name to be particularly feared, at that. An obscure chief of an obscure band of Coyotero Apaches making their last stand, fighting their last fight. It was a fight that they didn't have a chance of winning, because the white men would keep coming and keep coming until finally they would overwhelm them, as they were already overwhelming Cochise and his Chiricahuas in the south. I almost felt sorry for Kohi... and then I thought again of the family we had buried.
Then, as she always did, sooner or later, Caroline came into my thoughts. No matter what I was thinking, Caroline could push it aside and come walking into my mind.
Chapter Three
I N THE NEXT two weeks we learned what cavalry life was like in an outpost fort like Larrymoor. We learned to sit a McClellan saddle with ramrods for backbones, and we learned to ride in formation until we could make line turns in review as straight and precise as the spokes on a turning wheel. We learned that horses had to be cared for in a special Army way, and after spending eight hours in the saddle you took the animal to the stables and you curried him and brushed him and you inspected his hoofs and legs for unnoticed bruises and cuts and you inspected his back for traces of saddle sores. And then you curried and brushed him some more, and after all that was done you fed him and watered him and shoveled his manure for him and hauled it outside the fort and dumped it. And by the time you got back you thought you would never want to look at another horse again.
Because I had served four years in a wartime volunteer horse regiment, I thought I knew something about the cavalry. I didn't. I didn't even know how to ride a horse at a walk. But I learned. Skiborsky screamed at us and cursed us and threatened us, and the old-time troopers came down to the riding ring and leaned on the rails and laughed at us. But we learned. Skiborsky, it turned out, was also with A Company, and he taught us. Morgan swore daily that he would kill him, but he didn't. He learned to ride.
It was harder on Morgan that it was for the rest of us because Morgan was a Texan. There wasn't a time that he could remember when he hadn't been at home on a horse—but he hadn't learned to ride the cavalry way. In Texas there had been plenty of horses for remounts.
There were no remounts at Larrymoor—at least, not many—so you took care of your horse and pampered him, because your life might depend on him. Your horse came first, and then your carbine and revolver, and after you were sure that they were in perfect condition you could think of yourself. If there was time.
Skiborsky taught us that. And he taught us how to hate. We were old hands at hating, Morgan and I, but Skiborsky made it seem a new gall-bitter experience, and there wasn't a minute, day or night, that we didn't want to kill him. Skiborsky laughed at us. He grinned that goddamned fierce animal grin at us. But we learned to do things the cavalry way, and after we learned to ride Morgan walked over to Skiborsky and hit him right in the middle of that grin of his.
As punishment Morgan carried a nine-foot, hundred-pound cottonwood log around and around Larrymoor's walls, and every time he dropped the log a guard would hit him with the stock of his carbine. Toward sundown Morgan fainted. The next morning he was back in the riding ring.
We learned to jump our horses then, over a series of barriers of graduated heights, and we learned the fine art of forced marching. Skiborsky taught us to halt fifteen minutes every hour, dismounting and unbitting and grazing. He taught us to trot for a short spell every half hour to keep ourselves erect and light in the saddle, and to dismount and lead ten minutes of every hour.
Morgan carried the log twice that week, but he learned.
And then we went to the carbine range. Morgan shot the bull's-eye's black heart to ribbons. We rode some more. We drilled. We shoveled manure and curried horses. Finally our period of
Then, as she always did, sooner or later, Caroline came into my thoughts. No matter what I was thinking, Caroline could push it aside and come walking into my mind.
Chapter Three
I N THE NEXT two weeks we learned what cavalry life was like in an outpost fort like Larrymoor. We learned to sit a McClellan saddle with ramrods for backbones, and we learned to ride in formation until we could make line turns in review as straight and precise as the spokes on a turning wheel. We learned that horses had to be cared for in a special Army way, and after spending eight hours in the saddle you took the animal to the stables and you curried him and brushed him and you inspected his hoofs and legs for unnoticed bruises and cuts and you inspected his back for traces of saddle sores. And then you curried and brushed him some more, and after all that was done you fed him and watered him and shoveled his manure for him and hauled it outside the fort and dumped it. And by the time you got back you thought you would never want to look at another horse again.
Because I had served four years in a wartime volunteer horse regiment, I thought I knew something about the cavalry. I didn't. I didn't even know how to ride a horse at a walk. But I learned. Skiborsky screamed at us and cursed us and threatened us, and the old-time troopers came down to the riding ring and leaned on the rails and laughed at us. But we learned. Skiborsky, it turned out, was also with A Company, and he taught us. Morgan swore daily that he would kill him, but he didn't. He learned to ride.
It was harder on Morgan that it was for the rest of us because Morgan was a Texan. There wasn't a time that he could remember when he hadn't been at home on a horse—but he hadn't learned to ride the cavalry way. In Texas there had been plenty of horses for remounts.
There were no remounts at Larrymoor—at least, not many—so you took care of your horse and pampered him, because your life might depend on him. Your horse came first, and then your carbine and revolver, and after you were sure that they were in perfect condition you could think of yourself. If there was time.
Skiborsky taught us that. And he taught us how to hate. We were old hands at hating, Morgan and I, but Skiborsky made it seem a new gall-bitter experience, and there wasn't a minute, day or night, that we didn't want to kill him. Skiborsky laughed at us. He grinned that goddamned fierce animal grin at us. But we learned to do things the cavalry way, and after we learned to ride Morgan walked over to Skiborsky and hit him right in the middle of that grin of his.
As punishment Morgan carried a nine-foot, hundred-pound cottonwood log around and around Larrymoor's walls, and every time he dropped the log a guard would hit him with the stock of his carbine. Toward sundown Morgan fainted. The next morning he was back in the riding ring.
We learned to jump our horses then, over a series of barriers of graduated heights, and we learned the fine art of forced marching. Skiborsky taught us to halt fifteen minutes every hour, dismounting and unbitting and grazing. He taught us to trot for a short spell every half hour to keep ourselves erect and light in the saddle, and to dismount and lead ten minutes of every hour.
Morgan carried the log twice that week, but he learned.
And then we went to the carbine range. Morgan shot the bull's-eye's black heart to ribbons. We rode some more. We drilled. We shoveled manure and curried horses. Finally our period of
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