They Came To Cordura Read Online Free PDF Page A

was shadowed but the figure towering over him was suddenly the awful shape by his bed from which he had run away. He was terrified.
    “Hetherington. I would like to ask you a personal question. I would appreciate your answering. What made you do it?”
    The youth was silent. Looking down, the officer saw that his eyes were screwed shut.
    “Try to remember, Hetherington.”
    He could not recognize the guttural voice as his own. He found himself on one knee beside the bedroll.
    “Hetherington. It is very important. Try to remember how it was. What you felt, what you thought.”
    The private shook his head, would or could not answer. All at once, shockingly, tears issued through the tightened eyelids. Uncertain, the Major stood. He should not have asked. Or should have asked before reading the official language which would embody and transmit the deed as long as an Army existed. As he took his seat again across the fire Hetherington began to cry audibly, his sobs choked by the bedroll.
    Tearing the citation page from the notebook, folding it, placing it in a small oilskin envelope which tied with a string, buttoning the envelope in his pocket, the officer leaned against the rock and let tiredness wash over his embarrassment. He had been in the saddle twelve hours the day before and ten hours this day. In his boots his feet were swollen. Dust was caked on his lips. He had not had a cigarette since Dublán . Overhead the night sky was clean and black once more and stars, no higher than the towering butte, burned. Still Hetherington cried. Opening the notebook, Major Thorn printed with the pencil:
    ‘Notes for Cavalry Journal’
    The editors of the Journal, published monthly at Fort Riley, Kansas, had urged that all officers send in from the field notes on equipment and training plus accounts of action which would be of interest to cavalrymen everywhere. Publication, except for duplicating items, was promised. Major Thorn had already filled several pages. The Davis saddle, he wrote, is unsatisfactory. A revised McClellan would be better. At long distances the Davis seat is uncomfortable and most of these saddles become defective—the steel frames that connect pommel and cantle arch break. Some crack on one side, some both sides, some break all the way through. All our saddles are modeled to fit the backs of horses in full flesh, while as a matter of fact horses on campaign always run down in weight. Why not have saddles made to fit a horse when he is thin?
    By asking those questions I gave up something I can never get back. If I find others I will ask them, though. What they tell me may be worth more than what I lose. I was too late to ask Boice.
    Major Thorn had lately become aware that he was mixing military and personal entries in the notebook. When he had time he would separate them.
    He has stopped crying.
    Now he has two accomplishments: reciting the Old Testament and what he did this morning at Guerrero.
    If Rogers can possibly fight at that place, Ojos Azules , he will. I hope he can.
    The Springfield rifle is too long and heavy for cavalry. Suggest a carbine about the size of the old Krag carbine, chambered to shoot same ammunition as the Springfield.
    It may be hereditary, something plasmal passed on. The God of this boy’s father certainly a God of wrath.
    Now and then, still filtering down unseen, dust motes touched his face. The fire was dying.
    Chihuahua . Cold nights, hot stars. We had snow and roses at Dublán in a single day. The principal product: not beef or gold but loneliness.
    Individual cooking in the field is a mistake. There is a waste of rations, sickness, and neglect of the horses. The time better spent in resting, cleaning arms, overhauling equipment, etc.
    Yesterday, the day Boice killed, my 40th birthday.
    He was watched. Hetherington’s eyes were open.
    “Still can’t sleep?”
    “No, sir. I’m too keyed up, I been ever since this morning. I keep thinking about those men I shot, how I