“Trade you,” Pedro said, and they exchanged animals. He led the other two, though they were breathing easy, and he thanked himself for selecting the right ones.
Somewhere out in this star-cast silver country, Deuces must be, he decided. Someplace, the man cut off from his people slept under a rimrock. But Burt could see how such a rebel would attract the eager young Apaches like honey bees to wildflowers. He shook his head. Then there was the sullen bandit Torres. The farther they rode, the less Burt worried about his allies trying to take him back. The only thing nagging him: had he killed Angela’s husband? Lots could be put to rest if he knew the truth.
Taylor would have to wait.When he got back home, he needed to talk personally with Governor Baylor. Thank him for the marshal commission; no doubt his political influence had gotten that accomplished.Weary from all the riding and no sleep, he yawned. When Torres was behind bars, he could sleep for twenty-four hours.
“Ready to ride, Señor?” Pedro asked.
“I guess. You two all right?” Both of his posse men nodded.
“I’ll get Torres,” Burt said, and took the keys for the cuffs out of his pocket.
“Torres, I heard you had some fancy claybank horses for sale,” he said, undoing the handcuffs and keeping an eye on the sullen outlaw seated on the ground. “Who did you sell them to?”
“How should I know?”
“I think you’d remember. Two big palominos,” Burt said, recalling Angela saying her husband’s best yellow horses were taken in that raid.
Torres shrugged, getting to his feet. “I sold them in Guaymas.”
Burt slugged him with his backhand in the face and staggered Torres until he fell down. His rage under control, Burt jerked Torres to his knees. “You killed her husband in that raid.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
Burt pulled him over beside the horse and clamped the cuff on the horn. “Try anything, and you’re dead.”
Pedro rode in and took the rein to the prisoner’s horse. “What did he say?”
“He sold her husband’s yellow horses in Guaymas.”
“Then he did kill him?”
“He was there,” Burt said, and climbed onto the roan, the anger still evaporating like steam from a kettle. He knew the answer at last.
“Arizona’s that way,” he said, and booted the roan for the border.
“Damn good thing, too,” One-Eye said.
“Why’s that?” Burt asked.
“I be able to sleep a long time when we get there.”
All three lawmen laughed. Burt twisted in the saddle and searched the desert. No sign of any pursuit. He put the roan in a trot. I’m coming home, Angela, and I feel a lot better.
Chapter 23
“YOU SEE ANYTHING FROM UP THERE?” D EUCES asked the girl as she hurried down the steep slope.
“Nothing.”
He nodded and motioned to the coffee boiling on the small fire. Above them, the pine timber clung to the steep slopes, and the eroded reddish-orange bluffs rose up to the granite peaks.
“Why are you so nervous?” she asked, pouring him coffee in a tin cup he held out.
“I feel someone is coming.”
She gave him an impatient head shake. “No one knows where we are. I doubt Ussen even knows. This place is so far away we may meet ghosts here. Maybe you are seeing ghosts.”
“No.When I have such feelings, someone is coming—good or bad. When the lawmen came for the rustlers in Texas, I had that same feeling.”
“Then why did you stay there?”
“I didn’t know what the feelings meant.”
She nodded, pouring herself some coffee.
“Who would be coming? Mexican army? This white man and one-eyed Indian you spoke of?”
“He is a White Mountain Apache.”
“Yes, his name is One-Eye. He is married to a woman called Kettles. I think she may be part Chiricahua. Maybe she is daughter of one of their Mexican captives. My mother speaks of her.”
“This One-Eye, you say he was a scout once?”
“For Crook.”
Deuces had been over this story before with her. He could recall being hidden in a cedar bush when the two rode by him in Texas. The scout had almost discovered him. Close enough to them that he could hear their breathing and a few words. Who was the white man? Deep in his thoughts, Deuces looked across the vast jumbled canyons and pine-clad slopes beneath them. The Madres were a good home. His woman, whom he called by her Apache name, Deer Runs Away—not Ruth—only wanted to have some squaws around her to gossip with. She missed her mother and her relatives was all.
They had plenty of coffee and flour, lots of canned goods he found in the packs of the pack train that he brought back, supplies headed for some mine. He jumped the three packers at daybreak, firing the Winchester from his hip, spraying death and gunsmoke at the three shocked, half-awake men. One who survived, he bashed in his head with a large rock and left them for the magpies, ravens, and buzzards. He brought the supplies to their cave and turned the mules loose, though he seriously considered eating one of them. Mule meat was superior to anything but mountain sheep.
They had plenty of deer to eat.
Still upset by the feelings of dread inside him, he shook his head, finished off the coffee, then rose to his feet. He stared into the cup as if in the grounds remaining there would be a simple answer for his concerns. “I am going to look around and be certain. You stay here and listen. You hear something wrong, you slip away.”
“Yes.”
“Mexicans would treat you badly.”
She nodded obediently.
Deer Runs made him a good woman. But he knew she would always complain about his taking her from her family.Tradition said the man should join her group, not estrange her from them. No way for him to do that. He skirted the patch of mountain mahogany with the polished red branches and made his way along the rimrock, the oily rifle in his hand. He even slept with the new weapon. He took the rifle from a ranch house in Arizona.
He recalled how the honey-haired woman screamed at him: “I don’t want your little red bastard in me!” Too bad—at least he never killed her. He never killed any of the white women. He smiled at the pleasure he took from them. But none of them was that satisfying in her bed. He never found another white female like her. That was what he sought. So he went to San Carlos and took Deer Runs to Mexico as his real woman—his wife. He paused to watch the blue jays flitting in a scrub pine; far below, he spotted a color for a second not like the rest of the broken country.
Two Apaches were making their way up the mountain. His heart stopped. Were they two scouts hired by the army—that white man? He had seen them twice in the timber. Leading their horses.Who were they?
He drew the Winchester to his shoulder. Through the iron sights, he drew down on the one on the right. At the distance, the shot would be a long one. If he missed, it might only scatter them.Why did they wear white headbands? Scouts wore red ones to tell each other apart—both of these wore white ones.
He decided to shoot close enough to spook them. They were near enough he could still get away and ambush them later. But who was behind them? Buffalo soldiers? Mexican soldiers or the big white man? He aimed the Winchester at the pine to their left. The rifle kicked in his arm, and the black smoke drifted.
His shot caused the black horse to rear and go backward. The other Apache waved his arm. “Friends! Amigos! Don’t shoot!”
“Who is with you?” he shouted back.
“Only us.We come to talk.”
Still not satisfied, he moved to the left for a better check. The black horse had calmed down. Both men were armed with pistols, he could see, but were not carrying rifles, as scouts usually did when close to their enemy.
“Come up here!” he shouted. “My squaw will kill you if you try anything.” They should be aware he had backup, even if she might be miles away after the shot. Deer Runs had no desire to be raped by twenty Mexican soldiers with t
he clap. Deuces smiled at the notion of her fears.
“Deuces! Deuces” the Apache called to him. “I am Chako and with me is Mica.We want to talk to you.”
“About what?” he said, looking down on the two young men.
“We want to join you.”
Join him? What for? He shook his head in dismay, still looking for dust or any sign of a posse coming behind them.Why had they come this far?
“We want to be Apaches, not dogs on the reserva-tion,” Chako shouted through his hands, and the echo came back twice … dogs on the reservation.
“Come up here, but no tricks.”
“We are alone. Believe us.”
He waved his arm impatiently at the two. Crazy young bucks.Want to join him. Made no sense. Then he whirled with his rifle at his hip at the sound of someone coming downhill. He saw her.
“Who are they?” she asked, out of breath, peering off the steep side.
“Two crazy boys. Chako and Mica.”
“What do they want?”
“To join us.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re exciting.”
She frowned at him.
“Yes.We are exciting to two boys who hate the reser-vation.”
“They came a long ways.”
“For nothing.” He shook his head, eagerly trying to get a better look at them as they made their way up the steep mountain.
“They don’t look younger than you.”
Deuces never answered her.
“We hate the reservation,” Chako said, sitting cross-legged on the ground as she served them tin plates of venison, beans, and her flour tortillas.
The smoke from the small fire ran up Deuces’s nose. Seated on the Navajo blanket, he considered the two loincloth-clad Apaches. Chako bore a bad scar on his left cheek. Both of them were short. Deuces stood at least a head taller than either, but he towered that much taller than most of the men in the tribe. Mica, he noticed, had blue eyes. Listening to the two speak, he wondered how many more Apaches had blue eyes? Mica, perhaps, had a white ancestor. For years, his tribesmen took white captives and made them either wives or slaves. But there was no doubt from his nose or the high cheekbones—Mica was an Apache.
“There are many who would like to come here and join you,” Mica said, then went to eating, using the tortilla for a spoon.
Deuces shook his head. “I can’t lead many. Besides, they would track us down. The Mexicans. The army. But if there were eight or ten—”
“Would they bring their women?” she asked, pouring more coffee.
He frowned at Deer Runs, displeased that she had entered a man’s conversation unasked. But his displeasure with her showed no signs of wilting her insistence on an answer. She stood firm, holding the coffee pot.
“We can talk of that later,” he said to dismiss her.
“They better bring wives,” she said, in a swirl of her fringed deerskin skirt. “I don’t intend to feed that many myself.”
Mica and Chako first smiled at her outburst until Deuces began to laugh. Then they, too, slapped their legs and joined him.
“Yes,” Deuces said, loudly enough for her to hear. “Women, too.”
Chapter 24
GOVERNOR BAYLOR , A PORTLY MAN IN A STRIPED business suit, sat behind the large desk. Above him on the wall was the seal of the Arizona Territory behind framed glass. On the side wall were several books in a walnut case, and the other side of the room displayed a large map of the territory. Burt sat back in the leather chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand, anxious to hear what the governor had to say.
“There’s some items left on my list I’d like you to handle. I’m pleased, of course, you brought in that Mexican bandit Torres.”
“I feel quite certain he’s the one who killed Van Dorn last fall. Torres admitted he sold those two fancy clay-bank horses in Guaymas last year. That, to me, is enough link to say he was in on the raid, anyway.”
“Yes, and your wife, she’s such a gracious lady. Give my regards to her, sir.”
“I shall, Governor. She’s very busy at home preparing for a party, or she’d have come to Preskitt with me.”
“Oh, yes, my list. That Joseph Taylor. You know, he had the gall to pay off the note on several of those Mormon farmers with the fresh-minted money from that army payroll robbery.”
“I know that. But the governor of Sonora said he was too politico to allow me to arrest him down there. And Taylor won’t ever give himself up.”
“You watch. He’ll make a slip.”
“I will, sir.”
“What else? Oh, yes, I know you tried hard to capture this Deuces in Texas. I have a letter from the sheriff of that Texas county bragging on your efforts there and how you helped him. Now the wild savage is raping women and rustling horses in this territory.”
“The army wants him, too. They’re afraid he may lure some young bucks off into his band down there in Mexico.” Burt sat back in the chair and took a sip of the fine whiskey. Not bad-tasting, must be expensive; if all whiskey was this good, he’d drink more of it.
“Any ideas?”
“I told the captain that Tom Horn might capture him.
Heaven’s sakes, Horn might even find him.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Horn and General Miles had words at Geronimo’s surrender.”
“Lots of folks have words with that damn Miles. They should never make an enlisted man a general. They have no give to them. We all know he hates Apache scouts, but he ought to hug them. He’d never got those last Chiricahuas out of Mexico without them. Couldn’t you deputize Horn?”
“If I can find him, and you told my boss in Washington we needed him. I’m not certain he would okay my vouchers for Horn’s pay and expenses otherwise.”
“I understand.” Baylor shook his head. “This damn country would be a lot safer if we simply could do what we thought was right and went from there.”
“I thank you for this commission. I know that I’d never have gotten it without you.”
“Oh, I really think you are the sort of man they needed. The rest of these marshals all have businesses and big ranches to support them. They set up courts, send people out to serve warrants. Have a secretary to run their office and only show up once a week, if then. The U.S. Marshal Service needed some special full-time ones, to handle the things they couldn’t. Solve some of the crimes, too.”
“I appreciate it, anyway. You think of anything else, wire me,” Burt said, putting the empty glass on the desk and thanking the man again.
“Good talking to you. You’re going back tonight?”
“Yes, my wife is making some preparations for a large party at the ranch, and I need to get back there and help her. I’ll try to find Horn and see what he says about becoming a deputy.”
“I’ll damn sure get it approved for you.”
“You know he may turn us down?”
Baylor showed him to the front door of the large log cabin and shook his hand. “I know, but we need to try. Heavens, I get tired of reading in the territorial papers how one dumb ex-scout has this territory treed.”
Burt left the governor and walked the three blocks back to the Brown Hotel on the square. The afternoon was sunny and nice; he enjoyed the relaxation of the moment. In the lobby, the clerk waved him over and handed him a yellow sheet of paper.
Burt Green
Joseph Taylor is supposed to leave Mexico and go to Salt Lake City for a bishops’ meeting with Brigham Young. To leave on the 10th. Understand he’s taking a stagecoach there.
Downy
Three days—one to get home on. Whew, he’d better wire for Pedro and One-Eye to meet him Tucson.
“Where’s the telegraph office?”
“Fort Whipple.”
“Will someone take a communication out there?”
“This afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Get them, and I’ll write a wire.”
“Yes, sir
.”
He could only hope the telegram got through. The stage ride took twenty-four hours. That would leave him less than a day to find the one Taylor was on and arrest him. Made sense, but it was all too close.
“Oh, Marshal,” the clerk said. “I also have another letter in the box for you.”
“Fine,” he said, in deep thought about the Taylor issue and how it was unfolding. Absently, he accepted the mail and started for the staircase.
He noticed a small smile on the clerk’s face and could smell perfume on the letter but ignored it. Later, in his room, he could open it. The outside carried no return address or postage stamp.
In his room at last, he lighted a strong lamp and tore open the end of the envelope. A strong perfume appeared to come from inside, and he shook the letter open.
Dear Marshal Green,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucinda Deveau, and any time you are in town, my house is at your disposal, sir. I have a lovely suite for your comfort, five-course meals that rival Paris, and, of course, beautiful courtesans to rub your aches and pains away. So feel free to drop in any time and relax in the company of the most beautiful women in the territory.
And it is all absolutely free, my dear.
Lucinda Deveau
Wouldn’t Angela have a fit about that letter? Well, he had no use or time for that business. Interesting, when he was a lowly deputy, she never offered him anything. Must be on the cusp of being there with his new commission. He laughed as he sprawled himself on the bed. He’d not trade his wife for the fanciest one in her circus of ill repute. Now, how would he work out the capture of Taylor?
He sat up and went through his knowledge of the man’s description. Taylor might come through disguised as someone else. The man had to know by this time he was wanted and was taking a big risk.
One thing Taylor could count on. He’d be there to greet him.
* * *
The twenty-four-hour stagecoach ride back to Tucson proved bad enough. Indigestion over some stop-off food plagued him, and he got no sleep. Both Pedro and Angela met him at the stage office.
Deuces Wild Page 19