Hawkins looked but saw nothing. “It could be a mirage caused by heat waves. That’s a pretty common in the desert.”
“I sure ain’t forgot that!” O’Rourke declared.
Ludlow pulled out his binoculars and stood in the stirrups. After adjusting the focus, he announced, “Yeah! That’s the ranch all right.”
Hawkins eased his horse toward their destination, and the others followed his lead. Ten minutes later the ranch house, bunk house, barn and corrals were easy to see. Loud yelling could be heard coming from one of the corrals.
O’Rourke grinned. “There’s a bunch of crazy cowboys breaking in horses.”
“Yeah,” Hawkins agreed. “I never got over here while I was stationed at Fort Stryker. How about you?”
“Nope. The onliest officers and soljers that visited this place was the quartermaster and stable sergeant to pick out remounts. I seen the rancher Denton one or two times when he visited Fort Stryker.”
“I might have glanced at him too. I can’t remember.”
The commotion at the corral was subdued as soon as the cowboys noticed the visitors’ arrival. They were astounded at the sight of the scouts. They watched with unabashed curiosity as the column rode up to the ranch house.
Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke dismounted, wrapping the reins of their horses over the hitching rack. They went up on the porch and knocked on the door. The summons was answered by a young Mexican woman. She frowned at the unexpected callers. “Que buscan, señores?”
Hawkins recalled some of his limited knowledge of the Spanish language. “Dónde, Señor Denton?”
O’Rourke with his memory more recent, correctly asked, “Dónde está su patron, señorita?”
“Está al granero,” she replied, pointing.
The three looked in the direction she indicated, assuming she was directing them to the barn. They walked across the ranch yard and entered the building. A tall, slender man was standing next to a forge watching a Mexican blacksmith shoe a horse. He turned at the entrance of the strangers, noting army uniforms and the badge worn by O’Rourke.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I take it you’re Mr. Denton?”
“That I am. J.K. Denton.”
“We’re here to look into the theft of your horses,” Hawkins asked. “We’d like to find out as much as we can about the incident.”
Denton frowned. “So at last something is going to be done, huh?”
Hawkins took offense at the tone of his voice. “I was ordered out here all the way from the Indian Territory. So, yeah. Something is going to be done.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Denton said, calming down. “I’m not complaining, but I lost a good horseman and friend when the thieves killed Luis Cordoba.”
Ludlow wanted to defuse the situation. “We’re here for a complete investigation, Mr. Denton. The Army is stretched a bit thin along the border. We intend to do a thorough job. But we need some information to get us started.”
“There ain’t a hell of a lot to say about it,” Denton replied. “I figger Injuns done it, since they sneaked up on Luis. When he stood night guard, he was always alert. But he wouldn’t’ve been able to hear Apaches. They kilt him, opened up the gate and run off the herd.”
“You’re pretty sure it was Injuns, and those Injuns was Apache, huh?” O’Rourke asked.
“Sure,” Denton said. “Their horses wasn’t shod and the closest Injuns around here is the Tijones.”
Hawkins interjected. “I understand the dead Mexican was killed outright, but his body wasn’t cut up.”
“That was strange all right,” Denton admitted. “I figger they didn’t want to waste any time. And why’d they steal horses? They got no use for ‘em unless they’re going on the warpath.”
A thought occurred to Hawkins. “Maybe they’re planning raids on the Guerras.”
Denton nodded. “That could be a possibility. Yeah! If they’re looking for a fight, that’s where they’d go all right.”
“I think our next stop will be a visit to the Tijones,” Hawkins said.
“I hope you find my horses,” Denton said.
“If we do, you’ll get ‘em back,” O’Rourke stated. “I promise you that, Mr. Denton.”
The officers and marshal left the barn with Denton walking beside them. When he saw the scouts, he stopped. “I’ll be godamned to hell!”
Ludlow quickly spoke up. “They’re enlisted as soldiers in the Army. It’s a new policy.”
Denton repeated, “I’ll be godamned to hell!”
Hezekiah Woodward and the salesman Archie Garfield sat at a table in the rear of the former’s dry goods store. It was early evening and Mildred Woodward had gone home to fix supper.
Archie, wishing they could have met in the local saloon, bemoaned having a religious teetotaler storekeeper for a customer. “Looky here, Hezekiah, I can’t get you no more cheap Henry rifles. How’s come you won’t settle for Winchesters?”
“The customers got them Henrys and don’t want another brand or caliber or nothing.”
Archie chuckled. “You ain’t selling them to the Dalton Gang, are you?”
“They was pretty bad shot up at Coffeyville, Kansas a short time ago,” Hezekiah reminded him. “Surely you can find me some Henry rifles, Archie. There must be a lot of ‘em for sale.”
“Yeah! There’s a lot of ‘em for sale, but not cheap second-hand ones that are available by the dozen. It’d take me a year of traveling around to pick up fifty used Henry rifles The bunch I got for you was confiscated over a long period of time by the sheriff in Santa Fe, New Mexico.” He paused a moment. “Why don’t you order some from the factory?”
“It’d be too expensive.”
“Can’t them customers come up with some cash money for you?”
“Nope,” Hezekiah replied.
Archie snorted. “If you ain’t buying for the Dalton gang it must be for some other bunch on the owlhoot trail, Hezekiah. You got me worried about you.”
“You’ll find out about it sooner or later, Archie. And it’ll be grand. That is if you ain’t too much of a sinner.”
“I been one hell of a sinner, Hezekiah.”
“Repent, Archie. You’d best repent.”
Archie grinned. “T’aint likely, Hezekiah.
Chapter Eleven
Both Mack Hawkins and Dennis O’Rourke knew the Tierra Brava Desert better than most white men. The pair had participated in several campaigns against the Tijones and Guerras Apache tribes in that area during their service together. But when it came to a complete rapport with this hell on earth, the Apaches had no equals.
Although it was not yet high summer, the “godamn sandbox”— as the soldiers at Fort Stryker referred to the Tierra Brava— could make a trooper feel like his body fluids were being boiled out of his skin. In May through September the sun beat down on the bare terrain in fiery waves of unforgiveable heat. Any white man without water would not survive many hours in that deadly environment. The only exceptions were Gila monster lizards, sidewinder rattlesnakes, and the Apache Indians.
On this day Hawkins and O’Rourke were at the head of the scout detachment heading for the Tijones Reservation. They skirted the desert going northwest in a roundabout way toward their destination. The column was close enough to catch glimpses of the badlands and experience a bit of the parched breezes that wafted across the landscape.
The Kiowa and Comanche scouts viewed the surroundings with more than a little trepidation. Because they had spent their entire lives on the lush southern plains, their inborn instincts warned them that this strange land they gazed upon was a dangerous place. Young Michael Strongbow was shocked into silence by the vicious environment.
Corporal Tall Bear summed up their collective impressions of the Tierra Brava with a blunt statement. “This is where the spirits of evil men go after death. Surely this is the home of ch’iin binant’a.”
“The white men’s name for him is Satan,” Mi
chael informed him. He called out to Captain Hawkins. “Sir, what does Tierra Brava mean? It’s Spanish, right?”
“Right,” Hawkins replied. “It’s the Mexican way of saying ‘Fierce Land.’“
Sergeant Eagle Heart chuckled mirthlessly. “After high mountains to climb and fight in, we come to land with heat of fire. I think maybe this more bad place to fight. K’ou-bei!”
“Yes,” Michael agreed. “It is a bad place, all right.”
The detachment turned due west and reached the Rio Salvador in the early evening. It was a surprisingly shallow waterway that crossed the Tijone Reservation, splashing over a rocky bottom as it made its way toward the Colorado River. A thick growth of trees and brush added to the coolness of the area, putting everyone in an agreeable mood.
Captain Hawkins, deciding to spend the night in those pleasant surroundings, ordered a halt. The detachment dismounted and gave their attention to the horses, making sure they were watered and fed. With that done, the men turned to their own individual meals. The only shared item was the army-issue coffee that brewed over a couple of campfires.
O’Rourke, settling down next to Hawkins and Ludlow, felt a tingling of emotional memories. “Y’know,” he remarked, “it feels good to be out on a patrol with soljers again. It makes me think of days gone by.”
“I suppose,” Hawkins replied. “But I got several more years of this.”
“Mack my friend,” O’Rourke said, “someday when you’re sitting in a rocking chair, you’ll recall men and places and past adventures with a longing for the good ol’ days.”
Ludlow grinned. “I’ll bet he’ll have a shawl around his shoulders while he’s doing it.”
O’Rourke laughed. “I ain’t got one yet, but I suppose someday I will.” He gave Hawkins a meaningful look. “D’you think you’ll ever get married?”
Ludlow grimaced, knowing O’Rourke had inadvertently stirred up the captain’s bad temper. But Hawkins just shrugged. “Prob’ly not.”
Ludlow quickly changed the subject just the same. “What time will we arrive at the reservation?”
“A bit before noon,” O’Rourke replied.
Darkness settled over the camp slowly as the sun reddened and eased down behind the trees. By then the guard was organized, bellies were full, and the fatigue of the day’s travel brought on snug slumber.
The next day’s route of march turned northeast toward the reservation. It also brought the detachment closer to the desert. The sights and smells of that cruel landscape dulled the contentment of the previous evening.
When they sighted the reservation’s buildings, Ludlow checked his watch. It was eleven thirty a.m. They had arrived at the exact time O’Rourke had predicted. The old soldier was still familiar with his former stomping grounds.
A trio of horses, obviously owned by white men, was tied up at the hitching rack in front of the trading post. Hawkins took note of the animals. “It looks like there’s some callers here at the agency.”
The arrival of the scout detachment stirred up the attention of the dozen or so Apache people lounging around the building. They were all dressed in the usual attire of their culture, indicating the agent-in-charge was not a strict man when it came to their observances of tribal traditions.
When the reservation natives suddenly realized the majority of the visitors were Indians in U.S. Army uniforms, they were confused and put on edge. Sergeant Eagle Heart gave them the plains Indians’ signal of a friendly greeting by putting his open hand over his heart, then extending it toward them.
The Apaches accepted the gesture and stepped back from the door to allow Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke to enter the agency store. Their entrance caught the attention of three men who were obviously cowboys. The eldest of the trio showed a grin. “Well, it looks like we ain’t gonna have to go all the way over to Fort Stryker to find soljers.”
Hawkins nodded to him. “You got need of soldiers, do you?”
“I sure as hell do,” the man said. He offered his hand. “Ned Caldwell. I got a ranch about ten miles north of here. Our remuda of horses was stole a coupla nights ago.” Then he added caustically, “The whole godamned remuda! And it’s a dozen of the best cowponies I ever owned.”
The reservation agent interjected, “Mr. Caldwell is accusing the reservation Indians of the crime.”
Caldwell snorted. “We know for sure the rustlers was Injuns”
One of the cowboys scowled. “Their horses wasn’t shod. That means Injuns all right.”
O’Rourke spoke up. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal O’Rourke and I got jurisdiction here and in the Tierra Brava. I’ll be working with the Army on this situation.”
The agent replied, “I’m Oscar Timmons. Glad to know you. But I’m not convinced any of the Tijones people were involved in the theft.”
“It’s all got to be figgered out,” O’Rourke said. “We had a similar situation over east near the Guerras Reservation.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the angry entrance of an Apache man. He was tall for his race and more heavily muscled than the average tribesman. He started to speak, then spotted Hawkins and O’Rourke. His stern expression dissolved into a grin. “I think maybe you dead for long time. I think maybe somebody kill you both.”
Hawkins returned the grin. “Hello, Kawa.”
O’Rourke laughed aloud. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
Kawa studied the marshal’s appearance. “You not soljer no more?”
O’Rourke patted his badge. “I’m a lawman now. No more soldiering for me.”
Kawa looked at Hawkins. “You still soljer, huh?” He pointed to Ludlow. “He is soljer too, eh?” Then he jerked his thumb toward the door. “Who them Injun soljers outside?”
“They’re my soldiers,” Hawkins replied. “Same as white soldiers.”
The Apache was amazed. “They not scouts?”
“Yes,” Hawkins replied. “They’re scouts, but not like when we hired you and your friends for scouts. They are in the Army.”
“I never see Injuns like them.”
“They’re Kiowas and Comanches from back east.”
Kawa shrugged. “I never see that tribe before.” He snapped his head around to the three cowmen. “I hear you say we steal horses from you. No Tijones do that.”
Caldwell frowned back at him. “Well, it was godamn Injuns that stole ‘em. And you Tijones is the closest to my ranch.”
Hawkins broke in. “There were also horses stolen by Indians farther east.”
“Ha!” Kawa exclaimed. “Them godamn Guerras steal horses. We already got horses. What we do with more? Eat ‘em? We get cattle from government for to eat. We got javelina pigs to hunt. Why steal horses?”
Timmons said, “I’m in agreement with Kawa. There is no possible reason for the Tijones to go to the trouble of stealing horses.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “And no reason for the Guerras either.”
“Now listen up,” O’Rourke said. “I believe Kawa here is speaking the truth. That means the Guerras done it.”
“You’re right, Dennis,” Hawkins agreed.
Timmons sighed audibly. “There’s been too much confusion around here. This horse-rustling situation has just added to it.” He looked at Kawa. “Tell them about that prophet fellow.”
Kawa laughed derisively. “Crazy Injun come here. Talk much foolish to us. We make him go away. Too much crazy I think. Bad medicine.” He turned his attention to Hawkins. “I think Guerras steal horses. You go fight them Guerras. We Tijones help you.”
That alarmed Timmons. “Wait a minute! I’m not going to allow you and your men to get involved in an Indian war.”
Kawa thought a moment before replying. “Then I go with them as scout. And I get my friend Istee to go with me.”
The name caught Hawkins and O’Rourke’s combined attention. The captain showed a grin. “Is Istee still alive and kicking?”
“Sure him alive,” Kawa replied. “Him and me we strong like
always.”
Hawkins looked at Timmons. “I have the authority to hire both as scouts.”
“All right,” Timmons relented. “But no more tribesmen.”
The rancher Ned Caldwell was satisfied. “In that case, me and my boys here’ll get back to the ranch. If’n you need any more help, let me know.”
Hawkins shook his head. “I can’t take civilians along on a deployment.”
“Hell, Mack!” O’Rourke exclaimed. “I got the authority to deputize ‘em.”
“That’d complicate things,” Hawkins said. “We’ll take Kawa and Istee along. That’ll make eleven of us. That ought to be enough to handle a few hot-headed bucks that went horse rustling.”
“You’re right, Mack. It ain’t like we’re gonna take on the whole tribe.”
Kawa was excited and happy. “I go find Istee. We make ready for to go fight godamn Guerras.”
Chapter Twelve
The moon was clouded over a bit as the Reverend Hezekiah Woodward and Deacon Leo Horton sat on buckboard’s seat. They waited at the usual oasis where they met with Pontaro and the Prophet. This time, however, the two white men were more than just a little nervous.
Leo took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Them Injuns ain’t gonna be happy ‘bout this.”
“We’ll just have to be firm, Leo. I’m gonna set ‘em straight on the real reasons behind this second coming.”
“We shouldn’t have got them Injuns any rifles, Hezekiah.”
“I told you that God spoke to me and said they would use them blessed rifles to kill sinners.”
Leo frowned. “How come God never says anything to me?”
“Because he hasn’t given you the call, Leo,” Hezekiah replied. “You got to remember that I’m a pastor and you’re a deacon. But don’t you fear. God is with us both in this great miracle. He will let us know what must be done. Hallelujah!”
“Hallelujah!” Leo echoed.
A few moments of silence followed before two approaching riders appeared in the distant gloom. As they drew closer, Hezekiah and Leo could see it was Pontaro and the Prophet. The Indians rode up to the buckboard and halted.
The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2) Page 7