Free They Came To Cordura by Glendon Swarthout Page B

he could feel his attempt to control it.
    “You do,” Major Thorn said. “You do.”

Chapter Six
    IN dawn, while Hetherington tended to their horses, Major Thorn brought water from the pool of the terreno in an old bucket and tried to shave off his four-day growth of beard. The water was cold, his pearl-handled razor dull, and he soaped sparingly, choosing to save the last sliver of bar so that he might shave once more before they reached Cordura . He had no mirror. He nicked himself twice. Having nothing else, he stopped the blood with his shirttail.
    When they had built their own fire and were eating, Hetherington said he was sorry he had asked about taking the Medal. The officer ignored the apology. Standing to finish his coffee, he issued a number of orders. Hetherington was first of all to clean himself up, to find soap and use it. He was to check their saddlebags and get from the pack-train commander whatever was needed to make up three days’ rations. After an hour he was to saddle their horses. They would be leaving then, taking with them four other men from this squadron on temporary duty, and under no circumstances was he, Hetherington, to say anything to them or to anyone else about why they were going.
    Troops were stirring now, cooking breakfast, watering animals, and Major Thorn went among them to find the four men, informing each one simply that he was detailed to him for a short period of duty at the new advance base, ordering him to get rations from the pack train and be ready to ride in an hour. He left each one immediately after these instructions so that there would be no opportunity for questions he did not wish to answer.
    Next he located the Lieutenant of Federales, whose name was Ramos, and conferred with him. Cordura was a three-day ride, mas o menos, more or less, from this place. The Major’s listening Spanish was fairly good, and since the Mexican was only too willing to be voluble he heard him out, trying to map in his mind. Cordura was due north, and Dublán north of that. The railway, which would be the Texas—Mexican, ran south from the border through Dublán to Cordura , then curved southeast to Chihuahua . The surest route, according to Ramos, would be to ride north two days, then turn northeast until they struck the Tex-Mex, which they could follow northwest into Cordura . The country between here and there was muy desolado.
    Thorn broke off the conversation to talk to Captain Paltz, who had emerged from the casa grande. Paltz was stiffly correct. The Geary woman had been told she was to be taken north under arrest until military or civil charges were placed against her. Although arrest was made under Colonel Rogers’s authority as field commander, responsibility for her would devolve entirely upon the Major until he could turn her over to the Provost Marshal, Punitive Expedition. Whenever the party was ready, she would be. Thorn said in half an hour. The Captain saluted and turned on his heel.
    Major Thorn stood for a moment. He had not been given time to return the salute. Then, his back straighter, he crossed the terreno and told the medical orderly he wished to see the surgeon. Ben Ticknor came through an arch, sleeves rolled up, an unlit Mexican stogie between his teeth, his hand extended. Thorn knew at once that his friend would be the compassionate one, that he would extend charity by being as he always was. They shook hands. When the Major tried to say, briefly, what he had been doing in his new capacity as Awards Officer, he found his tongue loosened not by liquor but by loneliness. Words poured out. He told about Boice, the fight at Guerrero , Hetherington, the corns of Selah Rogers which needed paring, the deeds of yesterday’s four and how he was taking them back to base. He could not stop. Ben Ticknor rescued him by interrupting.
    “Five of the golden race.”
    Thorn stared.
    “You remember.” The surgeon got a good grip on the black cigar. “Socrates asks Glaucon,