Shadow River

by Ralph Cotton

  Sam and the warriors stared at each other. The young warrior Sam had given water to a month earlier leaned near the older warrior seated beside him. Sam saw the young warrior gesture first toward the tree where the cat had been hanging, then toward the wall where the cat had escaped. The two warriors sat almost expressionless, yet Sam could see they had just shared a joke at his expense. He glared at them.

  When the captain’s patrol rode into the camp, both Sam and the Indians turned and watched them intently. Sam saw Burke stumbling along in front of them at the end of the rope. He saw Boyd Childers’ body draped over a horse’s back. On horseback he saw Stanley Black, his severed hat brim once again drooping down below his eyes. As the soldiers at the campsite looked at Black, they laughed among themselves. The front brim of Black’s hat lay sagging just under his nose. It rose and fell slightly with each breath he took.

  An angry look from Black caused one of the soldiers to shove him from his saddle and goad and probe him toward Sam with his rifle barrel. Another soldier shoved Burke over beside Sam. Burke cursed at them over his shoulder as he staggered forward across the campsite, his wrists tied behind his back. Seeing Sam standing there, his wrists bound in front of him, he stopped and eyed Sam up and down.

  “All right, Jones, how come you’re getting such favored treatment?” he asked Sam as he stopped and stood close beside him.

  “Just special, I guess,” Sam said quietly. “Where’s Montana?”

  “He must’ve got away,” said Black, his sagging hat brim drooped below his eyes. “Leastwise I haven’t seen his body.”

  “Good for him,” Sam said.

  “No talk,” the young soldier said.

  Burke and Black ignored him. Both of them scrutinized the claw marks on Sam’s chest and shoulders.

  “I see you found the cat,” Burke whispered. “Was she happy to see you?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Sam. “But no, not real happy.”

  “No talk,” the guard repeated. He took a threatening step forward.

  Burke gave the guard a hard, cold stare.

  “Don’t go getting your drawers in a knot,” he said calmly. “It would be a bad mistake, you thinking we can’t take that rifle of yours and shove it—”

  The seasoned gunman stopped and rocked back a step as the soldier’s rifle butt gave him a quick short stab to his chest. Burke staggered but managed to stay upright. He continued giving the young soldier his hard, cold stare.

  “Take it easy, Clyde,” Sam whispered, even as he stared at the soldier. “We’re going to need all our strength here.”

  Burke settled down and let out a tight breath.

  “Lucky for you I’m in a good mood tonight,” he said to the soldier.

  As he talked, other soldiers strung a rope along behind their backs the way they’d done with their Apache prisoners. Yet in Sam’s case the rope ran around the front of him and between his tied wrists. In a moment the captain walked up and stood in front of Sam. Sergeant Bolado stood at the captain’s side. Two riflemen flanked them. Sam noted that his own bone-handled Colt stood in the sergeant’s waist sash. He’d have to keep watch on the Colt and whose hand it wandered into, having learned that guns had a way of traveling full circle here in this desert badlands.

  “So,” said the captain to the sergeant, “this is you, the man who decided to fight the loco panther who lives here?” He stared curiously at Sam and grinned, noting the claw marks and blood.

  “Sí, Capitán Flores, he is the one,” said Sergeant Bolado.

  With a gloved hand, the captain flipped up the loose shredded shirt cloth hanging down Sam’s bloody chest.

  “How did that go for you, gringo?” the captain asked Sam, stifling a cruel smirk.

  “I didn’t come here to get into a fight with the panther,” Sam said calmly. “I came here to see if you were Apache warriors camped up here.”

  “Oh?” the captain said. “Then why is it that you slip into our camp?” He gestured toward the hackberry tree where the tortured cat had been hanging. “Why do you set the panther free, so that she can inflict more injuries on my men?”

  Set the panther free?

  Even Burke and Black leaned forward a little and gave Sam a curious look when they heard the captain’s question.

  “I didn’t come here to set her free,” Sam said. “I came here to see what was wrong with her. I was concerned. We heard her squalling all the way down the hillside.”

  The captain and the sergeant stared at each other. The captain laughed and looked all around at his gathered men.

  “This one goes looking for panthers in the night. He is concerned!” He grinned openly and spread his gloved hands in an understanding gesture.

  The men chuffed and laughed.

  After a moment, when the captain stopped laughing, the sergeant settled the men with a raised hand as three more mounted soldiers rode into the camp and stepped down from their horses.

  “Capitán, I sent for Corporal Valiente from the ranks,” he said to the captain. “He has arrived.”

  “Ah, good,” said the captain. “Now we will find out if these men are wandering around in our desert like mindless ones do, or if they are rebel supporters and arms dealers.” He gave Sam a dark piercing stare.

  The three newly arrived soldiers walked over to the captain and stood beside him. One of them wore a corporal’s uniform and had his left arm in a sling. He stared at Sam for a moment.

  “These two I do not know, mi Capitán,” he said to the captain, gesturing at Burke and Stanley Black. He gave Black’s drooping hat brim a curious glance. Then he looked back at Sam and said with certainty, “But this one was with the wagon that carried the guns to the rebels.”

  “Are you certain of this, Corporal Valiente?” the sergeant asked.

  “Sí, I am certain, Sergeant,” said the corporal. “I stood this close to him before the Apache attacked and killed all of our soldiers. He delivered the guns and ammunition to our enemies and took the gold for the rifles.”

  “That will be all, Corporal,” said the captain. He turned to Sam as the corporal walked away.

  “Too bad for you,” the captain said to Sam, shaking his head slowly. To Burke and Black he said, “And it is too bad for the two of you as well, for being with this one.”

  Burke swallowed a dry knot in his throat and looked at Sam, then back at the captain.

  “I would not go so far as to say we’re with him, Capitán,” he said somberly. “It’s more like we come across him out here on the sand flats and just sort of happened to be going the same—”

  “Shut up,” the sergeant snapped at Burke. “You do yourself no good to lie. You will still hang.”

  “He’s telling the truth, Sergeant,” Sam put in. “They had no part in the rifle deal. Neither did I, the truth be known.”

  “The truth be known?” the captain repeated. “Then you deny what Corporal Valiente tells me—what he has seen with his own two eyes? Perhaps you will say you have never seen him before?”

  “I’ve seen him before,” Sam admitted, recalling the corporal from over a month ago when he was arrested for gunrunning. “He rode with a captain named Silvero.”

  “Yes, a very good amigo to me, Capitán Silvero,” said Captain Flores. “May his immortal soul rest in peace. He was killed by these murdering Apache.” He slid a dark glance to the stone-faced Indian prisoners who sat staring at them. “For which they will hang.” He looked back pointedly at Sam. “It is Capitán Silvero’s death, and that of his men, and the selling of firearms to the rebels that brings me out here, investigating, in this blasted devil’s inferno.”

  What can you say . . . ? Sam told himself. He wasn’t about to give up his identity. Even if he did, what good would it do? Who would believe him? He couldn’t tell this very good friend of Captain Silvero that his amigo Silvero was
taking money from Crazy Raymond Segert. For all Sam knew, so was Flores. All he could do was play this thing on out, hope to get himself, and yes, even these two outlaws standing beside him, out of this situation alive.

  “Capitán,” said Sergeant Bolado, “now that Corporal Valiente has identified this one, do you want me to form a firing squad for him and these two gringos?”

  Sam stood tense, ready, watching the captain consider the matter. He was not going to stand here and be shot down without trying to save himself. He glanced at an ornate-handled saber hanging at the captain’s side. He poised, on the verge of leaping out, grabbing it up with his tied hands and slashing his way to the horses. But he had to stop and settle himself when the captain spoke.

  “No, Sergeant,” Captain Flores said. “We will not shoot them here. We will march them to Fuerte Valor, along with this stinking Apache rabble.” He wrinkled his nose in association with the warriors’ offending smell.

  “If you will permit me to say so, Capitán,” said the sergeant, “these gringos do not deserve to be taken to Fuerte Valor. These men are no better than dogs.”

  The captain gave him a dark glare. Sam, Clyde Burke and Stanley Black stood listening intently.

  “I do not permit you to say so, Sergeant,” the captain said bluntly. He folded his gloved hands behind his back in rigid military style. “The Apache will hang as a public display of our military might. These gringos will be further questioned about the death of Capitán Silvero and his men. They will then be shot as supporters of a rebel force that threatens the sovereignty of Mexico.”

  The sergeant turned from the captain back to Sam. “Perhaps, Capitán, you will allow me to shoot this one myself, when the time comes.” He patted Sam’s bone-handled Colt standing behind the sash around his waist. “With his own pistole, perhaps?” He grinned evilly at Sam.

  “We will see, Sergeant,” the captain said. He turned a cruel smirk to Sam and said, “You’d better watch your step, pistolero. My sergeant does not like you so much.”

  “I caught that right off, Captain,” Sam replied drily.

  Relieved, he let out a breath, glad to hear that he and the other two were headed for Fuerte Valor—Fort Courage, he translated to himself. Once there, when the time came, he would reveal his true identity and his reason for being here.

  PART 2

  Chapter 8

  In the night, Sam, Clyde Burke and Stanley Black sat in a row opposite the Apache warriors. Both lines of prisoners stared at each other from ten feet apart. A rifle guard walked slowly down between the two rows of prisoners. At the end of each walk, he warmed his hands at the fire ten feet away, turned around and walked back, fulfilling his monotonous routine between caged and watchful eyes.

  “Good thing my hands are tied behind me,” Burke whispered as the guard held his hands out over the fire. “I know I’d choke this fool to death, take his rifle from him and fight my way out of here.” He paused for a second, staring at the Apache. “Maybe put a bullet in a couple of these Injuns while I’m at it.”

  “Take it easy, Clyde,” Sam said. “Now’s not the time.”

  “Then when is the time?” Burke asked.

  Sam didn’t answer.

  After a pause, Burke asked Sam quietly, “Any chance of you doing that for us, Jones?” He wiggled his hand behind his back. “It appears you’re the only one with hands that can do any choking.”

  “Not a chance,” Sam whispered with no hesitation. Without taking his eyes off the warriors staring back at him, he said, “There’ll be better chances of us making a break while we’re on the trail. It’s a long march to Fuerte Valor.”

  “Fort Courage, my ass,” Burke translated in a whisper. He spat in the dirt in contempt. “I’ve left more courage running down a privy wall.” He leaned his head and wiped his lips on his shoulder.

  “Jones is right, Clyde,” Stanley Black whispered on Burke’s other side. “There’ll be better chances on the trail.”

  “Jesus!” said Burke, jerking his head around toward Black. “Let a man know when you’re sneaking up that way.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking, I’m sitting right here,” said Black.

  Burke drew away from Black, seeing his face, his eyes peering at him from the narrow gap between his hat’s sagging brim and its crown.

  “You sure as hell are,” said Burke with sarcasm. He shook his head, staring at Black. “Stanley, do you have even the slightest idea how stupid you look wearing that Gaw-damnable hat?” His voice grew a little louder as he spoke.

  “No talk,” said the guard, turning toward them from warming his hands at the fire.

  Sam saw by the look on Burke’s face that he was losing control.

  “Oh yeah?” Burke shouted out at the guard. “Why don’t you go fummmmph—” he said, his words muffling suddenly behind Sam’s cuffed hands clamping over his mouth. Burke thrashed back and forth. But Sam held on until Burke finally settled. Across from them, the Apache looked on blankly, firelight glittering in their black eyes.

  The guard adjusted his rifle in his hands and walked straight toward them.

  “Get yourself in hand, Clyde,” Sam whispered, letting go of Burke as the guard drew closer. “It’ll do us no good to make a move, you with your face bashed in by a rifle butt.”

  The guard stopped and looked down at the three pistoleros. Sam spoke up before Burke got a chance to say anything.

  “He was asleep,” he said, gesturing toward Burke. “Habla en su sueño, éste.”

  “Ah,” said the guard. “This one talks in his sleep?”

  “Sí, he does, he wakes himself shouting out,” Sam said. “I’ll watch over him—see to it he doesn’t do it again.”

  “You do that, gringo,” the guard said, leaning in close to Sam and Burke. “If he talks in his sleep, he can die in his sleep.”

  “We understand,” Sam said quietly. As the guard turned to walk away, he looked down at Black, cocked his head curiously, seeing the eyes look up at him from above the sagging brim. Chuckling under his breath, he walked away, shaking his head. When he was out of whisper range, Burke leaned close to Black.

  “See? Even these fools think you look like some damn circus clown,” he whispered harshly. “Get rid of that hat. I mean it.”

  “Go to hell,” said Black.

  “Both of you shut,” said Sam. “Try to rest for a few minutes. We’ll be heading out of here before long.”

  The two fell silent, Burke grumbling something under his breath before doing so.

  Sam took a deep breath and sat staring at the Apache in the shadowy firelight. He wished he knew what they were thinking—what plans they had to get free. But they weren’t going to give up any plans any more than he was.

  And that’s how it is. . . .

  There was nothing he could do about it, he reminded himself, staring at their dark formidable eyes. He fought sleep, yet after a moment he felt his head lower to his chest and his eyelids droop and finally close altogether. It felt like only moments later when he opened his eyes quickly and saw that first light had mantled the far upper peaks of the Blood Mountain Range. The guard and three other soldiers began to roust both sets of prisoners to their feet and then formed them into two lines. While the rest of the camp gathered, saddled and readied their horses for the trail, three soldiers walked from prisoner to prisoner. While the guard looked on, one soldier untied the ones whose hands were tied behind them and retied them in front. The second soldier carried a large pot of cold red beans from the night before, along with a wooden dipping spoon. The other soldier carried a canvas sack half-full of cold, hard bread.

  “Hold out one hand,” the soldier with the beans ordered. As the prisoner’s hand came out, the soldier slopped a spoonful of beans into it.

  “Your other hand,” the soldier carrying the bread sack ordered. As empty palms turned up, he plucked up a torn
chunk of bread from the sack and dropped it onto each empty hand.

  “How about a plate or bowl or something?” Burke called out to the soldiers.

  The one carrying the bean pot looked back and grinned.

  “Yo no hablo ingles,” he said.

  “Don’t speak English, my ass!” said Burke. “Your sister does,” he called out, but not loud enough for them to hear him clearly.

  The soldiers both looked back at him curiously.

  “I say yum-yum,” Burke said mockingly, giving them a wide, superficial smile. As the soldiers walked away, he stared down at the beans dripping from his hands. “What’s the gospel truth is this is how they all eat at home.” He raised his voice toward the two soldiers. “They never heard of washing their hands. They lick at them all day like a damn cat—”

  Sam gave him a push with his elbow to shut him up.

  “Leave it alone, Clyde,” he said in a low voice. “Eat your breakfast. Your hands are out from behind your back. Let’s see if they keep them there.”

  “Be thankful they fed us at all,” Black said, through a mouthful of beans and bread.

  “Right you are, both of you,” Burke said, taking on a better attitude. He laughed. “I’m grateful for everything every son of a bitch ever done for me.” He raised his beans and bread to his lips and managed to take a bite of each, leaving crumbs and a red smear in his beard stubble. “Speaking of cats, how’s your claw wounds this morning?”

  “Better,” Sam said. “They’ll be even better still if we stop at a water hole long enough for me wash up.”

  “What was the captain talking about, you cutting the panther loose?” Burke asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Sam, giving a slight shrug.

  “Was you?” Burke asked.