The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Hawkins grinned. “Lead the way, Marshal!”

  After riding into town and leaving the scouts at the local livery to treat the horses to a good feed of oats, Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke went to the marshal’s office to pick up the his mail. From there they walked over to Sheriff Dan Martin’s jail. O’Rourke introduced him to Hawkins and Ludlow.

  The sheriff shook hands with the two officers, then turned his attention to the marshal. “I take it you delivered your whiskey-peddling prisoner to Fort Stryker.”

  “Sure did,” O’Rourke acknowledged. “Now I’m trailing after Guerras horse thieves with Mack and Ludlow. We have their detachment of Injun scouts with us.”

  “Well,” Martin said, “I’d like to help you with them horse thieves, but I got no jurisdiction on the reservation.”

  “I understand, Dan. But it might be a good idea if you kept an eye on the place ‘til I get back. There’s some weird going-ons out there.”

  Martin was concerned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “We don’t know,” O’Rourke admitted. He nodded to Hawkins and Ludlow. “It’s time for a drink or two.”

  He led the two army officers out of the office and across the street to a building with a false front. A sign below the second floor identified it as THE DESSERT VIEW SALOON.

  Ludlow quickly noted the misspelling. “Does the owner mean you can see sweets after a few drinks?”

  O’Rourke laughed. “He means ‘desert.’ He can’t spell right but he serves good liquor.”

  The three walked in and caught the immediate attention of a half-dozen imbibers. O’Rourke knew most and was greeted respectfully with questions about the whiskey peddler he had arrested. The marshal informed them the man was solidly locked away in the Fort Stryker guardhouse.

  O’Rourke purchased a bottle of rye whiskey and picked up three glasses before leading his companions to a back table. As they settled down, he spoke apologetically. “There used to be saloon gals — soiled doves — working in here, but the ladies of the local church raised so much hell, they was told to leave town.”

  The information disappointed Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley. The young officer still vividly recalled his dalliance with a prostitute during his first mission with the detachment. He pulled the cork from the bottle and filled the glasses.

  O’Rourke shuffled through his mail, noting it was all wanted posters. “I’ll be glad when I get transferred to a bigger town. That’s where an honest marshal can find some bad men to arrest and shoot.”

  Ludlow took a sip of his libation. “You mean arrest or shoot, don’t you, Dennis?”

  O’Rourke shook his head. “Nope. I mean arrest and shoot. And make a hell of a lot more money too.”

  They were interrupted by a man who approached their table, holding a bottle of bourbon. “Howdy, soljers. I just wanted to make your acquaintance. I served in the Army as a young feller back fifteen years ago. I was at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri as a supply clerk. Rank of corporal.”

  “Well, sit down,” O’Rourke invited. “Any old soldier is welcome here. I recently retired as a sergeant major. This is Captain Hawkins who was once an honest sergeant. And this young feller is Lieutenant Dooley.”

  The stranger shoved his bottle out in the center of the table, indicating he would share it. “My name’s Archie Garfield. Traveling peddler by trade.” He nodded to Hawkins. “So what brings the U.S. of A. Army to Hope Wells, Cap’n?”

  “Just checking up on things.”

  Ludlow asked, “What kind of merchandise do you sell, Mr. Garfield?”

  “Clothing, shoes, knickknacks, that sort of thing,” Garfield answered. “My customer here is Hezekiah Woodward the owner of the dry goods store just down the street.”

  Ludlow commented, “There’s always a demand for those sorts of items.”

  “Yeah,” Garfield said. “The only time he ordered anything different was when he bought fifty Henry repeating rifles.”

  Hawkins looked up. “What’d he want with fifty?”

  “It was a special deal I’d gotten up in Santa Fe,” Garfield explained. “The rifles was kind of old and used and I got a good price on ‘em. Hezekiah is the pastor of the local church. He prob’ly sold ‘em to fellers in his parish for hunting.”

  After a few more drinks and conversation, O’Rourke corked his bottle and stood up. “Well, duty calls.”

  Garfield was interested. “Anything special going on?”

  Hawkins interjected, “Just the usual routine matters. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Garfield.”

  “The pleasure is mutual, gentlemen,” the peddler said, pouring himself another drink from his own bottle.

  The officers and marshal left the bar to join the scouts at the livery.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was an early evening when Pastor Hezekiah Woodward, accompanied by Deacon Leo Horton, halted his buckboard at the oasis on the Guerras Reservation. This was the usual time and place for their sermons to lead heathen Apaches onto the path of Christianity. The portable pulpit and baptismal font were in the back of the vehicle; but this particular visit had nothing to do with saving souls.

  Along with the religious trappings, there was a small box filled with two hundred .44 caliber rounds in the back of the buggy. The ammunition was covered by a tarpaulin. The Apache warriors, Halkon, Kuchiyo, Pontaro and sixteen-year-old Muchino were waiting for the delivery. They were on horseback and as soon as the buckboard came to a halt. Pontaro and Muchino dismounted and approached the vehicle.

  Pontaro nodded to Hezekiah. “You bring for us the bullets?”

  “Yes.”

  Leo was fidgety. “Why don’t you just buy a big ol’ crate o’ bullets instead of a bunch of littleuns at a time?”

  Pontaro shrugged. “Not enough money on reservation.” He turned to Muchino and uttered a command. The youngster took the box and walked back to his horse.

  The money for the ammunition came out of the annuity received by the Guerras tribe from the United States Government. This became necessary when Hezekiah and Leo announced they could no longer afford to pay for the purchase of additional rifle cartridges.

  Halkon collected what small amounts of cash he could from each wickiup to meet the expense. He passed it to Hezekiah to buy the small amounts of ammunition. Each time the traveling salesman Archie Garfield came into his store, the preacher bought a box of two hundred cartridges for two dollars. Garfield assumed the purchases would be used for hunting by members of Hezekiah’s congregation.

  Hezekiah and Leo had made three trips out to the reservation to deliver boxes of ammunition. Each time the pulpit and font were in the back of the buckboard to make casual observers in town believe the preacher and deacon were going out to pursue their Christian ministry.

  This latest delivery brought the total ordnance count up to 1100 rounds.

  Captain Mack Hawkins, Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley and Marshal Dennis O’Rourke and the scouts rejoined Kawa and Istee in the canyon where the stolen horses had been held. It was near nightfall and the heat of the desert was waning much too slowly to suit everyone.

  The slow plodding return ride had been one of a long day in the baking heat. Unfortunately, there was only a slight lowering of the temperature after sunset. The Tierra Brava was at sea level and, unlike the high deserts, there was little cooling during the hours of darkness.

  The detachment took their horses to the small brook while canteens were refilled. The energy levels of both humans and animals was badly depleted. The men had no appetites but their mounts nibbled on the sweet grass out of instinct more than hunger.

  At sunset Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke sat down to nibble on some stale soda crackers. This aged food was left over from the purchases at Forts Sill and Stryker. It wouldn’t be long before the trio would be turning to hardtack packed in heavy parchment paper. At that point the only other rations would be the salt pork. That thirst-inducing food would make the desert even more wearisome.

  As s
oon as Kawa and Istee saw the officers were pretty much back to normal, they joined them. “We make big scout while you away,” Kawa reported. “We find trail of horses over there.” He pointed to the southeast. “Then trail go away. I think wind come and blow sand over trail.”

  “No doubt of that,” Mack Hawkins remarked. “It might take some time but we’ll pick it up eventually.”

  Istee nodded his agreement. “Plenty light from moon. Maybe not hard to do this.”

  “Okay,” Hawkins said. “Since the horse thieves are not gonna be rushing hither-and-thither in the desert, we can rest up through the daylight tomorrow before resuming the search after the sun goes down.”

  “Good idea,” Kawa said. “Ever’body tired.”

  “That right,” Istee interjected. “You much tired I think.”

  The two Tijones scouts got to their feet and returned to their own camping area. Ludlow Dooley watched them walk down the length of the canyon. “It’s hard to believe those fellows are so well adapted to this hellhole.”

  “Yeah,” Dennis O’Rourke agreed. “There were plenty of times during the Apache campaigns that them tough littler fellers amazed us with their endurance.”

  “True,” Hawkins stated. He was thoughtful for a moment. “What did you two think when Pontaro denied any knowledge of stolen horses or a ghost dance?”

  O’Rourke chewed on the last of his soda cracker. “I know he was lying about the horses. That hunk of jar we found where they kept the herd was definitely made by a Guerras squaw.”

  “Sure thing,” Hawkins agreed. “Kawa and Istee said the chanting we heard at that dance was calling for the Great Life Giver to bring dead warriors back to life.”

  Ludlow was skeptical. “The two Tijones speak English, but it is limited. Perhaps what they really wanted to tell us was that the chanting was to keep the souls of the dead in heaven or wherever their afterlife is. I think they call it the Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  “You’ve been reading too many dime novels, Mr. Dooley,” Hawkins chided. “But that was definitely a ghost dance just like the one at Fort Sill I told you about. The Guerras want the dead warriors to appear here on earth and slaughter whites.”

  Ludlow shrugged. “Then there’s nothing to worry about. We know that the resurrection of thousands of Indian warriors will never happen.”

  O’Rourke nodded. “You’re right, Ludlow. The onliest thing that we got to do is find them stolen horses and arrest the thieves. It’s perty cut and dried. Not too much to fret about.”

  “You keep talking about thieves,” Ludlow said. “They’re murderers as well.”

  “Keep that in mind when we fight ‘em, Mr. Dooley,” Hawkins advised.

  O’Rourke yawned and stretched. “Well, I’m looking forward to a lazy day tomorrow even though I’ll be sweating like a pig under a shelter half.”

  At the next sunset, the bivouac began stirring as tarps and shelter halves were taken down and rolled up. Sand was brushed off weapons and everyone took a last look around for anything that might have been missed.

  “Prepare to mount!” Hawkins commanded. “Mount!”

  Kawa and Istee cantered out to the front as the remaining nine of the party formed into a double column. It seemed relatively cool that night on the Tierra Brava to everyone who had endured the day’s heat while napping. Each man’s unspoken wish was to find those damned horses, wrap up this mission then catch a train back to Fort Lone Wolf.

  On the other hand, Dennis O’Rourke’s mind was on requesting a transfer to an extremely large, crime-ridden town where he could start making some decent money.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A secret society of picked warriors was organized by the Guerras prisoners confined in Florida after their defeat. The creator and leader of the band was the warrior Halkon. He chose his comrades-in-arms Kuchiyo and Pontaro to serve under him as sub-chiefs. Halkon, as was common among Apaches, used much of the language of their neighbors and traditional enemies the Mexicans. Thus he called this warrior group the Cuadrilla; the Spanish word for band or gang.

  The Cuadrilla was a reaction to the shame and humiliation, following the tribe’s catastrophic beating. After being forced to surrender as poverty-stricken, starving wretches, the Guerras Apaches were escorted onto what was to become their reservation. The tribe was beaten down into miserable shadows of what they had once been. None of the elderly Apaches had survived the ordeal.

  As further punishment, their war chiefs and several warriors were placed under arrest and taken away to prisons in a hot, steamy hell the white men called Florida. These prisoners were locked down in dungeons of an old Spanish fort where the steamy humidity made the air seem a solid substance. The temperatures induced heavy perspiring that did nothing to cool tormented bodies in that boiling wetness. This was that period of time when the Cuadrilla was formed.

  When the prisoners returned to their people, the former captives were unrepentant and bitter. But the tribe was too weak for another uprising. That all came to an end with the unexpected arrival of the Prophet and his preaching of the Ghost Dance.

  Firelight danced over the features of the nearly thirty men gathered in a hidden arroyo on the Guerras Reservation. The location’s natural camouflage had been skillfully enhanced with the addition of large rocks and scrub brush along the top. Of all the terrain features in that part of the Tierra Brava, this was the one with the most concealment.

  Halkon stood up in front of the Cuadrilla, gazing down on them with a solemn expression. After moments of silence, he abruptly proclaimed, “The Prophet is a fool! He is mistaken when he says only the ghost dance will bring us the messiah and the ghost warriors. They will appear as soon as we begin the war against the whites.”

  Halkon’s condemnation of the man who had developed such a strong influence over the Guerras people was immediately accepted by these warriors. They respected the opinions of a prestigious fighter whose bravery was as unquestioned as his wisdom.

  Halkon continued, “Many of you saw the unknown natives in army uniforms that rode into the reservation. I know all of you ignored the visitors, but those of the tribe who approached them saw that there were three white men with the group.” He paused, then stated, “One was Hawkins and the other O’Rourke.”

  The announcement was met by a stunned silence. All were well acquainted with the two white men for whom they had both scouted and fought against. One warrior by the name of Dakeya leaped to his feet. “We must kill them!”

  “Do not worry, brave Dakeya,” Halkon said. “We will kill them. But not now.”

  Another irate warrior Nabay asked, “What were they doing here?”

  Halkon grinned. “They are looking for horse thieves.”

  Dakeya laughed aloud. “That is us!”

  “Yes,” Halkon said. “We all know Hawkins and O’Rourke and hate them. We also respect them. They are skilled and brave fighters.”

  “It is good you ordered the horses moved,” Pontaro said.

  Tsoey, another warrior, was curious. “Who was the third white with the native soldiers?”

  “A very young man,” Halkon replied. He pointed to sixteen-year-old Muchino who stood at the rear of the crowd. “And our young man has proven he is ready to be a warrior.”

  Everyone cheered and Muchino shouted, “Yes! I will be the first since our disgrace. I will revenge our warriors who died in battle and in the prison where the whites confined them.”

  “It is time to once more fight as Guerras,” Halkon stated, “but it will not be the souls of ghost warriors who will first kill our enemies. It will be you who are living men. Thus, at that exact moment when you begin the war, you will be joined by the ghost warriors!”

  A rumble of approval ran through the crowd.

  “Kuchiyo! Pontaro! Muchino! Stand up!” Halkon commanded.

  The three proudly got to their feet. The sixteen-year-old Muchino grinned with fierce pride.

  “Look at them!” Halkon exclaimed. “They have
worked with me to get rifles and bullets. We now have seventy rifles and more than a thousand bullets.”

  This brought out happy shouts of surprise.

  “This means you will not have to fight with the old carbines the whites gave us for hunting,” Halkon continued. “These new rifles hold seventeen bullets.”

  The cheering increased as the assembled warriors leaped to their feet.

  “And, just as important, we have the thirty-two horses we have stolen,” Halkon continued. “That is more than enough for the Cuadrilla.”

  Nabay yelled out, “When do we go out to fight, Halkon?”

  “Tomorrow at dawn, you will gather in the Ghost Dance canyon,” Halkon replied. “From there we go to the horses and begin our war.”

  Muchino leaped up. “What about the young white man?”

  Everyone laughed loudly and Halkon promised, “We will leave him alive for you to torment to death.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was a bright, warm Sunday morning, and the congregation of the Christian Worship Church in Hope Wells was arriving for the weekly services. Farm and ranch families coming in from the countryside parked their bulky farm wagons in the area behind the building. Meanwhile the townspeople in buckboards, left the smaller vehicles along the street. Those who walked from their homes, joined the throng waiting in the yard. Since there was no steeple with a bell, the time to enter the church was announced by Pastor Hezekiah Woodward or Deacon Leo Horton at the front door.

  Among those arriving on foot were Sheriff Dan Martin with his wife Agnes and spinster daughter Emily. Emily was a plain young lady in her mid-twenties, but her looks weren’t what kept her from marrying. Because of the shortage of women on the frontier, even the most unattractive females could be picky about the man they chose for husbands. Emily was shy and withdrawn, preferring to live out her life with her parents rather than have a family of her own.