“Canteen girls?” Colt wasn’t familiar with the term.
“Yes, sir. The fancy ladies who give the fellas what they want in exchange for credits. Don’t worry,” he added hastily. “The doc always checks ‘em out first, and they come with bodyguards so none of ‘em gets hurt. It’s the highlight around here, along with the boxin’ matches, buzzard shootin’ contests, poker championships, and executions.”
Colt lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. His mouth and every other orifice seemed clogged with dust and grit, and every surface in the office was coated in the stuff. The heat was dry and oppressive, oven-hot, and Colt worried his legs weren’t as sturdy as they should be.
“Private, could you please bring me some water?”
“I’ll fetch a pitcher from the well. Major Voss liked to boil his first, but I drink the water, and it hasn’t killed me yet.” The nervous young man tried for a smile, then rushed off to fill his new captain’s order.
A calendar hung on the peeling, plastered wall, still open to a page three months back, with a date circled in red ink. Candles and oil lamps. A few books on shelves. An empty gun rack. A cactus in a clay pot. Glass windowpanes coated so thickly he couldn’t see through them. A leather-bound ledger on the desk. Colt brushed off the chair, careful of the folded piece of cardboard shimmed under one leg, and sat. The pine desktop was splattered with ink stains and gouge marks that would never come out.
He opened the ledger’s cover and scanned through the pages. Week One. Arrived with forty-three men. Twenty-six are serving reduced sentences. Command structure nominal. Sergeant Rafe Slater controls informal gatherings. I have ordered him reassigned. Request denied. I will manage him here.
Week Eight.Discipline deteriorating. Fights nightly. No response to bells. Cards and drink have replaced drills. The mine convoy remains untouched, which Headquarters will take as proof this post functions. It does not. It merely persists.
Week Fifteen.Corporal Elias Mercer watches everything. Says little. Slater mocks authority openly; Mercer undermines it quietly. I suspect Mercer could stop Slater if he wished. He does not wish to. Morale officially listed as “stable.” This is a lie I am now expected to repeat.
Week Thirty-one.Punishments ineffective. Men no longer fear the fort, only each other. Soldiers continually request transfers. Denied, as I have no authority to approve. This is not a safe place. I have begun locking my door at night.
Week Sixty-four.This post is not a command. It is an exile. I am relieved of duty tomorrow. Whoever replaces me will be blamed for what this place already is. If you are reading this, understand: order cannot be restored without blood, and blood will not be enough. God help you.— A. Voss
Colt quietly closed the book.The easiest thing would be to give up, bide my time until my father realizes what a tremendous mistake he’s made and brings me back.He drummed his fingers on the desk, flies scattering with indignant buzzes.
Andrew returned with a tin pitcher and a dented cup, which Colt hoped was clean. “Here you go, sir. But the storerooms stay stocked with beer. It’s mostlythe only thing the men have out here. Major Voss kept the keys in his top desk drawer. Did he give them to you when you arrived?”
Mendez poured the water and set the cup in front of Colt, who drank first. It had a distinctly metallic taste, on the edge of bitter. Colt doubted boiling it would remove the minerals, but distilling should. If he could find some copper tubing …
Setting down the cup, he looked up into a face that might become his only friend. Upon closer inspection, Colt noticed the fading bruises beneath his tan skin.One guess where those came from.The kid couldn’t be more than eighteen. Colt pulled open the drawer, wherein lay the keys, all fixed on a heavy ring.
“Thank you, Private Mendez. One more thing. Who was the corporal who welcomed me out in the courtyard?”
A new flicker of fear rippled across his expression, and Andrew swallowed. “Oh, that’s Corporal Elias Mercer, an ex-con. He has a, um, reputation.”
“How would you like to serve as my adjunct?” Colt smiled, hoping to set the young man at ease. Instead, his face creased with worry, and his eyes darted through the open doorway toward the yard. He rubbed his hands, shifting his meager weight from foot to foot.
“Thank you, sir, quite an honor, I’m sure, but I’m hardly qualified. You should ask Sergeant Slater who he would recommend.”
Colt leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Very well. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
The private forced a smile. “Not much to tell, really. Major Voss sent weekly patrols up to the mercury mine to stand guard. They get swapped out every Tuesday. It’s about the only real duty operation, except for the watchtower. The rest of the time …” His voice trailed off as he gazed back through the door. “Well, that’s about it.”
“Thank you, Mendez.” Colt stood and patted the private’s shoulder. “You have been most helpful. I’ll see you at roll call in the morning. Enjoy your evening and stay out of trouble.”
“Thank you, Captain Irons.” He actually blushed before escaping the office. Colt walked to the doorway and peered out. Two fistfights were alreadyunderway. Another clump of bored soldiers threw bottles at a wall, laughing as they smashed. He caught the familiar scents of manure and beans on the air. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled.
So this is where hope comes to die.He turned away and closed the door.
Chapter thirteen
Lines in the Dust
Colt found the beans, hardtack, and beer tolerable, glad for anything to fill his empty belly. He sat alone in a corner, observing the men, noting who gravitated to Slater, to Mercer, and those who avoided them both.
Before dinner, he’d gone to see the stablemaster about a horse—a necessity he insisted upon. He was offered his pick and settled on a rangy Appaloosa gelding with a dish face and a delicate build that signaled half-Arab. These ponies were bred for endurance and temperament, not beauty, though Colt liked the unique spotted pattern on the gelding’s rump.
Returning to his quarters, Colt slid the deadbolt, carried a lamp up sagging, worn stairs, and locked his bedroom door as well. Someone had poured water into his basin, but the sheets were rumpled and dusty. He wondered if the place even had a laundry. He dropped onto the bed and unbuttoned his uniform shirt.They didn’t even let me pack anything,he thought, too exhausted to work up any anger. But he did have one thing. With care, he drew a framed photograph from his breast pocket, mostly protected from dust and sweat. Reverently, he set the picture on the nightstand, illuminated by the soft lamplight.
For the first time in days, Colt felt a moment’s happiness as he gazed at his wife holding their baby daughter.Harmony, I’m here. Chloe, Daddy loves you.He said a prayer for them, reminding God of his mother’s promise to keep them safe. He knew she would … if she could.No, he won’t hurt them, Colt decided, thinking of his despot father.They’re the only leverage he holds over me.