Apache Shadow

by Jason Manning

  The lieutenant glared at him, and ordered two of his men to search Barlow's belongings. Two more dragoons dismounted and moved closer to Barlow, one in front of him and one in back, both holding their carbines on him.

  Barlow watched the dragoons rifling through his meager possessions, then turned to the lieutenant. "What are you looking for?"

  "Scalps."

  Barlow shook his head, wearing a crooked smile. "Indian scalps? Don't have any. But what if I did? It's your government that was foolish enough to offer the bounty on them."

  The lieutenant spoke to the dragoon standing behind Barlow. The latter had an inkling of what was coming, and as he turned he threw up an arm in self-defense. The dragoon was swinging the butt of his carbine at Barlow's head, and the blow was deflected, but still it was delivered with enough force to knock Barlow off his feet. Landing on his back, Barlow snarled as curse at the dragoon. As he intended, this angered the Mexican, who stepped in to deliver another blow; Barlow kicked him right between the legs, and as the man doubled over in agony, lashed out with the other leg so that the tip of his boot caught him right below the chin. The dragoon's head snapped back, his helmet went flying, and he went down like a poleaxed steer.

  The other dragoon was no fool; he stepped away from Barlow and aimed the carbine. But the lieutenant snapped an order, and the dragoon reluctantly lowered the weapon.

  "We will take him to the captain—alive," the officer told his men.

  Barlow was hustled to his feet, and his hand were tied behind his back. All the while, several of the dragoons kept him covered, and all of them were wary, treating him with respect. The man he'd kicked in the head was still out cold; one of his companeros doused him with water from a canteen to rouse him. The dragoon, still dazed, was loaded onto his horse, while Barlow was helped into his saddle. Barlow consulted the stars as they headed out; the Mexicans and he were headed due north. At least, he thought, that was something to be thankful for.

  They reached an encampment a couple of hours later; Barlow calculated that an entire company of dragoons was gathered around their fires. Though he had long been out of the army, he studied the layout of the camp with an experienced eye. There was water—a small creek—nearby, and some good graze for the horses, which were now picketed and under guard, was to be had. And there were plenty of sentries posted; whoever was in command wasn't taking any chances.

  A few moments later her was dragged off his horse in front of a tent from which emerged Captain Cordova.

  "Senor!" exclaimed Cordova amiably. "What a pleasant surprise to see you again."

  "It's a surprise for me too. But not a pleasant one."

  Cordova ordered his hands unbound. Barlow ruefully rubbed his wrists and took another look around. "Where's your French counterpart, Captain?"

  "Called back to Mexico City." Cordova leaned closer, pitching his voice in a conspiratorial whisper.

  "Rumor is that all the French are leaving now. Whether the emperor stays behind or not . . ."

  Cordova shrugged. "Who knows what Maximilian will do?"

  "Well, that's too bad about the French."

  "Oh, yes." Cordova laughed derisively. "We are all very sorry to see them go." He gestured toward his tent. "Please be my guest." He turned to the lieutenant. "Thank you, Ramirez, but I am afraid you captured the wrong man. Tomorrow you may have better luck. See to your men."

  The crestfallen lieutenant snapped a brisk salute.

  Once inside the tent, Cordova poured Barlow a brandy and offered an apology. "More than twenty people from villages in this vicinity have been murdered recently," he explained. "Most were women and girls, and most of them were scalped."

  "You know what's going on, don't you?" Barlow sipped the brandy gratefully.

  "I have a good idea. It would be difficult to distinguish between the scalps of an Apache woman and a Mexican woman, no?"

  "Yes. Looks like your government's chickens have come home to roost, Captain."

  "You say that with a great deal of satisfaction."

  "I guess the scalphunters can't find enough Apache topknots."

  Cordova poured himself a double shot of brandy and knocked it back. "Not far to the east is the village of Santo Domingo. Do you remember the young woman there? The one with the boy?"

  "That your men were going to hurt, if not kill?"

  Cordova winced. "Please. An unfortunate situation."

  "Yeah, I remember. What about them?"

  "The woman's husband has returned. With a friend. A gringo. Not long after they arrived, the murders began."

  "I knew of a gringo and a Mexican riding together—and they happened to be scalphunters."

  "It is as I thought," muttered Cordova. "But I had no proof. Will you ride into Santo Domingo with me tomorrow, senor, and identify the two men? If they are the ones you know, I will arrest them."

  Barlow finished off his brandy. "No."

  "But why not, senor?"

  Barlow had to think first. "Because of the woman and her boy. I take it you've paid a call already. You go riding in there with your whole company, her husband and his gringo friend will try to shoot it out with you, for sure. Innocent people might get hurt."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "I'll go in alone. They won't be afraid of one man. With any luck, I'll get the drop on them. I'll need a change of clothes—and a couple of other things."

  Cordova thought it over. "You understand, senor," he said, finally, "that we want to take them alive, if possible."

  "Sure," said Barlow, with a straight face.

  He had no intention of bringing anyone back alive.

  When Coughlin came to, the early-morning sun was slanting straight into his eyes, burning like red-hot pokers through his eyelids. He groaned and scrunched his eyes more tightly shut and tried to turn his head away from the light, but the process of turning his head started the pain—a dull, insistent throbbing in his skull. He remembered what had happened the night before. He and the Mexican had drunk more than their usual evening allotment of pulque. He was suffering from a hangover to end all hangovers. And he had spent the night, passed out, sitting up against the front wall of the adobe where the Mexican's woman lived. Just to his right was the ramada, which offered at least a modicum of relief from the already-hot sun, but the prospect of standing up—or even crawling on hands and knees—to get into the shade of the ramada was more than he could face at the moment. So he just sat there, squinting against the relentless sunlight. His throat was parched. There was an earthen jug lying on its side to his left. He groped for it, picked it up, shook it. And mumbled a heartfelt curse to find it empty.

  Also to his left was the doorway into the adobe. He noticed that the door was open, and heard movement inside. He slid his back along the wall, caught himself before he fell right over on his face, and peered round the doorframe. The Mexican was seated at the trestle table in the middle of the room, his head resting on his arms. Coughlin thought that he was still sleeping. The movement was being made by Angeline. She had her back to him, and she as putting a pot of water on the oven to boil. Coughlin indulged in a rare moment of wistful melancholy, as he wondered what it would have been like had he led an ordinary life, marrying a good woman and settling down somewhere to raise a family and make an honest living. All those things he had spurned and spoken of with contempt, but there was something to be said for having a woman make you breakfast every morning. Maybe, he told himself, maybe it wasn't too late for him to put down roots. Maybe he could find some Mexican senorita who would put up with him.

  A sound drew his attention to the street of Santo Domingo. As usual, the thoroughfare was nearly empty. The inhabitants of the village generally stayed out of sight of Coughlin and the Mexican. They remained virtual prisoners in their adobe huts, rarely venturing outside. But this morning, there was one man, on a horse, at the far end of the street. He was coming into town from the west. He wore a sombrero pulled down low so his face was concealed, and a brown
serape. Coughlin pegged him for a bandolero. Or maybe he was a Juárista. Or maybe he was both. The man was slumped in the saddle, as though he was weary from a very long trail, and there was something lethargic even in the shuffling walk of the horse beneath him. Both man and horse were covered with trail dust.

  The man rode on up the street to the well that marked the center of Santo Domingo's square, less than a hundred yards from where Coughlin sat. There the newcomer dismounted, moving slowly, stiffly. He dropped the well bucket and then cranked it back up again, taking his time. He placed the bucket, now full of brackish water, on the rim of the well so his horse could drink its fill, and while the animal did so, the man leaned against the wall of the well and gave the town a long, slow survey. His gaze swept over Coughlin, paused for a second or two, and then moved on, apparently uninterested.

  Coughlin couldn't muster up much interest in the newcomer, either. As long as the man watered his horse and moved on, there wouldn't be any trouble. And Coughlin figured that was just what the newcomer would do. What, after all, was there of interest in Santo Domingo?

  But when the horse drank its fill, and the man had slaked his thirst from the bucket, Coughlin saw that he took up the reins of the horse and began to lead the animal on up the street—straight for the scalphunter. Coughlin sat up straighter, more alert. It was obvious, even at a distance, that the stranger was no campesino, and that he as well-armed. There was a rifle in a saddle scabbard, and no doubt a pistola or two on his hip, though these were hidden by the folds of the brown serape. And he probably had a knife too. Coughlin had never known a Mexican who didn't favor a knife.

  For a moment Coughlin thought the man was coming straight for him. But instead, the stranger walked right by him, stopping at the ramada, where he tied his horse to one of the cedar uprights, and then settled down at the table that stood in the striped shade. He sat facing the street so he could lean against another of the uprights and prop his booted feet on top of the table. The sombrero was still pulled low over his face; even at fifteen paces, Coughlin still could not say what he looked like.

  The scalphunter waited a minute or two, expecting the stranger to say something to him—to at least ask if it was permissible for him to partake of the comfort of the table in the shade of the ramada. But the man said nothing. He just made himself right at home, and that riled Coughlin a little. He'd come to think of Santo Domingo as his own little fiefdom—well, his and the Mexican's—and he wasn't about to let some pistolero saunter into his territory and start making claims.

  The anger that rose up within Coughlin served to clear away some of the cobwebs from his brain, though it did nothing to alleviate his pounding headache and raging thirst. Still, he managed to get to his feet, relying greatly on the wall for support. He glanced inside the adobe again. The Mexican was still asleep—or, more likely, still passed out. Coughlin considered waking his partner so they could deal with the interloper together. But then the scalphunter reminded himself that the stranger was just another greaser, after all. He didn't need any help dealing with the likes of him.

  "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, his words slurring over a thickened tongue.

  The stranger's head moved only slightly, as he looked at Coughlin from beneath the brim of the sombrero.

  "I am sitting in the shade, senor," he replied.

  He spoke Mexican, and Coughlin's comprehension of that language was, to say the least, indifferent. He was in no mood to try to carry on a conversation with the bean eater in the man's own language. His head hurt too badly for that. "Speak English, damn it," he growled.

  "I sit in the shade, senor," said the stranger, in heavily accented English this time.

  "Well that shade doesn't belong to you."

  "No. But does it belong to you?"

  "It belongs to my pardner. This is his house, and that's his table you're sittin' at. And you didn't even ask first. Now, where I come from, that just ain't polite."

  The man looked at him for a moment from under the sombrero, and finally said, softly. "Then maybe, senor, you should go back where you came from."

  Coughlin's breath gusted in a sharp exhalation as though the stranger had punched him in the solar plexus.

  "What did you say?" His words dripped menace.

  The man had his arms crossed as he sat back against the upright. Now he unfolded them, and held his hands out, palms up. "Senor, I did not come here looking for trouble."

  "Then you'd better change your tune," growled Coughlin, with a good deal of bravado, since he thought he now had the stranger cowed.

  "Sí," acknowledged the stranger. "My apologies. I tell you what, senor. I have a bottle of tequila in my saddlebags. I got it in a little cantina down in Monterey. It is the best tequila in all of Mexico. I would like to share it with you. Let's say it is payment for your allowing me to sit here in the shade for a moment."

  "Tequila, you say," muttered Coughlin.

  "Sí, senor."

  "I could use a drink," allowed the scalphunter.

  The stranger swung his legs off the table, stood up slowly, and walked to the far side of the horse from Coughlin. Belatedly, the scalphunter's instincts for self-preservation—instincts honed razor-sharp after four years of war and nearly as many plying a perilous trade—kicked in. He felt for the holster at his side, and was relieved to find his pistol there. Just to be on the safe side, he drew the gun and laid it in his lap.

  "Ah," said the stranger. "Here it is." He held up a bottle so Coughlin could see it. Then he tossed the bottle at the scalphunter. Coughlin watched the bottle spinning in the air as it came toward him. He couldn't help but do that. And in that instant the stranger took off his sombrero and whacked the horse across the haunches with it. The horse jumped forward, constrained by the fact that the reins were tied to the upright. But it moved enough for Coughlin to see that the stranger had a pistol in his hand.

  With an incoherent curse, Coughlin moved, rattlesnake quick. The stranger's bullet smacked into the adobe where his head had been a split second before. Coughlin tossed off a shot as he dodged, hoping for no more than to buy himself a second or two to find cover. The short missed. Even so, the stranger didn't even flinch. He stood there, legs planted wide apart, steady as a rock, taking careful aim—and his second shot hit the scalphunter in the hip and threw him violently against the adobe. Coughlin managed to get off one more shot, going down. And with his last glance at the stranger, he realized that the man wasn't a stranger to him, after all, and he experienced a sickening despair.

  But only for an instant. Because Barlow's third shot caught him in the forehead. The bullet slammed Coughlin's head back against the adobe, exited the back of the skull, and splattered the scalphunter's brains all over the wall.

  Staggering into the doorway of the adobe, the Mexican raised his pistol and fired. The bullet grazed Barlow's gun arm. He dived to one side, rolling, and as he came up, intent on returning fire, he saw a movement behind the Mexican.

  It was the woman, Angeline.

  And her presence made him hesitate, for fear that if he missed his mark he might hit her.

  The Mexican grinned. He did not understand why his adversary wasn't shooting back, but the fact remained that he wasn't, and that gave the Mexican an edge he intended to exploit. He took more careful aim with his pistola. Then his mouth flew open in a silent scream, and his eyes widened with surprise, and he pitched forward suddenly, a knife buried to the hilt between his shoulder blades. His trigger finger convulsed, and the pistol went off, but the shot went wide, and he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Barlow stared at Angeline. She was framed in the doorway now, staring in horror at her handiwork. He got to his feet, went to stand over Coughlin, and looked down at the scalphunter for a moment. This time he felt a sense of satisfaction. Because the scalphunter had started it all. He had been the catalyst, if not the cause, and because of his actions, so very many people had died. Barlow had promised Cordova that h
e would take this man alive. But he'd made that mistake once before.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and noticed that the street was filling up with the campesinos of Santo Domingo. They were venturing closer, cautiously staring at the bodies of the two scalphunters, some daring to believe that their long ordeal was over. Then, through them came Manuel, who paused when he saw his father lying dead, but only for an instant, before running into his mother's welcoming arms.

  Barlow looked at her, then, and saw that she was watching him, with an expression he did not understand. He didn't think he wanted to. So he turned to his horse. He had a foot in the stirrup when Manuel broke away from his mother and ran to him.

  "Must you go, senor?"

  "Yes," said Barlow, and climbed into the saddle, wincing slightly at the pain from his fresh wound. But what was one more wound? One more source of pain?

  "Can't you stay, for a while?"

  "Don't worry. You're safe now. You and your mother."

  Manuel looked over his shoulder at his father, and when he turned back to Barlow, the latter thought that there was a very old soul lurking behind the young boy's eyes. An old soul filled with wisdom—and the melancholy that comes with wisdom.

  "More like him are out there," said Manuel. It was more than a statement of fact. It was a lament, muttered with the world-weariness of one who had lived his whole life under the cloud of uncertainty and hardship and danger. "Please stay."

  Barlow felt sorry for him. Not just because of what the boy had seen and endured, but because he thought he had finally found some measure of protection from a harsh and cruel and unpredictable world. And Barlow knew now that he could not protect anyone.

  "I can't," he said. "I've got to go. I've . . . got some things I have to do, up north."

  Manuel was grasping at straws. "Then maybe, senor, you will come back when you have done these things, yes?"

  Until now, Angeline had watched this exchange from the adobe's doorway. She stepped forward, coming up behind her son to rest her hands on his shoulders. "Let him go, Manuel," she said softly.