by P. J. Keogh
Lije had believed that Adobe Walls was done with. It seemed now that it wasn’t.
Bent launched into a flood of Indian-talk. Bull Bear let the discourse end. Then, his attention on the angry warrior, he gave a rendition of his own.
The warrior grunted a reply. Turning to face Fisher once again, he muttered something, low-voiced and guttural. Though he still did not look friendly, the killer rage had gone from his expression. He walked off.
Bent watched him go, then said to Scanlon and the Negro. “Bull Bear reminded Running Elk that, under the rules by which the Cheyenne live, you are guests and not to be attacked. He told him that the killing of his brother was in war, and that such things happen.”
Bull Bear’s eyes were on the visitors now. He said something brief and to the point, whatever point that was.
Bent gave what might have been a smile. “Bull Bear said also that you are warriors, and that he would sooner do business with one warrior than a hundred missionaries or a thousand Indian agents. Running Elk will give you no more trouble. And, where Bull Bear’s concerned, you’re accepted.”
They stepped into the chief’s tepee to commence the bargaining.
Chapter 8
The Indian trading had gone well. When Scanlon’s expedition crossed the Pecos, headed west, their mule packs were empty, and they had more than two thousand head of Texas beef to drive—a tall-order for a short crew.
Passing south of Tucumcari, they forded the river well north of Sumner, as they had on their passage east. Their route would take them on a swing around Las Vegas, headed for Mora. It was a shorter journey, distance wise, than the one out from Albuquerque had been. But, cumbered as they were with cattle, it would be more than twice as long, in days spent on the trail.
Daylight hours were lengthening by the time they put the Pecos behind them, and the trails were steep as they climbed through rugged country. In the distance to the north, the snow-topped peaks of the Sangre de Cristo range could be seen.
Dusk of the journey’s fourteenth day was coming on when they came up to an area of pasture where the trail they followed widened. It was sparse grass, but sufficient to keep the stock alive and healthy, though not enough to fatten it. A shallow creek flowed through the pasture, carrying snowmelt from the peaks down to the Pecos.
Figuring that this was as good a place as any for an overnight, Scanlon called a halt.
The vaqueros were bedding the cattle down, and the manaderos herding the remuda into the rope-corral they had set up, when old Manuel came in. He had been scouting the back trail for most of that afternoon. He rode at the gallop, which told Scanlon that something wasn’t right. Manuel was too long in the tooth to gant good horseflesh by needless wear and tear.
Fisher looked up from the cook-fire he was building. “What’s rilin’ that old bastard?”
“Don’t know. But something’s sure set his tail afire.” Scanlon was unsaddling the army bay, the mount he had ridden on that day’s trail. He hefted the heavy horse-furniture, laying it on the ground, as he called out to the old man, “?Que pasa?”
“Soldados,” Manuel said. “Cinco solados, dos horas detras.”
Manuel dismounted his pony, and offered his report. They were being trailed by a cavalry patrol, four troopers, with a non-com in command. The soldiers had pitched camp for the night, in a place where there was water, two hours to the rear.
“Goddamn!” Scanlon said disgustedly to Fisher. “They’ll be out of Sumner.”
He turned back to the old Mestizo. “Estan Indios accompanando los soldados?”
Manuel shook his head. Then, his news imparted, walked off to unsaddle his mount.
“No scouts, uh,” Fisher observed. “Well, that’s sunp’n.”
“It’s something.” Scanlon unlimbered the Spencer from its saddle-boot, “But not enough. It don’t need a tracker to follow the trail we’re leavin’. Any damned one-eyed wonder, fresh from Jeff Barracks, could follow us. And, without cattle of his own to drive, catch us too.”
“So what do you figure to do?”
Scanlon was checking the repeater as he replied. “You get this outfit on the trail, at first light. I’ll see to the troopers.”
Fisher’s lips tightened. “You’re not figurin’ to kill those long-knives?”
“You got any better ideas?”
“Hell, Major! Those are US Army boys.”
“That’s right,” Scanlon snapped back. “From the same US Army that gave your troopers a bad time. Threw you in the stockade when you did your job. You holding some brief for them?”
“Not specially.” Fisher shook his head. “But we’re on the same side they are, Goddamn it.”
“Maybe Carson should have thought of that when he planned all this. If a conscience is to be troubled by whatever I have to do, let it be his.”
Scanlon’s expression when he said this was one the Negro knew of old. It told Lije that nothing short of a bullet would deflect the major from the decision he had made.
Without further argument, the buffalo soldier turned back to his cooking chores.
* * * *
The crew was up in darkness. Fisher had the fire rekindled and the beans in the pot, before the sky turned gray. The men ate breakfast, and at Sun-up the herd was set to move. Lije sat his horse, as the vaqueros headed the beef up-trail. He and Scanlon looked at each other for a moment. Neither spoke.
The Negro turned his mount’s head, and rode out. Scanlon climbed aboard the roan mare, heading her toward the rocks by the trailside.
The early start had extended the comancheros’ lead, and three hours passed before Scanlon saw the troopers ride up to the point where his crew had camped the night. It was as the old man had said, a corporal and four dog-faces with no Indian guide. The likelihood was that they had picked up the trail by pure dumb luck.
The major hugged his Spencer, and watched from his position amongst the rocks, as the horse-soldiers halted.
Even a half-bright yellow-stripe could see the signs left by the camp. The rank and file dismounted, while the non-com rode his horse around the pasture, studying the ground as if persuading his mind to accept what his eyes found obvious.
The corporal cantered back to where the troopers were. Dismounting his own horse, he gave an order that Scanlon could not hear.
A yellow-leg commenced to light a fire in the embers Fisher’s had left. Others broke out coffee and hardtack. The non-com spread out a paper of some kind, a map most likely. Maybe he was trying to figure out which territory he was in, Scanlon speculated. Chances would be good that he was reading the damn thing upside down.
One soldier, told-off as horse-holder, led the army mounts a little way down-stream, stripped their saddles, tethered them on a single long line to drink, then walked back to where his comrades were.
Scanlon grinned. These dirty-shirts were too wet to burn. Fisher would be glad of that. Taking the mare’s bridle, he led her through a gap between the rocks.
* * * *
Uwe Bauer scrutinised the map, in the way a soldier should, the way he had watched officers do the job. Uwe was Prussian by birth, though he could remember little of that place, having settled in St. Louis, Missouri, when no more than five years old. He had worked as a dray-driver for a lager braumeister after his schooling days were over. It was tedious work, but tolerable until something more exciting came along.
Not long after Uwe’s eighteenth birthday, something more exciting did. That something was the secession of the southern states.
A German settler in St Louis, who had studied the military arts in Europe, was recruiting countrymen in ’61, to respond to Lincoln’s call, and stand up for the unity of the adopted homeland. His name was Franz Sigel, and young Uwe hastened to join his ranks.
Four years on, with Wilson’s Creek, Pea Ridge and other battles to his record, Uwe was not so young, and, when he returned to St. Louis, wore a sergeant’s three tapes proudly on his tunic-sleeves.
Back at the br
ewing-house, he was hailed at first as a hero. That soon wore off. There were too many heroes to be counted, in those days, let alone be treated as special cases. Uwe found himself once again staring at the ass-ends of a pair of shire horses, dawn-to-dusk.
Six months of this had proved more than enough, and the fall of ’65 found him at Jefferson Barracks, training for the US Cavalry.
Eighteen months forward, Uwe was a corporal, leading patrols from Sumner up and down the Pecos Valley and along the draws whose waters fed that stream, looking for Mescalero break-outs, and keeping watch for Mexican renegades and Broncho Apaches depredating from the south. None of these had he found.
He was feeling nostalgic for his beer-wagon and the streets of his adopted hometown, when his patrol picked up the comanchero-sign. Cattle headed due west from the Llano could mean one thing only, and Uwe’s nose had quivered like that of a wulf-hund in the forest, as the scent was taken up. He could see a third yellow chevron at the end of this.
All the previous day his patrol had clung to the tracks, not hurrying. Cattle do not travel fast, and even a greenhorn cavalryman does not wear out his mount by pushing it too hard, when there is no pressing need.
Now, halted by the creekside where the quarry had bedded down, Uwe read his map, tried to second guess the ones he sought, figure where they made for, estimate the point at which his troops would catch them up. They would reach them before nightfall. Of this he felt sure.
Then these beardless dumbkopfen he commanded would see how a true veteran fought a battle. He looked up from his document, as the trooper brought his coffee. Nodding his acknowledgement, he bent once more to his plans.
He had decided on the place where he would strike the contraband crew, when he heard the shots. It was rapid-fire. Hooves thundered.
Uwe stood up, pistol drawn. Turning to face downstream, he shouted orders.
This would be his first wild Indian fight, though he had battled with Confederate Creek and Cherokee more than once.
“Himmel!” Uwe swore.
The horses galloping toward him along the creek-bank were riderless, without saddles or bridles. All they carried were brands of Uncle Sam.
Uwe cursed again and leapt aside, as the stampede came at him head-on. He hit the dirt and rolled, coming to his feet, as the gallopers passed.
A big roan mare was driving the army geldings, saddled but unmounted, the corporal thought at first. The big mare went past. Then Uwe saw traces of the rider, spread along his mount’s flank on her offside, the side toward the creek. The rider’s head was by the roan mare’s neck. One booted foot was hooked behind the saddle-seat.
The German brought his pistol up. Too late. The rider and the stock he drove had gone up-trail, turning past a rock-shoulder. Out of sight.
Uwe found that the future came to mind. Hunger, thirst, blistered feet, a court-martial, and possible desertion figured upmost in his thoughts.
The third chevron he had coveted? He put that notion from his head.
* * * *
Afternoon was well advanced when Scanlon caught the herd up. He waved a salute to Fisher, as he turned the stolen horses toward the remuda.
Lije called the drive to halt. The major dismounted the roan, and the Negro barked an order in his broken Spanish. A manadero started a fire. Fisher walked his horse to where Scanlon was stripping the saddle from the trail-worn mare. Lije had noted the US horses, noted, too, the fact that they were saddleless, was intrigued by this.
Scanlon gave a smile that almost held humor, as he answered Fisher’s questioning look. “Those troopers’ll be finding their leather-work kind of heavy to carry by now.”
“What happened?” Fisher wished to know.
“Damn fools nooned below where I was hidden out. Tethered their mounts where I could run ’em off.”
“Greenhorns, huh?”
The major nodded. “Bright emerald.”
“No killin’?”
“Wasn’t called for.”
Lije, eyeing his old commander, tried to figure him. Would Scanlon have turned the Spencer on those dogfaces, had things come out different?
The answer to this he could not guess. He decided there are some things it is better not to know. Leastways, better not to know for sure.
Chapter 9
The Sanchez grant lay in a high valley among the Sangre de Cristo foothills above Mora. The land it covered extended, by repute, to half-a-million acres. There were silver mines on the property and the spread ran cattle as well as many a thousand head of sheep. The hacienda, Scanlon recalled vaguely from his childhood. It was a sprawling house with stables and dependencies, all built of adobe brick by custom, although timber was not in short supply in those parts. It stood on a bench above the aldea where the peones of the estancia lived.
Pedro and the vaqueros ran the Cheyenne beef into pasture beyond a creek that the hacienda overlooked.
Scanlon and Fisher rode their mounts into the patio at the front of the house. A white-clad establero awaited them there.
Sanchez came out onto the veranda of the house. “Miguel will tend to your horses, Gentlemen. I will have your saddlebags taken to your rooms.”
Scanlon nodded his assent to this. He and Lije handed their reins over, and the stable-man, Miguel, led the mounts away.
There were twelve steps leading up to the veranda. Sanchez stood at the head of these. “Welcome to hacienda Sanchez.” With the greeting, the grandee gestured for them to join him at the double-doorway of the house. “Mi casa, su casa. You will take some refreshment before we dine?”
“Cool beer would be welcome, Don Leopoldo.”
At Scanlon’s reply, Sanchez called to a brown-skinned boy—one with a bright-eyed, eager look—who stood, waiting on command in the vestibulo. “Tres cervesas, al estudio.”
The boy scurried off, and Sanchez opened the heavy wooden door of a room, which, east facing, was shaded from the Sun at this late afternoon hour.
The room was floored with highly polished wooden blocks. A heavy, ornately carved desk, set with a window to its rear, dominated the room. Deep armchairs and a big settee, all clad in dark leather, stood by a fireplace where burning logs crackled. Books lined the walls, floor to ceiling.
Sanchez waved Scanlon and Fisher to sit down, and took a fireside arm-chair for himself.
Lije stared around the room, his eyes wide, in a kind of wonderment. Slave cabins, army barracks, jail-cells and a saddle beneath the stars had been the kinds of quarter he had known, up ’til then.
The boy entered, carrying a tray upon which the beers were set, and placed this upon a low table before the fireplace, leaving quickly once this was done.
“Saludes,” Sanchez toasted, lifting up his glass.
They returned the wish for health. Then the Mexican spoke again. “You had a successful trip. Two thousand head of Texas cattle and some unexpected horses, a gift from the Gringo government, I understand.”
Old Manuel had ridden in ahead of the main body, and Scanlon knew it was the guide who had reported the haul. Perhaps Manuel was closer to Sanchez than he seemed.
It was a thought that would bear holding onto.
The major took a drink of his beer. “The trip went very well. Old Manuel knows where the right Indians are to be found.”
“That comes of long practice.” Sanchez’s tone held a proprietorial kind of affection. “He has been trading on the Llano since before I was born. And the cavalry patrol?” He was watching Scanlon closely as he made this change of subject. “You dealt with them expeditiously?”
“They were no trouble, Senor.”
“You shed no Gringo blood, in taking the horses?” Perhaps there was an accusation in this enquiry. Scanlon could not be sure.
“There was no call for bloodshed. Killing US troopers for no purpose would have been a needless provocation.”
“That is true.” Sanchez seemed satisfied with the ex-major’s reasoning. “You have done well, Gentlemen. You will be rewarded.�
� He drained his vaso. “Now, I am sure, a bath and a change of clothes are what you would welcome most of all.”
He did not wait for agreement with this, but rang a hand-bell, to summon the boy. “Mandes los senores a sus cuartos, y prepare banos para los dos,” he ordered when the youngster reappeared.
Once again the boy moved rapidly to do as he was bid. Scanlon and the Negro finished off their beers, to follow him.
Sanchez had arisen from his armchair. “We will dine at eight, Gentlemen.” As always he made the invitation sound like a command.
* * * *
The baths were hot and welcome, also the change into clean garments, and the chance to use a razor. Clean-shaven, his hair still damp from the water’s steam, Scanlon met Fisher on the veranda, where they sat at a table that overlooked the patio where they had last seen their horses.
The boy appeared at their side. “?Quieren aperitivos, Senores?” he asked.
“Si, gracias,” Scanlon told him. As the boy turned away Scanlon asked, “?Como te llamas?”
“Me llamo Federico,” the boy said.
“?Quantos anos tienes, Federico?”
“Tengo doce, Senor.” The boy hurried off.
“Twelve years old.” Scanlon grunted.
Fisher made a sniffing sound of cynicism. “I thought the war had put a stop to slavery.”
“There’s more than one kind of slavery.”
“‘Pears there is. But Hell! I could get kinda used to this life, bein’ waited-on an’ all.” There was a self-directed barb in the Negro’s words.
The boy Federico reappeared. He carried a tray on which stood a flask of an amber-colored liquid and two crystal glasses. Two large cigars lay alongside the wine.
“Muchas gracias.” Scanlon pointed to the flask. “?Que es?”
“Vino de donde el vinero del patrono, al sud.” The boy said this with pride. He withdrew.