"Come on, Mac," Owens said in his soft, lazy voice.  "They'll make you a captain."
    Lieutenant Lacey McIntyre watched the men loading Captain Sibley's wagons with supplies from the depot:  rations, ordnance, crates of new rifles marked Repacked Fort Union Depot, 1861, all of it destined for Texas and the Confederacy.
    "Doesn't look like there'd be any room for me," he said with a half-hearted laugh.
    Owens shrugged, and stroked the ends of his sandy moustache with a gloved hand.  "El Paso's a long road away," he said.  "We've got to have supplies for the journey."
    "Ordnance?" McIntyre asked wryly.
    "Apaches, Mac," Owens replied.  "We must be able to defend ourselves."
    "You've already got more than we took on last winter's campaign."
    "You're trying to change the subject," Wheeler said, leaning his shoulders against a wagon crammed with supplies.  "Are you coming with us, or aren't you?"
    "My father'd disown me if I resigned," McIntyre said.  "He's a big one for oaths and all."
    "But you swore that oath in Tennessee," Owens said.  "Doesn't that mean you should defend Tennessee?  Isn't that what your daddy would want?"
    McIntyre sighed.  Owens was good at making things sound reasonable.  He'd led McIntyre into a number of scrapes that way, but this was more serious.  This was a war, which was nothing McIntyre wanted any part of, but it looked like the only choice he would have was which side to fight on.
    "Here comes the stage," Wheeler remarked.  "Last chance for a letter from the U.S. Mail."  McIntyre looked at the cloud of dust up the valley and fell in with the others as they ambled to meet the stage.  Wheeler had declared himself; he was going south with Sibley and Owens and the rest.  Rumor had it only Major Canby's influence had kept his old friend Sibley from marching off the enlisted men as well.  McIntyre could count on one hand the officers who were staying:  Captain Shoemaker, Lieutenant DuBois, Lieutenant McRae.  Himself?
    He wanted to do the honorable thing, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.  Duty, honor, country.  Tennessee had seceded.  He had sworn an oath to serve the United States.  Which had the stronger claim?
    "Alec!" Owens said, and McIntyre glanced up to see Alec McRae coming out of the headquarters building.  The rifleman looked grim as he stepped off the wooden porch and around yet another wagon, this one being loaded with Sibley's office accoutrements.  McRae nodded as they met, his bad eye squinting a bit against the midday sun.
    "Major Canby has called a staff meeting," he said.  "All officers are to report to the commander's office in half an hour."
    Owens's eyebrows went up.  "Major Canby is not the commander of this post," he said.
    "He is for now," McRae answered.  "Sibley's turned in his resignation."
    Something cold moved in  McIntyre's stomach.  He glanced at Owens, who was smiling, eyes hooded, at McRae.
    "How about you, Alec?" Owens said softly.  "You coming with us?  You're a Carolina boy."
    McRae gave him a stony look.  "My duty is to the Union," he said.  His dark eyes fell on McIntyre, who fidgeted.  Alec had no doubts, it seemed, though he knew McRae's family had urged him to resign.  Why was it so easy for Alec, and so hard for himself?  He didn't want to lose McRae's respect.  The gruff rifleman had been a friend to him--to Owens as well--when they'd first arrived in the territory a year before.  He'd initiated them into the delights of the fandango and coached them on surviving the harsh climate and the natives' tempers, and had even managed to teach McIntyre a little Spanish.
    "Half an hour," McRae said after a moment, and turned away before McIntyre could say anything.  McIntyre watched him stride off toward the depot.
    "Half an hour," Owens echoed.  "Think you can make up your mind by then?"
    McIntyre frowned.  Owens had been in his class at West Point, and they'd campaigned together over the winter.  McRae was older, serious-minded but often surprisingly witty and never averse to adventure.  How could he possibly choose?
    A chorus of exclamation distracted him.  Looking up, he saw a pretty girl in black stepping down from the stage coach with a box of some sort in her arms.  Wisps of pale hair blew about her eyebrows, which were darker and strongly drawn.  McIntyre was struck by the sadness in her eyes in the instant before she drew her veil over her face.
    "Now that's the prettiest thing I've seen in months," Wheeler said, grinning.
    "Boys," Owens said softly as a large, round fellow came out of the coach, "I do believe we are about to have a treat."
    "Lieutenant Owens!" the round man cried.  He caught the girl's arm and propelled her toward them.  McIntyre found himself standing straighter.  He couldn't remember the last time a white lady had come to the post.
    "Lieutenant Owens," the man repeated, out of breath as he came up to them.  "This is my niece, Miss Howland."
    Owens bowed with a flourish.  "Very pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said.
    The young lady dipped a curtsey, and McIntyre saw it was a clock, not a box, that she was holding.  A wooden clock, shaped like a pointed arch.
    "Allow me to introduce my friends," Owens said.  "This is Lieutenant Joseph Wheeler, Lieutenant Lacey McIntyre.  Miss Howland, and Mr. Wallace Howland."
    "Yes, yes," Howland said.  "Now, Owens, I thought the three of us could--"
    "I'm afraid my plans have changed, sir," Owens interrupted.  "I'll be leaving shortly."
    "Leaving?"  Howland blinked several times and peered at Sibley's wagon.  "When will you be back?"
    "That depends on Mr. Lincoln, I suppose," Owens said in a lazy drawl.  He turned to the young lady.  "Sorry to disappoint you ma'am."
    "I'm not at all disappointed," she replied.  Her voice was clear and musical, and held a note of challenge.  New England, McIntyre thought.  It reminded him of his days at the Military Academy.  He caught himself squinting to see through her veil, and looked sidelong at Owens.  The Georgian was grinning and seemed about to say something more, but a crash from nearby prevented him.
    All eyes turned toward the back of the wagon, where Sibley's Negro house boy stood frozen over a shattered crate of champagne.  Green glass fragments frothed with the wine that was fast soaking into the dust.  The wagon's driver swore, grabbed his whip from the box, and started toward the hapless slave.
    "No!"
    The force of the cry startled McIntyre; it was followed by a rustle of black skirts.  The driver came to a surprised halt, staring at Miss Howland, who had darted between him and the boy.
    "He didn't mean to drop it," she said in a passionate voice, wholly different from her cool tone a moment before.  She held out one black-gloved hand before her to stave off the whip.
    "Miss Howland," Owens said, stepping toward her, "Come away from that."  His smile had vanished, and his tone was that of an officer to his men.
    "I will not allow this man to be brutalized," Miss Howland said, standing her ground.
    Wheeler chuckled.  McIntyre shot a glare at him to shut him up.  For himself, he thought this righteous young lady was magnificent.
    "It is not your concern, ma'am," Owens said, "and you might be hurt.  That glass could cut right through your boot."
    "I will step away if you will promise this man won't be beaten," Miss Howland said, gesturing to black Jimmy, who was as astonished as the rest of them.
    "You know how much that champagne cost?" the driver shouted.
    "Beating him will not bring it back!" she answered.
    "Well, Bill," came an amused voice from the steps, "you've got to admit that's true."
    McIntyre looked up at Captain Sibley, who stood on the porch admiring Miss Howland with a twinkling eye.  He still wore the Federal uniform that set off his auburn side whiskers so well.  His mustache drooped around the corners of a smile as he stepped down to the ground.  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said, approaching Miss Howland.
    "Miss Howland," Owens said, "allow me to introduce you to Captain Henry Sibley."  He caught McIntyre's eye and gave a little shrug of resignation.
    "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Howland," Sibley said with a bow even grander than Owens's.  "Are you related to Lieutenant George Howland?  Mounted Rifles?"
    "I don't believe so," Miss Howland said.  "I was not aware of such a person."
    "Well in any case, welcome to New Mexico," Sibley said.  "How may I be of service to you?"
    "You may tell that man to put away his whip," Miss Howland answered, her voice resuming its prior dignity.
    Sibley's eyes flicked to the driver, and his smile widened.  "You heard the lady, Bill.  Go on about your business.  You, too, Jim."
    The slave, as if released from a magic spell, hurried into the building while the driver returned to the wagon box, muttering to himself.  Sibley stooped and extracted an unbroken bottle from the mess at his feet, wiped it off with his pocket handkerchief, and offered it to Miss Howland.
    "I hope you will accept this in place of the hospitality I would like to offer you," he said.  "Unfortunately, I'm on the point of departure."
    "Thank you, sir," Miss Howland replied, a trace of frost in her voice, "but I would not further depreciate your stores."
    "Very generous of you, Captain," the uncle said, stepping in to take the bottle.  "Wallace Howland," he added, shaking Sibley's hand.  "Dined with you in Las Vegas last fall."
    "I remember," Sibley said.  "You bought the faro bank, and held it till three in the morning."
    Howland laughed, a deep booming sound.
    "This your daughter?" Sibley asked.
    "My niece," Howland said.  "My dear brother's only child, rest his soul."
    Sibley's brows rose.  "My heartfelt condolences, ma'am."
    "Thank you," Miss Howland murmured, so softly McIntyre barely heard it.  Footsteps sounded on the porch, and he glanced up to see Major Canby had come out of the Commander's office.
    "She has come to live with me in Santa Fé," Howland said.  "Perhaps we will see you there, Captain Sibley?"
    "It's Major Sibley, now," Canby said, joining them, his clean-shaven face a stark contrast to Sibley's flamboyance.
    "Until Washington gets my letter," Sibley said.  "I appreciate the gesture, though.  It'll get me a colonelcy in the Confederate army."
    "Much good may it do you," Canby said quietly.
    Sibley laughed.  "You sound jealous, Richard.  You can still join us, you know.  The star of the South is rising," he said, his voice suddenly vibrant.
    All fell still.  McIntyre glanced at Miss Howland, wondering what thoughts her veil concealed.  Looking back at Canby, he saw the major's eyes narrow as he silently shook his head.
    "Well, I'm sorry, then," Sibley said, offering Canby his hand.  "I shall miss the good times we had."
    "So will I," Canby said quietly.
    "Give Louisa my best regards."
    Canby nodded, and Sibley slapped his shoulder before turning back to the Howlands.  "Pleasure meeting you ma'am.  Mr. Howland."  Touching his hat, he stepped past them to the front of the wagon.  "Finish up, Bill, and let's get moving."
    Sibley strode toward the depot with Wheeler on his heels.  Owens started after them, then paused.
    "Coming, Mac?"
    McIntyre glanced at Miss Howland, and at Canby behind her.  "No," he said on impulse.
    Owens stared hard at him for a second, then turned and walked away without a word.  McIntyre blinked, frowning at the sun that had suddenly started to hurt his eyes.  He turned his back on it, and found Major Canby's cool gaze on him.
    "Miss Howland, this is Major Canby," he said to cover his discomfort.  "And Mr. Howland."
    "How do you do?" Canby said.  "I must beg you to excuse me, I have great deal to do.  I'll see you at the staff meeting, Lieutenant?"
    "Yes, sir," McIntyre replied.  He'd decided, it seemed.  Didn't make him feel any better.
    Canby gave a short, approving nod and returned to headquarters, passing Jimmy in the door.  The slave carried a second crate of wine, which he carefully placed in the wagon under the sharp eyes of the driver.  Shouts from the teamsters by the depot heralded the departure of the wagon train.  McIntyre glanced back at the long line of wagons, trying to spot Owens.
    "Mr. McIntyre?"
    The sound of his name in that New England voice sent a chill down his back.  Turning, he saw Miss Howland beside him, close enough he could almost see her eyes through the veil.   He was suddenly glad he had chosen to stay.
    "Is that man indeed a slave?" she asked.
    "Yes," McIntyre said, watching Jimmy climb into the wagon among all the furniture.   "He belongs to Captain Sibley."
    "I had thought the territories were free of slavery," Miss Howland stated.
    "It's kind of up in the air," McIntyre said.
    The driver's whip cracked, making Miss Howland jump, and the wagon rumbled forward to join the train.
    "Come, my dear," her uncle said.  "The post sutler will sell us some refreshment."
    McIntyre watched Miss Howland walk away with her uncle.  The wagon train was moving, blocking their path to the sutler's, and they stopped to watch it pass.
    "So you stayed."  McRae's voice came from behind him.
    McIntyre turned to see McRae coming up to join him, and gave him the best smile he could muster.  Together they watched the train's departure.  McIntyre spotted Owens riding in the foremost wagon with Wheeler and a handful of others.  Sibley was among them, he saw, and as their wagon passed the headquarters building Sibley stood up and turned to them.
    "Boys," he called, "if you only knew it, I am the worst enemy you have!"
    McIntyre glanced at McRae, whose mouth curled in a grimacing smile.   "You're your own worst enemy, Henry," McRae said softly.  He turned and headed up the steps to the commander's office.
    McIntyre stayed to watch the train a little longer, though the dust raised by the wagon wheels was beginning to block it from view.  Still, he thought he saw a gloved hand raised in farewell.  He waved back, then hurried into headquarters, hoping Canby would give them too much to do so he wouldn't have time to think.

Next stop:  Glorieta

Copyright © 1998 by P.G. Nagle. All rights reserved.