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 that exemplified the frontier army officer, a fact that Major Calvin found disconcerting. O’Hagen’s face was bluntly Irish and he was clean-shaven, something of an oddity in the days of sweeping mustaches and sideburns, Calvin supposed.
Since O’Hagen had been arrested upon his return to the post, his clothes still held the rank gaminess of a mouth-long patrol. His saber straps dangled limply against his thigh and his pistol holster was empty. Dust still powdered the dark blue of his shirt, sweat-soaked into the weave. There was a stiffened salt rime around his suspender straps and under his arms.
He leaned against the cell door and said, “You look worried, sir. You wouldn’t have a cigar on you, would you?”
“No cigar. And you’ve given me plenty to worry about.” Calvin wrinkled his nose distastefully. “You could do with a bath, Mister.”
“The facilities are poorly,” O’Hagen observed. “But you didn’t come here to see if I was comfortable, sir.” He grinned and his eyelids drew together, springing small crowsfeet toward his cheekbones. There was this rashness about O’Hagen that a general’s rank would not have concealed, and Calvin found himself becoming irritated by it.
“And then again, sir,” O’Hagen went on, “it could be that you’re goin’ to let me out. According to regulations, an officer is to be held in arrest of quarters, not confined.” He smiled. “Better let me out before General Crook arrives, sir. His finding me here will be a bigger mistake than locking me up in the first place.”
“I can justify my actions!”
“Want to bet, sir?” He watched Major Calvin gnaw his lip, then switched the subject. “Tell me, sir—how’s Mr. Osgood H. Sickles? Is his fat head still achin’?”
Major Calvin whipped his head around. “Mr. Meeker!” The officer-of-the-day appeared on the double. “Release Mr. O’Hagen.”
“Release him, sir? But I thought you said—”
Calvin’s patience was nearly rent. “Mr. Meeker, I am under the delusion that I command this post. Please be so good as to correct me if I’m in error in this matter.” He impaled Lieutenant Meeker with his eyes and watched the junior officer grow increasingly nervous.
Keys jangled. The cell door swung inward and O’Hagen followed Major Calvin outside. Crossing the parade to headquarters, Calvin said, “You fool, O’Hagen! Couldn’t you keep Libby away?”
“Maybe I like her company,” O’Hagen said.
“And I suspect you like Mrs. Sickles’ even more. She’s quite concerned about your welfare, Mister.”
“And you told her my health was superb?”
“I told her to forget about you,” Calvin said, “and that was good advice. I’d give that advice to any woman who was interested in you.”
“Sometimes you’re so kind I get all choked up,” O’Hagen said.
Calvin stopped in his tracks and glared at O’Hagen. “You’re like an Apache, O’Hagen; you don’t have respect for anything.” He walked on and entered the orderly room, slamming his office door. “Sit down,” he said and went behind his desk. “For your information, Mr. Sickles has recovered rather well.”
“Then I didn’t hit him as hard as I thought,” O’Hagen said with genuine regret.
“Don’t extend my patience beyond the limit I” Calvin stormed. He regarded O’Hagen bitterly, momentarily regretting that this officer was under arrest, for while he had prisoner status he was not bound by military courtesy. O’Hagen could literally say what he pleased without fear of reprisal.
Calvin blew out a long breath and rekindled his cigar. As an afterthought he offered one to O’Hagen. “Mr. Sickles’ eye has healed, although some discoloration remains.” Calvin’s teeth ground into his cigar. “Mr. O’Hagen, you’re more trouble to me than all the Apaches put together.”
“That comes with the uniform,” O’Hagen said softly, meeting Calvin’s eyes through the cigar smoke.
“I don’t hunt for it,” Calvin said. “Mr. O’Hagen, what ever possessed you to believe for a moment that Osgood Sickles would submit to this treatment? You’ve been trying to link him with the Apache raids for over a year now, and I tell you it’s gone far enough.”
Calvin was balancing his weight on stiffened arms, the knuckles crushed into the desk. He looked like a man about to leap into a fight. Finally he turned and stared out the window at the inky parade ground. “General Crook is arriving in the morning and since he has expressed a desire to meet you personally, I’ll let him sit on
