Pony Soldiers Page 19

  "Do I get to take the chains off?" he asked.

  "Of course. All fair and aboveboard, isn't it, Ser­geant?"

  "Sure it is, General. Why, I believe that's Trooper Rourke over there. We should settle this real soon."

  "Yeah," Ryan agreed. "Why don't we do the show right here and now?"

  He recognized the sec man. Rourke was the tall, scar-faced thug, three inches over six feet and twenty pounds over the three hundred mark.

  "Call him…" Strasser began, but a shout from the main guard post, on the tower at the side of the en­trance gate, stopped him.

  "Patrol coming in!"

  "Shouldn't be in until tonight," the sec boss said, eyes narrowing.

  "Got a prisoner!"

  "Looks like we better wait for the maul, Ryan. I could be busy. Sergeant McLaglen here can show you around the Seventh Cavalry museum, over by the lip of that mesa."

  Now they could all hear the sound of the returning patrol, the distant beat of hooves and the sound of voices, raised in the marching song of the Seventh.

  The massive gates swung slowly open and Ryan watched the line of horsemen canter in.

  At their center, on a small pinto pony, was the un­mistakable figure of Jak Lauren.

  "Fireblast," Ryan whispered to himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "MEN LIKE RYAN CAWDOR LIVE close to the edge. They pass their lives dancing with the widow-maker, flirting with the old bitch. Then they break free of her embrace before she sets her teeth into their throats. Young Jak's the same breed. So's John Barrymore Dix. I would guess Krysty Wroth comes from the same breed, but not me. Not Lori."

  Doc was sitting, awkwardly cross-legged, by the dying embers of a cooking fire.

  The rancheria was quiet; nearly all the Apaches stayed in their wickiups. Everyone knew that the one-eyed Anglo had been taken by Yellowhair and that young Eyes of Wolf had offered himself as a sacrifice to try to get into the fortress of the pony soldiers. There was nothing to do now but sit and wait.

  Cuchillo Oro had sent out a half dozen of his young warriors to keep watch from a long, flat butte over­looking the desert that ran toward the fort. If any­thing happened they'd gallop to the rancheria and report it. Or if Jak or Ryan—or both—made a break for it, they might be able to help with covering fire.

  But nobody expected anything to happen until the next day.

  Maybe the day after that.

  And maybe never.

  J.B. had retired to strip and clean his arsenal, com­plaining that the fine dust of New Mexico was ruin­ing the delicate mechanism of his blasters.

  Krysty had left the fires to go to sit near the pool under the scarred cliffs. Since Ryan had been cap­tured she'd said very little, seeming locked into her own private fears.

  Doc and Lori had remained outside in the evening warmth, the girl leaning against the old man for com­fort. Doc hadn't eaten much of the chili-and-beans stew, complaining that it gave him gas. But Lori had polished off his bowl as well as her own, asking for seconds. There had been a movement in the gray shadows, and Steps Lightly Moon had come shyly to join them.

  Her question about what might happen had prompted Doc to launch into his diatribe about danc­ing with the widow-maker.

  "I shouldn't go on like that, little girl," he said apologetically. "By the three Kennedys, but this wait­ing is irksome. You wouldn't have anything that I could ease my dry throat with, would you, my dear lady? I'd be obliged."

  Steps Lightly Moon rose with the ease of a young fawn, reappearing with an earthenware mug and three beakers. She poured out refreshing drafts of the juice of the mesquite bean.

  Lori smacked her lips appreciatively. "Drink very good. Thank you so much."

  For several long seconds they sat in silence, until the Mescalero girl spoke.

  "Will Eyes of Wolf survive?"

  "Does a bear…" Doc began, changing his mind just in time. "Course he will."

  "My heart is his heart," Steps Lightly Moon said, eyes downcast.

  "He's real young." Lori shook her head disap­provingly. "Much youngest for you."

  "And you aren't too youngest…I mean, young, for me, my honey bear?" Doc asked, kissing the blond teenager on the cheek.

  "That be different, you old galoot," Lori replied crossly.

  "Galoot! I didn't teach you that, did I? Upon my soul, I fear that I did. There can hardly be a living soul in all Deathlands that would use such a word."

  "My father tells me you have traveled far. He says that after this… If it has been a good day for the pony soldiers to visit the shadow lands of their ancestors, my father says that you will all move on from here." She paused. "All of you?"

  Doc hesitated. "There are two kinds of folk, Steps Lightly Moon. There's the kind like a flower, or like one of those big cactus plants. And there are those like the wind. I think you know what kind of a person Jak Lauren is."

  "Yes, I know. But there is time and there is hope. Is there not?"

  Doc smiled, showing his peculiarly strong teeth. "Child," he said, "there's always hope."

  The sight of the young albino boy, riding in the middle of the cavalry patrol, gave Ryan one of the worst moments of his life. He had a great deal of af­fection and respect for Jak. To see him now, taken prisoner, was a bitter disappointment.

  For a moment the thought surged into his mind to shout and encourage the boy to keep his chin up. The white hair was stained with orange dust, matted with sweat. Jak rode slumped in the saddle, holding his shoulders in a peculiar hunched, tight way. Ryan guessed that his damaged ribs were causing him trou­ble on the horse. The red eyes glanced up and around the parade ground, passing Strasser, flicking for the smallest splinter of time across Ryan's face, moving incuriously on to the rest of the buildings and uni­formed sec men. Jak showed no sign of recognition.

  Ryan swallowed hard, coughing and spitting in the sand as though some of the billowing dust had got in his throat, in order to cover his surprise at seeing Jak, seeing the way Jak reacted when he saw him standing there!

  If the kid was deliberately pretending not to know him, then he'd come in as part of a setup. Of course! Strasser knew Doc, Krysty and J.B., so it had to be either Lori or Jak. Which meant it had to be Jak.

  "What a most bizarre-looking young man," Stras­ser said. "They call them albinos, with that white col­oring and hair."

  "Yeah," Ryan said.

  The lanky corporal in charge of the returning pa­trol shouted out the command for them to halt and wheel to face the General. He saluted Strasser.

  "Who's that?"

  "Kid says his name's Jak Lauren, General, last survivor off of a wag train the far side of Shay Can­yon. Had a run-in with Gold Knife and his murdering 'paches. Come looking for us after he stole a horse off one of the bastards. Killed him for it. Wants to join up here at Fort Security."

  Strasser licked his lips with a long, leathery tongue, half turning to stare at Ryan. "You wouldn't know the young boy, I suppose, Ryan? No, of course not. Hardly think one skinny kid can be the rescue col­umn, can it? No, of course not." He turned back to the noncom. "Get our guest washed and cleaned and uniformed, Corporal. Then bring him to us after the noon meal. Wait. Want a full briefing of all of you. Every noncom. Want to talk 'bout the Apaches. I'll see the boy after that. Sergeant McLaglen?"

  "Yo, General?"

  "Take Ryan to the museum. Might interest him. Have the maul later. I'll tell you when. And… and look after him carefully, Sergeant. No 'falling down stairs,' or I'll have you flogged with my special whip."

  With a bleak smile toward Ryan, Strasser marched toward his own quarters. The patrol was dismissed, and Jak was led away by a pair of sec men. He never even looked back at Ryan. The sergeant clapped Ryan on the shoulder.

  "Ready, my bucko?"

  "What's special about the General's special whip, huh?"

  The bluff face, rank with honesty and good fellow­ship, turned toward him. "Cross him and you find out, friend. The
General's special whip has little slivers of broken glass, woven into the plaits of wire. One blow opens you like a fist in silk. Five and it's the in­firmary. Ten and you'll likely die."

  "Thanks, Sergeant," Ryan said, shuffling after the big man toward the rear entrance of Fort Security and the museum that lay behind it.

  Many of the rooms had been grossly vandalized, something that Ryan guessed had happened before the arrival of Cort Strasser in New Mexico. Most of the damage had been cleared and swept up, but there was still broken glass on some exhibits and many of the dioramas had been damaged.

  The dangling sign said proudly: The National Mu­seum of the United States Cavalry—Past, Present and Future.

  "Rockfall brought down half the bastard moun­tain on top of the Present and the Future," McLaglen told him. "Not that they had too much future, back in them days. Blessed Mary knows that things isn't good now, but I'm about telling you that they must have been worse when the skies darkened."

  "Guess so," Ryan agreed. "So there's only the past left. That's why you've only got the rep-blasters here?"

  "Sure, and that's right. Springfield carbines, 1873. Shoots a single .45 round, and if you're inside a barn with the doors shut you got a chance of hittin' it. And the side arms are all Colt Navys. General made us dump any blasters we had 'fore he came. His Stechkin's the only modern gun in the place."

  "Springfield and the Colt are good blasters if you use 'em right."

  "Sure. Against the Mescalero we're in good shape. But if we come against another ville…"

  "Mind if I look around?" Ryan asked.

  "Sure. Bores the ass off of me, it does. There's only this one way in and out, so don't get clever. Wouldn't want you hurt 'fore Rourke gets to grips with you."

  A COUPLE OF TROOPERS lounged against the wall of the washroom, keeping a careful eye on Jak as he ro­tated under the shower.

  "Pale piece of chicken meat, ain't he?" the skinny one of the pair cackled.

  "Tender, though," the other smirked, un­ashamedly rubbing his hand against the swelling at the front of his dark blue breeches.

  Jak didn't say anything, contenting himself with trying to relax under the warm stream of water, feel­ing the pain easing from his broken ribs.

  "Gotten a bad knock on your side, there, boy. Been fighting a cougar?"

  "Yeah."

  "Don't talk much, do he?"

  "Like 'em that way."

  "Keep their mouths shut."

  "Not all the time. Need their mouth open some of the time."

  "Then you close it."

  Jak ignored the ribald laughter, making no effort to hide himself from the prying eyes, knowing that it would only give them more ammunition for their filthy comments.

  "Mouth shut an' legs open."

  "Mebbe the General's going to want first go at this one?"

  As long as they kept talking, Jak knew he didn't have anything to worry about.

  ON HIS OWN, WITH ONLY the hobbling effects of the chains and manacles to hinder him, Ryan was free to walk where he wanted around the single-story, ram­bling building. Gazing on row upon row of uni­formed dummies, many in broken cases, quickly became boring. As he wandered by he read out an occasional card, describing what the battered figures wore. All of them were from the period between about 1860 and 1890. The later sections were buried under the collapsing walls of the great mesa above Fort Security.

  Brigadier General George Cook. The best Indian-fighter in history, seen here wearing his own sky-blue version of the calvary overcoat, lined in crimson and with a collar made from the pelt of a wolf shot by the general himself.

  "He would, wouldn't he?" Ryan muttered, biting his lip as he tried to use the time to figure out what Jak was in the fortress for. Was he there to bring a message? Or to recce the place? On his own, he certainly wasn't there to try to spring Ryan.

  There was a list of some of the main engagements of the Indian Wars of the period, with a capsule account of each. Ryan glanced through them, passing the minutes, aware that before he could get to speak to Jak he was going to have to fight Trooper Rourke, and play out his part in the small drama directed for him by Cort Strasser.

  "Pyramid Lake, Nevada. Apache Pass, Arizona. Canyon de Chelly, 1864. Adobe Walls." Ryan remembered that name. Something about a warrior being knocked off his horse by a Sharps rifle at a range of a mile.

  "Don't spend all day there, my bucko!" came the warning bellow from Sergeant McLaglen. "Won't save you from Bully Rourke's care."

  The dioramas showed scenes from some of the fa­mous firefights described on the walls. Little figures—only a couple of inches high—posed stiffly on plastic hillsides among faded trees and tinsel streams, with tiny puffs of cotton representing powder smoke. Some had fallen over, showing greater losses than had originally been intended. Indians with miniature feathers whooped silently up the coulees of the models.

  On one of the them stood brave Custer. General Yellowhair, in a perfectly modeled buckskin jacket, a pistol in each stumpy fist. At some time in the past century a fat spider had managed to get into the case and had woven its fragile web across the golden straw that represented the slopes above the Little Big Horn River. Now it lay dead, a dried husk, halfway be­tween the trapped general and the equally trapped de­fense site of Reno and Benteen.

  "Sand Creek, the Haybox Fight, Washita, Slim Buttes, Palo Duro Canyon, Rosebud, Bear Creek, Wounded Knee." Doc had told him something once about Wounded Knee, linking it with Sand Creek. Massacres, he'd called them. Massacres.

  All of them seemed to be victories for the whites, except for the Custer defeat. But Ryan noticed one other exception. Not listed under Battles or Cam­paigns or Victories. It was just called the Fetterman Disaster.

  Ryan stooped to read the faded card, finding a sketchy account of how some soldiers had been lured out of the Bozeman Trail Post of Fort Phil Kearney, by Sioux, Cheyenne and Arapaho. "Treacherously ambushed in a most cowardly manner and butchered by overwhelming force. Slain to the last man, horse and dog. The bodies of the brave Captain William J. Fetterman and eight of the cavalry's boldest, hid­eously mutilated."

  Ryan glanced at the little plan of the action and a description of what had led up to the disaster, shak­ing his head at the thought that the brave Captain Fetterman might have guessed he was being suckered into an obvious trap.

  But if the bait was tempting enough and caution had been buried beneath a fiery charge, then even the wil­iest fighter might get cold-cocked into riding, grin­ning, into an ambush.

  It was a thought to hold.

  "Sure and you'd better come out of there, 'fore I come and drag you out."

  "Coming, Sergeant," he replied.

  The museum was a depressing place. Worse than many abandoned redoubts, it had nothing in it of life. Monuments to death and to the oppression of one people by another. If this was what Strasser was seek­ing to re-create, then Ryan was on the side of the Mescalero, though it was probably too late now to re­cover from being caught.

  On the way back to the entrance he walked along a line of photographs of famous Indian leaders and fighters, staring blank-eyed into the lens of the white man's camera. He knew from old books that some of the Indians feared that the cameras would steal their spirits. The theft had been far, far worse than that: Yellow Wolf; Little Cloud; Victorio; Kicking Bear; Young Man Whose Enemies Are Even Afraid of His Horses; Sitting Bull; Kicking Wolf; Geronimo; Gall; Red Cloud; Quanah Parker; Cuchillo Oro—not the war chief who waited back at the rancheria in the canyon, but his famous forebear. Ryan peered at the tinted picture, rubbing at it with his fingers, smearing the film of dust. He was just able to make out the gleaming blur that was the great golden knife that the Cuchillo he knew now wore at his belt.

  Many things had changed, but many of them still remained the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  STRASSER WAS NOWHERE to be seen when Ryan and Sergeant McLaglen walked through the broken swing doors of the United States Caval
ry Museum. Some­one was working hard over at the forge, a hammer singing a merry song on iron. Sparks flew from the bellows, rising into the warm, late-morning air. Ryan stopped and took a deep breath, savoring the scent of hot metal, horses and sunshine.

  "Interesting in there?" the tall noncom asked, tug­ging at the slouch hat with the gilt crossed swords on its front.

  "Lot of dummies. Lot of models. Words and pic­tures. Battles lost and won. Massacres, disasters and firefights. I saw rooms filled with losers but not many winners."

  McLaglen snorted. "Best watch it, mister. Or I'll give Rourke the say-so to rip the muscles off of your bones. General's made us proud of what we done."

  Ryan could hardly believe his ears. Was Cort Strasser that good? Good enough to take a murderous rabble of mercenaries and hired guns and make them wear uniforms? And then make them proud of their fictitious past?

  "And that Sand Creek…"

  "What about it?"

  "Sure and it wasn't the cavalry, mister."

  "Then who…?"

  "Colorado volunteers! Vigilantes, they were. Not regulars."

  "That make a difference?"

  "Damned right it does. Listen, mister, I got to say that you don't seem a bad sort. Like my grampa used to say, I like the cut of your jib."

  Ryan had never heard the expression before, but he nodded to the noncom. The sudden approach of friendliness didn't surprise him all that much. His guess was that the sec man had sized him up and seen the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Ryan might beat Rourke. Someone like McLaglen wouldn't miss a trick when it came to trying to get on the side that was winning.

  The troopers had established a rough ring in front of the forge, setting up posts and stringing ropes be­tween them. Ryan glanced back at the main buildings of Fort Security, hoping to spot Jak, but the windows remained empty.