The colonel went rigid. “Sergeant Major,” he said, barely keeping his voice under control, “I am well aware that you served under Robert E. Lee as a colonel, too, but you lost the war and are a sergeant now, and you will not tell me what I cannot rightly do.”
“Yes, sir,” the old sergeant said. “You can prefer charges on this soldier. You can watch him hang. You, as commander of this post, can do anything you please. But you might want to consider this. First, there’s young Lieutenant Gibbons’s family and friends. They’ll want to think that their boy, their pride and joy, died in battle. Died facing the enemy. You let them find out that he was killed—and it won’t matter how you explain it, shot as a coward abandoning his men or shot in cold-blooded murder—and you’ll just break their hearts.
“But that’s not all. How do you think, sir, General Thomason, head of the Department of Texas, is going to think of you when he finds out what really happened at Dead Man’s Canyon? You’re responsible for all your men, sir. And then there’s you, Captain Percival. Sergeant Keegan was under your command. They’ll certain remember that when the next vacancy for a major pops up in this man’s army. Lieutenant, you’re in the same troop as the captain and Sean Keegan. And you’re the next in command. The brass won’t forget you, either. Major, maybe you’ll come out of this unscathed. But I think, and, yeah, I ain’t nothing but a sergeant major, but I think if word of what really happened at Dead Man’s Canyon gets out, that little write-up in that Purgatory City paper won’t hold a candle to what’ll come down on all of you, maybe even me, and Fort Spalding.”
The sergeant major shrugged. “But that’s just the opinion of an aide to some old soldier named Robert E. Lee. Likely don’t amount to much.”
* * *
Stripped of his chevrons and forced to muster himself out of the Army, Sean Keegan shoved the last of his clothes into the saddlebag and tossed it on the back of the sorrel gelding. His clothes were still Army, except the chevrons had been removed, and his pants were buckskin.
“Here’s a bill of sale for the horse,” the sergeant major said, and handed Keegan a slip of paper.
Keegan folded the slip and shoved it into his shirt pocket. “How you plan on explaining the Remington and the Springfield?”
The old noncom spit between his teeth. “That’s the quartermaster’s department. If he can’t keep up with his guns, that sure ain’t my problem.” Turning around, he studied the parade ground, and the commanding officer’s quarters.
At that time of evening, most of the soldiers were in their quarters. It would be a good time to leave Fort Spalding, before the colonel decided that he could drum up publicity for himself by something he thought would be for the good of the United States Army even if it turned out to be completely stupid.
“You best ride, Keegan. The colonel, he changes his mind as often as a baby gets a diaper changed. He might decide it’d be worth all the hell just to see you hang. Or shot.”
Keegan swung into the saddle. He looked down on the former aide to Robert E. Lee. “I should have shot that old horse’s arse when he first took over command here.”
Titus Bedwell shook his head. “No, Sean, if you wanted to stay in the Army, you should’ve gunned down those young troopers you led out of that furnace. Then nobody would’ve known what happened. You could’ve blamed all the deaths on the Apaches. You could have gotten yourself one of those Medals of Honor the major thinks they ought to put Lieutenant Gibbons in for.” The old man shook his head, and gave Keegan another hard look. “To be honest, Sean, I’m surprised you didn’t.”
Gathering the reins, Sean Keegan spit tobacco juice onto the fence post of the corral. “I considered it, Titus,” he said, and spurred the gelding into a lope, riding out of Fort Spalding into the darkness.
CHAPTER SIX
The man responsible for keeping the peace in Crossfire, Texas, stepped out of his office just as Jed Breen pushed his way through the doors to the Enfilade Saloon and moved down the warped boardwalk. The marshal was holding a shotgun, but he stopped and just stood there. Breen paid him no mind. The lawman was too far away to do any damage with a shotgun, and likely the lawman remembered that Sharps rifle with the fancy telescopic sight that Jed Breen carried.
Breen turned into the alley and slipped his Parker twelve-gauge into the scabbard underneath the scabbard that held the long Sharps. A moment later, he was in the saddle and riding the black Thoroughbred into Crossfire’s main street. He reined up, and looked down the street. The marshal remained frozen, likely swallowing, praying, resigning, or wetting his britches—perhaps all four—but Breen couldn’t care less about that worthless star-packer. He studied the road that led out of town. No dust. No rider. No nothing. And he could see a long way.
That meant Cat Walker had ridden north.
Breen turned the black in that direction, and pressed the spurs against the Thoroughbred’s side. He left Crossfire, Texas, behind him, with the marshal still holding his shotgun and standing like a fence post in the middle of the street a few yards from his office and the town jail.
Crossfire ended with the livery stable and a warehouse. Beyond that stretched Texas, as far as a body could see. Breen saw the dust and kicked the black into a trot.
The dapple gray gelding he trailed was a quarter horse. That animal, no matter if it had covered two hundred miles or two, could outrun Breen’s Thoroughbred for a little while, but not over the long haul. Breen rode casually, forgetting about the saddle tramp he had senselessly beaten in the Enfilade Hotel, forgetting about the saloon girl, the bartender, even the marshal with the shotgun. Before long, he wouldn’t even remember the French food he had eaten or Crossfire, Texas, itself. What settled into Jed Breen’s mind was Cat Walker. He didn’t even think about the heat.
He followed the dust. He thought only of Cat Walker.
By the middle of the day, Cat Walker knew he was being followed. He made feeble attempts to hide his trail. Jed Breen was no Apache, no Kit Carson, no Tonkawa Indian scout, but he knew how to read sign, how to follow a trail. And Cat Walker was no Tonk, no Kit Carson, and certainly no Apache when it came to hiding his trail. Even when the country turned rougher, the ground harder, the land less hospitable, Jed Breen kept Cat Walker close.
He made a cold camp that night, watered and grained the black Thoroughbred, had a few swallows of water and a piece of jerky for supper, and climbed atop a mesquite-studded ridge to look around. The sky was clear, the stars dancing, and Cat Walker’s campfire was easy to see. Three miles away? Four? That was all right. He could cushion the black’s hooves with rawhide, and set out this evening. Probably catch Walker asleep. But over the course of the day’s travels, he had passed signs of Apaches. They usually didn’t like to fight at night, but Indians, even Apaches, were unpredictable.
The reward in Owensburg—twelve hundred and fifty dollars—was a good chunk of money. But you couldn’t spend greenbacks in Hell.
Breen slept easily, but not deeply, that night—the Lightning in his right hand. He had a few more swallows of water for breakfast and rode off on the black toward Cat Walker’s camp.
He was gone, of course, but the ashes in the fire pit still gave off some heat. No Apache sign, either, and that pleased Breen a great deal.
As he rode, the country started getting more rugged, mesas and hills scattered about. More trees. Not ponderosa pines or anything like that; nothing even taller than a mesquite or juniper—but good enough cover for someone to take a shot at him from a nice distance.
Breen eased his way carefully across the country, and never rode along the skyline when he could help it. Sometimes, he even abandoned the trail and swung a long loop through arroyos, just in case Cat Walker was smarter than he acted.
Breen didn’t need to follow the trail any longer. Cat Walker thought he was playing things smart. A simpleminded fool like Cat Walker would think all the posses, all the lawmen, all the bounty hunters would be looking for him along the Rio Grande. After all, he had b
een only a two days’ ride from the Mexican border back in Crossfire.
Most likely, a good many of those boys were down that way, which would make things easier for Jed Breen. He rested that night down in an arroyo. When the wind blew, he could smell the smoke from Cat Walker’s fire.
Tomorrow, Breen told himself. Tomorrow. He nodded, checked the loads in his Colt, and slept about a mile from where he had first made camp. A smart man never slept where he ate, where he had his fire going, and Breen considered himself a smart man. He moved from that fire because people could see fire and smoke, and slept in the cold just in case the Apaches were watching. Or Cat Walker was getting touchy about being trailed.
* * *
The next morning, Breen had it all figured. Culpepper’s Station. Cat Walker would ride the dapple to the stagecoach stop. He’d trade the horse, saddle, and bridle for a ticket to El Paso. He wouldn’t dare take the eastbound stage. Although that might not have taken him through Owensburg, it would be close enough, and those wanted dodgers on Cat Walker would be more plentiful.
Breen could make it to the station by keeping along the arroyo for about half the day. That quarter horse Walker was riding would be practically worn out already. Breen would beat him to Culpepper’s by at least three hours. He could have some coffee, sourdough biscuits, maybe even antelope stew, and be waiting for Cat Walker when the worn-out murderer walked through the door.
That’s the way it would work out, Breen decided. He kicked the black into a lope.
Of course, the arroyo didn’t lead all the way to Culpepper’s. It turned south, and Breen had to climb out and start easing his way through the garden of rock formations. The black’s hooves clopped loudly on the ground.
Breen reined up. He drew the shotgun from its scabbard and braced the stock against his thigh as he studied the little pass through a collection of boulders. It was cooler there, but Breen had started sweating. With his left hand, he removed his black hat and wiped his white hair and forehead.
He studied the ground, but the pass was too hard to leave any tracks. No horse dung. Nothing. Breen had this nervous feeling about him. It was probably nothing, he thought, then corrected himself.
It was never nothing.
Apaches? No, no Apaches weren’t that patient. And with a horse like the one Breen was riding, they would have killed him by now. Killed the horse, too. And started roasting the animal. If Breen remained alive, those red devils might roast him, too, but not to eat.
He returned the hat and wiped his face. He needed another shave. He took a look behind him and down the trace that led through more rocks and toward the desert, toward, maybe Cat Walker. Breen eased the black to a walk. He looked up the ridge and took in every nook, every cranny, and every shadow. No birds sang. No insects hummed. The only sound came from the creaking of Breen’s saddle and the metallic rings of the hooves on stone.
Breen reined up again. He listened. Still, he heard nothing. Culpepper’s Station was still a long way off, and if Breen kept up at that rate, Cat Walker would catch up with him. The canyon ended about a hundred yards from there, then it widened out and became much more passable, much less tense, until he would come to Culpepper’s, which butted up against some mediocre mountains.
“To hell with it,” Breen whispered to himself, and eased the black into a faster walk.
Cat Walker came out of the shadows about fifteen yards in front of Breen and the black, up on the right.
Breen saw the flash of gunmetal, and he realized his mistake. He had acted like a greenhorn, thinking that Cat Walker had been lazy and stupid, that he had been lollygagging his way to Culpepper’s. The man had fooled him with the campfires. Oh, he had left the fire burning, good and long, but he had ridden out of camp long before daylight. And there he was, laying the ambush Breen had planned for him.
Breen turned the horse as the six-shooter roared in Cat Walker’s hand.
Breen heard the sickening impact of the bullet as it slammed into the fine black. The horse was screaming, rearing, and falling over as Breen dived off. He hit the ground, rolled over, heard another shot and the ricochet, and then took off running. Another bullet tore off his hat before he dived into the rocks. He hit the ground, came up, and looked down the barrels of his Parker.
They were cavernous, not clogged with dirt and sand from his fall.
Bootsteps sounded and another bullet whined off the rocks behind him.
“You back-shootin’ swine!” the man roared. “Why are you trailin’ me?”
Breen drew his Lightning with his left hand, pulled the hammer back to full cock, and tossed it over the rocks far to his right. The gun went off. He wasn’t sure it would, but luck was with him, and the bullet whined off something.
While that was happening, Breen headed the other way. He cleared the rocks, and braced the Parker against his thigh.
Cat Walker had stopped and turned toward the direction Breen’s revolver had spoken. Realizing his mistake, he spun around, keeping his Remington level, and bringing back his left hand to fan the hammer.
He was too late, of course. Maybe he knew it. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. Both barrels of the Parker exploded, and Breen ducked underneath the clouds of white smoke.
He waited a moment and drew in a deep breath.
Cat Walker lay spread-eagled between cactus and catclaw. His chest was a bloody mess.
Breen walked to the rocks, found his Lightning, checked the action, and shoved the .38 into the holster. Later, once he was at Culpepper’s he would give it a thorough cleaning. He shot Cat Walker another glance and moved past the body and to the black. It was dead, damn it all to hell, but Breen had known that already.
He popped the breech of the shotgun, ejecting the two shells, and opened the saddlebag and reloaded the twelve-gauge. He found his hat, frowned as he stuck a finger through the bullet hole in the crown, but still shoved it down over his white hair.
Four miles? Breen looked down the passage. Six? No more than that to Culpepper’s. He managed to get the saddle off the dead black and found a good spot to leave it in the shade. If he took the eastbound, he could pay the driver to stop and pick it up. If not, well, a man could buy a horse and a saddle and a whole lot more with twelve hundred and fifty bucks. He kept the saddlebags, and the canteen, and especially the Sharps rifle.
Again, he ignored the dead man and looked around the rocks from where Cat Walker had emerged, hoping to find a horse hobbled there. What he found, however, was a saddle and a canteen. So Cat Walker had likely ridden the gray to death. He was making his way to Culpepper’s, too.
All that meant was that Jed Breen had a long walk. But he could stretch his legs. He had a good bit of money coming to him.
He went to the body and saw Cat Walker’s eyes staring up at him. Breen couldn’t take the body to Culpepper’s. He could cut off Walker’s head—he’d had to do that with other men before—but that was messy. The air there was dry, though, and bodies didn’t rot so much. Often, they mummified. He just had to keep Walker’s corpse away from coyotes and buzzards.
He glanced down at the body and frowned, then lowered himself for closer inspection. Breen lowered his weapons and fished the wanted poster from the inside pocket of his Prince Albert. He reread the description on the poster.
5-foot-9, 150 pounds, black hair, gray eyes, crooked nose, left earlobe missing.
“Hell,” Breen breathed again when he looked from the poster to the man he had killed.
Oh, he might have been five-nine, and maybe he weighed a hundred and a half. But the hair was sandy brown, the eyes were dark brown, his nose was big, but not what you’d call crooked, and both ears, while too big, still had the lobes.
“You’re not Cat Walker,” Breen told the dead man.
* * *
“Maybe Walker traded that horse to you,” Breen told the corpse after he had shoved it into a hole in the rocky wall, deep, and out of sight. Had there been any witnesses, Breen might not have had to hide the body.
The dead man, whoever he was, had opened fire first—even killed Breen’s horse—and Breen had shot the trigger-happy fool in self-defense. Only, there weren’t any witnesses, Breen’s friends in that part of Texas numbered zero, and he couldn’t keep track of all the sheriffs, marshals, competition for bounties, judges, and hangmen who would jump at the chance to see him swing.
“Maybe you’re even wanted for something,” Breen said, concluding what amounted to a prayer or eulogy. “But this is where I leave you.”
He went through the dead man’s clothes and his saddlebags, but found only three dollars and seventeen cents, and chewing tobacco—Jed Breen couldn’t stand chewing tobacco—no watch, no identification, and nothing carved into his saddle. He tossed the saddle into the arroyo, and collapsed the side of the wall to bury the cheap slick-fork saddle.
Finally, Jed Breen, three dollars and seventeen cents richer, picked up his canteen, his Sharps, and his Parker, and started walking toward Culpepper’s Station.
It was shaping up to be a lousy day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jacob Jackson Kenneth Hollister appeared to be on the verge of dropping dead from an apoplexy. It took him several seconds before he could actually utter a complete sentence. “We are paid to keep peace in our communities!”
He must have been reading Purgatory City’s Herald Leader, Matt McCulloch figured, and he waited for the captain of Company G, Texas Rangers, to finish his tirade.
“Not shoot a church to pieces. A church. By God, how could you have done it? Why did you do it? What were you thinking, McCulloch?”
McCulloch answered in a flat, deliberate tone. “I was thinking that the only way to bring peace to that little community on our side of the border was to shoot Cuervo Villanueva to pieces.”
“Inside a church?”
“Cuervo picked the spot. He could have stayed outside and faced us like a man. He could have made for the Rio Grande.”
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