Once an Eagle by Anton Myrer Page A

infantry was where his destiny lay—that all his trials and triumphs were welded to foot-soldiering. It was hard to hold that idea in this baking heat, traipsing over this measureless land filled with dust and vicious little stones, each of which had at least three sharp points—
    He heard Pensimer give an exclamation. Off to their right there rose a little plume of dust. Mesmerized, they watched it as it grew, slipped behind some thickets, reappeared—a horseman now, but a cumbersome horseman, growing larger, a top-heavy burden; and Sam saw there were two riders, one wobbling badly, swaying from side to side. Captain Parrish and Lieutenant Westfall cantered toward them and the strangers slowed to a trot, the overburdened horse wheezing, its flanks soapy with sweat. There was a little commotion among the horses, and they saw the swaying figure half-slide, half-fall to the ground. Captain Parrish turned and waved to Kintzelman, who said:
    â€œDamon, Broda, Devlin! Get over there and lend a hand …”
    They broke out of the column and ran over to the little group. One of the cavalrymen was talking to Captain Parrish, the other was sitting on the ground awkwardly, one of his feet bent under him, a hand gripping his thigh. As they reached him he raised his eyes to them and said, “I’m hit, boys. I’m hit …”
    â€œWhy, it’s Gurney,” Broda said in great surprise. Damon looked at Broda and then at the wounded man; he could not recall ever seeing him before. His belt was gone, his shirt was wringing wet, and blood was all over his breeches. Damon heard the other cavalryman, who was still mounted, say tensely: “Yes, in force, Captain. I’d say a hundred, hundred and twenty.”
    â€œA hundred and twenty?”
    â€œYes, sir. With lots of extra mounts. They must have come through the notch at Aldapán.”
    â€œWhere is Hollander? Lieutenant Hollander?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir. The last I saw he was riding south.”
    â€œAll right.” Captain Parrish dismounted and knelt beside Gurney, who stared at him fearfully. “Take your hand away, son,” he said. “Won’t cure it, I can tell you.” Gurney took his hand away from his hip very slowly, as though the consequences of such a move would be fatal; the Captain peered at the wound, and grunted. “Give me your bayonet,” he said to Damon. Sam slipped it out of its scabbard and Captain Parrish took it and ripped the man’s breeches open, wiping at the blackened oval hole from which blood flowed in a slow, greasy stream. Gurney, who had watched the bayonet with apprehension, groaned now and then.
    â€œDoc Haber’ll have to dig that out,” Captain Parrish said. He began to bind it swiftly and deftly, keeping the yellow gauze tight in his left hand. The blood kept seeping up through the cloth.
    Gurney moaned again. “It hurts,” he offered.
    â€œOf course it hurts. Did you think it’d feel good? ” Captain Parrish stood up, wiping the smears of blood from his hands with a kerchief. “All right. Get him over to one of the wagons.”
    Damon bent over and started to take the wounded man by the shoulders.
    â€œNo—don’t pick me up, don’t pick me up,” he begged.
    â€œCome on, Walt, it’s only a minute,” Broda said soothingly; then, in an eager tone: “Did you get one, Walt? Did you get one of ’em?”
    â€œGive me some water, mate. A little water—”
    Damon handed him his canteen, and the wounded man drank with feverish greed, clumsily, water trickling over his chin and shirt front, while the other three watched him in silence.
    â€œDid you hit one of ’em, Walt?” Broda pursued. “Before they got you?”
    â€œâ€¦I feel sick,” Gurney said. He had no interest in talking about the Mexicans or the skirmish, if that was what it had been, or the