3.
Sergeant Thomas “Tom” Stack looked to the
nearby hills. He felt the Apaches were out there. They have been chasing the
shadows for days.
“Ute,” Sergeant Tom called the Pima scout who
was dressed in the Calvary jacket and striped pants. He even carried the
Spencer rifle on the saddle. The scout walked over with his moccasin footwear
and his steps were silent to the ears.
“How many you think they are out there?”
“I counted thirty of them. They are split into
two groups. They won’t attack us at this hour. We are too many and we have a big
house.” The Sergeant heard the scout. It was the Apache way to fight with
stealth, and they ambush their enemies with hit and run battles. He had read
the reports that the Geronimo army was not big; the last reported count was not
more than fifty riders. The seasoned Apache leader once led half of his tribe
from the reservation at San Carlos Reservation to Mexico. It was soon after the
death of Cochise; another great leader of the Apaches. Geronimo was captured
and returned to San Carlos but he escaped once more. Geronimo evaded the
authorities several times and laid ambush across the border.
“Geronimo is a great leader. He may be old but
his medicine is strong.” The Sergeant praised the other. He then looked to the
men that were under his command. The Corporal had placed picket duties around
the Outpost, and the men off duty were resting on the hard ground outside the
Outpost.
“Sergeant, all the men are accounted for.” The
Corporal reported in.
“Have your bedding by the Outpost door. In case
of any trouble, go in there.” The Sergeant told the other. “I will be in the
barn.”
It was the Sergeant saw the pregnant lady
stepping out of the Outpost with the suave gentleman he knew as Mr. Hatfield.
He was not a young man and envious of any female companion. His own wife had
died giving birth to the child which also did not live longer then. He had
since then given up on any family and volunteered to fight in the Apache war.
His only other preferences were the card games and whiskey.
“Mrs. Mallory, are you feeling better?” Mr.
Hatfield was the gentleman holding the lady’s right elbow while she leaned on
the Outpost pillar on the porch.
“I am fine, Mr. Hatfield. It was …. stuffy
inside and I needed some air.” Mrs. Mallory had heard the news of her husband
being wounded and despite being assured that he will be fine, she was all
concerned for him. She wished she had come earlier to the frontier but the
doctor in attendance to her told her it was not advisable. More to it the other
army wives were all forthcoming to stop her. She had enough of their concerns
and took the journey then. It was by train and then the last stretch by stagecoach. She was not expecting it to be so
tiresome and made worse by the man seated across her was in irons. She was raised a Virginian lady with her fine upbringing. Her father had prospered from
the Civil War and she found her love in the young officer then by name of
Mallory.
James was a fine man with his father who was a
Medical Doctor but the elderly man sanctioned his son to join the Army. James
had courted her for a while before he approached the lady’s father for her hand
in marriage. It has consented and soon she was Mrs. Mallory. It was fine until
she got to know he had asked for a transfer to the South.
“I had to go, darling. The South is in chaos
with the Indian wars. If I am there, I stand a chance to be a Major or
Colonel.” James plea to her was seconded by her own father who felt the son in
law needed the ranks to be seen in the society. He left soon enough but it was
only his departure, she knew of her pregnancy. She offered to be near him but
his letters were quite explicit in denial. She was to stay at home.
“Tell me, Mr. Hatfield. Why are you here?” Mrs
Mallory decided to shift the subject matter.
“Well,” Mr. Hatfield was stunned by the
request. He had never spoken of his past before to a stranger or recent
acquaintance. “I …”
“Pardon my manners, Mr. Hatfield. I am being
rude to ask you.” Mrs. Mallory retracted her earlier request.
“None at all, ma’am. I am actually going back
…. home.” Mr. Hatfield smiled. “I am from these parts. I was born in Texas and
have lived here for some years before I went North.”
Mr. Martin Hatfield was not his real name. He
was christened Merrill McCarthy by his father then who was a cotton farmer
inherited from his family. Their land was not huge but it was worked on by a
hundred slaves before the Civil War. The war took its toll on the family with
his two uncles dead fighting for the South, and his father maimed in the right
leg. They lost their slaves, and their farm was halved. The family toiled on
with the new laborers they hired but the proceeds were not enough. Soon, Merrill
was sent to his mother’s family at Ohio to be raised there. He left at a tender
age of six and never looked back. Merrill could not fit into the Northern
supporter family, and with his lineage, he was bullied. He took on his own path
at the age of ten to leave the adopted home and return to his mother. Instead, he found himself in the company of dubious men. He was to join them at the
border to the wilderness of the North, where he learned to hunt and kill before
he left for the French influence of Quebec. He was then under the patronage of
a fine gambler and was taught the finer skills of being a gambler. He was soon
to change from the bearded rough pelt trader to the charming adulthood
gentleman at the tables. He made his way south towards Virginia after a
harrowing period of avoiding the French scoundrels. He moved from places to
places with his gambling skills to sustain himself. He was in Virginia then to Kentucky
and Tennessee go Missouri. He avoided the South to reignite his desire to seek
his family but the call of the South was too great. He turned towards Arkansas
and then Mississippi where he saw the Kid gunned down his friend. Merrill was a partner with the other and they gambled on separate tables but they shared
their winnings.
Merrill left alone then moved from one town to
another, before he took the bold step to go home.
“Why, Mr. Hatfield. That was an interesting
tale.” Merrill aka Hatfield had told another fabricated tale to Mrs. Mallory.
He had hidden the part of the fur trading and the gambling but painting himself
as a traveling scholar.
“You gave up on your law practice to go back to
Texas.” Mrs. Mallory smiled at the young man. “It must have been hard on you.”
“Yes, but the call of my sweetheart back home
in Texas was overbearing.” Mr. Hatfield further fabricated his tale. “Tell me
of your husband; Mr. Mallory.”
Besides gambling, Mr. Hatfield was also a
shyster. He had conned a few ladies of their wealth. He could tell then that
Mrs. Mallory was with some wealth.
Above it all, he wanted to kill me. I took away
his real love,
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