“Take the bandanna,” Jimmy said. “Hold it over your mouth. Squeeze just a few drops.” He stood, stared, but all he saw was the grass blowing in the wind. “I’m going to climb that rock. Take a looksee. You wait. Don’t move too much. Build your strength back . . . slowly.”
Atop the rock, he studied the land, but again, saw nothing out of the ordinary. Whoever had waylaid the gambler was long gone, and nobody was coming this way. After staying there five extra minutes—just to make sure—Jimmy went back down to the gambler, who had barely moved an inch except to move the wet bandanna to his overcooked forehead.
“Danny Waco do this to you?” Jimmy asked.
The man shook his head. His answer came in another hoarse whisper. “Apache.”
That led Jimmy to think, Sunstroke. His mind is gone.
“What was his name again?”
The sunburned gambler sipped the coffee, which Jimmy had sweetened with the bottle of rye he had bought in Dodge City. Lifting the cup to his lips, setting the cup on the stone at his side, even swallowing the brew seemed to wear Dehner McIntyre out.
“Yo . . . Ye . . . You . . . something.” His head shook slowly. “I’m not . . . I don’t rightly remember.”
“But he was Apache.”
“That’s what he said.”
Jimmy Mann considered this. The only Apaches he had ever seen were illustrations in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper and Harper’s Weekly.
McIntyre sipped more of the coffee. “It wasn’t Danny Waco, Marshal. Because he would have killed me.”
That, Jimmy realized, made sense. But an Apache Indian? That didn’t. In fact, an Indian from any tribe didn’t make much sense, not these days. Half-breed? Or a Mexican bandit? Either way, Jimmy decided, it wasn’t his affair. It wasn’t Danny Waco.
He turned, watching the sun make its way toward the horizon. The day was ending, and finding the gambler had cost Jimmy maybe twenty miles. Twenty miles farther away from catching up to Danny Waco.
The thought of Waco, of course, was what had steered McIntyre away from Dodge City. And only luck had brought Jimmy Mann to Pawnee Rock. He could have ridden straight north toward Hays City, or merely given up and returned to the Indian Territory and ridden back to Fort Smith, tail tucked between his legs.
Dehner McIntyre was in no condition to travel. Jimmy was still trying to figure out how to get him somewhere with only the roan to carry them both. Probably, Jimmy would just take the gambler back to the little community on the Pawnee River near old Fort Larned—which would cost him more time. Fort Larned was southwest, toward Dodge City, and Danny Waco wasn’t anywhere near Dodge.
The Winchester came up, and Jimmy stood, thumbing back the hammer, stepping toward the sound of hoofs. The gambler spilled the whiskey-seasoned coffee, tried to stand, but couldn’t get his legs to work. He sank back into the grass, color draining from his face.
Jimmy spotted the riders coming hard down the trail, sending dust that the wind carried toward the east and south. Too far to make out the faces, and riding hard. But too many to be Danny Waco. And they certainly weren’t a band of Chiricahua Apaches.
“Who . . . are . . . ?” The gambler couldn’t finish.
“Rest easy,” Jimmy said, and moved toward the roan, which was pawing the ground nervously, eying the newcomers.
No point in hiding, Jimmy decided. No reason to, either. Yet he kept the Winchester in his hands as he stood next to the horse.
A hand went up. The leader wore a gauntlet, was slowing down the dozen or so men behind him. Dark coats. Hats the color of wet sand.
Jimmy lowered the rifle, keeping the barrel aimed at the dirt—lest the riders get any wrong idea about his intentions—and called back to McIntyre. “It’s all right. Army boys.”
He pulled his vest over, so that the officer would be sure to see the badge.
The shavetail lieutenant, a kid maybe a couple years out of West Point, called himself Henderson. Said they were out of Fort Riley on the trail of a Chiricahua named John York, who had abandoned the ATS&F around Topeka.
McIntyre let out a mirthless laugh. “That’s not the name he calls himself now.”
“This Apache was educated at Captain Pratt’s Indian school in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and was being returned to the Comanche-Kiowa-Apache Indian Reservation near Fort Sill in Indian Territory,” Henderson said.
Jimmy knew enough about that band of Apaches to know it spelled trouble. Henderson couldn’t understand why an Indian might not want to go back there, but Jimmy kept his mouth shut. He also didn’t say anything when McIntyre looked at him with an I-told-you-it-was-an-Apache expression.
The lieutenant’s orders were to find the boy and bring him back to Fort Riley, where he had been shipped off to the agent at the reservation—or what was left of the reservation.
“It should not be a difficult assignment.” Lieutenant Henderson did not see the bearded sergeant major behind him roll his eyes. “He is not armed.”
“He is now,” McIntyre said.
Jimmy Mann considered the gambler again. “How’s that?”
“Took my Winchester,” McIntyre said.
“You let him do that!” Lieutenant Henderson’s swagger had dropped something considerable.
“Lieutenant,” the gambler said, “I didn’t have much of a say in the matter.”
“What caliber?” Jimmy asked McIntyre.
“Caliber?” the lieutenant snapped. “What difference does the size of the cartridge matter? That Apache boy’s got a repeating rifle and a chip on his shoulder.”
Ignoring the pup officer, Jimmy waited.
“It’s a .50,” McIntyre said. “Won it off Danny Waco.”
“A .50 caliber.” The sergeant major sucked in a deep breath, then swore.
Jimmy echoed the non-commissioned officer’s curse.
“Sergeant O’Donnell,” Lieutenant Henderson snapped, “we must ride. I will not be responsible for another Wounded Knee.” The green kid kept spitting out a bunch of other nonsense, while the patrol of cavalry troopers tightened their cinches, and prepared to ride.
“Did you see which way the Apache went?” Henderson asked.
McIntyre’s head shook. “I was a little preoccupied at the time, Lieutenant. Getting ready to die.” Still, the gambler jutted his jaw toward the west. “But my guess is he went that way.”
“He’s heading home, sir,” Sergeant O’Donnell said.
“If he were heading home, Sergeant Major,” the lieutenant said, “he would have stayed on the train.”
“Home being Arizona Territory, sir,” the noncom said stiffly.
“Whatever. We will pursue this miscreant if it takes us to the ends of the earth.” He looked at McIntyre. “Do you wish to come along?”
The gambler grinned. “I think it’s time for me to fold my hand, Lieutenant. Never been much of a prayin’ man till yesterday and last night, so I think I’ll leave the Apache hunting to you, and find a better place to deal cards.”
Henderson turned to the deputy marshal. “And you?”
Jimmy looked at the lieutenant. He had a choice to make, but he knew the right one. The Winchester ’86 wasn’t important. He could find his nephew another Model 1886. What drove Jimmy was finding and killing Danny Waco. He wouldn’t be chasing after an Apache.
“I’ll take him”—Jimmy gestured toward the gambler—“down to Larned. Then I need to get after Danny Waco.”
“Very well.”
“But Lieutenant . . .”
Henderson turned, waiting with more than a modicum of impatience.
“That Winchester the Apache is carrying was stolen by the murderer Danny Waco. If you catch the Indian, would you send a telegraph to Deputy Marshal Jackson Sixpersons in Vinita, Cherokee Nation? We’d like that rifle back”—Jimmy thought up a lie—“for evidence.”
“I’ll send your deputy the Winchester and the Apache buck’s scalp, Marshal.”
Again, the sergeant major rolled his eyes
. Henderson raised his gauntleted hand, motioned to the west, and spurred his horse. The other troopers followed at a trot, and the sergeant major tipped his hat, and shook his head.
“Good luck, Sergeant,” Jimmy said.
O’Donnell spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice. “Thanks, Marshal. Reckon we’ll need it.” He spurred his bay to catch up with his commanding officer.
When the dust from the troopers’ horses had drifted southeast, Jimmy Mann asked, “You think you can ride behind me? Just as far as Larned?”
“That’s out of your way, isn’t it?”
Jimmy was already tightening the cinch on his saddle. He shrugged. “Not that far. I can’t leave you here.” He looked over the horse’s back. “Unless you want to ride with me.”
“After Danny Waco?” Dehner McIntyre laughed without humor. “I reckon not, Marshal. No hard feelings?”
“’Course not.” Jimmy moved around the roan and offered a hand to help the gambler to his feet. Actually, he preferred riding alone.
McIntyre grunted, his face masking in pain as Jimmy pulled him up and helped him to the colt.
Once Jimmy was in the saddle, he kicked his foot out of the stirrup, lowered his hand, and again assisted the gambler, pulling him up and onto the roan’s back.
“Reckon those bluecoats will catch up with that buck?” McIntyre asked.
“Most likely. And some will live to regret it.”
Jimmy kicked the colt into a walk.
McIntyre’s arms wrapped tightly around Jimmy’s stomach. “Where do you start looking for Waco?”
Jimmy could answer only with a shrug.
“Well, Marshal, I don’t know if it’ll help or not, but I did hear something at that poker table in Caldwell. It doesn’t narrow down your search a whole lot, but one of Waco’s minions said something about Nebraska.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gove County
The place along what the pale eyes called the Smoky Hill River reminded him of home. It was not the Dragoons of Arizona Territory, but the Monument Rocks jutted out of the Kansas plains. Not mountains, and certainly no trees, but the land offered some cover. It was where he would make his final stand. Where he could fight the bluecoats. He could make the Long Knives, and all of the indaaligande , remember the name Yuyutsu.
Eager to Fight.
In less than a week, he had covered more than one hundred miles. Afoot. He had not gone south by southwest, thinking that would be the way the pale eyes would expect him to go. He had followed the Arkansas and Pawnee rivers, then turned north—not south—and made his way across the fields of winter wheat and prairie grass. He had killed an antelope along the North Fork of the Walnut with the rifle he had taken off the indaaligande with the ugly pants. Three times, he had considered killing other pale eyes between the Arkansas and the Smoky Hill. Miserable farmers who lived in homes made from the sod.
Yet what honor could be found in killing people like that? The women had been dirty as the men, and fat as the sows that waddled around the wretched homes. There would be no glory,
Ah, but killing bluecoats? That the pale eyes would remember. That would bring him honor and glory, for at least one of the men following him knew how to trail. That man was better than even some of the Apaches Yuyutsu had known before Geronimo had surrendered, and Yuyutsu and his people had been sent off to rot in the Florida prison.
The sun had begun to sink, turning the chalk buttes and arches from white to gold. Still, he could see the dust. Let the bluecoats come.
He worked the lever of the big Winchester ’86 slowly, enjoying the sound of the mechanical clicks as the massive brass cartridge fed into the chamber. All around him was the flatness of Kansas. A man could seemingly stare from one end of the earth to the other—except at the place the indaaligande called Monument Rocks.
Formations of chalk—buttes and arches, nubs, crumbling ruins, and some that stretched as high as seventy feet—shot out of the prairie without rhyme and with little reason. Some close together, others far, far apart. The problem, of course, was that once the protection of the chalk fortress was behind him, Kansas would offer no protection from a bluecoat’s long gun.
Yuyutsu, on the other hand, did not care. It was where he would die.
Summer and fall had beaten the grass into brown, and the skies were darkening into a deep blue. He had positioned himself against one of the taller monuments, one with a large opening, more a door than a window, long and angular, which gave him a view of the country to the southeast. He could see the slanting, flat-topped butte four hundred yards off. After that, there was little to be seen, except for some smaller chalk rocks to the west, another three or four hundred yards in the distance. Then nothing . . . except for the dust.
Placing the Winchester on his thighs, he pushed up the rear sight, then pressed his fingers gently on the metal, and raised the crossbar up to the numeral five. Five hundred yards. He checked the sun.
Yuyutsu waited.
Over the past few days, he had counted twelve riders and did not think any of the bluecoats would have quit chasing him. Bluecoats did not often quit, and these fools would soon regret that. Of the soldiers, he respected only one, but he did not know which one it was.
A few times, he had backtracked, then lay in the grass and waited for the bluecoats, blind to the ways of the Apache, to ride past. The first time, he figured he was done with worrying about the soldiers, but they had surprised him. They had picked up his trail.
At first, he had blamed himself for that, but when the soldiers found him again, he knew one of them had the eyes, the skills, of an Apache.
After that, it had become something of a game. He would lose the men trailing him, and they would find him again. Once it had taken the bluecoats a whole day to rediscover him. This last time, it had been less than three hours.
He was done playing with the bluecoats. Yuyutsu had not eaten in two days, and he was hungry. The soldiers would have food in their saddlebags. If not, he would eat one of their horses.
The dust grew closer, but Yuyutsu did not lift the heavy rifle. He did empty the box of shells, and spread out the brass cartridges beside him. He did not have that many rounds, but he figured he had enough.
A moment later, he heard the sound of hoofs loping across western Kansas. He worked up enough saliva in his mouth and swallowed, ran his tongue over his dried lips, and looked through the hole in the rock, carefully, not letting the soldiers see him. One, he figured, had a pair of binoculars. A few times, he had seen the sun reflect off the glass lenses, but he did not see that now.
It was time. Yuyutsu lifted the rifle, pressing the barrel against the chalk, feeling the crescent-shaped stock slip against his shoulder. He sucked in a deep breath, held it, slowly exhaled, and watched the soldiers ride past the butte.
The leader of the bluecoats raised his hand, and the soldiers stopped. Some let their horses drop their weary heads and graze on what little grass they could find. Others stretched in the saddles, kicking free of their stirrups, rubbing their backs. Most found their canteens and slaked their thirsts.
When the leader lowered his hand, he turned and began talking to another bluecoat, one with a bearded face and battered hat. They were too far away for Yuyutsu to hear what they said and their voices didn’t carry.
His eyes swept across the men, wondering. He saw no one who forked his horse like an Indian, who looked like an Indian. So whomever the tracker was had to be a pale eye. A bluecoat. Yuyutsu had been almost certain that one of those men had to be an Indian.
He brought down the rifle, and lowered the sight to four hundred yards. The barrel went back up, rubbing against the chalk, but making no noise. He made himself relax, closed his left eye, and drew a bead on one of the bluecoats.
No, he told himself, not him.
He swung the barrel to one drinking water. Let him drink.
Another mopped his face with a yellow neckerchief.
Too easy.
He c
ame back to the man the leader was talking to. He inhaled, exhaled, and looked at the bluecoat leader, trying to decide.
I am like your pale eyes god, he told himself. I choose who lives. I choose who dies.
Smiling, he found his target, and pulled the trigger.
“What is this place, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Troy Henderson asked.
“Chalk pyramids,” Sergeant Sean O’Donnell answered, remembering at the last minute to include, “sir.”
“Look like tombstones, don’t they?” one of the troopers said with a laugh.
“Might be where you gets buried, Andy,” came from another.
O’Donnell decided not to tell the soldiers to shut their traps. Instead, he told the lieutenant, “Monument Rocks, some folks called them. Heard some fellow at Riley once say they were something like eighty million years old.”
“That’s almost as old as you is, ain’t it, Sarge?” Trooper Andy Preston said with a snigger.
Henderson turned in the saddle to stare down the trooper, but Sean O’Donnell didn’t care what Andy Preston said. He was a good soldier, that Preston. Unlike Second Lieutenant Troy Henderson and most of the other boys who’d been assigned to this duty.
O’Donnell pushed up the brim of his hat, and looked across the plains. The sun would be down within the hour. After that, it would be too dark to follow the Apache runaway. If the green lieutenant would have obliged a sergeant major who’d been in this man’s Army for twenty-nine years, O’Donnell would have simply said, “Good riddance, John York. Enjoy your walk to Arizona or New Mexico or Mexico or Canada or hell.”
But the Army and Lieutenant Troy Henderson would never do anything like that. Anything that made sense.
The way Sean O’Donnell saw things, this pup of an Apache hadn’t killed anyone—and he had had plenty of chances, seeing all those lone farms spread out across the plains. He hadn’t even managed to kill the one person he had tried to kill, that lucky gambler they had found at Pawnee Rock less than a week ago. Let the boy go his own way. By Jehovah, the boy had grit, gumption, and guts. And some strong legs and tough feet to make it this far.
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