Ambush (15 page)

Ward smiled.

“How do you figure him?” Holly asked presently.

“How do you?”

“Book soldier,” Holly said.

“There have been good ones.”

“He could be,” Holly admitted. He scratched his chin through his beard; the noise it made rasped Ward's nerves, as it always did. “Still, I mistrust a perfect man.”

Ward glanced at him. “Perfect?”

“That ain't the right word, maybe, but it gives you an idea. He's too good. Take that swarry you and young Delaney was on. Loring backed out and give it to Delaney, so Delaney will get the credit. Look at his men; he takes care of 'em like children. He'll smoke one cigar of an evening, and he'll take a drink of whiskey, but I've never seen him come out the morning after a heavy drinkin' night and miss the saddle, like some of these officers. He's just soft-spoken enough, he's handsome to the ladies and he's a man. Still, I can't like him.” Holly frowned in thought. “Dammit, there just ain't anything inside him.”

“You worried about it?” Ward asked.

Holly looked searchingly at him. “Not me. I got Wolverton. It's you that should be.”

Ward turned to regard him, and he was unable to keep the surprise from his face.

“Why?”

Holly said soberly, “Look, he don't like any man much. He treats 'em right, but he don't understand how they can make the mistakes they make, because he don't make any. Ever stop to wonder then what he thinks of an Injun?”

“Not much, I'd guess.”

Holly pointed a dirty finger at him. “Damn right he don't. And a man that don't think much of a 'Pache or the way he fights is headed for trouble. You watch out, Ward.”

Ward said, “I will,” and went on shaving. Holly talked about trivial things for a few minutes longer, then drifted out. He had come, Ward knew, for the explicit purpose of warning him against Loring, and that was curious. Perhaps Holly, with the simplicity of a shrewd and direct man, had summed it all up in the statement, “Dammit, there just isn't anything inside him.”

Some of the excitement that pervaded the post was communicated to Ann that day. She found herself looking up from her work, listening, watching from the nearest window the activity around her.

Emmy Wolverton, in midmorning, had come over with the news that her modest dinner was being transformed into a party. Was there a better time to celebrate than on the eve of the troops taking the field? Besides, nobody had celebrated Ben Loring's new command. The problem of Major Brierly's nurse was easily taken care of; Mrs. Riordan, wife of the drunken trooper who had attacked Brierly, was a sweet woman, and capable; moreover, she felt deeply about her husband's conduct, and had gladly consented to act as nurse so Ann could come to the party. The irony of the situation did not escape Emmy, who said, “It's nice that we're a practical sex, isn't it, dear? Otherwise it would be embarrassing.”

After Doctor Horton's afternoon call, the Major slept, and Ann got out the maroon dress she was to wear and began to press it. The usual noises of the post were missing, supplanted by others. She was glad that Ben had excused the customary inspection before taking the field. It was miserably hot for that, and she knew from an Army childhood that the sergeants, out of gratitude, would see that men, horses and equipment were in flawless condition. It was typical of Ben, she reflected, typical of his thoughtfulness to everyone.

And then her thoughts returned again to the story she had heard this morning from Emmy Wolverton. Ben, it seemed, had quarreled with Kinsman last night to a degree that only a fight could settle. The fight had taken place in Hance's barn, and Ben had clearly won. When Ann had politely doubted the gossip, Emmy had said that Captain Wolverton had it straight from Ward, who had cheerfully admitted his licking. Nobody knew the cause of the quarrel.

The whole affair puzzled Ann. The outcome hadn't surprised her much, since Major Brierly had mentioned in the past that Ben had never been defeated in a fight at the Academy the whole time he was there. Before his appointment, even, he had been taught to fight, as he had been taught to ride, to sail a boat, to play tennis, to shoot and to dance, all of which he did superlatively well, no doubt. What had puzzled Ann was that the dislike of the two men for each other should have driven either of them to blows. Ben had always seemed too civilized for this. And Ward Kinsman too—well, scornful. She could imagine him laughing at the notion of a fight, or else, once forced to it, never resting until his man was dead. His very appearance, his background, his disturbing honesty suggested implacability; to pick himself up off the floor and go to work for the man who had put him there seemed strange and out of character. In this, as in all else, he was a complete paradox to her.

Afterward, she dismissed Manuelita, Brierly's cook, who had five small children to feed on the enlisted man's pay of her German-born husband, and prepared Major Brierly's simple supper. As she was serving it to him, mess call blew, and they both smiled at the coincidence.

“Party tonight, I hear,” Brierly said softly.

Ann nodded. “I wish you could be there.”

Brierly grimaced. “I like this bed at the moment. Have a good time.”

Martha Riordan came in then, and once she was settled, Ann went into her room to dress. She heard Ben, who was to take her to the party, come in. His talk with Mrs. Riordan, and later, Major Brierly, made a low pleasant rumble behind her door. Ann changed out of her dress, unpinned her thick black hair, brushed it swiftly and then shrugged into her dress, afterwards pinning up her hair. Standing before the mirror, hairpins in her mouth, she looked critically at herself, her dress, her green eyes bright with anticipation. For a part-time nurse and cook, she concluded, she didn't look bad, and she went out.

The Wolvertons had one half of the big adobe house next to Brierly's house; Lieutenant Storrow, whose wife was visiting in the East, had the other half. The house faced the gravel drive that led from the parade ground to the stables, so that its back was to Brierly's quarters. It had the same deep veranda of the other buildings fronting the parade ground.

As they took to the walk, Ann put her hand on Ben's arm. “Busy day?”

“An annoying one,” Loring said cheerfully. “That confounded quartermaster's train. We needed the stuff, but what a time for it to come.” He glanced down at her. “I'll have to leave early. I still have some work.”

“Don't think about it. Let's have fun. This party is for you, really.”

Ben's hand covered hers for a moment in affectionate consent.

The officers of both troops were lounging on the veranda around Emmy Wolverton when they approached. Bob Wolverton had requisitioned Storrow's chairs, and whiskey and water and glasses were set up on a table. Ward Kinsman's black suit made his chestnut hair seem almost blond, and looked oddly formal among the uniforms; glass in hand, he pushed away from the wall as she mounted the steps and greeted the party.

Ben spoke to all of them, and as Ward returned his greeting, Ann watched for any expression on his face; his reply was casual, pleasant and was carefully noted, since everyone here had heard of the quarrel and was assuming it had never happened.

The small talk, army talk, soon engulfed her and she listened with simple pleasure. Presently, after Bob Wolverton had refilled their glasses, he paused, looked around, lifted his glass, and looked at Ben. “To success in your new command, Ben.”

They all drank, and Lieutenant Storrow said mischievously, “Ben, when're the changes coming? I remember when Whitey Whitehead got his command at Cummings. He swore off the poker game where he owed a month's pay, held mounted drill every day, and we had to wear blouses to mess. God knows what would've happened if he hadn't got a heatstroke one morning at stable inspection.”

Loring smiled faintly, “I'm going to make a change when we return from the field.”

Storrow looked faintly embarrassed, as if he had been presumptuous; the rest of them waited respectfully.

“I'm going to organize a band,” Loring said. “We need music.”

Everyone laughed with relief, and Ann felt a small glow of pride. Ben had handled this with his usual grace; he had let it be known that he could and would make changes that suited him, and yet the change he had named was bound to make him popular.

Ann joined in the talk and she thought she noted a new deference in the way these men treated her. It was as if, she thought, they tacitly assumed that she and Ben would be married some day and it disturbed her. The talk was gay and wholly clannish, as Army talk is likely to be, but she noticed that Ward was included in it. Only Linus Delaney, whom she thought of as the gayest and most dashing and mischievous of the young lieutenants, was subdued tonight.

The dinner, served in the oven-hot Wolverton dining room, brought more toasts; it was a sentimental occasion, as the last night before taking the field always was.

Afterward, the party moved out onto the cooler veranda. Doctor Horton excused himself to check on his patients. The rest split up into small groups in the hot darkness. It was then that Loring murmured to Ann, “Like to walk over to the hospital with me?”

They slipped away, arm in arm, and Loring directed their stroll toward the hospital, where he checked on Riordan's condition, and afterward joined her. There was no place really to walk, but they made a half-circle in the darkness, heading for the shadowed blackness of the laundry building. The far stars by the million seemed to swarm overhead in the hot night, and for a little while Ann knew a strange content.

Loring presently broke the silence. “Odd to think that one of those men, maybe our host, has taken his last drink of whiskey, and seen his last pretty girl.”

“Do you ever think of that, Ben?”

“Never—in relation to myself. Often, though, when I look at other men. It happens to other people, never to you.”

“It could.”

“It couldn't,” Ben said pleasantly, and then he said feelingly, “Oh, damn!”

It was so unexpected that Ann stopped in surprise. “What's that for?” she asked wonderingly.

Loring's sigh of disquiet was audible. “I'm just cursing myself, and my clumsiness.”

Ann was silent, watching him in the darkness.

“Of course you don't understand, Ann,” Loring said gently. “The point is, tonight I intended to ask you a question whose answer means my whole life, and then I remembered that I had prefaced it by the subject of death.” He said, in a tone of derision, “I'm just like any raw recruit, a half-wit farm boy, who's talking to his girl on the night before he's shipped west. I'm telling my girl about the danger and maybe death that awaits me, hoping she'll be kind to me.”

Ann said slowly, “Is that wrong?”

“It's cheap blackmail,” Loring said with conviction, “and I didn't intend it. You've got to believe me, Ann.”

“I do.”

Loring took a deep breath. “When your sister Mary is safe here again and well, Ann, you'll go out of my life. I think of it constantly and—I guess I can't bear the thought.” He hesitated, and then rushed on, almost pleadingly. “Ann, I know we haven't known each other long, but you know all there is to know about me. I love you, Ann, and I want you to marry me.”

A warm affection and tenderness welled up within Ann. And yet, her sharp womanliness asked of her,
Is this the way you'd wanted it?
and she was silent.

“Think about it, Ann,” Loring said then. “Will you give me an answer when I come back? I'd do anything in the world rather than hurry you.”

The low earnestness of his voice was a disturbing thing to her, distracting her for a moment from the import of his words. Did she love him? She didn't know, and yet the sum of his kindnesses compounded with the knowledge that he loved her gave an overflowing tenderness to this moment. She said, “Ben, when you're back, I will.”

He kissed her then, briefly, gently, and afterward put his arm under hers and laced his fingers through hers. They were silent now, and Ann felt the flow of affection still warming her. Ben had asked for later judgment, but she thought she could tell him now. She knew they could have a good life together; that was all, really, that a woman got out of this world. But some deep and buried caution of which she was scarcely aware kept her silent instead.

At Wolverton's, Ben thanked Emmy for the party and excused himself, pressing Ann's hand as he bid her good night. Doctor Horton, returning from Brierly's, stopped him at the corner of the drive, and Ann heard the low murmur of their conversation.

Afterward, Horton came up onto the veranda. “Wonderful constitution our major has,” he observed. “You can't kill a cavalryman with a mere pitchfork.” He looked around for a chair. “That's a damned pretty woman there, that Mrs. What's-her-name that's staying with Brierly tonight.”

“Riordan,” Emmy Wolverton said. “She is, and nice too.”

Ann sat on the top step looking out into the night, half listening to the sporadic talk of the officers, thinking of Ben. Lieutenant Storrow left for the roll call, and presently tattoo sounded. She heard someone behind her and then Emmy Wolverton's voice, “You're not going already, Linus?”

“Got to, Emmy,” Linus said, “I can save a little work for Ben maybe.”

He thanked Emmy for the dinner, and moved down the steps, pausing to say good night to Ann, and then he turned the corner of the parade ground and was lost in darkness.

Presently, the first notes of taps lifted in the hot night, clean and melancholy, and the talk faded behind her while they all listened. Nobody said anything when the notes died, and the talk afterward was sporadic. Lieutenant Tremaine made the first move to go, and Ann knew she should be going too.

She was leaning forward to rise when she felt someone sink down beside her, and glanced over to see Ward Kinsman.