Chapter Nineteen
The young detective from the Sheriff’s Office stood in front of Rob’s desk. He was dressed like a prosperous cattleman in a Western cut suit and polished black cowboy boots. Like many Arizonans, he wore a bolo tie, this one secured by a turquoise stone set in silver. He twisted the brim of his white Stetson in his big hands. “We're plumb out of leads, Rob.”
Rob leaned back in the big leather chair behind his desk, which was laden with case files. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Sam. If there was anything to find, you’d have found it.”
“You'll let us know if you hear anything from her?”
“You bet. But I have a bad feeling about this.”
“I understand.” The detective shifted from one foot to the other. “I’d better be going…I’ll keep in touch.”
“Thanks, Sam. I owe you.”
After the detective was gone, Rob sat staring at Amanda’s address book, neatly squared atop the active files on the desk. He had called everyone in the book, persisting until he had contacted every one of them, but no one had heard from her since that day he had been out at her house. She had missed her appointment at the dentist; she hadn’t started her new job, she hadn’t returned her mother’s phone calls.
He glanced out the window, wondering if the yellow crime-scene tape was still draped around her porch and the front yard.
The sheriff’s crime-scene team had been very thorough. They had found the boot tracks of four separate men in and around the scene, and taken casts of them all. They had good casts of the strange tire prints. And they had recovered enough blood from the stains in the yard to ensure a match if they ever came up with a viable suspect.
Using metal detectors, they had dug four slugs out of various walls. One of those had been soft lead, badly deformed, as if it had punched through something or somebody before coming to rest in the barn door. The forensics people were curious about its conformation, and especially curious about a couple of boxes of .45 cartridges they had found in the house: pristine pasteboard cartridge boxes, one full, the other almost so. The printing on the boxes named a cartridge company that didn’t exist. Pulling apart one of the rounds had proved it matched the information printed on the box: a black-powder round.
Remembering the perfectly preserved six-gun Trey Long Walker had shown him, Rob had kept his own counsel. The man clearly carried his Old West hobby to extremes that most of the Single Action Shooting Sports aficionados did not. Preliminary research on Rob’s part had determined that yes, some cartridge companies printed old-fashioned looking boxes for reenactment fans, but if these boxes had been printed by such a company, there would be a legitimate address somewhere on them. Had Long Walker loaded the rounds himself, and had the boxes printed with a fake address? That was an idea Rob wasn't willing to share with the authorities. Not yet.
Then there was the stash of well-preserved old money the detectives had found in Amanda’s bedroom. If it was authentic, that money was worth far more than its face value in modern dollars. If it wasn’t—again, Long Walker had gone to extremes; the kind of presses that could handle such a specialized printing job shouldn’t be too hard to find. He would start in Montana.
Normally, such anomalous material at a crime scene would have been marked as evidence and taken in, but the case was too off-center. Since Rob was well known to the local authorities, they had agreed to let him take custody of the cash, for the time being. Amanda’s parents had agreed with that decision.
Her mother had flown out, stayed a few days, and left in tears.
Her father called every day, asking Rob if any progress had been made. Time and again, Rob had walked out to where the horse’s hoofprints disappeared, and the truck had turned back. He had plucked a long strand of white hair from a chest-high shrub and wrapped it around his finger. Where had the horse gone? Why had its tracks vanished in plain sight? Or, maybe the question was how? It was as if the stud had taken wing.
The sheriff’s office had run Long Walker through its computers and come up blank. There was no driver’s license on him in Montana. He had never served in the military. He didn’t even have a Social Security card.
It was as if the cowboy had materialized out of thin air.
Just like the white stallion had, according to Amanda.
He leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. The noise of traffic from the busy Tucson street below his window filtered into his consciousness. The horse had appeared, and then the cowboy had shown up, and then something had happened out there, something violent. Now horse and cowboy—and Amanda—had vanished off the face of the earth.
He was missing something. Something right in front of his face. He frowned thoughtfully. He was supposed to be a man-hunter—one of the best. It was in his blood. But he needed a trail, a lead, something to start on.
Those bank notes and the cartridge boxes… It was time to do some research.
He spun his chair around to face his computer screen, tugged the keyboard out of the drawer, and logged onto the Internet.
Chapter Twenty
They were on their way to Bonita Canyon. It was a favorite Apache stronghold, Trey told her. Located off a tributary of the Gila River, it was an ideal hideout, hard to find, easy to defend.
The Indians had offered them jerky and cakes made of ground acorns. Amanda had eaten beef jerky before, but it had never tasted like this. When she remarked on it, Trey told her it was made from buffalo, not beef.
And now she rode beside him, feeling somewhat distant from it all, as if she were watching everything through someone else’s eyes. How could this be happening? What was she doing here, in the middle of nowhere?
She glanced at Trey. He rode slightly slumped forward in the saddle, one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection. A fine sheen of perspiration dampened his brow, his jaw was rigid with discomfort. In the light of day, she could see he did, indeed, have a black eye, and it was a beaut.
The two warriors rode ahead of them. She had the feeling that they were aware of every plant, every lizard, every grain of sand. They were a fearsome looking pair. She kept reminding herself that they were Trey’s people, Trey’s friends. But they looked so…so…ferocious was the only word that came to mind. Their hair was shoulder length, thick and black and coarse. Their clouts were made of some kind of animal skin that reached to the knee, front and back; their moccasins reached to mid-thigh, to protect their legs from prickly brush and cactus she supposed. One of the warriors had folded his moccasins down to just below the knee. She thought it curious that the toes of the moccasins curled up on the ends.
Amanda shifted her weight in the saddle. They had been riding for several hours, following the river. Now, the warriors turned off into a pass that Trey said led to the stronghold. High canyon walls rose up all around. Trees were few. She saw scrub brush, mesquite, creosote bushes, Saguaro cactus and Palo Verde. The Saguaro was the state flower, if she remembered right. Some of the plants were huge, standing over forty feet high. Almost as ancient as Sequoias, she seemed to remember.
The Indians followed a bend in the river and suddenly they were at the mouth of the canyon. Amanda stared in wonder at the brush-covered wickiups spread in the shelter of the high canyon walls. It was a peaceful scene. Dogs slept in the sun. A large herd of horses grazed on bunch grass in the distance. She saw several boys shooting arrows at a target; a couple of boys were wrestling while a handful of others looked on. She saw young girls playing with dolls made of corn husks and deerskin, others were making animals and houses out of mud. Primitive Play-Doh, she thought with a grin. She saw a group of children swimming in the river, while women with babies sat on the bank, keeping watch. Men sat in small groups, working on weapons, talking, gambling. Women throughout the camp were cooking, sewing, nursing their young, scraping hides. The men were clad in little more than breechclouts and moccasins; they wore a band of cloth around their heads to keep their hair out of their faces. The women wore fringed dresses of deersk
in that fell past their knees. Their moccasins seemed less durable than those worn by the men, and reached only a little above the ankle. The children wore hardly anything at all.
Elk Runner and Two Horses stopped in front of a hut that was circular in shape and covered with brush. Smoke curled from a hole in the middle of the roof. A deer hide covered the doorway, which was low.
Elk Runner spoke to Trey and then the two Apaches moved on.
Amanda glanced around, aware that many of the Indians had stopped what they were doing and were now watching them, their dark eyes alight with curiosity.
“What’s going on?” Amanda asked.
Moving slowly, Trey dismounted. “This is my grandmother’s wickiup.”
“Oh.” She looked at the dwelling again. It wasn’t very large, perhaps twelve feet by eight. “Are they expecting you?”
“I don’t know,” Trey replied. “Grandfather always seemed to know when I was…”
He paused as a man stepped out of the wickiup. He was of medium height, broad-shouldered and virile looking in spite of the gray in his hair and the deep-cut lines in his face.
“Long Walker,” he said. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you. Grandfather, this is Amanda. Amanda, this is my grandfather, Walker on the Wind.”
The old Apache looked up at Amanda through knowing, dark eyes. “You are welcome in my lodge,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied. Conscious of the old man’s scrutiny, she dismounted and stood beside Trey.
“So,” the old man said, turning his gaze back to Trey. “Relámpago has brought you safely home.”
Trey nodded. “Just as you promised.”
Walker on the Wind called to a teenage boy and instructed him to look after the horses, then turned toward Trey. “Come,” he said. “Let us eat.”
The old man ducked back inside his lodge. Trey followed him, and after a moment’s hesitation, Amanda followed Trey.
It was dim inside. A small fire pit was located in the middle of the wickiup.
An old woman with long gray braids sat beside the fire. A smile lit her face when she saw Trey.
“Long Walker,” she said.
Walker on the Wind helped the old woman to her feet. She laid a gnarled hand on Trey’s cheek, her gaze moving lovingly over his face.
“You are hurt,” she remarked, noting the way he kept his arm curved around his middle.
Trey nodded. “I think I broke a rib, maybe two.” He glanced at Amanda over the older woman’s head. “This is my grandmother, Yellow Calf Woman. Grandmother, this is Amanda.”
Yellow Calf Woman nodded. “A-manda. Welcome to my lodge.”
“Thank you.”
“You, sit,” Yellow Calf Woman said to Trey.
Trey did as he was told, then held his hand out to Amanda. “Sit with me.”
She did as he asked, watching as his grandmother helped him out of his shirt, and then removed the strips of cloth wound around his middle.
Yellow Calf Woman ran her hands over his back, speaking to him in rapid Apache.
“What did she say?” Amanda asked.
“She wanted to know who shot me,” Trey answered. “She also said my ribs aren’t broken, just badly bruised.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Trey grunted softly, then clasped her hand in his while Yellow Calf Woman ran her fingers lightly over his rib cage, spread a sweet-smelling ointment over his side, then wrapped a strip of rawhide tightly around his middle.
“Geez, Grandmother,” he muttered in English, “leave me some room to breathe.”
When Yellow Calf Woman had finished tending Trey’s injuries, she offered Trey and Amanda each a bowl of thick stew and a spoon made of horn.
Amanda looked at the contents of the bowl, and then looked at Trey.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s venison.”
They ate in silence. Amanda kept her gaze on the bowl in her hand, aware that she was very much out of place in this place. More than anything, she wanted to be back in her own time, in her own house. In her own bathtub. She couldn’t recall ever being quite so grimy, so in need of bathing. She wasn’t sure, but she was afraid she smelled bad.
Yellow Calf Woman sat down beside the fire again; Walker on the Wind sat across from his wife. He pulled a pipe from a buckskin bag, filled the bowl with tobacco, lit it with a coal from the fire, and then lifted the pipe to the four directions.
She couldn’t help but wonder if the smoke was meant to mask her body odor. Perhaps later, when she was alone with Trey, she would ask if there was someplace where she could take a bath and wash her clothes.
When they finished eating, Yellow Calf Woman collected their dishes and took them outside. A small spotted puppy emerged from the shadows in the back of the lodge and followed her out the door.
Trey let out a long, weary sigh. Every movement sent slivers of pain lancing though his left side.
Walker on the Wind leaned forward. “You need rest, my son. Yellow Calf Woman has prepared a lodge for the two of you.”
A cold shiver tiptoed down Amanda’s spine at the old man’s words.
“Ashoge, Shinale,” Trey replied.
Walker on the Wind smiled. “You will find your lodge behind this one. Go, rest. We will talk later.”
With a nod, Trey climbed slowly to his feet.
Amanda stood and followed Trey outside. She blinked against the light of the sun, stood a moment, basking in its warmth, unable to shake the feeling that she was caught up in the Twilight Zone.
“Are you coming?” Trey called.
“Yes.” She hurried after him. He was, after all, the only familiar thing in this strange new world.
The wickiup that had been prepared for them was almost exactly like the one that belonged to his grandparents.
Amanda stood inside the doorway, her arms folded over her chest, while Trey lowered himself down on a pile of soft-looking furs.
“How did he know?” she asked. “How did your grandfather know you were coming here? That we were coming here?”
“He’s a diyini,” Trey replied. “A holy man. He often has visions that foretell the future.”
“Your grandfather mentioned that Relámpago had brought you safely home. Did he work some kind of Indian magic to bring us here?”
Trey closed his eyes. “I don’t know. But he always said ’Pago had magic powers to take me away from danger.”
She remembered her dream of a white horse and a warrior who resembled Trey. “How old is Relámpago?”
He shrugged. “He was full-grown when I was a little boy. He doesn’t seem to age very fast, though. He could always out-run any horse in the tribe.”
She turned her thoughts to a more pressing concern. “How long are we going to stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what do you know?”
“I know that I hurt all over.”
She let out a sigh. “Of course you do. I’m sorry.”
“Well, don’t lose any sleep over it,” he muttered wearily. “It’s not your fault.”
While she considered a reply, he fell asleep.
With a sigh, Amanda went to the door, lifted the flap and peered outside.
Dusk had come to the canyon, though the afternoon sun still burnished the high cliffs. Cook fires blazed in front of the wickiups; mouth-watering odors drifted on the lazy campfire smoke. Mothers called to their children, warriors brought their favorites horses in from the herd and picketed them close to their lodges. Dogs fought over scraps of meat. Three old men sat together, sharing a pipe, oblivious to the activity around them.
Standing there, watching the Apaches get ready for the night, she felt an overwhelming wave of loneliness. She would never belong here. Never. The wickiup suddenly seemed too small and she stepped outside. No one paid her any attention as she walked away from the camp toward a clump of trees growing along a narrow winding stream. She walked along the edge of the water, following
it away from the camp. The Indian horse herd grazed nearby. They lifted their heads as she drew near, ears twitching, nostrils flaring as they took in her strange scent. Relámpago was the only white horse in the herd, and easy to spot.
She smiled as the big stallion trotted toward her. He rubbed his forehead against her chest, begging to have his ears scratched.
“Guess I’m not totally alone,” she murmured. “Not as long as you’re here.”
The stallion made a soft snuffling sound in reply.
She stood there for several minutes, her gaze moving over the floor of the canyon and up the sides while she scratched the stallion’s ears. Surely there were sentries posted, but if so, she couldn’t see any. Then again, there was only one way in and one way out. If any sentries were posted, they were most likely at the mouth of the canyon.
She ran her hand along the stallion’s neck. If she rode out of the canyon while Trey was sleeping, would anyone try to stop her? She wasn’t a prisoner, after all.
She thought about it a few more minutes. It was a risk, riding out alone, but a risk she was willing to take, since Trey had made it clear he wouldn’t take her back to her own time. And she had to get back! She just had to, before it was too late. Before Trey became more important to her than he already was. Before it became impossible to leave him. She swallowed hard. She was already falling in love with him. She had to go while she could, before he broke her heart.
Stepping up on a rock, she climbed onto the stallion’s back, grabbed a handful of mane, and drummed her heels against the stallion’s flanks. The horse moved out smartly, guided by the pressure of her knees.
She took the long way around the camp, skirting the far edge. It was dusk as she drew nearer to the canyon entrance. So far, so good. A few children had seen her pass by. They had stared at her curiously, but done nothing to stop her.
It was almost full dark and her heart was pounding wildly by the time she reached the canyon entrance. And still no one had made a move to stop her.
She was heady with relief when, for no apparent reason, the stallion came to an abrupt halt. Amanda looked around, searching for whatever it was that had brought Relámpago to a stop, but there was nothing to see.
Chase the Lightning Page 19