Chapter 13 Lines in the Dust #2
“Well, see,” Andrew timidly explained. “We don’t get enough real coffee here, so the cook has to stretch it.”
“With what?”
“Chicory root, roasted dandelion root, California coffeeberry, sticky weed seeds, whatever,” the lad answered. “Slater says it’s bat guano, but I don’t believe him,” he added with a nervous laugh. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what to believe.”
“Quite true,” Colt replied, thinking back over all the things he once believed. The real world was much harsher, muddied with degrees of good and evil rather than absolutes. He would never have believed his father would execute General Crane … or send him here.
“So, what’s first, Captain?”
“Show me to the aviary,” he said, returning his thoughts to the present. “I need to send an urgent request. This fort needs a second officer.”
Andrew rose, gathering his empty plate and cup. “We have the doctor. He’s a captain.”
“Yeah, but he’s the doc, not a military man.” Colt and Andrew took their plates to the dirty-dishes bin and walked out together. “No, I need a second in command. No tellin’ what’ll happen out here.”
“True.”
Colt paused, surveying the yard. A squad of ten, supervised by Corporal Mercer, wandered about, collecting bottles and trash and dropping them into the blue barrels.
When Mercer caught sight of him, he called to the soldiers, “You’re on Army time, boys.
No rush.” His stance and stare came across as challenging, but Colt wasn’t biting.
One bully at a time, he thought. At least Mercer isn’t in open rebellion.
“This way, sir,” Andrew said, leading him to a stairway.
Atop the thick clay walls, a walkway a meter wide stretched with spiked parapets ranging from waist to shoulder height, marked by cutaways for firing.
About a quarter of the way around from the tower, built over the stables, stood a wire-frame aviary, housing pigeons trained to home to other bases and the capital.
Like everything else, it reeked of neglect.
A dead bird lay in one of the cages, and most of the water dishes were layered in dust.
“Mendez, who’s responsible for these pigeons?” Colt demanded, ire burning at the apathy and neglect.
“I-I don’t know, sir,” he stammered, worry tugging at his face. “I think Major Voss looked after them.”
“As my assistant, I’m putting you in charge from now on, Private,” Colt said firmly.
“And I don’t want to be finding dead birds.
They are our lifeline, our means of communication.
What if Fort Desperado was attacked? Get water and scratch up here right now.
You’ll check on them every morning before mess and every night before you retire. Understood?”
The private snapped to attention and saluted. “Sir, yes, sir!”
“Good man.”
While Andrew went to fetch water and seeds, Colt wrote a note:
URGENT
Army Personnel Office, Fort Resolute
Lt. Jackson—deceased
Fort Desperado requires immediate replacement lieutenant.
—C. Irons
Colt ordered the heavy gates opened when the evening patrol returned at dusk.
He’d earned a splattering of respect from Stablemaster Castellano, the cook, and Private Mendez.
Many of the others remained suspicious or skeptical, while a few displayed their displeasure at every turn.
But no one had tried to assassinate him, so Colt considered it an excellent start.
The squad of eight trotted their horses through the gates with eager faces and cheerful chatter. Soldiers stopped what they were doing to stare.
“Looky here, Cap’n!” exclaimed the corporal who’d led the patrol. With great effort, he raised a bulky Gila monster from the front of his saddle. Soldiers gathered around.
Another from the squad held up a cord with rabbit’s feet tied to it. “And these!” His grin showed off his pride.
“No human varmints to report,” the corporal said. He handed down the large lizard to another soldier. “But we came across a dead horse about ten kilometers west along the river—looked like it’d been there a few days, half-picked clean. Jimbo retrieved the saddle.”
Another patrolman dropped a weathered, leather saddle to the ground, and his pony shuffled to the side.
“Good job, men,” Colt replied. “Sergeant Slater, you have tomorrow morning’s patrol, correct?”
The big, scruffy man shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth and nodded.
“Keep an eye out for the rider—dead or alive. He had to have come from somewhere.”
The squad dismounted, conversing with their friends, as they led their ponies to the stable, while several others hauled the fresh meat toward the kitchen.
Smiles, Colt thought. I’ll take them. Mercer eyed him from across the yard—granite-jawed, lean power, unmoved by Colt’s minor triumph.
Slater moseyed up to him with a dubious expression. “You think there’s someone out there? That’s crazy.”
“Maybe,” Colt said, meeting his gaze. “Last time I checked, horses don’t saddle themselves. Just watch your six. You are far more valuable to me alive than dead.”
Slater rolled his eyes and smirked. “Well, thanks—I think.”