Luther Irons was, if nothing else, a cunning man. He’d raised Colt, taught him everything—except integrity. That he’d learned from General Maddox Crane and his mother. The president would have to know that if he harmed one hair on his girls’ heads, Colt would stop at nothing to put him in the grave, and this place of exile would present no hindrance.
Pulling off his boots and shaking dust from his shirt and trousers, Colt draped them over a chair back and lay down. His saturated cotton undershirt clung to his body, but he was grateful for his airy boxers. He fell asleep, hoping the quartermaster could dig up another uniform.
Shortly after sunrise, with the smell of bread baking in the ovens almost enough to drive away the general stench, Colt climbed the ladder to the watchtower and rang the bell—fast, loud, hard—until groggy men began to emerge, half-dressed, from their barracks. Then he invited the pair whose overnight watch was ending to join them in the yard.
Unshaven and unwashed, the soldiers formed haphazard rows in the assembly area, grumbling and shaking their heads. Colt noticed Sergeant Slater and Corporal Mercer were fully dressed and awake, even if Slater hadn’t bothered to shave in four or five days. Out here, no one cared about Fort Resolute standards. Colt cared about giving this rabble purpose.
When Slater crossed his arms, presenting the new post commander a challenging smirk, Colt turned to Sergeant Antonio Castellano, the stablemaster, whom he had spoken to about reserving a mount. “Big Tony,” as the troops called him, wasn’t as tall as Slater, but was beefy enough to earn the nickname. A thick, black moustache dominated his round, tan face, and the spurs he always wore announced his entrance to any room.
“Company, attention!” he shouted, clicking his jingling heels together and standing tall.
The muttering ceased, but few men stood up straight or lifted their chins. Slater spat tobacco on the ground, his glare never veering from Colt. He pretended not to notice.
Holding a clipboard, Colt announced in a resounding voice, “When I call your name, step forward. Henderson, John.” He worked through the entire roster, aware of the six absent, serving their week at the mine. The doctor accounted for the only other two missing: Vasquez with a snakebite, and White with wounds from last night’s brawl.
“At ease,” Colt ordered. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “I’ll make this brief—I smell that bread baking too. The new duty rosters have been posted. You will show up for your assignments promptly and sober. There’ll be a lot of early mornings as I’ve drafted the schedule around an afternoon siesta. I want every man fit for duty, not passed out from laboring in the heat.”
He was met with a few smiles, which was an encouraging sign. “Daily patrols will ride your assigned circuits from 0700 to 1100, and evening patrols from 1700 to 2100 to avoid being scorched by overhead sun. These patrols are vital to our mission. Besides, you might come across a big lizard to add to your pot.”
He grinned, trying for a joke. Soldiers started to laugh, then glanced at Mercer or Slater. Seeing their stone faces, the laughter died away.
“You’ll see assignments begin after breakfast,” Colt continued. “As I said, getting this place cleaned up is a top priority. From now on, there will be blue barrels in the yard for your bottles and trash. You will deposit them there, not on the ground. You’ll be rotated through laundry duty, and I want to see clean uniforms—at least at the start of the day. The stables, corral, and livestock pens will be mucked out, which will help rid us of some of these damn flies. Take pride in your fort, men, and take pride in yourselves. Sergeant Castellano?”
Big Tony roared, “Company, dismissed!”
While some men wandered back to finish dressing, others headed for the outhouses or mess hall. Colt got the feeling not everyone was against him. Private Mendez and the doctor looked happy.
Colt strode straight to Rafe. “Sergeant Slater,” he acknowledged with a nod, his clipboard still in hand. “I’m in the market for an adjunct, and Mendez tells me you’re the man to ask.”
Rafe arched a brow. “He does?”
“Yes, Sergeant, and I can’t help but notice your natural leadership ability. Why, half of the men on this post look to you for almost everything. I’d say that makes you a pretty good person to ask. The only real qualification I require in a candidate is dependability. It would help if he wasn’t a drunk or a thief, but dependable will do.” He turned his clipboard toward a confused-looking Slater, whose eyes had rounded.
“Well, yeah, I mean, I suppose,” he waffled, as if his tongue had become tangled in his eye teeth and he couldn’t see what he was saying.
Colt leaned in conspiratorially. “And I hear you manage the poker tournament, handle the bets, and ensure nobody cheats?”
Rafe cleared his throat and shot a suspicious glance at Colt. “The fellas play cards,” he said, in the voice of one who’d been thrown off his stride. “Someone’s gotta be in charge, or there’s bedlam. A few years back, two guys stabbed each other over an ace of spades—and the fact there were two of ‘em in the deck. That ain’t happened since I been runnin’ the games.”
Colt nodded, as though in deep consideration. “Your pick for my assistant?”
The flicker of fear in Rafe’s eyes—the first weakness Colt had seen since his arrival—told him that the sergeant couldn’t read and preferred no one else know. Quickly, Slater held up a hand, puffed up his chest, and shook his head with a concealing grin.
“Let me tell ya up front,” he said in a cocky tone. “Mendez is your man. Hell, he’s too little for much else. Scrawny little kid doesn’t even belong out here.” He narrowed his brows, a shadow forming over his face as his grin fell into a frown. “I’d tell you what I think, but—”
“No, please, Sergeant Slater.” Colt took the clipboard, advancing a step to stand toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with Rafe. The smell of alcohol and cigars still clung to him like old sweat. “Tell me exactly what you think.”
Slater’s jaw hardened, and he inhaled sharply. In a low, dangerous tone, he said, “Your father, the president, only sends the most undesirable of enlistees to Fort Desperado. Criminals, colored folk, those who don’t waste their time attending church services, ones who don’t support the Dominion Party, the ones he’d sooner executed, except killin’s too good for us. What does that say about you?”
Colt didn’t blink. “Oh, you are indeed correct, my friend. But you see, I don’t care about President Irons, what he wants or what he thinks. Do you know what I do care about?”
Slater swallowed, seeming more muddled by Colt’s response than ever.
“I care about the Republic and its people. I care about my mother, brother, wife, and daughter. And, Sergeant Slater, I care about the soldiers under my command. You just met me, so, naturally, you don’t trust me. Give it time.”
Colt stepped back, pinning Rafe with an honest look. “Mendez, you say? Thanks. I’ll tell him he has a new job.”
Only after he’d turned, and was on his way to find young Andrew, did Colt allow a glimmer of hope into his eyes, a slight curve of his lips.Dad actually taught me a lot,he thought ironically,like how to co-opt an adversary.Oh, he was a long way from getting the influential yard boss on his side, but seeds had been sown. Mercer, he supposed, wouldn’t be as easy.