“I had to make the Apaches think I was crazy,” Theodore Cannon said.
Breen had to smile. “You pretty much convinced me.”
“I can be a very good actor.”
“You have a good voice,” Breen said, and sipped the coffee. “And you make good coffee.”
“Well, the manager of the theater in El Paso told me that Apaches won’t kill a crazy person.”
“Unless they feel like it,” Breen said.
Cannon tossed the towel onto the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and walked to the doorway. “The Indians hit me while I was about a quarter of a mile from here. I whipped my team into a frenzy, made it here, and saw the empty corral and more Apaches. So I reined up, stood in the driver’s seat, set the brake, and began reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy.”
He turned and began again.
“To be, or not to be—that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? ’Tis a consummation—”
Breen stopped him with a stare. He smiled and shook his head. “Where’s your troupe?”
“Alas, Rachel married a rancher in Tucson, August was arrested in Lordsburg, James abandoned me for another company in Las Cruces—he thought he should have been the head of the company, get all the lead roles, but he just never could command stage or crowds the way I can—and he had trouble remembering his lines. We’d be doing Macbeth and he’d suddenly think he was Falstaff in One Henry Four.”
“What happened to the station tenders?”
Screams began from somewhere deep in the hills.
“That,” Theodore Cannon said. He set the cup of coffee on an overturned bucket, and placed his hands over his ears. “There were two last night!” he shouted. “I guess one of the blokes is dead now.”
“Lucky him,” Breen said.
Ten minutes later, the screams stopped, and the actor lowered the hands from his ears.
“Listen,” he said. “When the Apaches come again, you should join me. We can pretend that you are crazy as I am. Do you sing?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“But you know opera. And you know theater. Perhaps you can dance?”
“I’m not going to meet my Maker acting like a fool,” Breen said. “No offense. Because it might be nice to spend my last few moments of this earth listening to your fine voice singing a wonderful opera while arrows and knives are cutting me to pieces.”
“I have a suit of armor in the back of the wagon,” Theodore Cannon said.
Breen was bringing the cup of coffee up, but he stopped, and studied the thespian a little closer.
“Sometimes I am asked to recite Malory,” the actor explained. “Le Morte d’Arthur.” Cannon cleared his throat, his left hand over his breast, and began. “‘Then Sir Arthur looked on the sword, and liked it passing well. Whether liketh you better, said Merlin, the sword or the scabbard? Me liketh better the sword, said Arthur. Ye are more unwise, said Merlin, for the scabbard is worth ten of the swords . . . ’”
“I’m familiar with that one, too, sir.”
“But the armor could protect you from arrows,” Cannon said.
“Not bullets,” Breen explained.
“Ah, but there’s the rub, my good man. These Apaches, they are not using bullets. Hatchets. Arrows and bows. Lances.”
Breen stared. “That’s not like the Apaches I know. They’ll use anything they can get their hands on.”
The actor’s head was shaking. “These savages are being led by a medicine man called Holy Shirt. Or something like that.”
“You speak Apache, do you?” Breen said, having determined that Theodore Cannon wasn’t acting like a crazy man. He was quite, quite mad.
Cannon grinned. “No, but I read the newspapers. And I listened to the Army officer at Fort Stanton who was telling me about the warriors who had come up from Mexico to start a little uprising in New Mexico Territory and West Texas. This Holy Shirt, he got some young bucks to come with him. He’s preaching that the reason the Apaches haven’t been able to kick out the white men was because they were using the white man’s weapons. He was saying that to kill white men, to make the Apaches more powerful than the white men, that the Apaches had to go back to their own ways. White man’s weapons were poison. White man’s weapons were poisoning the Apaches. The only way to win was to burn or bury all the white man’s things. No bullets. No guns. Not even white man’s clothes. You won’t find these warriors wearing cotton shirts or anything they could have gotten from the agent on the reservation. Nothing they might have stolen from a raid in Arizona or Texas or even down in Mexico. The ones I saw—the ones I made think I was insane—were dressed in deerskin. They’re not even wearing silk or cotton headbands. Just rawhide or deerskin over their heads. Or a headdress from some varmint. So, yes, Mr. Breen, you are absolutely right that a suit of armor—actually, I have two suits—would not stop many a bullet.” He pointed his cup of coffee at Breen’s Sharps. “But they most definitely will stop an arrow.”
He sipped his coffee, pursed his lips, squinted a bit, and added, “Well, I think they’ll stop an arrow.” His head nodded. “Yes. Sure. That’s how the conquistadores whipped the Indians all those years ago.”
Breen finished his coffee and set the cup on the bucket. “Well, Mr. Cannon, that might be well and good, but there’s one little problem. It’s a long walk to El Paso, and it’s a long walk to Purgatory City from here. You have a wagon, but we don’t have any mules to pull that wagon. And I’m not sure we’d be able to get very far walking . . . in a suit of medieval armor.”
The actor’s head bobbed again. “I know, Mr. Breen—might I call you Jed? You can call me Theodore. Or even Teddy. There’s no point in addressing me as Sir Theodore. That’s just on my wagon. I’m not even from London. Or even England. Born and raised in Syracuse, New York, sir. Have you ever been to Syracuse?”
“Teddy,” Breen tested. “Actually, I like Sir Theodore, but don’t worry, I’ll keep your Syracuse upbringing a secret. This is Texas, you know, and many haven’t forgotten that late war. London is a little bit more palatable to former Johnny Rebs than New York. You may call me Jed, but we still don’t have anything to pull that wagon. And it’ll be hotter than hell walking across that furnace, especially wearing a tin suit.”
Cannon slapped Breen’s shoulder, tilted back his head, and cut loose with a deep laugh. “Jed, Jed, Jed, my boy. We won’t walk. Obviously, we’ll just shoot some Apaches off their horses and use those animals to pull my wagon.”
Breen stared at the actor. “Obviously.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The arrow sang past Sean Keegan’s left ear and cracked against the limestone boulder behind him. Instantly, Keegan went into action, jerking the rein, turning the sorrel gelding around, and driving the spurs into the horse’s side, He felt the explosion of power as he leaned low and heard the second arrow as it whistled past. An instant later, he was reining in the sorrel, immediately stepping out of the saddle and pulling the gelding into the rocks for cover. With the Springfield carbine in his arms, he peered into the canyon country and waited.
Slowly, he removed his battered old campaign hat and rested it crown up on the rock next to him. He listened, but only the quietness of West Texas reached him—a silence that Keegan had seen unnerve many brave soldiers like himself. No. He had to remember, he no longer was a soldier, just a civilian. A civilian alone in the middle of one empty expanse, with an Apache somewhere in the rocks.
The Indian wouldn’t have been with the young bucks that had ambushed Keegan’s patrol in Dead Man’s Canyon. Those renegades had had rifles. This one was using his bow and his arrows, which coul
d have meant that he was one of Holy Shirt’s boys. Keegan had heard about what that medicine man was preaching, and he hoped more and more Apaches joined that cause. Bows and arrows? Against Springfield carbines, Colt revolvers, mountain howitzers and Gatling guns? That was a fight the Army would be sure to win—no matter how many Lieutenant Erastus Gibbonses the United States Military Academy kept sending to the West.
On the other hand, Keegan figured, it could be an Apache who didn’t want to waste powder and shot or who wanted to kill in silence.
And it could be a white man who wanted to put the blame on the Indians.
Keegan immediately eliminated the theory about the white man. If it had been a white man, Keegan knew he would have heard him by now.
Silently, Keegan rose and inched his way to the sorrel gelding. He made his way to the saddlebags and removed the hobbles, which he then placed on the horse’s front feet. While he was on his knees, he took time to loosen the cinch. He came up, found the canteen, and took a heavy pull. His first thoughts were to take the canteen with him, but he knew he would have to be quiet. Sloshing water inside an Army canteen could get him killed. Carefully, he picked his path away from the rocky corral.
He kept his back against the rough wall, and when he found himself in the shadows, he studied the country again, thinking of his options. With the sorrel standing silent and contented, Keegan stepped around a massive garden of prickly pear cactus and knelt behind the green. The boulders to the side were massive. Lying atop of one another had created a little cavern where he could hide. Hide and wait, but that wasn’t Keegan’s style. He also could find himself trapped inside the small little opening, and if that Apache decided to forgo Holy Shirt’s preaching and start using firearms, he wouldn’t even have to have a good aim. Ricochets bouncing off those rocks would eventually tear Keegan to pieces.
On the other hand, the top of the rocks might be exactly the place he needed to be. Again, after watching the land all around him, he rose and backed against the rocks, a mix of white, rust, brown, and grayish colors. He moved between the boulders and creosote bush, lifted his free hand, and found a natural hold. He pulled, bent his knee, and let his left heel find another hold. A moment later, Keegan was on the first level of the rocky path. He glanced behind him at the piles of rocks leaning one way or the other. Too heavy for even a man of Keegan’s size to move. Turning around, he slid the Springfield carbine on the flat, rocky roof of the boulders. His hands stayed there, feeling for something, and eventually he gripped something firm. The rocks bit into his fingers, and he knew he wouldn’t slip.
Keegan climbed onto the roof and lay there, his head feeling the warmth of the sun on the hard rock, and his nose taking in the scent of creosote.
Gripping the Springfield, raising it carefully, he rolled over onto his back and pointed the carbine’s barrel at the highest point of the canyons—maybe a hundred yards away from where he lay. Mesquite and creosote lined most of the path between Keegan’s rooftop and the slanted, dark peak of bare rocks topped by a mound of oblong boulders—the smallest of which would have crushed the stockade at Fort Spalding—that appeared to be leaning to the west.
The Apache would not have been up there, Keegan knew. At least not when he had sent those two arrows that just missed striking Keegan’s flesh. The brave would have been off to the east, out of Keegan’s view, probably closer to the trail.
The question was, would the buck be able to see Keegan if he sprinted up the slope?
It did not matter, Keegan decided. That Apache could hide in those rocks and see just about everything.
Old scouts had a saying that went along the lines that stillness was the key to survival. The first to move, usually became the dead. Keegan never bought into that theory. He was like a shark. As long as he kept moving, he kept living.
He rolled onto his belly and dragged himself about twenty yards, then stopped, kept the Springfield in his right hand, and sank his left into the water.
That was another reason Keegan had left his canteen behind. The country around there had been drawing Indians probably before the Apaches ever settled in that part of the world. Igneous rock—Keegan had had to ask the sergeant major to explain just what igneous rock was—had burst through the limestone, and the hollows in the rock held water after rainstorms. He brought his cupped hand to his lips and drank. It wasn’t the briny water you’d find at most of the watering holes, nor water with so much iron it would weigh you down. It was rainwater, cold and sweet and satisfying.
The tanks had been bringing men for centuries. Off to Keegan’s right he saw another small cavern created by how God had arranged the boulders, and inside the opening, he could see crude, ancient drawings between the saltbush and purple prickly pear.
Keegan knew not to drink too much water. He just wanted enough to wet his throat, to keep the dust down. Bringing the Springfield around, he rose to his knees and waited. He breathed. He listened. Finally, he came to his feet, although he kept in a crouch. After wetting his lips and listening to just the wind in the rocks, he began moving quickly but with little noise across the rooftop, leaping to the stony path that weaved between the mesquite and creosote, heading down before the slope began to rise again to the rocky watchtower above.
As soon as he cleared the shrubs, he stopped and turned.
The sorrel gelding whickered and danced on the hard ground.
Swearing vilely, Sean Keegan turned and ran back through the thorny mesquite and gangly creosote. He did not care who heard him. He just ran.
The Indian who had attacked him was trying to steal Keegan’s gelding.
He heard the horse’s whinny and its iron hooves striking the hard rocks. Saddle leather creaked. A crash followed, accented by a human’s groan.
Keegan reached the edge of the roof. He had a clear view of the rocky corral-like hiding place where he had left the Army horse. Lying on the ground, the Apache kicked free of the stirrup, and came to his feet and reached again for the gelding’s reins.
That was why Keegan had loosened the cinch. A man in a hurry doesn’t always take the time he should to check the little things, although the Apache had noticed the hobbles and had removed them. The saddle had slipped, spilling the Apache warrior, who now saw Keegan.
Keegan drew a bead on the warrior’s buckskin shirt and touched the trigger.
The .45-70 gave a deafening roar and its echo bounced across the canyon walls and caverns. The Apache slammed against the rocks that were sprayed with blood from the hole the big chunk of lead tore as it passed completely through the brave’s body. Keegan blinked, and cursed. The bullet had hit the warrior just below his ribs, and the bullet had exited most likely in the small of the lithe man’s back. It should have dropped the Indian into a ball—if not killed him dead in moments—but the Indian staggered toward the rearing, snorting gelding.
With a savage curse, Keegan jumped off the ledge and landed in the road. His knees bent then straightened, propelling him to the ground. He dropped the Springfield and rolled over, jumping up to his feet while reaching for the Army-issued revolver that came holstered butt-forward, per military regulations.
“No,” he yelled, and drew the Remington from the holster.
The Apache jabbed the sorrel’s neck with a knife, twisted it, and was pulling out the bloody blade when Keegan’s bullet from the .44 struck the warrior in his left breast.
That bullet sent the buck flying over the wall and landing on a mess of purple prickly pear. The sorrel shuddered, tried to scream, and fell onto its forefeet before collapsing onto its side.
“Damn it!” Keegan listened as the echoes of the gunfire faded. He shifted the Remington to his left hand, grabbed the Springfield off the ground with his right, and moved toward the Indian.
The Indian was an Apache. And he carried no white man’s things. So he had to be one of Holy Shirt’s boys. Or men. The Apache’s face showed that he had lived a long life, and that he was not afraid to die. He might have been older
than Sean Keegan.
As he started to sing his death song, Keegan stepped closer. He didn’t let the brave finish. Keegan rammed the stock of the Springfield into the man’s face, crushing the skull.
“That’s for my horse, you dumb ass,” he told the dead Indian, then looked over the rocks at the sorrel.
Keegan backed away and into the little cavern he had spotted earlier. There, he waited for an hour, listening, sweating, and wondering. But when no more Apaches came, and when the birds began singing in the hills, he want back out.
He stripped the dead sorrel of saddle and bridle and then scalped the dead warrior. The bloody trophy he flung into the cavern and wiped the blade from his knife and his hands on the Apache’s leggings.
Inside the dead Indian’s leather haversack, Keegan found carved, bloody steaks. He sniffed the meat. Mule. Probably two days old, greening up a mite. That would explain why the Apache was alone, and not with Holy Shirt. He had lost his horse, and was trying to steal Keegan’s. Maybe that’s why the Indian was dead. He hadn’t followed Holy Shirt’s vision. He had tried to take property from a white man.
Keegan thought about cooking the mule meat, for he had not eaten anything much for the past few days, but he heard rumblings from far across the tanks and the canyons. Gunfire. More to the east.
This country wasn’t getting any safer for a man, a white man, and especially a white man with no horse. Keegan loaded the Springfield and shoved it into the scabbard. Lugging the saddle, tack, and his canteen over his left shoulder, and keeping the Remington revolver in his right hand, he began walking.
He could make it to Culpepper’s Station in a couple of hours.
If he lived that long.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There were three of them. Mexicans—one holding a shotgun, the other two armed with pistols. The one with the shotgun made the young, thin white man fall to his knees and turn around to face Matt McCulloch. The big man laid the top of the shotgun on the young man’s head.
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