A Good Day

by James W. Marvin

  Crow found his mouth was unaccountably dry. “You got water?”

  A hand came and pointed to the corner of the cave. The hand of an old, old man, weathered and lined, blotched with time. The fingers crooked and bent, the nails long like claws.

  There was a small pitcher of brown earthenware against a pile of furs and Crow took it, lifting it to his lips with an effort that surprised him. Drinking deeply.

  “I thank you,” he said, returning to his place by the smoldering fire.

  “Balances? You spoke of balances.”

  “Yes. I did. It is the life I’ve picked. To use my skill with guns and tracking to hunt other men for silver and for gold. Men pay me and smile in my face. And spit in the dirt behind my back. Their hands stay clean and mine grow …”he waved his fingers, bending and flexing them. “Mine get bloodied, White Snow.”

  “So what is to set against all this?”

  The shootist sat still and thought about it. Seeing faces in his mind’s eye. Dead faces. Men, women and children. Some resigned and some angered. Some puzzled and some almost relieved.

  “The other side …”he said, the words heavy on his tongue.

  “You are not of the whites. You are not a real person. Not of my people, Crow. You stand between them and your feet do not touch the earth in the camps of either.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I curse your religion, Crow. It teaches the young men that their fathers were wrong. That is not good.”

  “No. It is not a good day. ... A good thing, old man.”

  “And what of you?”

  A phrase came back to him. “I hunt my own knowledge, White Snow.”

  “Aye, my son. I too think that. I sit here, and I drink my own whiskey. And there are nights that I sing the old songs until the morning light comes through the hills beyond.”

  “I hunt my own knowledge. I step aside for no man. I owe nothing to any man.”

  “You have no friends, Crow.”

  The fire was almost out and the shootist’s head was spinning with too many thoughts. Sleep appeared and beckoned to him.

  “I have no friends, White Snow. And I have no enemies, old man.”

  “No enemies, Crow. A hired gun and you have no enemies.”

  The white man smiled again. A secret, thin smile that never even approached his shadowed eyes.

  “None.” He paused. “Alive.”

  Crow slept.

  Waking later.

  How much later? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?

  Centuries?

  His head throbbed and his brain felt as though someone had crept up on him during the blackness and shrouded it in old butter-muslin. The fire blazed more brightly again and White Snow had disappeared.

  The shootist reached for his Purdey, expecting to find that his weapons had been taken from him while he lay in a drugged slumber. But the scattergun was still snug in his holster. Trusting as ever Crow drew it and checked the load. Both barrels still full-charged. He slid it into the greased leather and lay back again on the cave floor.

  When he jerked awake more time had slithered by and the fire had again sunk to a pile of glowing embers. Outside, for the first time, Crow could hear the wind raging around the Arizona hillside, but inside White Snow’s sanctuary it was calm and still.

  The old man had reappeared, sitting with his back to the white man, hunched over a small, steaming container of what looked like green glass. He seemed to be inhaling the vapors rather than drinking from it.

  And he was talking to himself.

  A long, droning monologue. This time his English was left behind and he spoke in the Chiricahua tongue. The shootist lay quiet and listened.

  “Over the red sky-ripping hills I ride, my ponies harnessed to a coach of bone. White and clean, washed by suns and dried by winds. Below me the land flows like changing waters. Foam-topped. I see my peoples. Oh, oh, my people!”

  For a few moments White Snow was quiet, but it seemed to Crow that old shaman was weeping. The frail shoulders shook and the steam from the glass bowl streaked and danced in swirling columns.

  “They rise like the corn in the fields of green. And are cut down and do not rise again. I hear the sound of the death chant from throats long slipped away. The soldiers come to the land. A number more than there are rocks in the mountains. We fight. Fight them. Their horses trample over wickiups. Babies are slaughtered in snow that runs crimson. Long knives rise and rise and rise and fall. Our guns speak but the sound is thunder from another moon. The dancing ends. The gods help us. The dancing is done.”

  It was dawn.

  Crow stretched himself, sighing at the stiffness in the small of his back where he’d been lying awkwardly. The fire was out and he ran his fingers through the ashes, feeling them as cold as stone. The green glass beaker lay on the further side of the cave, by the piled furs. He got up and walked over to pick up the pitcher. Finding a thin film of ice across the water in it. Sipping at it, allowing it to take the edge of his thirst.

  His eyes felt heavy, as though he’d been drinking all night. Whatever drug it was that the shaman had given him, it had been damnably powerful. Even now he wasn’t quite certain where reality began and ended. Where the dreams of the previous night stopped.

  He’d woken once more. Or had he?

  White Snow had been standing, looking down at the shootist. His face had not been that of an old man, and his body had been tall and strong. His voice had been soft and gentle, like a father telling stories of bravery to his youngest child.

  But the words?

  “Death will always sit upon the shoulder of a killer, like a dark shadow in a summer’s day.”

  That had been it.

  Crow looked around the cave. It had a strange feeling to it. Like a long abandoned suit of clothes. There seemed no link with any human being. It was cold and deserted. He didn’t bother to call out to White Snow. Wherever the shaman was now, he certainly wasn’t within hearing.

  There was nothing for Crow to do but untether his black stallion and ride back along the winding ravine, to rejoin the patrol.

  Chapter Ten

  Lieutenant James Carter was relieved to see the scout coming back towards the camp. The shrinking patrol was a mile or so out on the plain, close in to the looming foothills. In the classic circular defense pattern. But even all the care and vigilance hadn’t stopped a lone Apache warrior coming sneaking in on his belly, crawling a half mile that slow, painful way. Hitting them just before dawn and slitting the throat of one of the troopers on guard.

  Powdery snow was easing itself down from a sullen sky as Crow reined in, to be immediately told the news of the killing by Corporal Chandler.

  “And where’s Dale and Harris? Holding a point up ahead?”

  “Dead,” said Crow, swinging down from the saddle.

  “Jesus. That’s three gone and all we’ve done is butchered a Chiricahua kid,” said Haydon.

  “Can only get better,” said one of the soldiers, standing at the head of Crow’s horse.

  “Last man I heard say that fell in front of a train a couple of minutes later and lost both legs. Died the same night,” said Crow.

  They held a conference. Starting with only Carter, Haydon and Chandler, sitting with Crow to try and discuss what they should do. But with such a small patrol the rest of the ordinary soldiers grouped around and every man there had his say.

  The shootist did little except tell them that the friendlies had disappeared with Cyrus Quaid into the tangle of trails that crossed in among the hills ahead of them.

  “You see them?”

  Crow shook his head. “No. They’re somewhere in there. I guess Small Pony’s taken them in his camp. Must have been one of his men came and killed the sentry.”

  The young officer was barely winning the battle to keep control over himself and his fears. The scream as the trooper was slaughtered the previous night had shaken him to the core. That an Indian could come that close and kill so easily without the
m even seeing him!

  “What’s the feeling, men?” asked Carter.

  The snow was beginning to fall with a real sense of purpose. Suddenly wiping the mountains from the sight of the soldiers as though they’d never been there in the first place.

  “We could use this to cut and run for Fort Garrett,” suggested Haydon, looking from the corner of his eyes at Crow. Trying to judge whether the shootist supported his idea or not. Crow said nothing, his face expressionless.

  Carter saw his career at the crossroads. If he went back he’d have nothing to show but three dead troopers. But if he went on…?

  “The snow can cover us from the Apaches, can’t it, Crow?”

  “If it holds.”

  The officer looked around. Reaching out a hand, like a spinster considering whether or not it was the kind of day to wear gloves.

  “Seems to me this is in to stay.”

  The shootist breathed out, looking down at the earth, rather than up at the sky. “Smells like it could be in for a day or more. It’ll make it hard to move fast, if’n we have to.”

  “But it will cover our approach?”

  “I guess so.”

  Carter looked round at the ring of grim, stubbled faces. “What’s it to be, men? Is it to be a retreat with every Indian both sides of the Pecos laughing at us? Or is it to be honor and glory? Saving the hide of that young rascal, Cyrus?”

  He didn’t get the overwhelming response that he’d hoped for. There was a murmur that was probably agreement, but could just as well have been dissent.

  Haydon coughed, hawking up phlegm. Looking for somewhere discreet to spit it out, then changing his mind. “Beggin’ pardon, Mr. Carter, Sir. I guess the men figure that we come here to get the kid. We lost three good men. Be damned bad to go back to Garrett with that on our record. I say we go on.”

  “Corporal?”

  Chandler nodded. “I say go on.”

  “Mr. Crow?”

  “I just scout for you.”

  Carter frowned. “But what is your opinion on our plan?”

  The shootist shook his head. “I told you, Carter. I’m here to save myself from trouble with the military. If’n it was down to me I’d have ridden on. You want to go in those hills after Small Pony and … maybe fifty warriors, then you go.”

  “But you’ll…”

  “Hell, Lieutenant. I said I’d scout. So, I will. If you want to use this snow, we’d best be movin’.”

  They broke camp in deteriorating weather. The cold Blue Norther was swooping down on them, dashing spattering hail and snow in their eyes. Spooking some of the horses, making them rear and buck.

  Eventually they formed into a rough column of twos, with Carter and Crow at the head. Then came Sergeant Haydon, followed by the surviving seven troopers. The dependable Corporal Chandler brought up the rear.

  It only took them a half hour to reach the first of the soaring foot-hills, vanishing upwards in a veil of flickering whiteness. Somewhere in those mountains was a band of Chiricahua Apaches, with a variety of women and children. And the breed, John Dancer, with the teenage white boy, Little Cyrus Quaid.

  All they had to do was pluck the needle from the wilderness and return safely to Fort Garrett.

  That was all.

  Once they were among the high-walled arroyos of the red hills the snow became less of a problem. Crow took the lead, relying mainly on experience and guesswork. The driving blizzard had totally obliterated any tracks that the friendlies might have left as they pushed on for safety. Twice he climbed down from the saddle, digging with his hands through the four inch covering. Baring the earth underneath, brushing away the freezing snow. Checking carefully what lay beneath. Finding a small mound of pony droppings, rummaging them between his fingers. Sniffing at them, and crumbling them to dust.

  “Guess this was them,” he said. “Fresh enough and it’s Cavalry feed all right. Must be the friendlies. Day or so old.”

  They kept moving.

  “Which way?”

  Crow sat silent. Pondering the choices. There was the main trail; having dipped down it was beginning to rise again, deeper into the hills. But there was a side trail, slicing off to the right. The ground here was solid rock, giving no clue to where their prey might have gone.

  “What do you think, Crow?” asked Lieutenant Carter again.

  “I don’t know. Never been this way before. Anyone got any knowledge?”

  Chandler heeled his gelding forward from the back of the small column. Blowing hard in the biting cold.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on, then, Corporal,” urged Carter. “Day’s movin’ towards noon.”

  “There’s water down there,” pointing towards the side trail.

  “Much?” asked the shootist.

  “Yeah, Crow. Kind of a large stream. Or a small river. There’s a spit of land sticking out into the creek, and I once saw a group of wickiups there when I was out scouting with Ginger ... I mean with Major Lovick.”

  “What’s it called? The river?”

  The Corporal pushed back his hat, scratching at his chin. “Don’t rightly recall. Sandy Creek. Somethin’ like that.”

  Crow spoke. “This time of year Small Pony’ll be readyin’ to move from summer to winter quarters. His warriors go first. Women, old men, children bring up the rear a few days later.”

  “When?”

  “Generally around now, Lieutenant. This snow might have held them back.”

  “Good.”

  “Or it might have moved them out faster than usual.”

  The young officer was confused. The wind and snow beating in his face seemed to have numbed his senses. More and more he was filled with an odd feeling of unreality. What was he doing out there? Chasing phantoms that never appeared. Spirits that had stolen a child and had even killed one of his men in the night.

  One of his men.

  “I don’t know,” he said, slowly.

  Haydon looked meaningfully across at Chandler and then at Crow. He’d seen fresh young officers coming out from the East. Seen some of them make it. Ageing years in weeks. Seen some not make it. Running off on furlough and never coming back. Or one or two who’d taken the faster route out. “The hemp express” as they called it in the Cavalry.

  Now James Carter was showing clear signs of going the same way. Bewildered by the ever-changing situation and unable to relate it to anything that he’d been taught at military college.

  Crow was disgusted by the obvious weakness. “Christ!” he exclaimed angrily. “We can sit here all day, Lieutenant. How ‘bout an order?”

  “Yes. We’ll. What do you think, Mr. Crow? Ahead or right?”

  “Right.”

  The answer was so terse and rapid that it took the callow officer by surprise. “Oh. Right?”

  “Sure.” As though he was explaining a simple addition sum to a child of five. “What Sergeant says is interesting. Their summer camp’s probably still there. This weather’s come fast. Odds are the whole damned tribe is still down by that Sandy Creek. If they aren’t, it’s no problem to come back here and try the high trail. But that’s the most dangerous.”

  “You take the safe option first,” said Sergeant Haydon.

  “Right,” nodded Carter. “Then right it is. Move on out!”

  At least he gave that last order with a measure of confidence.

  They were still there.

  A huddled collection of around forty small wickiups, visible every now and again as the wind tore holes in the curtain of heavy snow.

  “There,” said Carter, unable to contain the excitement that pulled ragged edges from his voice.

  “They haven’t gone into the hills,” Haydon said quietly.

  “No men out on watch in this kind of weather,” contributed Chandler.

  Crow said nothing.

  “Wouldn’t look to have a patrol down on their necks in this weather,” called out one of the troopers, drawing his carbine.

  “Set that gun
back, soldier,” snapped the Sergeant. “Don’t want them sons of bitches frightened off before we’re in among them.”

  “We’ll get in closer,” said Carter. “Walk on down yonder. Four of you men go with Sergeant Haydon and circle over to the left. Cross the creek higher up and cut off that neck of land.”

  “Yeah,” grinned Chandler. “That way we’ll have ’em all tighter than a rat in a sack. No way out to run but the water. And we’ll wait for ’em on this side and close the door on their faces.”

  “What about the boy?” asked the shootist.

  They’d forgotten Cyrus Quaid. In the rush of adrenalin that comes with the prospect of violent, bloody action, the whole patrol had forgotten the boy!

  “Well, he …” began the officer, stopping as the problems came in.

  “He what, Lieutenant?” asked Crow.

  “He’ll be in one of them huts.”

  “Unless they’ve split their forces.”

  “If they have then … Long as we all take care who we shoot Cyrus’ll be just fine and dandy.”

  “Guess you’ve never been in this kind of raid, have you?” said the shootist wearily.

  “No. No, as it happens, Mr. Crow, I haven’t. But I know what to do, if that’s botherin’ you.”

  “Doesn’t bother me none, Lieutenant. Your plan’s good as any.”

  “But?”

  “But you don’t know. Don’t realize what happens to men in this kind of charge. Blood madness comes in behind the eyes. You see through a kind of red cloud. Gets so you shoot anything that moves. Even your best friend. I seen it happen.”

  “Somethin’ in that, Sir,” said Chandler. “I seen the way troopers get kind of …”

  Carter held up a gauntleted hand. “I know about that. Fighting fever was what my instructor called it. Long as we know ‘bout it, there’s no danger.” Raising his voice. “You all hear me? Kill only men. Warriors. Or any Apache that threatens you. But watch out for the white boy.”

  “Sure. That’ll hold them,” said Crow, shaking his head in disgust.

  Carter missed the sarcasm.

  “Any questions?”

  “Signal to start?” asked Haydon.