Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (4 page)

 
          
 
"Don't know as that thar pooch was so
wrong in his 'Pache huntin'," one of the men walking just before Ritchie
said.

 
          
 
"Oh—you know Velasco—"

 
          
 
"Yeah.
I've seen
him—hangin' round the fort. But he was raised 'Pache, warn't he? Catch 'em
young 'n raise 'em right 'n they stay 'Pache. He's got him blood brothers out
thar in the hills. How do we know he ain't tellin' 'em things now 'n then?
They're pretty cute—they savvy fightin'. 'N Velasco, he can't remember nothin'
but livin' with 'em. I've heard him say that with his own mouth. His own people
don't like him much. Bet Diego taught the pooch that thar trick jus' to show
him up."

 
          
 
"Well, he'd better not show it off where
the Colonel can see him or he won't get in here again. The Colonel swears by
Velasco, and he won't take kindly to anyone making fun of him open that way.
Hey,
where's the cards
? All right, your deal,
Sam."

 
          
 
Ritchie lingered, wishing that he dared ask
about this Velasco who was raised an Apache. He had heard tales of children
captured young enough to conform to the Indian way of life, and tough enough to
survive it, who had grown up as warriors of the tribe and, when reclaimed by
their own people, had been misfits in the civilized world. But the card players
were deep again in the interrupted games, and he went back to his own small
section of the barracks.

 
          
 
But he stopped short before the rack where he
had hung his newly polished equipment. Belt, carbine, sabre—all had
disappeared. And in their places was another set, fouled, tarnished, and
unrubbed. Ritchie let his breath out slowly through his nose. He knew very well
what this meant. Sturgis had stepped in the night before and had stopped the
showdown. But this time he would have to force it himself or else lose face
with the whole company. Even if he took a beating and lost, he could still
cling to the shreds of his self-respect.

 
          
 
There were eyes watching him now—he could
almost feel them burning between his shoulder blades. This was it! But, as he
turned abruptly and marched down the room looking carefully at each racked
carbine he passed, he was thinking furiously.

 
          
 
Here it was. He put out his hand for the
weapon he recognized as his own. Below it was his sabre. His sabre—!

 
          
 
Ritchie's eyes widened the least fraction, and
his lips parted in a soundless whistle. He remembered a story told at
Jefferson
. And it might just work here, too. It would
all depend upon whether Birke was really popular in the company.

 
          
 
"Jus' a minute,
sonny."
The paw of a hairy arm fell on his shoulder and half jerked
him around. "We don't touch another man's tools 'les we ask furst!"

 
          
 
Ritchie met Birke's gap-toothed grin and
too-small eyes with an outward show of placid confidence.

 
          
 
"That's what I thought. And so I'm
wondering why you moved mine—"

 
          
 
Birke's grin grew tight around the edges. It
was plain that he had not expected this kind of answer. He slapped down at
Ritchie's reaching hand.

 
          
 
"Them thar's mine! Keep yore mitts offen
'em, sonny. Git back to yore own corner 'n stay thar. Babies wot do as they
ain't told git paddled! Yore pants fit tight, baby.
What if I
heat 'em fur yo'—right now?"

 
          
 
Ritchie was out of range before that ham-sized
fist connected. He was holding his own scabbarded sabre on guard. Now it was
time to play his last card—and hope that Birke was not a popular man.

 
          
 
"If you want a fight, Birke, let's make
it a dragoon one. Meet me with scabbarded sabres,
Jefferson
style!"

 
          
 
Birke blinked. He had lost his grin entirely,
and the thick veins on his temples were swelling. His pleasant little game had
gotten out of hand, and he did not like that at all. He growled and lunged but
jumped back again as Ritchie swung the heavy sabre.

 
          
 
There was a ring of spectators about them now,
almost as close packed as the one which had gathered at the dog show. But, as
yet, Ritchie could not judge the temper of the men. It was with relief that he
heard the small, quiet man on the far side of that circle.

 
          
 
"Well, Birke, d'you
fight
him? He's right—that's a challenge, barracks style."

 
          
 
A murmur answered him, a murmur of agreement.
Ritchie waited. The small shred of tradition he remembered might yet save him
from a bad mauling—even if he couldn't escape a fight.

 
          
 
"Not in here." The small man was
taking command of the situation. "Out by the burying ground's best; more
room and we'll be off post limits. Well, Birke, we're waiting; d'you
fight
?"

 
          
 
The big dragoon turned and grabbed at the
nearest racked sabre.

           
 
''Sure I'm gonna fight! I'm gonna beat
th
' brains outta this jumped-up fancy boy. Let me do
it!"

 
          
 
Escorted by
all of the
troop present, they moved across the parade ground to a level space below the
rise of a small hill. Ritchie shucked off his tight cavalry jacket and stood
shivering in his shirt sleeves, trying to make up his mind whether to discard
his boots also. That was settled for him by a newcomer.

 
          
 
The scout Tuttle suddenly materialized by his
side and held out a pair of moccasins.

 
          
 
“Off with them boots, son, if yo' want to keep
yore footin' here. These should be 'bout yore cut, I'm thinkin'."

 
          
 
In the moccasins his feet felt free as he
stepped up in answer to an authoritative wave from the small man. Birke loomed
up, sheathed sabre in hand, a black scowl pulling his thick eyebrows into one
bushy bar.

 
          
 
"You fight fair, and when a man is down,
you don't hammer him," warned the master of ceremonies. "When I say
go—you go!"

 
          
 
Were this
a duel of
bare points, Ritchie would have had little doubt of the outcome. He had spent
too many hours with a fencing foil not to believe that he was the superior of
most of the dragoons. But the added weight of the sheath would be a drag on the
wrist which had to be allowed for. Birke, he believed, however, was of the bull
type—striving to win through sheer weight and the beating down of his opponent.
And the rush with which the big man greeted the "go" proved his
point.

 
          
 
Ritchie twisted to the left, escaping the full
brunt of the charge, managing to get in one counter thrust which brought a
grunt out of Birke. The awkwardness of their weapons cut down Ritchie's
advantage of skill, while it gave full marks to Birke's greater muscle. When he
had a hard time staving off the second rush, Ritchie began to wonder if he had
been so clever after all. A pounding from a sheathed sabre might be even worse
to endure than one delivered by Birke's fists. No longer so confident, he began
to use his wits, attempting to adapt to this fight what he had learned with the
tricky foils. And on the second sally he was able to get home below Birke's
short ribs with a force which drove the air out of the big man's lungs and left
him gasping—but not before Ritchie had taken a slam across his shoulder which
made his left arm numb.

 
          
 
"What's going on? Stop this!"
Ritchie's sabre was swept out of his weakened grasp. Birke stood with his hands
pressed to his aching ribs.

 
          
 
Sergeant Herndon was between them, the stout
cane he had used against Ritchie's sabre held up like the master-of-arm's
governing foil at a match. Out of the tail of his eye Ritchie saw the audience
thinning away. But Tuttle not only stood his ground but came up, a quirk of a
smile touching his lips.

 
          
 
"Goin' t' be all official-like,
Scott?" he drawled. "Ain't nothin' much yo' can do with these
boys—they was careful t' git off limits 'fore they set 'bout tryin' t' carve
each other. 'N it looks like they ain't had much chance to do real damage t'
government property—meanin' themselves.
Now yo've stopped it.
Might as well fergit, eh?"

 
          
 
Ritchie stooped to grope for his jacket. His
left arm was beginning to ache. And he was foreseeing a gloomy stretch of time
to be spent in the guardhouse. But, to his surprise, Herndon was not ready to
march them back into the clutches of law and order. Instead the Sergeant spoke
to Birke who was still nursing his ribs.

 
          
 
"Second brawl this month you've been
mixed up in, Birke." Herndon's clipped words were hard. "This means a
noncom's court. As for you," he looked to Ritchie, "you seem totally
unable to keep out of trouble, Peters. You may report to my quarters after
retreat."

 
          
 
He went off as if neither of them mattered any
more. Ritchie was making a hard business of putting on his jacket when Tuttle
came to his aid. The young dragoon's sabre was under the scout's arm, and the
older man took him by the elbow and steered him up the hill to a low adobe
wall.

 
          
 
"At least I'm not yet in the
guardhouse." He spoke his first thought aloud.

 
          
 
Tuttle chuckled.
"Not
likely, son.
Herndon knows Birke 'n he's had an eye on yo'. Yo' ain't
the gamecock sort—goin' outta yore way t' pick a fight. Birke's bullied new men
before, 'n the Sergeant knows it. Only—mind yo' take yore wiggin'
respectful-like tonight. Scott ain't an impatient man, but he don't take any
sass from young 'uns neither. He ain't the sort as most likes—too keen on his
job 'n bein' mostly right.
But he's got more guts than most,
'n he leans hisself over backwards bein' straight with the men.
That's
why he's got some here as will follow him inter hell, should he take a leetle
notion of patrolling down that thar way. Should be an officer by rights, but
somehow he won't make the jump. Got somethin' back behind those gray eyes of
hissen what hurts him bad now 'n again—makes him hold hisself up all tight 'n
hard. Jus' don't yo' rile him none when he lights inter yo'. He's like to flay
the skin offen yore back with his tongue—all a matter of what he considers his
duty. Only them what don't take to doin' duty regular —'n some what do—mostly
winds up here.
If they are found at all!"

 
          
 
He jerked his finger over his shoulder up the
rise of the hill. Ritchie looked more closely at the narrow wooden boards that
stood sentry at the end of each mound. He could read the words carved on
several of the nearest.

           
 
"Hiram Johnson, ist Dragoons, died of
wounds inflicted by the Apaches. Lester Silvers, tortured to death by Apaches.
K.
Knowles,
met his death at the hand of Indians.
Unknown man tortured and killed by Apaches."

 
          
 
"Kinda intimidatin', ain't they,
son?" Tuttle spat a stream of tobacco juice downhill. "That's why a
man hasta keep his wits 'bout him in this here country. In the summer we fight
thirst 'n Apaches. In the winter we fight snow 'n Apaches. When yo' see Apache
sign, be careful, 'n when yo' don't see nary a sign, yo' gotta be more careful
yet!"

 
          
 
But almost before the words had left his lips,
Tuttle was on his feet, staring keen-eyed down the slope. Then he reached down
and pulled Ritchie up.