himself while he lit a cigar, then offered O’Hagen one. Calvin was a man who looked at life dourly; this was evident in his cautious glance, the disciplined lines around his mouth. He closed his eyes while O’Hagen made his report and his only movement was an occasional gnawing of the lip. When O’Hagen finished, Calvin said, “I can’t make out that kind of a report and you know it. I can’t put my endorsement on yours if you make it.”

      O’Hagen was shocked. “I’ve got the troop as witnesses, the dress that Choya took from Mrs. Lovington—what more do you need for a case against Sickles?”

      “You don’t understand,” Calvin said impatiently. “I can’t explain it to you; I’m not going to try. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. File a routine patrol report and let it go.”

      “What has Sickles got on you, sir?”

      “That’s enough! I said, let it go!”

      “Is that an order, sir?” O’Hagen was white-faced with anger.

      Major Calvin turned his back so that he did not have to look at O’Hagen. “Yes. That’s an order. . . .”

      As soon as the door closed, Major Calvin knew that he had made a mistake. He banged his fist against the desk. Mistake or not, he had to do something. O’Hagen would talk, not barracks gossip, but when Crook arrived he would talk. Major Calvin did not like to think of this possibility.

      The decision was slow to form, but the more he thought about it, the more practical it became. He gathered his hat and cape and crossed the parade to the infirmary. The contract surgeon raised his head and Major Calvin said, “May I speak to Mr. Sickles?”

      “Don’t stay too long.”

      “This will only take a moment,” Calvin said. “Yes, only a moment.”

      The surgeon nodded and Calvin went into the agent’s room.

       Chapter 2

      Brevet Major Sidney A. Calvin scanned, for the fifth time, the report lying on his desk. Calvin was a gaunt, haggard-eyed man with more trouble than he deserved. At least, this is what he told himself at frequent intervals. As commanding officer of Fort Apache, the welfare of the territory east of Seven Mile Draw, south to the Gila Mountains, and the entire San Carlos Apache Reservation was allocated to him, enough responsibility to gray an officer’s hair in short order.

      Add to this the unpredictable escapades of Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen, and Major Sidney A. Calvin found his nights insomnious, his food insipid, and his military career fraught with uncertainty.

      After rereading Mr. Osgood Sickles’ complaint against Lieutenant O’Hagen, Major Calvin tossed it in a drawer where he could no longer see it. He told himself that only children hid their mistakes for fear of punishment. “I’m a mature man,” he told the four walls, but still the complaint remained in the drawer. Confining Lieutenant O’Hagen to the stockade had seemed so sound in theory, but actually, Calvin regretted the decision, regretted the whole thing. An officer was never confined, except for a major crime. He drummed his mind for an explanation, one that would satisfy General George Crook. But there could be no explanation. The complaint was his only hope, his only justification.

      Twin desk lamps radiated light onto the rough pine floor. In the outer room, a corporal sat in the corner, reading a month-old Harper’s Weekly. Major Calvin paused in the doorway and the corporal’s feet thumped the floor when Calvin said, “Any further word on General Crook’s party?”

      “No, sir.”

      He returned to his office, leaving the door ajar. His face was hollow-cheeked and a mustache hung dejectedly past the ends of his lips. He put a match to his cigar and sat for a while, head and shoulders shrouded in smoke. When his fingers began to drum the desk he knew that his nerves were breaking. He opened the drawer and withdrew the complaint.

      May 9, 1872

      To: Commanding Officer, Fort Apache, Arizona Territory Subject: Complaint and charges, to wit:

      On May 9, 1872, First Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen, did willfully assault with intent to do bodily harm, malign, and profanely abuse the undersigned, for reasons undefined and without justification. It is hereby requested that First Lieutenant Timothy O’Hagen be arrested and confined, and tried on these charges.

      Signed: Osgood H. Sickles, Agent-in-Charge

      San Carlos Apache Reservation

      Arizona Territory

      “Damn!” Major Sidney A. Calvin said and crossed to the side window fronting the darkened parade. A far row of lights marked the enlisted men’s barracks. To his right, officers’ row and the quartermaster buildings were backed against the palisade wall. Calvin puffed his cigar to a sour stub, then gathered his kepi and cape. To the corporal in the outer office, he said, “I’m going to the stockade for a few minutes.”

      He went out and walked across the parade toward the north gate and mounted the guardhouse steps. A trooper stationed by the door presented arms smartly and Major Calvin went inside. Lieutenant Meeker, the officer-of-the-day, came to attention while Calvin returned the salute absentmindedly. “I want a word with Mr. O’Hagen.”

      Meeker seemed genuinely confused. “Sir—I mean, he has a visitor, sir.”

      Voices from the rear cell block invaded the room and Calvin frowned when he heard O’Hagen laugh. Calvin could not, by the farthest stretch of his imagination, see anything humorous in this abominable mess.

      “I don’t remember authorizing visitors for Mister O’Hagen,” Calvin said.

      Meeker was a man on the near edge of a reprimand and he knew it. “Sir, it’s Miss Libby Malloy. I—I thought it would be all right.”

      “Mister,” Calvin said, “we will discuss your ability to think, in my office—later.” He turned on his heel and went down the dim corridor to O’Hagen’s cell. Libby Malloy was standing close to the bars. O’Hagen was holding her hands.

      “Well,” Calvin said, “I’ve often wondered how a man in the stockade passed the time.” His glance toward Libby was stern and fatherly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. This is hardly the place for you.”

      “I don’t mind the stockade,” Libby said. “I fit in anyplace.” She watched Major Calvin with a certain amusement in her pale eyes. Libby Malloy was taller than most girls like to be, yet she was shapely. She was young, not yet twenty. Her eyes were veiled by long dark lashes which contrasted sharply with her champagne hair.

      Major Calvin did not like her and he told himself that the reason lay in her frankness, yet he knew this was not true. Her brazenness affronted his sense of propriety. He believed that any woman who had borne an Apache child should feel shame, and Libby Malloy evidently did not.

      She was too straight for Calvin. Too honest. Libby was almost a sister to O’Hagen for they had the Herlihy’s as common adopted parents. So she came to the guardhouse. Like a common—Calvin pulled his mind back to business.

      “Libby, does Sergeant Herlihy know you’re here?”

      “I think he does,” she said, smiling. Her face changed, lost its cynical amusement. Her eyes were wide spaced above a nose that was straight and slightly pointed. She had full lips, and the habit of catching the bottom one gently between her teeth. “Do you want me to leave, Major?”

      “It would be best.”

      “For whom?” She glanced at O’Hagen. “I’ll be back, Tim.”

      “Good night,” O’Hagen said and watched her walk down the corridor. He remained by the cell door, a tall man in his late twenties. His hair was brick-red and he possessed none of the studied gravity