Sherlock Holmes: The American Years

by Michael Kurland

  He wondered what time it was and reached for his pocket watch. It wasn’t there. They had taken it, and all his money. Anger welled up inside him, propelling him forward. He set off, lurching rather than walking, a grotesque figure covered in yellow dust moving jerkily like a puppet. As the sun came up, the desert flamed with orange light. Even in his current pain and despair, Holmes stood for a moment, appreciating the savage beauty of it. Then on again, rugged mile after mile.

  As the sun rose in the sky, the heat on the back of his neck was intense. He realized then that he wore no hat. Of course it still resided on the luggage rack of the coach. No point in wasting energy thinking about it. By noon the mirages appeared—sheets of water hanging improbably on mountainsides, always just out of reach. The desert shimmered with heat. Nothing moved, except for a snake that slithered across his path and under a rock. He wondered how one killed a snake and whether they could be eaten. He put his hand into his pocket. They had even taken his pipe and tinder box.

  Water. He must find water or die. But every depression and hollow was dry. He could see where streams had cut through the sandstone on their way down from mountains, but only in a rainy season, if there ever was one in this accursed place. He thought of home—misty days, green grass, the sound of a cricket ball against a bat, rain pattering on windows, afternoon tea on the lawn—and wondered if he’d ever see it again. At last he could go on no longer. He dropped to his knees and crawled under the shade of a prickly bush, where he fell into a half sleep.

  He awoke with a start. Someone was squatting over him. A hand reached to touch him. He raised his head to look and saw the bronzed, naked torso, the red-brown face, the long black braids of an Indian brave. Rumors of savagery flashed through his mind—victims scalped and other unmentionable tortures. He tried to get to his feet, realizing he had no weapon and was defenseless.

  The Indian must have seen the panic in his eyes. “Be still. I wish you no harm,” he said in a deep, guttural voice. “I come to help.”

  “How did you find me?” Holmes asked.

  “I see vultures circling. They know when a creature is about to die.”

  Holmes glanced up in horror.

  “How did white man come to be so far from his brothers? Where is his horse?”

  Holmes explained the stagecoach and the robbery. “I’ve been trying to walk to the settlement in Tucson. Do you know it? Am I far away?”

  The Indian pointed toward what looked like the north. “Beyond those hills. Two days’ march for a man in good health.”

  “So far? I don’t understand.”

  “You are to the south of the white man’s houses. You have almost crossed the boundary to the land they call Mexico.”

  “How did I get here? I tried to walk due west. I should have followed the track.”

  “It is easy to go astray in the desert,” the Indian said. “You are thirsty. You need to drink.”

  “Do you have any water?” Holmes asked, wondering where on his person it could be stored, seeing that he wore little more than a loincloth.

  The Indian had already turned away and approached a giant cactus. He studied it, then produced a hatchet and lopped off a branch, nodding in satisfaction. “Watch for spines,” he warned, then demonstrated, reaching into the cactus and scooping out liquid. Holmes drank greedily, then washed his face.

  “I’m much obliged to you,” he said. “You’ve undoubtedly saved my life. May name is Holmes. May I know yours?”

  “You can call me Shadow Wolf,” the man said.

  “Do your people live nearby?” Holmes asked, studying the desert scenery.

  “Not near. Now they are camped a day away, on the other side of the white man’s border. I have been sent to the town to trade.”

  “What do you trade?” Again Holmes looked at the almost naked man.

  “I bring precious stones and animal skins. I will return with tobacco and cloth and wool for weaving blankets.” He opened a little pouch he carried tied to his waist and Holmes saw the glint of unpolished stones. “The skins are over there. By that bush.”

  He went to retrieve the tightly wrapped bundle. “Can you walk? I do not think you can walk all the way to the white man’s town. I will take you to the nearest of their ranches. Come.”

  He motioned for Holmes to follow him and set off mercifully slowly.

  “How do you know your way?” Holmes asked. “I see no kind of trail.”

  Shadow Wolf smiled. “I read the signs. My people call it ‘cutting for sign.’ To me the desert is like a story, waiting to be read.” He paused. “See here?” He bent down and pointed to a low shrub. “A rabbit passed this way.” Holmes noticed a tiny shred of white fur caught on a spine. “And here, where the sand is soft, we can see his trail. The footmarks are fresh. Yesterday the wind blew the sand, so I know that he passed this way since last night. But his trail does not continue here, so what happened? A drama. I will show you. Specks of blood on the rock, here. But no other animal tracks. How can that be? I will tell you. A great bird came down and took him. An eagle maybe. See here where the wing tip brushed the sand?”

  He nodded at Holmes with satisfaction. “Even the smallest of signs tells me a story. I can tell you who walked here and how long ago, whether they were carrying burdens or walking lightly.”

  “Fascinating.” Holmes was still staring at the tiny specks of blood on the rock. “Can you teach me to read the signs?”

  Shadow Wolf smiled again. “It takes a lifetime of practice. Maybe a man has to be born to it. But I can show you how I cut for sign.”

  “And how do you find your way in this featureless place?”

  “In this place there is no problem. We must cross those mountains. The water takes the easiest path downward after rain, so we will follow the path of the river.” He indicated the dry wash and motioned Holmes to follow. Holmes struggled after him. All afternoon they climbed steadily. At last the sun sank behind the hills, speckling the vast sky with pink, like an archipelago of islands in a blue ocean.

  “We make camp,” Shadow Wolf said. “You must eat and rest.”

  He found an area of soft sand. Holmes sank down gratefully. His head no longer throbbed dangerously, but his feet were blistered and his tongue felt so swollen that his lips wouldn’t close around it.

  “Do we have any food?”

  “I will find food for us.” He moved off. Holmes was disappointed to see him returning empty-handed. “I have found the road of the pouched rat,” he said. “I have set traps. We will wait. But until then . . .” He climbed effortlessly up to where a spreading cactus bush spilled over a rock, and lopped off some green tips. “Your people call this prickly pear,” he said. “When I have taken off the spikes, it is good to eat.”

  With his hatchet he skillfully removed the outer layer and handed the segment to Holmes, who crunched on it greedily. It was full of moisture, almost like a fruit. The Indian then set about building a fire, taking a piece of flint from a small leather pouch and striking it against the side of his hatchet. Sparks fell upon a small heap of dried moss, which he carefully blew on, and he soon had a blaze going. “There are wolves in these mountains,” he said, “and coyotes and even puma. They will not harm us unless they are very hungry. But they may be very hungry. We must be prepared.”

  They sat on opposite sides of the fire. The red man’s face glowed in the firelight. Slowly a young moon rose over the horizon. The Indian stood up. “We will see if the traps have brought us dinner yet.”

  Holmes followed him, trying to walk as silently as the Indian but somehow managing to step on dry twigs and kick loose pebbles, much to his embarrassment. Shadow Wolf did not look back at him, but proceeded at a steady pace, staring down at an invisible trail with interest. At last he held up his hand for Holmes to stop. Holmes could see that some kind of trap had been rigged between two rocks—a thin sapling bent back, bait beneath, and a rock poised to drop at the right moment.

  It had not yet been triggered
. The Indian shook his head and motioned for Holmes to step around the trap. They went on and then the Indian trotted forward to another trap. This one had been sprung. A small mammal lay beneath a rock, quite dead. It was hardly enough to feed two men, but the Indian seemed satisfied as they made their way back to camp. He produced a small knife from his pouch and skillfully skinned the little carcass before spitting it over the blaze. It provided little more than a nibble, but Holmes was able to fall asleep feeling reasonably content.

  Shadow Wolf woke them at first light. He had visited the rest of his traps and had cooked another of the pouched rats, as well as a porcupine he had apparently killed with his small knife. He demonstrated to Holmes how he had removed the spines by burying the animal in the embers of the fire. They ate, then set off. As they climbed steadily, Shadow Wolf pointed out the smallest of clues that Holmes would not have noticed—a bee flying toward a nest in a dead paloverde stump, the tracks of a coyote stalking a jackrabbit. Holmes wished he had his notebook with him and tried to memorize everything the other man said.

  They reached the crest and made their way down the other side of the mountains. At last, after many miles of traveling, they came upon a white man’s fence, then the first cattle, and by afternoon they saw the ranch house, low and sprawling and made of adobe brick the color of the landscape. Shadow Wolf indicated that Holmes should go on.

  “Will you not come with me?” he asked. “Let me at least provide you with a good meal, and I should like to reward you in some way, if I could.”

  Shadow Wolf shook his head. “The white man sees the red man as his enemy. Sometimes this is true. Sometimes it is not. But the white man expects the worst. I have no wish to meet the white man’s bullet.” He held out his hand to Holmes. “Walk safely, my friend. Everywhere you go, may you have good luck.”

  “And you too, my friend,” Holmes replied. There was a lump in his throat as the tall, bronzed figure moved swiftly away. Holmes walked toward the ranch. Soon he heard the barking of dogs and ranch hands came out to meet him. He was brought into the delightful cool of the ranch house and began spilling out his tale to the rancher and his wife over a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.

  “So you see, I am at your mercy, sir,” Holmes said. “I have been robbed of all my possessions and my money. If you could somehow help me into the nearest town, then maybe I can persuade the local bank manager that I am a man of honor and that funds from my bank in London will be transferred with all speed.”

  “You’re not going anywhere for a while, young man,” Mrs. Tucker, the rancher’s wife, said. “You looked as if you were about to expire when you staggered up to our door. You stay with us for a few days while I get some nourishing food into you, and then you can ride with Mr. Tucker when he goes into Tucson to collect the mail on Friday.”

  “I’m much obliged to you, ma’am.”

  “And as for money,” Mr. Tucker said, “I can see that you are a gentleman, and I was raised to believe that a gentleman’s word is his bond. I’ll advance you what you need to take you back to civilization.”

  “I’m am truly grateful, sir,” Holmes replied,

  “We have to make amends for those varmints who robbed the stage, don’t we?” Tucker chuckled. “Otherwise you’d believe nothing good about the Wild West. There are more hardworking and honest men out here than bandits, I can assure you.”

  “Just as there are more kind and trustworthy Indians than hostile ones, I expect,” Holmes said, and noticed the instant coldness.

  “I wouldn’t be about to say that,” Mrs. Tucker said. “We live in constant fear out here so far from town, and Mr. Tucker will tell you that the rogues are always trying to rustle our cattle.”

  Holmes thought it wise not to pursue this topic. So he remained at the Tucker homestead, allowing himself to be spoiled by Mrs. Tucker’s ample meals and constant ministrations. He also showed considerable interest in the running of the ranch and begged Mr. Tucker to teach him as many western skills as possible. On his last day a steer was butchered. Mr. Tucker, wearing a large canvas apron, did most of the butchering himself while Holmes watched and made notes.

  “Damned flies.” Mr. Tucker waved them away.

  “I’m surprised at the number of flies,” Holmes said. “We’ve scarcely seen one or two before now.”

  “Danged creatures can smell blood from a mile off,” Tucker said. “They make straight for it. Smallest drop of blood and they’ll find it out, mark my words.”

  He went back to butchering.

  That night there was an outdoor ox roast in Holmes’s honor, and next morning they left in the buckboard for Tucson. It was five hours bumping over a rutted and rocky track before the township appeared before them, lying in a green valley with a small stream meandering through it. They passed between wooden shacks and adobe buildings before coming to a halt in the one dusty main street. Shop fronts lurked in deep shadow behind deep porches. Wooden sidewalks kept dust and mud off boots and ladies’ hems. As Holmes and Mr. Tucker stepped down from the buckboard, a young man came out of one of the saloons. He had bright red hair and his forearms were covered with orange freckles. As he came out, he turned back to say something, then let out a loud “hee hee hee.”

  Holmes froze. “That man,” he whispered to Mr. Tucker. “He was one of the ones who robbed me, I’m sure of it.”

  Tucker frowned. “I thought you said they wore masks.”

  “But I’d recognize his forearm and his laugh anywhere.”

  “Then if I were you, I’d keep quiet about it, if you know what’s good for you,” Tucker replied. “That boy is Willard Jensen. His daddy owns half this town. His daddy hires the sheriff.”

  Holmes thought he saw the young man stare for a second as he passed, but he hurried on to join a group of men standing outside the jail. A loud buzz of conversation was coming from the group and then a voice boomed loudly, “I say we string him up right now. Ain’t no sense in waiting around. He’s as guilty as sin.”

  “Come on now, boys.” This speaker was an older man, portly and well dressed in western manner. A heavy gold chain was strung across his chest and he wore a large white hat. “Everything has to be done properly, according to the law. You know that. We got us a representative of the federal government in town at the moment and you wouldn’t want him to go home and report that folks on the frontier act like savages, would you?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Jensen. Okay, first we try him, then we string him up,” someone said and got a general laugh.

  “What’s going on, Hank?” Mr. Tucker asked a storekeeper who had come out of his general store to observe.

  “Why, they brought in an injun who killed Ronald Fletcher. You know, that Englishman who’s been working for Tyler Jensen. Educated type of fellah.”

  “How do they know the Indian killed him?” Holmes asked.

  Hank appraised the newcomer. “You a relative?” he asked. “He sounded like you.”

  Holmes shook his head.

  “Anyway, they caught this injun actually bending over the body. We got us a guy from Washington in town so it looks like there will have to be a trial.”

  At that moment there was a commotion further down the street, the crowd parted, and a procession emerged from the jail. Gun-toting deputies walked ahead, clearing the throng of onlookers who had come out of nearby businesses. And in the middle, handcuffed and shoved roughly between two burly guards, was Holmes’s Indian companion, Shadow Wolf.

  “String him up, the no-good rat. We don’t need no trial. Kill him.” The words echoed through the crowd.

  Shadow Wolf raised his eyes for a second and Holmes saw the flash of recognition before he lowered them again.

  “I know that man,” Holmes whispered excitedly to Mr. Tucker. “He saved my life. I should do something.”

  “I’d stay well out of it if I were you, son,” Tucker said. “This isn’t justice like you’re used to, and folks around here have little love for Indians. Isn’t much yo
u can do.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t stand by and do nothing. It may be futile, but I have to try.” Holmes stepped into the tide of people, allowed himself to be swept along into the courthouse, and took his place on one of the back benches. The room buzzed with excited anticipation. Tyler Jensen and a tall man in black took their places at the front.

  The presiding judge was announced, a wiry little man with spiky white hair. He brought his hammer crashing down. “Court’s now in session,” he said. “We have before us the injun who killed Robert Fletcher—fine, upstanding man who managed the ranch for Tyler Jensen. Don’t think this should take too long. We’ve got witnesses who caught him in the act.”

  Holmes took a deep breath and stepped forward. “May I ask who is representing the defendant?” he asked.

  “Don’t need no attorney. Open-and-shut case,” the judge said. “The injun has pretty much pleaded guilty.”

  “According to the law of this land, I believe that every person is entitled to a fair trial with representation, is that not correct?” Holmes asked.

  The man in black rose to his feet. “I am Carter Cleveland, and I have been sent to observe our newest territory. Since Arizona is now officially part of the United States, then the law of the United States must be observed. Every man is entitled to representation.”

  “Then I should like to volunteer to represent this man,” Holmes said.

  “You a bona fide attorney, son?” the judge asked.

  “In England, where I come from, I am considered an educated man,” Holmes said stiffly. “And I suspect you have no other volunteers to represent the Indian in the courthouse.”

  The judge looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead. Can’t do no harm. Won’t do no good.”

  “Then I should like to confer with my client,” Holmes said.