style="font-size:15px;"> 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. There was a light in Major Sidney A. Calvin’s office and O’Hagen let himself in. From the doorway he looked back and saw Sickles and his wife walking across the parade to the spare picket quarters.
“There 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
