I should have stayed with Clarity, not ridden off with this Injun, he thought suddenly—and to his own surprise.
Sure she could handle a gun, and Joe and Willa were there. But who knew how many of what kind of men were coming. If they were anything like the band he shot at, they would be ruthless.
Hell, he thought. They could stop the stage and starve ’em. Set it afire.
The more he thought about what could happen, the more Slash wanted to tell the medicine man to just ride into the sun while he raced back to the trail.
But duty, he thought.
Joe and his own father had hit that into him since he was a boy, clunked on his head like he was a shoe on an anvil.
Defend the family, defend the station, defend the safety of those who come to it.
Who could deny that Tuchahu was probably in more danger than Clarity?
So why does it hurt my chest to think of her in danger?
Unless that wasn’t it.
Might be that we’re apart that’s got me, he realized with the sudden cold-water shock of an icy river.
When they briefly rested the horses at a watering hole, Slash considered turning around in a circle and heading back to the trail. Outrunning a pursuit in one direction was as good as running another.
Except they’ll still follow you back, he realized.It would’ve been better not to run at all, then. Just to fight it out.
Almost as concerning as the danger, Slash was distracted by how much he was distracted by thoughts of Clarity. This was not like thinking about how to corner a wild turkey—
A little bit, but not exactly, he told himself upon reflection. This is new.
Ahead, the faintest light began to turn the low line of the sky purple. He began to see the silhouette of the land ahead. What’s more, he thought—and then he was sure—he saw something else.
The slashing glint of light on the lowlands between the low mounds of hills.
The Salt Creek.
As the purple shaded to orange, pale yellow began to creep across the plain. It came at them faintly, then more boldly, like the changing tide he had watched with amazement on a beach in San Diego.
Slash looked back. He saw a point man against the flat horizon. Behind the man was a line of other men, visible when they writhed around a gully or stone or tree. As the sunlight crawled up the horse to the rider, Slash saw a patch of dark blue.
Cavalry. Slash almost preferred that it would have been Apaches. He knew they had contempt for peaceful tribes like the Serrano, but they weren’t likely to kill one of their leaders. Cavalry worked for the government, Indian agents worked for that same government, and that could not be good. If troops had found Kennedy and Hathaway dead, they would have a pretty good idea who did the shooting. If they had found the men alive, they would know for sure who killed the men that were riding with them.
A shot boomed faintly across the intervening land, gaining in sound as it rolled through its own echo. That was a command to stop. Slash ignored it. The only possible salvation was ahead, and he pressed hard in that direction. He did not think the column would risk sending a rider or two ahead. The troops’ only safety was in superior numbers.
That, plus the fact that Slash did not want to have to kill troops. He and his companion had to outrun them and hide.
Slash moved his horse closer to that of the Indian. The young man leaned over and—so as not to alarm the horse—he very gently inserted a gloved hand in the bridle.
“Listen, Tuchahu,” Slash said. “I hope ya can understand but we gotta hurry. There’s cavalry after us.”
The Indian nodded once. He was otherwise implacable, his dark face turned to bronze by the rising sun.
“Hold the reins and just sit tight,” Slash said. “I’m gonna run us to the creek ahead.”
At that, Slash kicked his own horse and shook the bridle of the other one hard. Both animals set off, Slash using as much muscle as he owned to keep the two animals running together and side by side. From the start, he was afraid the Indian’s horse might tug his arm from its socket, but the animal steadied soon enough and the two ran agreeably in tandem.
The water ahead was clearer now, glistening blue-gray with streaks of golden dawn. As they came closer, maneuvering around little outcroppings here and there, Slash had a better view of the Salt Creek.
It wasn’t that at all. It was a lake—and the nearer they got it seemed larger than any lake he’d ever seen. Even on horseback, he could not yet see the other side.
But Slash could not afford to be distracted by the water, not now. The horses were nearing the end of their endurance. He had to find a defensible point somewhere on this side.
His keen eyes picked out sand, a curving shoreline, points of land stretching out here and there. He also saw what looked like long, grassy dunes—possibly the result of flooding or wind, maybe both. They were slightly to the northeast of his position. He made for it, thinking that behind that rise they might be able to hold the cavalry off. At least long enough to talk to them, see what they wanted.
Other than my scalp, he thought, finding it ironic that it was pursuing white men he was talking about and not Apache.
The body of water was not just wide, it was long, as Slash saw when they reached the shore. The horses stumbled a bit on the sand and, slowing, he bade Tuchahu dismount as he did the same. Leading both horses, Slash told the Indian to follow him toward the shore.
Instead, the tall Serrano dropped to his knees and bowed to the big Salt Creek.
“Not now!” Slash implored him, stopping and using his hat to swat the two steeds ahead.
The Indian did not move from that position. If he was praying, he was doing it silently.
“Aw, beans,” Slash said as he flopped beside the Indian but facing away from the water, toward the cavalry. “Whatever water gods you’re praying to—ask ’em to send a deluge of some kind.”
“Not water, earth,” the Serrano said.
“What?”
“I thank the earth for bringing us to this place,” Tuchahu said.
“Figure you to finally speak and I have no idea what you’re saying,” Slash said. “Friend, we have troops charging down on us. I was hoping we might go to that ridge—see it to your left?”
His headdress askew, his beads tangled from the ride, Tuchahu stood and walked slowly toward the spot Slash had indicated. Another warning shot was pumped into the sky. The soldiers were close enough now that Slash was afraid to move. He didn’t think they would shoot the Indian out-of-hand, but Slash did not know their intentions where he was concerned. He bellied down deeper into the sand. He had his rifle before him, his left arm beneath the barrel to keep sand from getting into the mechanism. He was glad there was no wind at the moment. The rifle would have been grailed up beyond redemption.
Like a desert mirage, the men rode into the sun, their images wavy. Slash was still looking ahead with both eyes, not aiming the rifle. He did not want to take a threatening stance unless it became necessary.
It was at that moment he realized how tired he was. What was his play? These were trained soldiers, not ragtag Rebels. What would he do if they ignored him, just wrapped up Tuchahu, put him on his horse, and sent some men off with him. The soldiers could outwait him. They could sit in the shade of a rock or one of the few big yucca trees that spotted the area. He couldn’t stay put, buried to his chin while the sun rose and baked his back raw.
He would never hurt the Indian, but these men didn’t know that. He needed Tuchahu as a hostage. That was how to get the men to talk instead of shoot.
“Dash it!” he said, bolting from the sand. Bent low, he went running after the shaman. Tuchahu was standing behind the ridge. The horses had stopped farther along, by the water. They weren’t drinking. Not at Salt Creek.
“You, Slash O’Malley—halt!”
He kept running. A bullet spit sand not far from him. He was about ten feet from the ridge. A bullet struck closer—close enough so that the
sand pelted his cheek.
Slash stopped running. He wanted to fight back—he did. Surrender was not in his blood. But neither was being heroically stupid, especially when there might be a better way. His back to the men, he dropped the rifle and raised his hands. If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have thought this through. If he had been dealing with a normal companion, one who could cover him instead of standing there, do what he was told instead of stopping to pray . . .
“Turn around,” he was told.
Slash did so. The sunlit cavalry was a small unit of perspiring blue, dust-covered and scowling. The man in front was a major. Alone among the troops, he rode tall. A few paces behind him, to the east, was the private who had been firing. His repeater was still pointed in Slash’s general direction.
The major halted the column a few paces away. Slash now saw the vile Kennedy and Hathaway peeling off from the rear and coming forward. Of course they did, now that the danger was seemingly past.
“I am Major Howard,” the man in front announced. “We’ve come for the Serrano Tuchahu and also to take you back to the San Diego barracks under arrest.”
“What have I done, other than ride off with a man who was free to go with me?” Slash asked.
“The two Indian agents traveling with me believe that you may have been party to the murder of one or more people back at the Butterfield Trail,” he said.
“It was two,” Slash said. “I shot one. They was shooting at my grandpa and Miss Clarity Michaels.”
Kennedy snorted. “He’s as big a liar as the other O’Malley.”
“You’re lucky I dropped my gun, you mongrel.”
“Watch your mouth, boy,” Kennedy said.
“Brave now, are ya, with a mess o’ cavalry,” Slash said. “Last time I saw you it was your back, not your face, and you was running.”
Kennedy made a sound as if he were thinking of responding, but the major angled his horse so he could see the Indian agent.
“These O’Malleys apparently don’t think much of you, Mr. Kennedy,” Howard said.
“Neither I nor the Indian Bureau care what they think,” Kennedy replied. He looked toward the ridge where the medicine man was standing. “Tuchahu!” he called out. “We’ve traveled a long way together. Come. I’d like to get you home, to your people.”
The medicine man did not move.
“Maybe he remembers how you threw in with the Rebels to kidnap him back at Whip Station,” Slash said.
“That was your plan, not mine,” Kennedy alleged. “For ransom, I suspect?”
“You got gall the size of this lake,” Slash said. “Major, I do not know what is up this card sharp’s sleeve, but it isn’t the well-being of the shaman, that is for sure. You let this dog have him, the Serrano, I suspect, will never see his people again.”
“Not my people,” Tuchahu said suddenly.
All eyes turned toward him.
“What was that?” Kennedy demanded.
Only Tuchahu’s head and the top of his torso were visible behind the sparsely grassed outcropping of rock and sand.
“I not see my people,” he said.
“What do you see?” Major Howard asked.
The Indian raised an arm and pointed toward the west and answered, “See Apache.”
* * *
Major Howard and his men turned to see a line of Indians galloping toward them. They were not riding single-file as the cavalry had done, they were spread across the horizon, some twenty strong, guns and spears raised. Even at this distance, the sharp morning sunlight picked out the blues and reds of their war paint.
“Skirmish line!” Major Howard shouted to the five men in his unit. “Kennedy, Hathaway, I suggest you arm yourselves. Mr. O’Malley, would you care to join us?”
Slash picked up his gun and brushed it off with his sleeve as he strode forward. The steel of his knife was hot at his side, wanting desperately to blaze a trail through Kennedy’s false tongue. But that could keep. With luck, he would live long enough to see the Apache take his hair.
The soldiers lay their horses down and got behind them, facing the enemy. Slash did not join them on the ground. Nor did he raise his rifle. He had been with the Apache a few times when he went to fetch Gert. Maybe one of them would recognize him and know he wasn’t their enemy. Or if not, maybe they would see that he didn’t want to fight.
Like Slash the major was on his feet, standing at the northern side of the line. He was not holding a gun but his saber. The sword was a weapon respected by the Apache. It could not kill from a distance or from hiding. The man who held it must have courage.
The Indian agent and his colleague were lying in the sand, belly down, behind the troops.
“Don’t fire unless we are fired upon,” Howard said. “Mr. Kennedy, do you have any idea what they are up to?”
“They are supposed to be at an encampment north of Vallicita!” Kennedy said. “I don’t know why they are here, making war!”
“Maybe to stop whatever you and your mercenaries are up to,” Slash said. “Tuchahu!” he said suddenly. “Would you mind stepping from behind the ledge? Go where the Apache can see you.”
The shaman fixed his headdress so it sat squarely, arranged his beads, then stepped proudly to one side. He was silhouetted by the rising sun, his shadow falling long and slender across the troops.
Almost at once, the charging Apache braves slowed. They came forward at a canter, guns and spears lowered but still at the ready, but there was clearly no intention now to attack.
“I will be damned,” Major Howard said.
“Not today,” Slash said.
“Troops, rise slowly, guns lowered, and get your horses on their feet,” the major said. “Three on the left go south, right go north. I want an opening in the center.”
This was done as the Indians continued to ride toward them. Major Howard walked to the space that had been created. As he passed, Kennedy and Hathaway were just brushing the sand from their clothes.
“Dirt goes deeper than that, you curs,” Slash told them.
Howard made no comment as he walked ahead of the troops. One of the Apaches also broke from the line and rode a few paces before dismounting. The Apache advance stopped as the two men approached one another.
Major Howard saluted and introduced himself.
The Apache slapped a fist across his chest. “I am Baishan, blood of Chief Eskinospas of the Apache.” He removed his fist and pointed to Tuchahu. “We come to see the Serrano father to a place of safety.”
“We are here for the same purpose, then,” Major Howard said.
“No,” Baishan snapped. “Joe tell us of men hunting him. Grays. And two Indian agents.”
“Another O’Malley lie!” Kennedy blurted.
“Quiet!” Howard half-turned and shouted back. “My apologies, Baishan. When did Joe O’Malley tell you this?”
“This night just past,” the Apache replied. “They blow up pass—one man die. Others, Joe say, in mine with red metal.”
“Copper?” Major Howard asked.
“Yes. That was word Joe used. Copper.”
The officer thought back to the visit from Dr. Peterson. There was copper dust on his medicine bag. That could mean any number of things. Or it could mean just one.
Suddenly, Major Howard saw two more figures approaching from the west. They appeared to be—they were—riding on two of his own cavalry ponies.
CHAPTER 22
“You okay, boy?”
The unmistakable voice of Joe O’Malley traveled across the intervening countryside like a returning faith. At his side was Clarity Michaels. Slash smiled and made his way past the soldier, through the Apache.
“I’m fine, Grandpa! You?”
“Better than we feared,” he said. “Baishan and his two cohorts recognized us from a little adventure at Civil Gulch yesterday. We just filled him in on what happened since. I told him that the two Indian agents who tried to take Tuchahu were out here. Didn’t have to
say no more.”
Slash had been listening to Joe but looking at Clarity. The sun made her look like a princess in Gert’s book of fairy tales. Only alive and full and . . .
“Howdy, Clarity,” he said.
It may have been as stupid as it sounded to his own ears, but Clarity didn’t seem to mind. She smiled back.
“Howdy, Slash.”
Joe O’Malley left the two and rode toward Major Howard.
* * *
“You took those from my men?” Howard said disapprovingly.
“I only rode ’em,” Joe said. “Baishan and his boys took ’em.”
Joe dismounted in a sturdy leap. Then he walked over to Douglas Kennedy and sent him staggering backward with an uppercut that reached for the clear blue sky. The bigger man lost his footing and dropped.
“You shot at the station with my daughter and granddaughter inside!” Joe shouted, bending over the man, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, and hoisting him up. Joe kneed him hard in the gut, then spun him around, pushed him back to the ground. He was about to stomp on his chest when, at Howard’s command, several troopers restrained the enraged older man. They held him under the arms, pulling Joe back as he swore a day’s worth of fiery hate at the Indian agent.
“Come at me, you tub o’ guts!” Joe said. “Get up! C’mon!”
Hathaway ran over and helped his partner up. The taller man seemed eager to strike back—though the presence of the major stayed his fist.
“I’ll see you in prison,” Kennedy vowed, coughing from the belly.
Howard stepped between the two. He faced Joe.
“Mr. O’Malley,” the major said. “You have just assaulted a federal agent who is out here on government business.”
“I hoped I wasn’t being obscure,” Joe snarled.
“You have committed a criminal action in front of—”
“A criminal action? I’ll tell you what the crime is here!” Joe said. “Not the one against me but against our government, our land. Me an’ B.W. figgered it out.”
Joe had relaxed somewhat and the major indicated for his men to release him.
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