The MP corporal jumped out behind him, the press of his blade into Colt’s back a reminder this wasn’t a new command. It was punishment. He rounded the back of the truck to get his first look at the fort. Thick adobe walls, the same color as the landscape, wrapped the fort, their outer layer worn off in spots, revealing the mud bricks beneath. Rebar jutted from the wall in no discernible pattern—rusted, deliberate, and hostile. The parapets bristled withiron and steel growths, cancerous and unchecked. A faded red-and-black hammer-and-anvil flag flapped from a central pole while a buzzard traced lazy circles overhead, as if waiting for something to die.
The iron-banded gate groaned as a team of soldiers shoved against it, one side sticking halfway, never fully opening. A haggard-looking major, his dark gray uniform faded to a dusty tan, strode out with a duffel bag over his shoulder. He stepped carefully through deep, sundried ruts long carved into the earth at the gate and offered Colt a half-hearted, two-finger salute.
“She’s all yours. Good luck.”
Colt knew the man’s name, though he’d never met him.Major Albrecht Voss.He appeared older than Colt had expected and wasted no time stowing his bag and climbing into the truck’s passenger seat. The truck’s engine whined to life behind him.So, there won’t even be introductions.Colt hadn’t expected pageantry, but an introduction would have been reasonable.
Squaring his shoulders, Colt adjusted his hat and strode through the open gate—into what, he wasn’t sure. A few chickens scurried past, chased by a bleating goat, bell tinkling. A notched post leaned south, a tarnished bell hanging by a thread, while rusted shackles remained nailed tight to the wood. Barracks, supply sheds, and animal shelters lined the interior walls; weathered tables and chairs hunched beneath dusty strung canvases. Empty bottles lay about unheeded, and a gust of wind through the open gate kicked an empty cigarette pack across the barren yard until it slapped against the central well’s stone wall. A bucket swayed from a pole beneath a small A-frame clay-tile cover identical to those on the buildings’ roofs. The rusty reddish orange was the only contrast to the sandstone tan covering every other surface.
The soldiers, most of whom sat around the tables playing cards, drinking beer, or throwing darts, gave him no more than a cursory glance—all but one bull of a man, leaning back in a sturdier chair than the rest. He wore sergeant stripes and a predatory grin, a cigar stub wedged into the corner of his chapped lips. He was White, with a little gray frosting the stubble sprouting from his thick jaw. Even with his cap pulled snug, the lines on his face announced he was older than Colt.
“That him?” The big fellow laughed as he motioned toward Colt, and those around him snickered. “Thought they’d send someone … more seasoned.”
A short Hispanic private approached from his right, catching Colt’s attention. The brash sergeant’s opposite, he looked as green as they come, nerves on display as if he might hurl at any moment.
“Sir?” The young private glanced at the big man and his posse, then down at his worn boots.
“Yes, private …?”
“Mendez, sir. Andrew Mendez.” He shuffled his feet in the dust. “The commander’s office and quarters are over there.” He pointed to a roundish structure built into the wall that extended two floors and opened out onto the fortress walls. A third level comprised the watchtower, where two men who appeared to be performing their duty stood, one with binoculars, the other with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Th-the infirmary and mess are on either side. Outhouses are by the stables.”
“Thank you, Private Mendez.” Colt lifted his chin and raised his voice. “I am Captain Colt Irons, the new commander of this fort. This post is strategic to the defense of our great nation, not merely a dumping ground for undesirables. Not only do we guard the valuable mercury mine nearby that supplies our ammunition factories, but we are the stalwart frontline standing against bandits, raiders, and unknown hordes of enemies to the south. At the halfway mark between South Pointe and Tucson, we protect a valuable supply line. I intend to treat you with respect and demand the same in return.”
“Did you hear that, boys?” the muscular sergeant bellowed. “The son who would depose his father demands our respect.”
Colt’s jaw clenched as half the fort’s inhabitants burst into raucous laughter. He knew this wouldn’t be easy, but he’d held out hope it might be possible.
“You tell ‘im, Rafe,” encouraged another soldier, who handed the sergeant a fresh beer bottle.
Rafe took it, popped the tab with his teeth, rose from his seat, and downed a swig. While dwarfing many around him, Rafe was no taller than Colt, albeitbulkier, with a swagger the captain wagered he earned through bullying and intimidation.
“Orders say you’re in charge. Orders don’t say much else.”
A Black corporal holding court at a different table stood and offered Colt a casual salute. “Just so you know,” he said, his assessing gaze fixed on Colt. “Men get hurt out here. Desert doesn’t care about rank.”
“Major Voss hardly left his office or quarters these last couple of months,” someone else said.
“That may be, soldier,” Colt replied, “but I’m not Major Voss. Tomorrow morning,” he ordered in his most commanding tone, “when that bell rings …” He pointed to the watchtower, where the only two men who appeared to be on duty stood guard. “There’ll be a roll call right here in this courtyard, where you will all line up and step forward when your name is called. I will learn your names, your virtues, your vices, your hopes, and your fears. You might have come here to die, gentlemen, but I have not. Sergeant, what’s your name?” He stared at Rafe like a man without fear.
“Oh, that’s Sergeant Slater,” an eager, younger private answered with admiration in his voice. Rafe crossed his arms over his chest, a smug look on his face. Colt scanned the troops, his stormy-blue eyes dry and bloodshot. Most of them looked like hollow men, outcasts lacking self-esteem. Many faces were black or tan, more prevalent than at Fort Resolute in Dominion, his former post. He estimated fifty men—no women were sent here—though the roster named seventy-two, and one was supposed to be a lieutenant. Surely a fellow officer would have shown up to meet him.
“Where is Lieutenant Jackson?” Colt asked.
Sergeant Slater took a draw from his cigar and removed it from his mouth. He exchanged a glance with the Black corporal before shrugging one shoulder. “He up and died. I ‘spose you could request a replacement.”
Colt answered with a brisk nod. “Sergeant Slater, I will count on you, then, until a replacement arrives. Make sure everyone is present for roll call. I’ll have a new duty roster ready by then. Cleaning this place up is first on the agenda.As you were, soldiers.” Colt dismissed them even though not a one had come to attention.
He took a light hold of Andrew’s arm, steering him toward the command building. “Private Mendez, a word if you will.”
At the sound of a dog’s yelp, Colt snapped his head around. Slater laughed, his foot swinging away from the bony hound, as it scurried off, tail tucked tight. Hot wind drove sand in Colt’s face as he curled his hands into fists. He wanted to reprimand Rafe, but he knew he had to pick his battles. It was clear the others either loved or feared him. No point in turning him into an adversary on his first day.
Everyone else returned to what they had been doing, and Mendez led him to the correct door. Old bloodstains had soaked into the cracked wood fibers, smearing across the iron bracing and fixtures.
“What happened here?” Colt asked.
Andrew offered him a pitiful look and opened the door. “The fellows get drunk, fight,” he said, holding the door for Colt. “When the canteen girls come around—about once a month—there’s more fights.”
