Drew had become accustomed to mules. An admirer of horseflesh, he had felt an initial sense of personal insult at being instructed to mount so aesthetically displeasing a creature as a mule, but was won over in the end for the same reason the army favored these beasts in the southwestern region; they were tough, hardy and enduring, even under the most unforgiving of conditions, and, despite occasional contrariness of temperament, would serve a man well in circumstances that would quickly kill even the finest horse. Mules, Drew was told, were made of nails and leather and brushwood, and could sustain any mode of punishment but love. “Never love your mule,” was the advice given, “or he’ll make you regret it. Just tend him in the regular fashion, without extra grooming and attention and such, and he’ll see you through hell and high water. Scorn your mule as he scorns you, and the both of you will survive.”
Fort Mobley had been without any Indian tracker or guide since April, when Charley Kicking Horse had demonstrated his ability to withstand snakebite by deliberately allowing a rattler to strike him twice in the forearm. Charley Kicking Horse maintained that whites were liable to succumb to such bland stuff as snake venom solely on account of their pallid skins, whereas the superior blood of the native American was fully able to withstand the poison. When his arm swelled to three times its normal size, Charley laughed it off as an inconvenience, nothing more, and there was no company surgeon available in any case to suggest that his estimation of Indian blood had been unrealistically biased. When his body weakened and his heart began fluttering in an unaccustomed manner, Charley went so far as to admit that the snake had been stocked with poison of strength and quantity, and he allowed himself the solace of whiskey, in the tight embrace of which he died, still convinced he would be able to rise again as soon as the effects of the venom abated. Everyone had agreed it served him right for having compared himself with white folks, and the general level of dissatisfaction with Charley’s performance was such that he was taken far from the post for burial, and even then was not provided with an actual grave. Charley’s body drew buzzards for three days.
It was fortunate, given the absence of Charley Kicking Horse, that Lieutenant Dobson had made no attempt to obscure his tracks. The two sets of hoofprints headed toward Fort Stanton with such unerring directness as to indicate Dobson’s possession of a compass. Sergeant Shrike assigned Wilson, who often bragged of his eyesight, to be head tracker, and Wilson acquitted himself well in a tolerably difficult task, given that the ground sometimes was so rocky the signs of Dobson’s passing were often obscured for a hundred yards or more.
As the day wore on, it became apparent Dobson was not pausing to rest, thereby obliging his pursuers to do the same. Even before noon, the sun pressed against them with a fierceness that set them sagging on their mules like wilted stalks of flesh dressed in blue, and their heads rang with the silence and heat and empty reaches of nothingness around them.
The sand-colored mountains swam like islands suspended in the shimmering air, supported by inexplicable underpinnings of sky, and sagebrush rippled and swayed like seaweed to the incandescent horizon.
Sergeant Shrike did suggest that the men conserve their water, but when he heard the telltale swish and gurgle of upended canteens behind him, he neither turned nor scolded, since this would have been a waste of time and breath; if the water swillers died of thirst, at least they would be unable to desert.
Hardtack rations were eaten in the saddle, the mules given no opportunity to rest until Rafferty chose to bring his to a halt in order that he might dismount and relieve his bowels. Taking his cue from Rafferty, Osgood also stopped, and Fannin too. This brought Taynton to inquire of Sergeant Shrike if maybe they weren’t pressing ahead too hard. The sergeant said they were not, but Taynton stopped anyway, as did Drew, and when he became aware of the column’s breakup behind him, Wilson followed suit. Bowing to the first of the inevitable compromises he knew were coming, Shrike gave the order to halt, knowing better than to designate a time limit.
While they rested, the men spoke little. Even Drew was chastened by the sheer effort required to focus his thoughts, and was reminded of the time he spent afoot on a desert road those many years ago, through country less harsh than this, and of the unlikely friend he found at the end of that road. Yancy had hinted at time spent in the military, and warned Drew never to take that route. Drew wondered if he might now justifiably take his leave. His promise to Judge Craven had been fulfilled—he had indeed joined the army—and the judge had not specified how long he should feel obligated to remain. It was a decision becoming easier by the hour to make. Drew asked himself if Taynton should be acquainted with the drift of his thinking; surely the man had had enough of army life by now to contemplate an unofficial leavetaking. He was a man to Drew’s liking, and it would be enjoyable to share the minimal risks of desertion with a friend, rather than face the task alone.
“Supposing we catch up with Dobson,” said Taynton, settling beside Drew in the shade of his mule. “Then what?”
“Then we take him back.”
“You feel like doing that, Bones? What did the man do but what any man would’ve, look at a woman undressed, and break himself out of a cell he never should’ve been inside of anyway. He hasn’t done a damn thing that makes me want to drag him in front of Mayles for.”
“What are you saying—we should somehow not find him?”
“That’s one way out. This whole thing is nothing to do with us. It’s a personal quarrel between officers, neither one of which is worth a pinch of muleshit, in my opinion.”
“But that’s the army way, Taynton, to do as they tell us, muleshit or not.”
“I know it.”
“So I’m asking you, is there some way to resolve this contradiction, or do we just keep on doing what the muleshit wants us to?”
“Bones, I do admire your way with the language and all, but I wish sometimes you’d come right out and say what you mean, because I’m thinking I know what you mean, only I can’t be sure, see, so I can’t be answering your question, not till I know for sure.”
“We’re a fair distance from Mobley is what I mean, and by this time tomorrow we’ll be a considerable distance more, but pretty soon after that we’ll be getting closer to Fort Stanton, and I don’t want to go back there, my friend, because in spite of my beard, there’s portraits of me hanging in that place which, although flattering, might get me returned in chains to Texas.”
“I always figured there was something more to you than the eye saw. There’s punishments for what you’re thinking about doing too, and chains is the least of it.”
“They’d have to find us first.”
“Us?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. When was the last time you heard about a deserter being caught?”
“’Bout nine months back, but he deserved it, the fool. They got him in Albuquerque, drunk and telling the world what he’d done, so I never did sympathize with him getting fifteen years like they gave him.”
“You and I wouldn’t be so dumb.”
“No, I reckon not. Where would you be thinking to head?”
“North, to Colorado.”
“That’s a cooler place than this here.”
“Do we do it, then, or don’t we?”
Taynton scratched at the dust with a stick and ran his coated tongue around his teeth, then looked at Drew.
“I guess I can trust you, and you me. I’m game to light out from this man’s army, but only if we plan it out real careful. I’m not of a mind to get captured and brung back. Desertion’s more of a sin than what Dobson did.”
Drew extended his hand, and Taynton shook it.
“Tomorrow night’s best, I figure.”
“I agree.”
“Then I reckon that’s settled.”
The afternoon saw a slowing of the pace attempted by Shrike during the cooler morning hours. Even the mules began to plod. Wilson began losing the trail more often, and for longer per
iods. Sergeant Shrike guessed part of this was deliberate, a way of avoiding contact with Dobson, and all that such an encounter would entail. He sympathized with such reluctance to engage their quarry, but they had been given the order to apprehend the lieutenant before he reached Fort Stanton, and it was a matter of professional pride that they should acquit themselves, if not with honor, then at least to the best of their human ability. Wilson was sabotaging Shrike’s efforts to accomplish this, with his feeble pretense of being unable to find the hoofprints of Dobson’s mules. There was little point in chastising him for it; Wilson was a wonderful liar, and would simply present an injured look, and Rafferty would likely defend him by suggesting that Shrike get down off his mule and attempt to find the trail himself. It was better to say nothing.
By nightfall the hunters were thoroughly disenchanted with their mission, and flung themselves down to sleep without the benefit of a fire for their meal, since that might have alerted Dobson to their presence close behind him. Dobson apparently exercised the same wisdom, since no fire could be seen ahead, in fact the surrounding country was made dark as pitch by the absence of any moon, and the darkness itself seemed threatening, its utter absence of feature, its inky impenetrability containing any and all things a frightened man cared to project into it.
Every trooper was required to stand a shift on watch, and each one in turn was made aware of how small and vulnerable was his mortal body, how immeasurably large the night around him. Wilson said to Taynton, who relieved him after midnight, “It’s no place to be, this, not while there’s guilt in your soul.” Taynton admitted surprise at finding Wilson believed in the soul, and Wilson said in reply, “Just you be getting one yourself, and quick, before morning comes on us all like bright hellfire.” It was unlike Wilson to express himself in this manner, and Taynton was amused, yet somehow disturbed. The sleepy whimperings that came from Fannin throughout Taynton’s watch did nothing to lighten his mood. He calmed himself with constant remindings of his plan to escape with Bones the following night, which presumably would be as dark as the one he found himself staring into with the helplessness of a man already hurtling down a well.
For the first few hours of the second day, Shrike was optimistic. Dobson’s mules continued to leave an occasionally discernible trail that Wilson, for all that he tried to lose it, could not, and the tracks themselves seemed somehow fresher, deeper than before, even though the ground itself was no softer. At midmorning the hunting party was surprised to follow the tracks in a wide circle that turned to the left before crossing its own line and continuing on. Shortly thereafter, the hoofprints traced out a circle to the right, then resumed their original direction. It was a puzzling phenomenon, and the likelihood of Dobson having become disoriented, if not downright insane, beneath the desert sun was given consideration.
“Has to be craziness,” said Rafferty, “or he wouldn’t be coming back on course like he is.”
“Got himself a compass, sure,” said Osgood.
“Then why waste time riding in circles?” Drew asked for them all.
“Craziness,” repeated Rafferty, “like I said.”
“He’s made us waste time too, following the circles all the way around,” said Taynton. “Next time he does it, we should just skip the circle and follow on from where the lines cross. He does it enough times, we’ll catch up—isn’t that right, Sarge?”
“Most likely correct,” Shrike agreed.
They pressed on, given new interest in their mission by Dobson’s peculiar behavior. At noon they encountered a pile of human waste laid squarely in the middle of the tracks, yet Dobson’s bootprints were nowhere to be seen.
“He’s making fun of us,” said Wilson. “Knows we’re here and takes the time to do a thing like this. The lieutenant’s gone in the head.”
“Not even wearing his boots anymore,” put in Osgood.
“But there aren’t any footprints either,” Drew cautioned. “Something’s not right about this.”
“It’s Dobson’s head that ain’t right.”
“Bones is right,” whined Fannin. “There’s something not normal, what Dobson’s doing. Let’s go back. He’ll die anyway before he gets to Stanton. Let’s go back …”
“Hell, no, not before we get him and see if he’s raving,” said Wilson. “I never saw a crazy man before.”
Shrike had already moved a little ahead of the rest, as a means of persuading them to hurry along. He was curious himself to see what kind of shape Dobson had been reduced to. It was strange, though; thirty-six hours seemed a remarkably short time in which to go insane.
Dobson’s shape was revealed before one o’clock. Two more circlings had been bypassed in order to lessen the distance between hunters and hunted, and as Shrike’s party rounded an outcrop of yellow rock, their quarry was revealed. Dobson sat facing them, naked, his bowels in his lap. His genitals had been removed piecemeal, and deposited on top of his head like a jaunty little cap. A long section of his digestive system’s tubing had been curled around his neck like a scarf. His boots had been placed over his hands, and his gauntlets covered his feet. The effect was of some horrific prankster at work. Fannin fell from his mule in a swoon of terror. Carbines were dragged from their scabbards, and eyes frantically scanned the nearest rocks for the shadow of whatever monster had played its wicked games with Dobson’s corpse. Shrike attempted to formulate a command that might serve to assert his authority, but could think of nothing, and the men under his command milled around the obscene discovery without any idea what to do. The mules were disturbed by the smell of blood and ruptured organs, and some began bucking and plunging to dislodge their riders.
“Stay together!” yelled Taynton. “There’s got to be more than one! Osgood, get Fannin mounted up!”
Osgood turned his mule and began riding back the way they had come. This inspired a general panic, in which Osgood’s choice of direction seemed the wisest to follow. Even Shrike was compelled to race after his subordinates, and less than a minute after Dobson was found, Drew and Taynton, along with the unconscious Fannin, were alone with the lieutenant’s butchered corpse. Fannin’s mule had run off with the rest.
“Bones,” said Taynton, “I figure the time has come. We can just go the other way and disappear, and if any of those brave sons of bitches make it back to Mobley, they’ll say we were most likely killed by whoever did that to Dobson.”
“And whoever did it most likely will, don’t you think? And what about Fannin?”
“I never liked him anyway, the little weasel. I’m not passing up a chance to do what we planned, just on account of Fannin. Now, are you with me or not?”
“I’m with you, but I can’t leave him the way he is.”
Drew went to Fannin and lightly slapped his face until his eyes opened and he suddenly sat up. The first thing Fannin saw was Dobson again, and he screamed. Drew slapped him again, harder. “Hush up, Fannin, and listen. They all lit out back the way we came, even your friend Osgood. Do you want to go that way too, or come with Taynton and me? We think it’s best to split up. Whoever did it to Dobson can’t track us all. What’s your choice?”
Fannin scrambled on hands and knees for a short distance, then wrapped both arms around his head and began a catlike mewling, his body curled into as tight a ball as was possible. Drew approached him again. “Fannin, you have to choose.”
“He can’t,” Taynton said. “He’s lost his mind, most likely can’t even hear you.”
“Fannin, we’re leaving here. Are you coming or not? Quit that stupid noise!”
But Fannin could not. Drew stood over him, unable to decide himself what he should do.
“Time’s a-wasting, Bones. Now or never.”
Drew nodded. “Fannin, we’re going now. Get up.”
Fannin continued to mew, hiding his face from the terrible end he now knew had been waiting for him all his life. The thing that had happened to Dobson would happen to him, he had no doubt, and whoever kept droning words into
his ear was simply coming between Fannin and that end, and so had to be ignored. If all noise stopped, the end would come, and be mercifully brief. He heard further buzzings of conversation, then the shuffle of hooves, then nothing, blessed nothing. He was aware of being very hot and thirsty, but these discomforts were without meaning. He simply had to blanket his eyes with darkness and await the end. It had been a poor kind of life in any case. He hadn’t even slept with a woman, or found a friend worthy of his trust, hadn’t made his mark on the world in any fashion whatsoever. This was what he had been born for, this blind huddling in the company of a mutilated man. It was horrible, but Fannin knew things could have ended for him no other way. That was why he had been dreaming his dreams of death. He felt almost calm now, having accepted that the farce called life was almost done for him. He even made an effort to stop uttering the sound that had been humming in his head and throat, and succeeded, but when the silence came, he felt something replace it, something that made no sound as it came nearer. Fannin found the courage within himself to look up at the devils sent from hell to drag him down among the darkling caverns within the earth.
Drew was not proud to have abandoned a man to whatever had killed Dobson. He felt that even a crazy person he had never liked when sane deserved forcible extraction from the immediate area of danger. Then again, there were not enough mules. If he and Taynton intended reaching civilization, two mules shared among three men would have been a considerable handicap, given the heat and distance involved. He had asked Fannin to choose, and could tell himself Fannin’s choice had been to ignore him, but still Drew felt guilty as he rode alongside Taynton, his carbine held ready across the saddle. It had been an unheroic retreat, and might not in fact be a retreat at all, but an advance into worse horrors. Fannin’s fate became less a matter of moral concern and more a needless distraction with every mile.