''What do you want, Mr. Boswell?" he asked, impatiently. "I don't have a lot of time this morning."
"You will want to make the time, I believe, Mr. Barlow, once you find out why I am here."
"I'm listening."
Boswell opened a well-worn leather pouch and dug around inside of it as he spoke. "I recently received some documents from an attorney in Athens, Georgia, a Mr. Jonah Cambreleng."
"Never heard of him."
"Apparently, Mr. Cambreleng was made executor of your parents' estate." Boswell brandished a thick sheaf of papers. "He has retained me to locate you and to present you with these documents, which include an inventory of your holdings, and of course, the last will and testament of both Timothy Barlow and his wife, Rose."
He offered the papers to Barlow, who took them, but hardly glanced at them.
"I need you to sign the top document, Mr. Barlow, and return it to me. Simply a precaution—proof that I delivered the documents to you, as I was charged to do by Mr. Cambreleng." He produced a quill pen and ink bottle. Barlow sat down on the steps of the barracks. Balancing the sheaf of papers on his knee, he signed the top document, and returned it to Boswell, as requested.
"Okay," he said, mildly exasperated. He was annoyed at Boswell for reminding him of his deceased parents at this particular time, when, in his opinion, he had enough to brood about. "Fine. You've done your job, Mr. Boswell. Now you can go home."
Boswell looked somewhat flustered. "Well, I, um, I wanted to offer my services to you, sir, if, at any time, you find yourself in need of legal representation."
"I don't see why I would ever need a lawyer, but thanks all the same."
Boswell tilted his head to one side. "Perhaps you should find the time to read through the inventory of holdings, Mr. Barlow. You'll find that you are quite a wealthy man. And wealthy men tend to need legal representation from time to time. Hence my offer."
"He's a rich man?" asked Summerhayes, slightly amused and giving Barlow a funny look, as though he were trying to imagine his friend in such a role and was having a hard time doing it.
"Certainly. Even by Georgia standards, I'm sure. He owns several hundred acres of what has been represented to me as some of the finest land in the state. He owns a magnificent home, a couple of mills, and part interest in a number of business concerns, including a store in Athens and a hotel in Atlanta."
"I find that hard to believe," said Barlow. "The way I remember it, few people would have gone into business with my mother and father. He was a Yankee, and she, though Southern-born, was a Yankee's wife."
"Well," said Boswell, "I don't know anything about that sort of thing, but I did briefly skim the inventory, and noticed that your father's business partners seemed to be what they now call carpetbaggers."
Barlow nodded. That made sense. Carpetbaggers were Northerners who had gone south following the war's end to buy up Southern land and businesses. They were generally despised by the native-born population, because they took advantage of the wrecked Southern economy and offered bargain-basement prices for the property they sought. The Southern owners of these properties often could not afford to hold out for a better price. He was a little surprised that his parents had agreed to go into business with such men. But maybe they hadn't had much in the way of choices; Southern-born entrepreneurs had usually spurned them.
"Well, Joshua," said Summerhayes, as amazed as was Barlow by this turn of events, "looks like you don't have to expend any more blood and sweat trying to make that ranch a successful proposition. You've got everything a man could want—and more—waiting for you back east."
Barlow looked at him askance. "Who says I want to live back east?" He shook his head. "No. I have no desire to go back there."
"Then what will you do with it all?"
Boswell discreetly cleared his throat. "There's a subject worthy of careful consideration, if I may be so bold. Mr. Barlow, do you have a last will and testament?"
"Well, no, I don't."
"You possess an estate of great value now. You might want to consider having one drawn up."
Barlow smiled. "And you could do that."
"Why, yes, of course. I'd be happy to."
"For a modest fee."
"My rates are very reasonable. I might add that if you die intestate—that is to say, without a written will—your holdings in Georgia will go to the state itself."
"How long would it take you to draw one up? A will, I mean."
"A day—or two at the most."
Barlow shook his head. "I'm riding out in an hour. I may or may not come back. Give me another piece of paper."
Boswell searched his pouch, found a sheet of vellum, and handed it over. Barlow dipped the quill in the ink bottle and scratched out his signature on the piece of paper. This he handed back to Boswell.
"Draw up a will, attach this to it. Would that be legal?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so, though it's somewhat irregular. Still, I witnessed it."
"I'll sign on as a witness," offered Summerhayes.
Barlow handed him the pen. Boswell produced the paper with Barlow's signature, and Summerhayes signed below it.
"But . . . to whom do I leave your estate, Mr. Barlow?" asked the lawyer.
"My wife. Her name is Oulay."
"But can she own property in Georgia?" asked Summerhayes. "She's full-blooded Apache."
Barlow looked at him. They both looked at Boswell.
"Well, I . . . I don't know," admitted the lawyer, tugging self-consciously at the soggy collar of his shirt. "But I will most certainly find out. You can rely on me, Mr. Barlow."
"If she can't, or if she dies without a will of her own," said Barlow, "I want you to be the executor of the estate, Mr. Boswell. In that event, you will get the best possible price for all my property, and you will arrange for the proceeds to be spent to provide for the Chiricahua Apaches." He noticed the funny look that Summerhayes gave him, and added, "Those people are her family, Charles."
"Of course," said Summerhayes.
"I'm not sure . . . ." began Boswell.
"Just do it," said Barlow. "And made it ironclad legal. One of these days, the Chiricahuas are going to be dependent on the government of the United States. And when that happens, they may not always get what they need to survive. The trust you will create, Mr. Boswell, if you sell my property, will be there to make sure that they do. Understand?"
"Perfectly," said Boswell. "I assure you, Mr. Barlow—"
"I know. And I am relying on you."
"Though I must say, I'm a bit confused." Boswell gestured broadly at the activity on the parade ground. "I take it that you are embarking with those men on a campaign against Apaches. And yet here you are, willing, in the event of your death, and the death of your wife, to liquidate your estate and provide for the Apaches with the profits."
"Yeah," said Barlow, with a crooked smile. "It's hard to explain."
And he didn't bother to try; he brusquely shook Boswell's hand and, accompanied by Summerhayes, headed across the dusty parade ground to join the other cavalrymen.
"There's something I want to tell you, Charles," he said, as they walked side by side. "It's about Captain Cronin."
"What about him?"
Barlow proceeded to tell how he had turned a pair of captured scalphunters over to Cronin, who, at the time, was Fort Union's commandant, and how those very same scalphunters had later been involved in the Aravaipa massacre.
"I understand," said Barlow bitterly, "that the captain claims he had no evidence to hold those men. But he did. I gave him the evidence. A pouch filled with scalps."
Stunned, Summerhayes stopped dead in his tracks. "You're saying that the captain . . . let those men go?"
"Had to have happened," replied Barlow curtly.
"Who else have you told about this?"
"Nobody."
"Why not?"
"At the time I just wanted to stay out of it."
"You should tell General Cro
ok at once."
"No. I just wanted you to know—in case something happened to me."
"But I . . ."
Barlow kept walking.
From his hiding place some distance from Fort Union, Kiannatah used the Mexican field glasses to watch the yellow-leg soldiers' departure. He didn't need to see them turning north to know where they were bound. The United States Army was going after Valerio's Coyoteros, and they were doing so in force. With the soldiers rode the man named Barlow—the man who, in Kiannatah's view of things, had stolen Oulay away from him. He rode with some of the vaqueros from his ranch, and one Mescalero scout. Oulay, however, did not ride with them. Kiannatah had had his revenge against the old scout who wore the stovepipe hat. He wanted revenge against Barlow too. But he wanted Oulay more. And for that reason, he watched the soldiers ride north and did not follow them. He owed no allegiance to Valerio. It did not matter to him that this was the moment when the Coyoteros most needed his services. All that mattered was having Oulay for his own. His war against the Pinda Lickoyi—and the Nakai-Ye, as well—had always been a personal one. He had used the Coyoteros to pursue his own objectives; now circumstances dictated that he abandon them, and this he did without compunction.
His only concern now was how to reach Oulay. Barlow had brought her here for safekeeping while he was away on the campaign against the Coyoteros. And even though most of the soldiers had gone off to fight Valerio, there were still enough of them remaining behind to make the abduction of the Chiricahua woman a difficult and dangerous proposition. Most men would have calculated the odds against success—and given up. But Kiannatah had an advantage over most men. He wasn't afraid to die. He was willing to tackle impossible odds.
This did not mean, however, that he was going to commit suicide by venturing into the fort itself. No, he would wait. He was exceedingly good at waiting, and he devoutly believed that, sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself. And when it did, he would be ready to act. In the meanwhile, he experienced a strong sense of elation and excitement. The ultimate prize was finally, once again, within his grasp. And this time, when he had her, he would never let her go.
Chapter 28
When they reached the foothills of the Mogollons, the soldiers, numbering nearly three hundred, split into three roughly equal groups. Lieutenant Embrey's detachment branched off to proceed up the westernmost of the parallel canyons, while Lieutenant Walker took his contingent up the one to the east. Captain Cronin led his command up the center canyon. Barlow, accompanied by Charles Summerhayes, the Mescalero scout, and his five vaqueros, including Mendez and Rodrigo, preceded Cronin by several hours.
Barlow knew the Coyoteros would have scouts monitoring all the trails into the mountains that might provide an enemy with access to their stronghold. He also knew that there was no point in trying to locate and kill the scouts before word could be sent to Valerio of the yellow-leg invasion. Regardless of whether they might have succeeded—which Barlow doubted—to have made such an attempt wasn't in keeping with his plan, which was to engage the Coyotero bronchos in a fight they could not win. The only question was whether the bronchos, when they came, would attack his small party, or move against Cronin's column. He was betting on the latter. They would expect Barlow and the scouting party to rush back to the main group once the ambush was sprung; it wouldn't occur to them that this handful of scouts were a threat to their hideout. Even so, progress up the arid canyon was nerve-racking. Barlow and his men constantly scanned the rimrock high overhead, expecting an attack at any moment.
They spent the first night in the mountains encamped in the canyon bottom. It was a cold camp—no fire allowed. That meant no hot meal, and no coffee in the morning. But nobody complained. No one in the party was so naive as to think they were keeping their whereabouts a secret from the Coyoteros; all were painfully aware that the bronchos in all likelihood knew precisely where they were. Yet only a fool would silhouette himself against a fire under such circumstances. Barlow and the Mescalero scout took the first watch; the others, two at a time, would do their stint as night guards in two-hour increments. Though he encouraged the others to try to get some sleep, Barlow doubted that they would. He didn't.
The next morning, shortly before sunrise, they rolled out of their blankets, grabbed their rifles, and stood there, no one making a sound, to listen to the echo of distant gunfire rolling up the canyon,
Cronin and his troopers were under attack.
Barlow's initial impulse was to ride to the sound of the guns. One look at the grim faces of the men who rode with him was all he needed to affirm that they felt the same way. But he had to fight that urge—and make sure they did too.
"Okay," he said curtly, "time to find the Coyotero village. Let's ride."
They continued north up the canyon, and in two hours' time reached the convergence of the canyon with the other two. They could no longer hear shooting from the south; Barlow could only wonder if Cronin's fight with the Coyoteros was over, or if the contours of the land were blocking its sounds from his ears. They scoured the ground, and found no indication that either Embrey's or Walker's command had yet come this far. But there was sign of unshod ponies—plenty of them. Barlow told the Mescalero scout to take the lead in tracking the Coyotero sign back to its source. And he warned his companions to stay alert; Valerio wasn't so foolish that he would leave his hideout completely unprotected. His caveat was unnecessary—despite being tired and hungry and saddle sore, the others were alert.
The Mescalero led them up a steep draw, at the top of which they found a narrow trail that wound its way up the steep flank of a mountain. The ascent was tough for both men and horses, and the footing was precarious, so they led their mounts. They were nearly to the top when a shot rang out. Barlow dropped to one knee, drawing his pistol, and sweeping the rocks above for the telltale puff of powder smoke. Mendez, who was directly behind him, spotted it before he did, and began firing his repeating rifle. Barlow used the opportunity to begin scrambling directly up the slope, advancing on the enemy. To his left, he saw Rodrigo doing likewise. Up ahead, the Mescalero was laying down covering fire, as well. Barlow had climbed fifty yards when he saw a slender figure darting between the rocks. He raised the pistol and fired. He missed. The glimmer of sunlight on a rifle barrel gave him warning, and he dived to one side. The Apache—he assumed it was a Coyotero—got off one shot that sang off the stony ground too close for comfort; then either Mendez or the Mescalero gunned him down. The Apache's body slipped limply between two large boulders and slid down the steep slope, starting an avalanche of small rocks.
Barlow reached the body first. He turned it over, and sat on his heels to gaze down at the face of a Coyotero boy who could not have been more than thirteen years of age. Rodrigo and Mendez arrived; the features of the former displayed some regret for the death of one so young. Even an enemy. But Mendez looked impassively at the corpse, and then spat to one side. Barlow looked up at him sharply.
"That is for Manolo, my cousin," muttered Mendez.
Barlow let it go.
"I think your friend was hit," Rodrigo told him.
Barlow stood up, peered downslope, and saw that the other vaqueros were gathered round Summerhayes, who was sitting on the ground, hunched over. Cursing under his breath, Barlow descended to the trail.
"It's just a flesh wound," said Summerhayes, through clenched teeth. Pale, he was clutching his left arm, and bright red blood leaked through white-knuckled fingers. Barlow knelt, pried the lieutenant's hand away from the wound, and was relieved to see that the patient's diagnosis was correct. At his direction, one of the vaqueros began to bind up the wound—later, when they had time, they would have to cauterize it to prevent infection.
Turning away, Barlow noticed the Mescalero was jogging back down the trail. The Apache scout pointed to the north, and Barlow saw the smoke.
"Valerio," he said grimly. "Calling the bronchos back. He knows we're coming."
Summerhayes sto
od. He swayed unsteadily, caught himself. "I can ride," he insisted.
They pressed on, leaving the young Coyotero where he lay. The trail led them higher, onto the rim, and then into a stand of pine that dotted a high plateau. Here, they were hit a second time. As before, they didn't see their assailants until after the first shots were fired. The Mescalero, ahead of the others, had his horse killed under him. He jumped clear, and then used the animal's carcass for cover. Barlow and the others dismounted; he, Rodrigo, Mendez, and one other vaquero left their horses in the keeping of Summerhayes and the fifth vaquero before scattering into the trees. They moved forward. The vaquero on the right flank, beyond Mendez and Rodrigo, was hit in the chest and went down. Barlow was immediately aware of this, but remained unmoved; there would be time enough for sadness and regret after the fight—assuming he survived. Using the trees for cover as much as possible, Barlow fired at powder smoke whenever he saw it. He figured there were no more than three Coyoteros up ahead, but he never was sure, because a few moments later they stopped firing and just faded away. All Barlow saw of them was the fleeting glimpse of one broncho.
"We've got to hurry," Barlow told the others. "Valerio doesn't have enough rifles left to make a stand. His only chance is to move the women and children out. And remember," he added, as an afterthought, shooting a look in the direction of Mendez, "don't kill anyone unless you have to."
They proceeded on foot, with Summerhayes and the vaquero bringing the horses along behind. Beyond the plateau, they crossed a boulder field, climbed to a ledge, followed it laterally around the south flank of a peak, and suddenly found themselves above a horseshoe-shaped depression that held the jacales of the Coyotero stronghold. They were immediately fired upon by a single broncho high up on the mountainside. They scattered, finding cover. The sentry got off several more shots, but everyone except Barlow was shooting back, and one of them hit the mark—the broncho's body came tumbling down a steep scree slope.
Barlow was more interested in what was happening in the Coyotero village. Pandemonium reigned among the Apaches. The women and children were running in every direction. A handful of men fired at Barlow's party, but they were exposed to withering return fire from the rifles of the vaqueros, and several died almost immediately. The village was surrounded on three sides by steep, rocky slopes; the fourth side was open ground for about seventy-five yards, a gentle slope leading down to a brush-choked ravine. The majority of Coyotero women and children was fleeing in that direction. Barlow shouted at his men, and began firing in that direction, making sure that he shot well in front of the Coyoteros. Mendez and the others began doing likewise. Their bullets kicked up puffs of dust in front of the Apaches who, realizing that avenue of escape was cut off, were turned back toward the che-wa-ki, where many of them took cover behind the jacales, fearing that if they tried to climb the slopes on the other three sides of the village they would expose their children to certain death.
Apache Shadow Page 18