by Jory Sherman
Then the night would come, and he would find out if words would work better than bullets.
Chapter 16
Colleen fanned herself as she faced the class of Chiricahua children and their mothers. She had a large chalkboard to work with, and some children were forced to share their slates with those who had none. It was cooler in the adobe room than outside but still unbearably hot, and she felt the uncomfortable seep of perspiration under her armpits, on the inside of her legs, and beneath her breasts.
She used pictographs to illustrate the English words while she voiced the equivalent in their language, Apache.
“Ndeen,’” she said. Man. The children laughed at her stick figures, and sometimes the women did, too.
She taught them to count to five in English, using her fingers.
“Dalaa, naki, taagi,’” she would say. One, two, three.
Some of the words were difficult to say, and the children would correct her. Or if they were not sure, one of the mothers would speak up in a loud, gravelly voice and correct her pronunciation.
Colleen had an interpreter, a small, moon-faced woman named Tu Litsog, or Yellow Water. She relied on Yellow Water to convey her teachings.
“The key to language,” she said, “is writing. If you make the marks on paper, others can read it. You can send this paper, or carry it, over long distances so that others will know your words.”
The children and the women all had pieces of paper and pencils. They all seemed fascinated with the process, and though some made drawings or just meaningless scrawls, by the second day Colleen had them writing down the letters of simple words, like dog, cat, and bird. She was delighted at the response.
“I may be going away, Yellow Water, so do you think you can teach your people to read and write with the materials I will leave with you?”
“I do not know,” Yellow Water said.
“They all want to learn.”
“I know. They respect the white lady. To them, I am a…a turn cloth.”
“A turncoat? A traitor?”
“Yes, that is the word. A turncoat, a turn face, I think.”
“You must not let that matter. You must teach these children and their mothers. I will return.”
“Where do you go?”
“I must find my brother,” Colleen said.
There was always a soldier guarding the door, usually a private or a corporal, but a grizzled old sergeant often stopped by to check on the trooper and Colleen. She noticed him and liked him. He seemed to like her as well.
His name was Francis Xavier Toole, and he had been in the army for almost thirty years.
“Francis,” she said to him after they had become friends, “why is it necessary to put a guard on these children and women?”
“Oh, ma’am, the guard is not here to watch over the squaws and kiddies, oh no. Major Willoughby has the lads keepin’ an eye on yourself.”
“On me? Why?”
Toole shrugged, but she knew it was not because he didn’t know.
“Be honest with me, Francis,” she said. “Why does Major Willoughby think that I need an armed soldier watching me teach children to read and write English?”
“Well, mum, it’s not for me to say.” He shifted his feet and looked down at them, much like a truant boy might behave when speaking to an inquisitive teacher.
Something was wrong at Fort Bowie—she had known it from the very first day—and when news of her brother’s abduction became known to her, and Willoughby or anyone else would not tell her anything, she began to feel shut out. Now, after four days of talking with Toole and asking questions of him, she knew he was struggling with his obligation to the military and his friendship with her. But she was determined to persist.
“Francis, I know you’re bound by duty, but I must find out what’s happened to my brother. And, somehow, I think Major Willoughby knows more than he’s telling. This fort seems to be divided and without a real leader.”
“Yes’m,” Toole said, shuffling his feet and staring down at them, feeling awkward, and perhaps, she thought, a little ashamed.
“Are you agreeing with me, Francis? Or just being polite?”
“Both, maybe. Major Willoughby is temporary commander of the post, ma’am.”
“Until when?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“But you know he’s doing things he should not be doing.”
“Ma’am, I’m not privileged to read the major’s mind.”
“Is he doing anything about finding my brother, Lieutenant Ted O’Hara?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Will you please call me Colleen and don’t be so stiff and formal with me, Francis.”
“Yes’m.”
“There you go,” she said. “Being polite and proper. And you, with so much wisdom, so much information inside you. Information I may need. As a friend.”
She was pressing Francis, she knew. Her face glowed in the wash of the afternoon sunlight, her cheeks painted in soft pastels with the complexion of peaches, her eyes narrowed to block the glare of the sun. Francis looked at her, his lips quivering as if he were boiling over to speak, to divulge what he knew, what he suspected.
“There’s only so much I can say, Colleen. Only so much I really know.”
“Anything might help,” she said. “In either category.”
“You mean you want me to speculate?”
“That would be a welcome change from the silence, Francis.”
“You push real hard, Colleen. I’ve seen mules less stubborn. Not to compare you to a mule, mind you…”
“Let’s not just chat with one another, Francis.”
“Well, um, they’s some soldiers what want the Apaches done in with. Rubbed out. Same as in town, over to Tucson. Your brother was sent out to locate hostiles, er, I mean, Apaches, and report back to Major Willoughby. I reckon I can speculate that the major might have a reason to do this.”
“Yes. I can follow you.”
“The major can’t do this right out in the open. We’re supposed to keep the peace, protect the citizenry of the territory, and help Mr. Jeffords bring Cochise and all the Chiricahuas to the peace table.”
“But Willoughby doesn’t want this to happen?” she said.
“I don’t rightly know.”
“Yes, you do. What about my brother? Why was he kidnapped and where was he taken?”
“I figure that faction in Tucson, them men, er, ah, those men, don’t want Cochise to get off scot-free. They want him and all the other Apaches made into good Apaches.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means dead, Colleen. A good Apache, they say, is a dead Apache.”
“And my brother? Was he taken away so that the people in Tucson could kill Cochise? Could murder Apaches?”
“Maybe.”
“And who was behind his kidnapping?”
“Same outfit that brung you—I mean brought you—here to Fort Bowie,” he said.
“Hiram Ferguson?”
“Yes’m. I reckon.”
“You know, you mean.”
“My best guess,” he said.
“I’m going there,” she said.
“Going where?”
“To Hiram Ferguson’s. I want to ask him what he did with Ted.”
“That could be dangerous, Miss Colleen. Ferguson is one of them drum beaters what wants to wipe out the whole Apache nation. He’s got him almost a regular army, I hear tell.”
“I’m not afraid of him.” But her dimples twittered silently like little bird mouths, quivering at the edge of her nervous, brave smile.
“You can’t do nothing, even if Ferguson is behind your brother’s kidnap. I mean he won’t tell you nothin’. And them layabouts he hires on would just as soon kill you as look at you.”
“Will you help me, Francis?”
“Help you? How?”
“I want a horse and a pistol and food to carry me to Tucson. I want to le
ave tonight. I can’t do it without your assistance.”
“Ma’am—I mean Colleen—you’re askin’ a lot. I could stand before a court-martial if I gave you an army horse, let alone a firearm.”
“But you’ll do it, won’t you, Francis?”
Her smile this time was full and warm, a knowing siren’s smile, as old as time, a smile that made creases in her dimples, made them wink like conspiratorial smiles.
“Well, you can’t go to Tucson all by yourself, you know.”
“Oh, Francis, I can do anything I set my mind to.”
“Yes’m, I reckon you can. Matter of fact, a couple of the boys got leave coming and they’re riding into Tucson town tonight. Good boys. They could escort you, I reckon.”
She smiled again. “Yes, I reckon they could. That would be quite nice, Francis.”
“Can you handle a gun? I mean a big old pistol with a kick like a mule?”
“You bet I can, Francis. Ted taught me to shoot, and I can take a pistol apart and clean it and load a cap and ball with nothing more than powder, ball, and spit.”
Francis laughed. “All right. You got to be sneaky, though. I’ll tell the boys to meet you behind the livery after dark. They won’t like waitin’ that long to get off to Tucson, but they’ll mind what I tell ’em. You’ll have a horse waiting there and grub in your saddlebags, a canteen hanging from the horn. Those boys are privates, but they’re seasoned. Likable. One of ’em’s named Delbert Scofield, the other’n is called Hugo Rivers. They know the way, even in the dark, and they’ll give a good account of themselves if you should run into trouble.”
“And a big pistol? Ammunition.”
“Yes,” he said, with a downtrodden tone of surrender. “All you need. You might want to take something else with you, though, you bein’ Irish and all like me.”
“What’s that, Francis?”
“A four-leaf clover and a St. Chris medal.”
“Why, Francis,” she said, “I didn’t know you cared.”
He smiled wanly, then left her standing in the doorway of her schoolhouse.
Colleen watched him walk across the compound, into the sunlight, and she brushed back a strand of copper hair that had fallen over her eyes.
“I’m coming, Ted,” she breathed. “I’ll find you.”
And her voice carried the petulance of a prayer. She hoped she would find Ted alive.
She was prepared to face Ferguson and find out the truth about her brother’s kidnapping, where he was.
She would not hesitate to shoot Ferguson or anybody else who got in her way.
And she would shoot to kill.
Chapter 17
In the distance, across the eerie nightscape of the desert, the yellow light flickered like a winking fire-fly as they rode through and over small rocky hillocks dotted with the twisted forms of ocotillo and prickly pear. In the darkness, distances were deceiving, but Zak had learned to gauge them through long experience of riding at night in country more deceptive than this.
He left Chama and Carmen behind a low hill above the adobe cabin, out of harm’s way, after whispering to Carmen to be quiet. She was skittery, and he had a hunch she might try to warn the two men in the hut. He also told Chama to keep a close eye on her.
“Brain her if you have to, Jimmy,” Zak said.
In the darkness, he could see Chama nod.
He circled the lighted shack, a slow process because he didn’t want Nox’s iron shoes ringing on stone or cracking brush. Through a side window he saw shadows moving inside. The horses in the corral were feeding, so he judged that one of the men, or both, had recently set out hay or grain for them. He patted Nox’s withers to calm him, keep him quiet as he neared the end of his wide circle.
Zak dismounted, looped the reins through the saddle rings so they wouldn’t dangle, leaving Nox to roam free. The horse would not roam, he knew, but stay within a few feet of where he would leave him, waiting patiently for his master to return. He patted Nox on the neck and walked toward the adobe, his boots making no sound on the hard ground.
He crept up to the edge of the light from one window to the side of the front door. The feeble glow from the lamp puddled on the ground outside, its beam awash with winged gnats flying aimless circuits like demented swimmers. A faint aroma drifted from the window and the cracks around the weathered door that had shrunk with age. Zak sniffed, smelling the distinct aroma of Arbuckle’s Best, with its faint scent of cinnamon. He listened, heard the burbling of what he imagined must be a coffeepot on a stove. His stomach swirled and his mouth filled with the seep of saliva.
He loosened his pistol in its holster, stepped up to the door and gave a soft knock.
“Who the hell is it?” growled a voice inside.
“I smell coffee,” Zak said. “Lost my horse.”
Whispers from inside the adobe. A scuffling of feet, scrape of chairs.
Zak left himself room to step aside if anyone came at him with a gun or a knife.
“Hold on,” another voice called out.
The door opened.
Two men stood there, back-lighted, and Zak couldn’t see their faces well. They wore grimy work clothes and their boots had no shine, dust-covered as they were.
“You what?” the taller man in front growled.
“Lost my horse. Well, he broke his leg in a gopher hole and I had to put him down. Been walking for a couple of hours. Saw your light. Smelled that Arbuckle’s when I came up.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Jake,” Zak said, the lie coming easily to his lips. “Jake Baldwin.” A name out of the past, one of the mountain men who had trapped the Rockies with his father. Jake wouldn’t mind. He was long dead, his scalp hanging in a Crow lodge up in Montana Territory.
“Let him in, Lester. Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Lester said. “Come on in. Coffee’s just made.”
Zak noticed that Lester’s dangling right hand was never very far from the butt of his pistol, a Colt Dragoon, from the looks of it. Well worn, too. There was the smell of rotten flesh and decayed fat in the room, mixed with the scent of candle wax and whiskey fumes.
“I’m Dave Newton,” the second man said. “We don’t get many folks passin’ this way, stranger.”
“Jake,” Zak said, stepping inside where the musty smell of an old dwelling mingled with the scent of the coffee. “Pleased to meet you.”
“That’s Lester Cunningham,” Newton said. “My partner.”
“Set down,” Cunningham said, his gravelly voice so distinctive that Zak looked at his throat, saw the heavy braid of a scar there, dissecting his Adam’s apple. He was a tall, rangy man with long hair the color of steel that hung down past his shirt collar. His complexion was almost as gray, pasty, as if he had been in a prison cell for a good long while.
Newton was a stringy, unkempt man with a sallow complexion, bad teeth, and a strong smell that emanated from his mouth. His scraggly hair stuck out in spikes under his hat, which, like him, had seen better days. His eyes appeared to be crossed, they were so close-set, straddling a thin, bent nose that furthered the illusion. His face and wrists were marbled with pale liver spots, and Zak could see the blue veins in his nose, just under the skin.
As Lester took the coffeepot off the small square woodstove with its rusty chimney, Zak glanced around the room. There were coyote skins drying on withes, others, stiff and stacked, tied into bundles with twine, and, in a small oblong box resembling a cage, a jackrabbit hunched, its eyes glittering with fear. Some potato peelings littered its cage.
Newton saw Zak looking at the rabbit and let out a small chuckle.
“That’s Bertie,” he said. “Me ’n’ Lester pass the time huntin’ coyotes at night. We take Bertie out there in the dark and twist his ears till he squeals like a little gal. Them coyotes come slinkin’ up for a meal and we pop ’em with our pistols. For sport. But we can sell them hides to the Mexicans in Tucson for two bits or so. Drinkin’ money.”
&
nbsp; Zak saw that both men wore skinning knives on their belts. Newton packed an old Navy Colt, converted from percussion to handle cartridges. The brass on it was as mottled as his skin.
Lester poured coffee into three grimy cups. He handed one to Zak, who took it in his left hand, the steam curling up from its surface like tiny wisps of fog.
“What’s this about your horse?” Cunningham asked. “You say it stepped in a gopher hole? I ain’t seen no gophers ’round here.”
“It was a hole,” Zak said. “I thought it was a gopher hole. Maybe a prairie dog hole.”
He held the cup up to his lips, blew on it, but he didn’t drink.
“Ain’t seen no prairie dogs ’round here neither,” Cunningham said. “Where’d you say you was from?”
“I didn’t say,” Zak said.
“Les, you don’t need to be so unsociable,” Newton said. “Let the man drink his coffee.”
“He ain’t drinkin’ none,” Cunningham said. “You left-handed, mister?”
“I’m ambidextrous,” Zak said.
“Huh?” Newton said.
“Yeah, what’s that?” Cunningham said. “Some kind of disease? That abmi—whatever.”
“Ambidextrous. Means I’m good with either hand, Lester,” Zak said, an amiable tone in his voice. “From the Latin. ‘Ambi’ means both. ‘Dextrous’ means right.”
Both men worried over Zak’s explanation. Newton was the first to figure it out.
“That means you got two right hands?”
“Something like that,” Zak said. “Means I can write or play with my pecker using either hand.”
Newton laughed. Cunningham scowled.
“Mister, seems to me you got a smart mouth,” Cunningham said. “Something wrong with the coffee?”
“No, why?” Zak said.
“You ain’t drinkin’ it.”
“Too hot.”
“How come you’re holding that cup with your left hand?” Cunningham said.
“Oh, it was the handiest, I reckon,” Zak said with a disingenuous smile.
“Or maybe you mean to draw that Walker and rob us,” Cunningham said.
“You got something to rob?”