She returned on the run, out of breath, with his wet shirt. “Buzzards.” She pointed at them.
He nodded. “Get the gray mare and our things. Soon as I get through, we must leave.”
“Yes,” she agreed, and took a deep breath, hanging the wet shirt on a bush. While she ran off the hill for the gray, he continued to work off the hide. The deer’s blood dried on his fingers and stiffened them. Soon the carcass was skinned and ready to move. He hated that the sticky carcass would have to ride in her lap. Once he rolled the skin up in a bundle, he tied it with strips of leather.
He could see her toss the two large sacks they made to sling over the animal’s back, and soon she came pulling on the lead to where he waited.
“Get on her,” he said, and made a stirrup with his cupped hands. She stepped into them and vaulted onto the gray’s back. He nodded, pleased, and untied the carcass, carried it over, and laid it across her lap. Then he put his bow on her arm and the quiver of new arrows.
“Should we leave the guts?” she asked.
“They won’t know who killed it. They may think those riders shot a deer and butchered it here.”
“Something strange about them,” she said. “They were young. They rode good horses. But they weren’t looking for us; they looked back a lot, like they’d stolen them.”
“Good observation,” he said, recalling Tom Horn saying the same words to him when he noticed something important about the Apaches they trailed.
She nodded and made a face at him with her lip turned up. The set of her face was like “I can do my part.” With a friendly clap on her leg, he set out up the mountain in a jog as the last bloody light of the sunset fired the tops of the ridge.
They were on the move all night, sometimes upsetting ranch dogs, going past outlying places and setting off a chorus of barking, but he turned away to avoid them. So quickly that those yard dogs yapped at the coyotes that yipped on the ridges opposite them.
Perhaps those sun dogs did not wish to share their territory with an Apache and his woman. He would not bother his brother, the sun dog. There was plenty of land in Texas for both of them. Going up a draw, they stopped at a windmill tank under the quarter-moon light and washed their faces in the warm water. Then they took drinks of the tepid liquid from the great rock tank before moving on. At the edge of the timber, he halted her and told her to wait while he went back and worked over their tracks.
“I’d forgotten,” she said sheepishly when he rejoined her after sweeping their prints away with a tree branch.
“That is my job. Only an Apache could read them now,” he said, and smiled.
Another mournful coyote howled at the thin moon. She stepped close, and he hugged her. “No worry, he is our brother, the sun dog.”
“Brother or not, I don’t like them that close,” she said, then she hurried up the canyon, leading the gray, while he swept out their tracks.
Dawn came, and they had heard no dogs barking at them for hours. The broken country proved tough to cross. When he glanced up at her, she looked done in. He pointed to the small stream.
“We can stay here today. Rest before you unload the horse. I will check and be certain we are alone.” He took the deer and strung it from a thick branch.
Woodenly, she nodded, seated cross-legged on the ground. Then she threw a handful of pinched grass into the air.
“Gray, we are home,” she said, as if the mare could understand. The gray gave her a tired snort and began to graze the short grass beside her. With a smile at his woman, he left in a trot.
Deuces looked over the rugged country from the top of the rise. Standing on the rock outcropping and shading his eyes against the early sun, he noticed, despite his directions for her to rest, she’d already set about to unload the animal. No signs of smoke or anything else that spelled white men. He liked this live oak and cedar country, which reminded him of the mid-slopes in the Chiricahuas and Dragoons. Plenty of deer, too. He didn’t eat turkey, but they were there also. An Apache could make his way here—no need for them to rush westward.
There would be time for that later. Besides, he now had a woman with him, one who continually fascinated him. He never expected a white woman to walk away with him, but he recalled her sharp order for him not to tear her dress. She did not say it from fear, but she didn’t intend for him to rip it—no matter if he was a wild Apache.
Who were those two white men who rode by earlier looking back? Perhaps he and the girl were far enough away to go unnoticed in these canyons and craggy hills. Would they send an Apache to look for him? Natan Lupan, the Gray Wolf, would, but General Crook was no longer in command at Fort Bowie. General Miles would send more soldiers and put mirrors on the moun-taintops; he had no use for Apache scouts. Tom Horn called him a stupid general.
Miles’s buffalo soldiers would sit on every spring and water hole. Make lots of music and sing around a big campfire at night.While they danced, a renegade going to Mexico or back to San Carlos would sneak up on his belly, get himself several handsful of water, and be gone before they even knew he had been there. Most times they didn’t know one of them had gotten water—or they simply didn’t care.
He started down the mountainside. There would be lots of springs in this land for the buffalo soldiers to guard. Every draw had one. He reached the canyon floor, looked across the yellow grass, and saw her snowy form as she stood in the branch and washed her shapely body. His woman. The notion made him feel warm inside.
Chapter 13
“MR. FAUCET , CAN YOU TAKE US TO THIS HANS Schumaker’s place. The one who’s looking for that missing girl?” Burt asked the man as the three of them rode out in the early-morning light from the Vavort farm.
“You think Deuces might have killed her?” Faucet formed a puzzled look on his face and swiveled his head around to look at Burt.
“He hasn’t killed anyone yet we know of, though he’s had lots of chances.”
“That’s right, but they said he was a bloodthirsty killer.”
“He killed another scout over a woman the man badly maimed. Bad enough, but not the act of a wanton murderer—even for an Apache, who thinks the life of anyone who opposes him is of little value.”
“Really,” Faucet said. “Well, the sheriff told us he was a killer and for us to shoot him on sight.”
“He’s a convicted felon, and I guess that calls for such measures. But don’t get gun-happy riding with us. If we get him in range of that pistol of yours, we might take him in alive.”
“I understand what you mean, Marshal. That place of Schumaker’s is about twenty miles northwest of here.”
“Let’s push these horses, then.” Burt shot a questioning glance at One-Eye, who quickly agreed with a solemn nod.
Earlier, while saddling their horses, he had discussed the matter with his scout, who figured that Deuces was somewhere miles away by this time, and all they could hope for were leads to fill in the gaps in his tracks. Perhaps the girl’s disappearance wasn’t related, but they’d never know until they went to their place and investigated. He hoped Governor Baylor had not promised the Texas officials that they could do miracles down here. One Apache tracker and two white men—most of the other posses he knew about if they were still out—were scouring the railroad right of way and alongside it back to the west. So far, all sign they found of Deuces went away from those rails, as if the fugitive red man knew where they’d be looking for him.
During the Apache war, scouts like One-Eye had led the army all over Arizona without a compass and never were lost for a minute. No, Deuces didn’t need those rails to lead himself home; he knew the way if he really wanted to go there.
They reached Hans Schumaker’s farm in late afternoon. A neat farmstead with split-rail fences and a corn crop better than most. Burt dismounted and removed his hat to introduce himself to the red-eyed woman who came out onto the porch. He told her their purpose.
“Thank God you’re here. Maybe you can find her, Marshal Green.”
“Where was she last seen?”
“You take that trail over there and go down that canyon, take a fork right and go over the ridge. That’s where we found the goats unattended a week ago. But Hans and the others never found any tracks over there.”
“Thanks,” he said to reassure her. “We only want to check it out before dark.”
“Come back, and I’ll have supper for you men,” she said, trying to act braver than she was.
“We won’t impose—”
“Yes, you will, Marshal Green. Anyone looking for my Greta can sure eat here.”
“We’ll see,” he said, and they rode east on the goat trail.
Long shadows filled the canyon when the three of them spread out. Then One-Eye shouted, and Burt came running from his side of the creek bottom. Out of wind, Faucet rushed in to peer at what the Apache held in his fingers. The scout handed it to Burt, who studied the opened link of chain.
“Handcuff chain,” Burt said, looking up at One-Eye and not raising his head.
The Apache dropped to his knees and began to spread out the dirt at the base of the stump, so the silver-looking filings shone in the fading light.
“What’s it all mean?” Faucet asked, looking back and forth at both men.
“Here’s where Deuces filed the chain in two that held the handcuffs,” Burt said.
“Did he get the girl?”
“I can’t answer that,” Burt said, “but it’s strange that this is where she disappeared from, too.”
“Oh, my gawd, has he killed her?” Faucet shrieked.
“That’s speculation.” Burt frowned at the man in disapproval. Still, the notion of the girl’s disappearance and One-Eye’s discovery so close niggled his conscience. “Let’s keep news of this from Mrs. Schumaker. We’ll come back here at first light and try to piece together a route that he-she-they, whoever, took from here.”
Burt held the broken link up to the last light. Damn, they’d got there a week late and a dollar short! Must have taken hours for Deuces by himself, wearing those handcuffs, to file that link in two. He thought about the farmer who never saw Deuces slip inside his shed right under his own eyes and steal the tool. Then the fugitive carried it this far, on foot, to use the stump as a vise to wear through the link. Impressed with the Apache’s patience, Burt pocketed the link and remounted. The woman’s invite to eat sounded better than anything they’d fix. Except it would be pitch dark by the time they got back to the Schumakers’ place.
He looked back over the dark abyss when they topped the ridge, and some twilight showed them the trail back. What had happened down there? Had she stumbled on him filing the chain in two? Perhaps they would never know. Seven days sounded awfully permanent. If she hadn’t run off with some boyfriend, the chances were good she wasn’t alive anymore. Then it might all be purely a coincidence, the cut link, Deuces’s presence in the canyon, and her disappearance.
Burt shook his head and booted his horse after the others. At least, they had a new lead.
* * *
At dawn, they saddled their ponies as the animals ate the last of their oats from the wooden trough. Burt bought the grain from the German farmer. Their mounts needed all the strength they could get. A belly full of oats wouldn’t hurt them.
“You haven’t seen any sign of her?” Burt asked the smaller man, Schumaker, with the jet-black, stiff hair.
“No, ve vas looking hard for days now for her. Someone stole a gray mare from Marvel Hatfield, too. We couldn’t find any tracks for it, either.”
“When was it stolen?” Burt asked.
“Sunday last.”
Burt frowned at the man’s story. “Horses leave tracks.”
Hans shook his bearded face. “By gawd, they took his saddle and his mare, and they left no damn tracks.”
“Where’s Hatfield live?”
“Five miles north.”
“You know where he lives, Faucet?” Burt asked the man.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve been there before.”
“We’ll look for your daughter, too,” Burt said.
“She’s probably pregnant by now,” the man said, the anger in his dark eyes showing. With vengeance in his voice, he shook his head. “I don’t want her back.”
“Her mother might,” Burt said in a low voice, looking at the reins in his hands.
“She’s a whore by now—she’s never welcome back here.”
“Guess that’s your right,” Burt said, and swung into the saddle. Disgusted with the man’s manner and words, he rode to the back porch and removed his hat. “Thanks, ma’am.Wish you would take some money for our keep.”
Forcing a smile on her still tear-reddened face, she nodded. “You just find my baby girl. I’ll feed you lawmen anytime.”
“We’ll look for her. Thanks,” he said, and rode off to join the other two. Schumaker’s attitude toward the girl still niggled him—nothing he could do about it. The girl’s return would certainly cause troubles between man and wife at this farm. Not his worry, finding Deuces was his concern, but he couldn’t shake the man’s bitter words, either.
“Old Hans is mad about that girl running off, ain’t he?” Faucet said, glancing over his shoulder to be sure they were alone when Burt joined him and One-Eye.
“Too mad to suit me. But he’s entitled to his opinion.”
Faucet looked back again for something, then turned forward in time to jerk his horse around to go through the gate. “Something back there I can’t put my finger on.”
“He’s angry.”
“Don’t make sense. He looked for her for four days, now he’s—” Faucet shook his head and booted his horse up with them.
“He likes things his way,” Burt said to silence the man. At the moment, Burt was more interested in the gray mare that disappeared. “No tracks” sounded more like an Apache trick to him.
“Reckon we should go on or look for his tracks in the canyon where you found the link?” he asked One-Eye.
“Gray mare may be the answer,” the solemn-faced scout said. “I would get plenty damn tired of walking this far.”
“You’re right,” Burt said with a small smile of agreement. “Faucet, take us to the Hatfield place.”
The deputy agreed, and they set out at a trot.
Plenty to fill Burt’s mind as they rode northward. How Angela was coming along with making her new dress for the fandango. And Pedro? He hoped the man hadn’t done anything foolish by himself with them seven hundred miles away. He reined up his dun to let it walk going down the steep hill. Somewhere off in the live oaks, some crows called. He stood in the stirrups to stretch his tall frame and wondered some more about the people he left behind in Arizona.
Chapter 14
PEDRO CLEANED THE GRIT FROM THE CORNERS OF his mouth with the side of his thumb, bellied down and refreshed by the running water. His movements to rise shot pain through his upper body. On his feet at last, he raised his foot with much effort and stuck it in the stirrup. Grasping the horn in one hand, the cantle in his other, he stiffly pulled himself onto the burro.
His heels beat the gray donkey’s sides, and the beast begrudgingly moved out. Mucho, she called the animal.
He called him mucho slow. Tortuga would have been a better name. The bright desert sun blinding him, he set out northward. How far away was the border? No way to know. He must ride there, regardless. If Burt had been there, they would have already had those bandits in custody. How foolish of him to go there alone. Lightheaded, he pushed the stubborn animal onward. No time for regrets, he needed to get back to the Green ranch to rest and get his strength back—before they raided it again.
The hot day passed, but he was still in the endless, flat greasewood desert at sundown. Nothing in sight, no place to stop. He pushed Mucho onward into the night. Half awake, half asleep, dumb and sore as he had ever felt, he still looked for the North Star as a guide and didn’t let the stubborn donkey circle back.
Then, in the darkness, he saw a re
d glow in the distance. A coyote yipped close by, but he ignored it, excited with his find. Could it be a ranch or camp? No way to know. He tried to make Mucho go faster, but the animal made a plodding step at a time.
At last, so eager to find someone, he got off and began to lead the stupid ass. Who could the camp belong to? No matter, fire meant humans, and in Mexico, travelers were generous to others.
“Greetings,” he said from the edge, seeing several around the fire.
“Who are you?”
“Pedro. I wondered if I might come to your fire.”
“Go on,” someone said in a gruff voice. He stood up in the firelight and waved his arm to indicate he meant for Pedro to move away from them.
Unable to see their faces in the glare of the fire, Pedro wondered if they were outlaws. With only the pistol in the bandit’s holster on his waist, he dropped his head and mumbled thanks. Then looked for his guiding star. May all their colts be born cross-legged. He drew in a deep breath and started to leave.
A fool, at last, each step was a heavy movement that sapped at him. He never looked back. Such poor manners, such—he gave a great exhalation and jerked on the lead of the stubborn Mucho. What good was the dumb animal he led? He couldn’t ride it and make it go. It had stolen his energy dragging it along. Those men camped back there, he wished he had had a better look at them. Someday he would run them over.
No food, no water, no nothing. Even if he found the border, he might be miles from anything. Probably die in this stinking desert. Juanita was with the señora, probably sewing on the señora’s party dress—he would miss the big fandango, too, if he died.
“Ah, you awake.”
Pedro opened his eyes. Daylight, and he was on a pallet. The slanted eyes looking down at him were Asian. Overhead, he could see the sticks and mud of a ceiling. He was in a house, a jacal.
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