The Colonel's Lady by Clifton Adams

White Mountain Apaches—had their stronghold. Near sundown that day the Papago scout pointed to the west, where a sheer, almost invisible column of smoke climbed leisurely into an endless sky. We watched the column part cleanly, as if it had been cut off with a knife, and after a moment another column began to rise. The smoke seemed harmless and very far away.
    “Sergeant Skiborsky,” Halan said, “take two men and go up ahead with the scout. If there is any trouble you know what to do.”
    “Yes, sir,” Skiborsky said, kneeing up.
    “The Boulder Springs are no more than two miles ahead. We'll bivouac there for the night if everything is all right.”
    “Yes, sir,” Skiborsky said again. He wheeled his horse out of column, studying faces as they passed. “Reardon,” he said, “you and Morgan.”
    I must have shown surprise that he would select, two green men to go with him that far ahead of the main column. “You might as well find out now,” he said, grinning, “what this country is like.” He turned to the Papago. “All right, Juan, let's go.” The Indian kicked his pony and we left the column behind at the gallop.
    After about a mile the country began to get more ragged and dangerous than ever and we slowed to a walk. Finally we got down and led our horses around and over the high-piled boulders. The Indian, traveling lighter and faster, forged on ahead of us.
    Morgan frowned. “I don't like trustin' that redstick so much.”
    “Papagos?” Skiborsky said, looking around. “They haven't been at war with Americans for years. Juan's all right.”
    “Is that his real name?” I asked. “Juan?”
    “Sure. A lot of Papagos have Mexican names. Some Apaches too, for that matter.”
    We moved on and pretty soon we saw an enormous hill, almost a mountain, that looked to be nothing but one great boulder piled on top of another. We topped a rise and headed down into a rocky ravine, and there we saw Juan on his belly drinking from a small pool of water. We headed straight for the spring.
    “Hadn't we better scout this place first?” Morgan said.
    “Juan's already done it, and a lot better than any of us could. There's nothing Apaches like better than killin' Papagos and Pimas. They call them converted Indians. They consider them a disgrace to the Indian race for takin' up with the white men.”
    We stopped at the springs and drank and filled our canteens. Juan took the blanket from his pony's back— the only saddle he used—and cut the sweat from the animal's chest and shoulders with the edge of his hand. He could have been the only living thing for miles around, for all the attention he paid us.
    “Morgan,” Skiborsky said, “can you find your way back to the column?”
    “What the hell do you think I am, a dude?”
    “All right, get back and tell Captain Halan it's all right to bring the patrol in. There's no sign of Kohi.”
    Morgan took a brown twist of tobacco from his shirt pocket—the only kind we could get at the sutler's store —broke off a small piece, and rolled it between his hands to crumble it. He poured the flakes into a charred brier pipe, tamping it carefully, taking his time, plainly daring Skiborsky to tell him to hurry.
    The Sergeant said, “Unbit and unsaddle, Reardon. We'll stay here until the column comes.” Morgan, in good time, lighted his pipe, climbed back in the saddle, and rode off.
    “Is he a friend of yours?” Skiborsky asked after we had set the horses to grazing beside the pool.
    “Morgan? I didn't know him until he got in the wagon outside of Tucson.”
    We filled our own pipes and sat down against a boulder, watching Juan inspect his pony. “He's askin' for trouble,” Skiborsky said finally. “Most men get all the trouble they want in a place like Larrymoor, but Morgan goes on askin' for it.” He puffed thoughtfully. “If the telegraph was up, maybe we'd find out why.”
    I remembered the way Morgan had grinned when he saw the telegraph lines down. “What