Trumpets West! Read online

  TRUMPETS WEST!

  by Luke Short

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  “Introduction” copyright © 2012 by Wildside Press LLC.

  Typesetting, design, and compilation copyright © 2012 by Wildside Press LLC.

  INTRODUCTION

  Luke Short (real name Frederick Dilley Glidden November 19, 1908 – August 18, 1975) was a popular Western writer.

  Born in Kewanee, Illinois Glidden attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign for two and a half years and then transferred to the University of Missouri at Columbia to study journalism.

  Following graduation in 1930 he worked for a number of newspapers before becoming a trapper in Canada then later moved to New Mexico to be an archeologist’s assistant.

  After reading Western pulp magazines and trying to escape unemployment he started writing Western fiction. He sold his first short story and novel in 1935 under the pen name of Luke Short (which was also the name of a famous gunslinger in the Old West, though it’s unclear if he was aware of that when he assumed the pen name.)

  Short’s apprenticeship in the pulps was comparatively brief. In 1938 he sold a short story, “The Warning” to Collier’s and in 1941 he sold his novel Blood on the Moon aka Gunman’s Chance to The Saturday Evening Post.

  After publishing over a dozen novels in the 1930s, he started writing for films in the ’40s. In 1948 alone four Luke Short novels appeared as movies. Some of his memorable film credits includes Ramrod (1947) and Blood on the Moon (1948).

  Short’s novel The Whip aka Doom Cliff was serialized in both Collier’s and The Saturday Evening Post. The first two parts were published in Collier’s in the December 21, 1956 and the January 4, 1957 issues. Collier’s then ceased publication. The Saturday Evening Post bought the rights to the remaining unpublished installment and published it on February 9, 1957.

  He continued to write novels, despite increasing trouble with his eyes, until his death in 1975. His ashes are buried in Aspen, Colorado, his home at the time of his death.

  * * * *

  Trumpets West! (1957) was the first volume of a line of novellas Dell published as “A Dell 10 Cent Book.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  UNDER ARREST

  Fort Akin’s one-room hospital stood at a corner of the parade grounds. Out of respect for the newly sown grass, those who wanted to reach headquarters building in the center of the opposite side of the ground had been ordered to use the gravel walk.

  On this late afternoon of an Arizona July, however, Lieutenant Burke Hanna stepped out of the hospital door and cut string-straight across the parade ground. He was a tall, unshaven, and dirty man in a moderate hurry, and his field uniform was grimed a color closer to gray than blue.

  Crossing the gravel drive, he went up the short walk of headquarters building. A hulking, barrel-chested sergeant major with a black, short-clipped beard that reached almost to his eyes, was coming down the veranda steps. He saluted and said, “Glad you’re back, sir.”

  “Thanks, O’Mara,” Burke said. His foot was on the bottom step when he halted, turned, and called, “O’Mara!”

  The sergeant came back to him, and Burke said, “Did you see those ration requests I sent in by Hardy?”

  “Yes, sir,” O’Mara said in the bland voice of an old soldier who knows his rights. “Captain Ervien wouldn’t sign them, sir.”

  Burke said, “Right. Thanks,” and went up the steps. Standing in the big doorway of the adobe building was Lieutenant Abe Byas, a big man with a morose and homely face and so wide of shoulder that he nearly blocked the doorway—which seemed to his intention now.

  Burke hauled up, and Byas said with gentle mockery in his deep voice, “Counted ten, Burke?”

  “I’ve counted ten thousand,” Burke said grimly. “Let me past, Abe.”

  “Sure,” Byas said, not moving. The two men regarded each other a long moment, then Burke Hanna drew a deep breath.

  “All right,” he said patiently. He lifted off his dusty campaign hat and beat at his trousers with it. His black hair, ragged at the edges, was darker than the thick beard stubble swirled on his lean and weather-blackened face. When he looked up, his wide mouth was humorless. He said bitterly, “What’s gone on here, Abe?”

  Byas only shook his head in kindly refusal to answer. “Did Doc Ford see your cripples?”

  Burke nodded, and said in the same bitter voice, “Two men half dead with dysentery. Raines’s feet are cut to ribbons; so are Kahn’s. A half-dozen others crippled up, and another dozen starved and played out or sick from a diet of horsemeat.” He paused. “Now can I get past?”

  Byas stood aside, and as Burke passed him he laid a hand on his arm. “Look, don’t go in there that way. Get a cinch on your temper, will you?”

  “Sure, sure,” Burke said wryly and went across the bare room and said to the sergeant behind the desk, “Lieutenant Hanna to see Captain Ervien.”

  “He’s got the agent with him, Lieutenant, but he’s expecting you,” said the sergeant.

  “Yes,” Burke said dryly. He paced once across the room and caught sight of Byas, huge in the doorway, watching him gloomily. Byas said, “Calla says come over for dinner tonight.”

  Burke said, “All right, thanks,” in as polite a voice as he could muster, then turned and looked speculatively at one of the chairs as Byas went out. If he sat down he would never want to get up, he knew.

  The door in the wall ahead of him opened, and a big, soft, pale man in an oversize black suit stepped through, closing the door behind him. He and Burke saw each other at the same time. For an instant it seemed as if there would be no recognition, then Burke said idly, “Hello, Corinne.”

  The Apache agent smiled and said with a false heartiness, “How are you, Hanna?” He nodded courteously to the sergeant and went out.

  Burke crushed his dusty campaign hat under his left arm, knocked firmly on the door Corinne had just closed, opened it, and went inside.

  Captain Ervien was at his desk, which was set across the corner of the room between two windows. The American flag and the squadron standard were stacked behind him. He did not look up until Burke was almost in front of him.

  Burke came to attention, saluted, and said, “Lieutenant Hanna reporting, sir.”

  Ervien returned the salute, then leaned back in his chair, regarding Burke’s appearance with a dark and cynical amusement that Burke, from three years of service with him as a junior officer, knew was sincere. Whatever ease there had been between the two men had vanished long before Ervien, upon Major Drummond’s death, had been appointed commanding officer. Ervien, handsome, thirty-five, with his well-tailored uniforms and his thorough and calculating knowledge of Army ways, had elected the course of the garrison soldier. Burke saw his nostrils twitch faintly, and he thought, He’s smelling horse for a change.

  Ervien said, “Burke, I saw you bring in K Troop. The lot of you looked more like a bunch of Mexican army deserters than soldiers.”

  “Maybe that’s because we’ve been treated like Mexican deserters, Phil,” Burke answered.

  Ervien blandly ignored that. “You were afoot. The only officer—walking, just like a damned infantryman. Why?”

  “We lost fifteen horses. Ate some, too.”

  “But not your own. Your sergeant was riding him.”

  Burke nodded shortly. “Raines had walked half the distance from Ojo Negro. His feet are badly cut. The whole troop walked half way, turn about.” He added with an edge to his voice, “That’s the only way we could get back here.”

  “You had rations and forage for five weeks,” Ervien said flatly. “Enough to find that renegade Ponce and his band, fight them if you had to, send them back to the reservation, and extend your patrol. Those were your ord
er, weren’t they?”

  “My dispatch to you explained that,” Burke said with a mounting aggressiveness. “We shared all our supplies with Ponce and his Apaches. That’s the only way we could get them back alive.”

  “He got to his hideout without Army rations!” Ervien flared. “Let him get back without them! Who are you to be giving away Army supplies? Let the black devils starve!”

  * * * *

  A blazing anger left Burke inarticulate for a moment. Ervien leaned his elbows on the desk. “Once you’d sent Ponce back, I suppose you sat there eating up your remaining rations and waiting for more instead of extending your patrol, as you were ordered?”

  “We sat six days. And why not?” Burke’s voice thickened with anger. “Good God, Phil, why didn’t you send the forage and rations and take it out of my pay if necessary? Instead, you sent a flat refusal and ordered out the patrol!”

  “You made the patrol, didn’t you?”

  “With half my troop afoot and sick from horsemeat!”

  “You have been gone four weeks and three days.” Ervien tapped he desk with his soft forefinger for emphasis. “You were issued rations for five weeks. I know that, because I just checked the supply records with Sergeant O’Mara. If you and your men suffered, you’ve nobody to blame but yourself.”

  There was, Burke knew savagely, no rebuttal open to him. Technically, Ervien was right, and yet Ponce, the Apache subchief he had been ordered to send back to the reservation, could not have brought his half-starved band through that poor, barren country without Army supplies.

  Ervien leaned back, laced his fingers atop his curly chestnut hair, and surveyed Burke. He said dryly, “You feel abused, Burke?”

  “I feel my men have been treated like dogs.”

  “Like troopers,” Ervien said sharply. “And damned poorly officered troopers.” He sat erect and said matter-of-factly, “We’ve got word that Federico, Ponce’s nephew, is skulking around the Mogollon Rim north, waiting for Ponce to get fed and supplied by the agency here. When he’s rested, Ponce intends to break and join him, and raid the Navajo country with him.” He paused, isolating this. “Tomorrow, suppose you draw rations and forage for two weeks, take K Troop up there, confirm Federico’s presence or absence, and return in two weeks. See if you can turn in a satisfactory job this time.”

  A stunned anger rose in Burke. He thought of his troop, a dozen hospitalized, the rest sick and exhausted, and he knew Ervien knew this. He said slowly, “You mean that, Phil?”

  “Those are your orders.” Ervien’s lips were set grimly.

  Burke had a grip on his temper, yet it was failing fast. He put both hands on Ervien’s desk and leaned on them. “Phil,” he began in a shaky voice, “this will make the fourth consecutive patrol for K Troop. In the past six months we’ve been out all but nine days. I suggest you send another troop.”

  “Those are your orders,” Ervien repeated.

  Then the rage came, and with violence. Burke slowly straightened up to attention, and said with a savage formality, “I refuse to obey them, sir.”

  There was a long moment of silence, during which Ervien eyed him shrewdly. Burke knew Ervien was casting up the probable results of a court martial, and when Ervien spoke now, it was still with confidence. “Want another chance, Burke?”

  “No, sir,” Burke said. “My only way of protesting that treatment of sick men is by refusing to obey your order. I do refuse.”

  Ervien said coldly, “Very well, you will consider yourself under arrest and confine your movements to the limits of the post, pending further action, Mister Hanna.”

  “Very good, sir.” Again Burke saluted, again had it returned, about-faced, and was halfway to the door when Captain Ervien said, “By the way, Mister Hanna,” in a soft, commanding voice.

  Burke paused and looked at him. Ervien picked up a sheaf of papers from the corner of his desk and tapped them. “I’ve read your report on the alleged offenses against the Apaches committed by Mr. Alec Corinne, their agent. I’ve just discussed the matter with him, and have only one comment.”

  Burke waited silently.

  “You seem to have a difficult time learning the soldiering profession. I suggest you study it and listen less to gossip. Let the Indian Bureau discipline its agents. That is not the Army’s business.” He tossed the paper into the wastebasket and Burke went out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TENDER WELCOME

  The late afternoon sunlight lay still and blazing on the parade ground, and the young trees lining the gravel walk rustled in the hot breeze. Burke tramped down the steps and turned right up the walk. The rage was still in him, a live thing that almost sickened him. He had, he knew, been systematically harried and ridden until he had rebelled—and now Ervien had him. Nor did he have to look for the reason; you didn’t write blistering reports about a crooked Indian agent and submit them to a superior officer who was engaged to marry the agent’s daughter, as Phil Ervien was going to marry Vinnie Corinne.

  He turned up the short walk leading to the low outsize adobe building that was the unmarried officers’ quarters and went in. The lounge was empty, and he went on down the corridor to his bare corner room at the rear of the building. He sank onto the plain iron bed and sat motionless, stupid with weariness.

  This, then, was his homecoming—on which he had planned to be married. The prospect of seeing Calla now brought a strange reluctance to him. In a matter of minutes, Lucy, Abe’s wife, would have learned of his arrest and would have told her sister Calla. News traveled like that in a remote post. And Calla, with everything set except the marriage day—which Burke was supposed to have settled with Ervien a moment ago—what would Calla do?

  Tiredly, despondently, Burke pulled off his boots. She couldn’t marry an officer under arrest, a man who could not wear a sword at his own wedding because he was forbidden now to carry arms, or leave the designated limits of the post. Or command troops.

  Burke swore darkly, thinking, Thirty is too damned old to let myself be baited into a fight with a CO, but he knew that wasn’t right either. Rising, he stripped off his torn and filthy uniform, put on slippers and robe, and went down the corridor to the big bathroom. There, he shaved and bathed with the slow thoroughness of a man who has done neither for many weeks, then started back to his room.

  Before he reached the door, he halted and sniffed. Only one man he knew smoked the black and vile Apache trade tobacco he was smelling now. He went on, and in the doorway, before he looked, he said gloomily, “Hello, Rush, you damn carrion crow.”

  Rush Doll was seated back-tilted on the chair at the foot of Burke’s bed, his feet on Burke’s blankets. He grinned sparsely around the long cigarette pasted in the corner of his mouth. He was a man of fifty, graying and dried by decades of Arizona summers. He wore a castoff army shirt, denim pants, and Apache moccasins, and was, unqualifiedly, the best packmaster in the West, and Burke’s friend.

  He gibed now by way of greeting, “Footed it back, I hear.”

  “On horsemeat,” Burke said wryly. He opened a drawer of the chest in the corner and took out some clothes.

  Rush said presently, “What’s a general court martial?” Burke turned to look at him.

  “So it’s out, is it?”

  “You wouldn’t go on patrol tomorrow, they say.”

  Burke nodded and savagely slammed the drawer shut. He said morosely, “The need for Lieutenant Hanna, and only Lieutenant Hanna, on patrol is what gravels me.” He glanced obliquely at Rush. “Remember that report on Corinne you helped me with?”

  Rush shook his head. “No. That’s not the reason.”

  Something in Rush’s tone held Burke motionless.

  “Things have been happening since you left,” Rush went on in a murmur. “He wants you out of the way.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Your report accused Corinne of long-countin’ the ’Paches so he could put their rations in his pocket, didn’t it? Well, he’s quit that. For th
e past month he’s been busy tradin’ the fat government-issue beef for all the scrub-cull beef anyone brings him. He trades at the rate of two fat beef for three culls.”

  Burke sat down slowly on his bed. “To issue to the Indians? That won’t do him any good. The beef is issued to the Apaches by weight, not by count.”

  “What if he’s rigged the agency scales to weigh out every beef at six hundred pounds or over, even if it really weighs three hundred?”

  Burke only stared at him and Rush went on, “Say he gets three hundred fat beef for issue. He trades two hundred of ’em off for three hundred culls. He issues the three hundred culls weighed on his rigged scale, then sells the hundred fat ones left and pockets the money.”

  Burke stared down at his bare and bruised feet. Ervien’s order made sense now. There was only one man in either post or agency who cared enough about the Indians’ welfare to keep their agent honest, and that man was himself. And his reason was simple enough; he was tired of seeing Apaches starved into breaking out, and then having to fight or capture them. Now Ervien, protecting his prospective father-in-law, wanted him out of the way, and he had him out of the way.

  As Burke reached for his socks, a thought came to him. He asked Rush, “What about Ponce’s bunch I sent back? Have they been fed well and issued rations?”

  “They ain’t had a square meal since they hit the reservation,” Rush said.

  Broodingly, Burke dressed, silent now. He had almost forgotten Rush when Rush said searchingly, “You goin’ to put that in your new report?”

  Burke said unsmilingly, “You think Ponce would talk with me tonight?”

  “How?” Rush asked. “You can’t leave the post, and he ain’t allowed to come on it after dark.”

  Burke thought a moment and said, “You bring him over to the blacksmith shop after dark. That’s post limits. We can talk there and neither of us will be disobeying orders.” He looked levelly at Rush. “I promised Ponce we’d treat him right if he came back. If we don’t, he’ll bust out and gut this country. And,” he added slowly, “I wouldn’t blame him.”