Kitt Peak

by Al Sarrantonio

  For a long time, he listened to the music. Characters appeared before him, dancing. Bill Adams was there, dancing with his Indian scout friend, Tahini. Both of them had horrible rictal grins frozen on their faces. Lincoln Reeves appeared, in his cast, dancing awkwardly with Mary Murphy. Marshal Murphy looked on, scowling under his red locks. The little Murphy boy, Joshua, wove between the other dancers. All of them were turning to-ward him; he thought they were urging him to play faster, so he did. They continued to speak, but he could not hear them above the music. In the dream, he closed his eyes for a moment, and saw a whirling emptiness within himself. Suddenly he knew why Holmes took cocaine. He saw the same emptiness of inaction within himself. He saw the same fear of inactivity, the same ennui that came when he was not challenged. It was a hole that had to be filled with something. Suddenly, he knew himself better than he ever had. And he knew what the crawling, tingling feelings of superstition he had felt were. They were not fear of the unknown. Bill Adams's daughter did not know of the unknown any more than he did. No one did. The unknown was beyond the pale. Holmes would not deal with it, because it was irrelevant to him. It either was there or it was not, but to Holmes it did not interfere in the everyday, which was where Holmes had to operate. For Thomas it was the same. It was not the unknown that had scared him; it was himself. And now he saw himself better than he ever had; knew that, like Holmes, it was inactivity, the lack of challenge, that would destroy him. . . .

  He heard voices calling to him above the music. He opened his eyes, and saw the dancing spinning fast before him as he played a kind of devil's trill on the violin. And yet the dancers were trying to call to him as they spun, holding them high in her out stretched wings. The girl below her shrieked as the eagle brought the blades down.

  Thomas drove himself forward at the eagle, striking it as the blades came down, missing the girl. The eagle did not go down. Thomas grabbed at the winged hands and the two blades were dropped to the ground. Thomas fell back, lay on the ground as the eagle rose and turned on him. At his feet were the two blades, and he picked them up. He stood, crouching, waiting for the rush.

  "So dreams have not been enough for you," Bill Adams's daughter said sadly. "From the way my father spoke of you, I thought you would understand me."

  Breathing hard, the blades in front of him, Thomas waited.

  "I'm going to have to bring you in to Tucson," he said.

  "Of course." She reached into her costume, produced the peyote bud laced with arsenic, and put it in her mouth. Then she raised her wings up high, turned, and leapt from the promontory, shouting, "I fly for my people, into the sun!"

  Thomas rushed to the edge of the promontory and looked down. For a moment, his mind thought it saw the winged body arch out into soaring flight toward the rising sun,

  The eagle reappeared, dragging another figure, a young girl, with it. The girl thrashed in the eagle's grip, screaming, trying to break free, and the eagle threw the girl to the ground, slashing across her leg with the talon-like blade it held. The girl cried out, fell to the ground, gripping her leg.

  The eagle approached Thomas, who now felt the dreams fading. He saw hard rocks and the stars fading in a dawning sky. Yet when the eagle came close, he feigned drunkenness, looked into the eagle's eyes as if the drug was still upon him.

  "Good," Bill Adams's daughter said. "You have dreamed, and are dreaming." She reached into her costume. "In a little while, I must give you the final dream, with this." She held a peyote bud coated with gray powder. "But first I will show you how greatness is returning to my people, how I have made them great again by letting them worship me."

  She raised her wings, turned back to the young girl who lay panting on the ground, looking up at the eagle in terror.

  The eagle dragged the protesting girl to the edge of the promontory and lay her there. She turned around to face Thomas, outlined by the growing dawn.

  "Behold the greatness of the eagle!" she cried, drawing out two long talon blades and as it shouted in exultation. Then there was a short scream, and what had only been illusion became reality, as the body was dashed on the rocks below, and lay finally silent; a white, crushed figure in the morning of the new day.

  Thomas turned, panting, to look at the terrified young girl who lay holding her leg, looking up at him.

  "Is it over?" the girl asked, fearfully.

  Thomas dropped the talon-blades. In his mind, the drug still swirled, leaving him weak and disoriented. For a moment he thought he was back in 221B Baker Street, and had to shake his head to clear it.

  "No, it's not," he said to the young girl, as he helped her to her feet. "It's just begun."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Lone Wolf was in position by three o'clock. It had all gone flawlessly. Two miles outside of Tucson, they had changed into the clothes from the mining camp, and, when they were finished, they looked like any other Indian scouts working for the company who had come into Tucson for the day. The spot that had been selected was perfect; hidden and unobtrusive, and far enough away so that no one would even check it. That was the beauty of the Walthers rifle; an accurate shot at three hundred yards was not only possible but expected. Through the sight, the platform next to the train station laid out in bunting was square between the crosshairs. And on the top floor of this hotel, the farthest from the train station in the city, a hotel that was often used by Indian scouts because of its unsavory location and cheapness, no one would give them a second thought.

  "Le-Cato was an old fool, but he did well in reserving our place here," Lone Wolf said, thinking of the old man he had left lying in the sun. Perhaps after all of this, he would go back and give the old fool a chiefs burial. He had died like a dog, but perhaps he deserved to enter the afterlife with dignity.

  Perhaps.

  Lone Wolf leaned out of the open window and glanced down at Curling Smoke, who stood out on the street, watching to see if any interference would come. The old brave nodded up at Lone Wolf, signaling that all was well. So, too, did the others who lounged against poles or sat feigning sleep under eaves up the street, halfway to the train station.

  All was well. All would be well.

  Lone Wolf felt an excitement course through him. This was like a buffalo hunt. He had heard somewhere that this President, Theodore Roosevelt, had hunted buffalo, and had spent time in the West. Perhaps, then, he would know what it was like to be the buffalo as he died, how the hunted felt.

  Looking through the Walthers sight again, zeroing in on the bunting-festooned platform, Lone Wolf had to suppress a warrior's shout. When the fat little white man, the buffalo, stepped out onto that platform

  "Soon," Lone Wolf hissed, between his teeth, hearing the assents from his braves behind him. "Very soon."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  "Bully!"

  Mawdrey winced. It was hard enough for the Secret Service man to take care of the President when he was merely doing his job. It was much worse when Roosevelt became enthusiastic, which was most of the time. But it had been even worse lately, since this western trip had brought out something in Roosevelt even beyond enthusiasm. Mawdrey himself couldn't understand it — every town and city they'd been to looked much same: dry, drier, and driest — but the President had worked himself into a veritable rapture, and seemed to be soaking up every drop of what-ever there was in this Godforsaken country to drain — certainly not water.

  And now . . . Tucson. The city, flat and wide, nestled into the bowl of a nearby arid mountain, was growing slowly in view ahead. Already Roosevelt had been hanging half out the window of the observation deck, studying the tired-looking saguaro cactus, waving at a startled rancher, who had stopped to study the presidential train as it chugged by.

  "Mr. President," Mawdrey attempted.

  "I said absolutely bully!" Roosevelt shouted, as he moved from window to window, staring out at the scenery. "Look at that sky! Look at that desert floor, those mountains! My God, it's all magnificent!" He pointed in the dist
ance. "What is that huge peak, there? Isn't it a marvel? Jenkins, find out what it is!"

  Jenkins rolled his eyes, walked to the window, looked out, went back to study a geological map rolled out on a table.

  "It's . . . Kitt Peak, I believe, sir "

  "Marvelous! Solid as granite!"

  "There's some talk about erecting an astronomical observatory there, perhaps the National Observatory itself. But there's been some trouble with the local Indians"

  "Trouble? What trouble?"

  "It's considered a sacred peak by the Papagos, who have their reservation nearby — "

  "Trouble?" Roosevelt shouted. "There can't be trouble! I won't allow trouble! Put it on your list! Let's get it fixed, make everybody happy! Is that — "

  Roosevelt was peering intently out of one of the windows, looking down toward the desert floor near the tracks. Suddenly, he threw the window open, leaned halfway out, opening Mawdrey's sleepy eyes wide, sending the Secret Service man leaping forward to hold Roosevelt from climbing straight out of the window.

  "Mr. President — !"

  "A roadrunner! By God, I saw a roadrunner! Capital!"

  Roosevelt pulled himself back into the railroad car, moved to a window on the opposite side of the train, peered out.

  "What time do we get in?" he asked Jenkins, who checked his watch, and then a timetable laid out next to the map.

  "Forty minutes from now," Jenkins said. "Exactly four o'clock. The University of Arizona has a new band, and they will play a short tune while you step off the train. Then you will speak for four minutes."

  "Bully! Isn't that saguaro magnificent?" Roosevelt shouted. He had already moved to another window, and stood with his nose pressed against it, the desert sun glinting off his spectacles.

  Jenkins rolled his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Even with Thomas's horse, it took them three hours to climb down from Kitt Peak.

  The Tohono O'otam squaw's name was Morning Rain. At first she was in shock, but after Thomas bandaged her leg she became merely uncommunicative. Thomas could get nothing from her, though he tried to get across to her the severity of her position.

  "We're talking about the President of the United States," he said. "If this attempt to kill him succeeds, don't you realize what this will mean for your people? This won't free them — it will enslave them. They'll be hunted, along with everyone else who was involved. The United States Army will never quit until every member of your tribe is in chains. This will wipe out your people, even though they weren't responsible."

  Morning Rain stared straight ahead, either uncomprehending or unwilling to tell Thomas what he needed to know.

  But when they reached the bottom of the trail at the base of Kitt Peak, and found the body of Le-Cato lying in the sun, her reactions changed.

  "Grandfather!" she shouted, jumping from the horse. She went to the old man's body and lifted the unseeing head. She began to cry, and then cradled the old chief's head to her breast, rocking back and forth, singing softly.

  Thomas watched her, then said, "I have to go."

  She said nothing, until he turned his horse to ride off.

  "I will tell you," she said suddenly. "I will tell you what you need to know, then I will bring my people back to the reservation, and bury my grandfather. I heard what they said. I heard everything."

  Thomas listened, as she told him.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When the band began to warm up down the block, Marshal Murphy came to see Lincoln in his cell. Peering through the bars, he said, "Think I can trust you?"

  Lincoln grinned sheepishly.

  Murphy said, "President Roosevelt's coming in twenty minutes, and I'd hate for you to miss it. Thing is, you have to promise me you won't try to ride off, or do anything foolish."

  "I'd like to see that, Marshal. I promise."

  "I'm taking you at your word, Reeves. If you break your promise to me, I guarantee you, you'll be back in this cell for real, on charges."

  Mary Murphy and little Joshua appeared in the doorway, and Murphy turned to his son. "This is your chance to redeem yourself, son. I'm putting you in charge of the prisoner, and this time I don't want you to let him out of your sight."

  Joshua looked up from the floor. "Yes, sir."

  "Good."

  Murphy motioned to one of his deputies, who produced the crutches and unlocked the cell.

  "Remember what I said," Murphy said to Lincoln as he hobbled past. "This time I mean it."

  "Yes, sir," Lincoln said, saluting the Marshal.

  Outside, it was like a circus day. The whole city had turned out, and was filling the street in front of the train station, below a podium draped in flags. In front of the podium, the band continued to tune up, playing "Dixie" to a mingling of laughter, hissing, and scattered cheers.

  "Mr. Roosevelt is a great man," Mary Murphy said as they walked.

  Lincoln looked down at little Josh, who was scowling at him intently.

  "I think your son has learned his lesson, ma'am," Lincoln said to Mary Murphy.

  "Oh, yes," she answered. "He never makes the same mistake twice, right, Joshua?"

  "I got a whoopin' 'cause of you," Josh said to Lincoln, still scowling. He held up a six-gun carved from a piece of wood. "This time I shoot to kill."

  But sure enough, on their way up the street, Josh met his friend, Nick, who begged him to come with him.

  "We've got a space right up front, where the President's gonna talk!" he said.

  Joshua looked up at his mother, pleading.

  "It's the best spot in the whole place!" Nick went on. "You'll be able to see the President spit!"

  "Aw, Mom . . ." Josh said.

  His mother threw up her arms. "All right, Joshua, you can go."

  "Great!" He pressed his six-gun into his mother's hand and ran off with his friend.

  "Looks like I guard you alone," Mary Murphy said to Lincoln, holding up the gun. "And I warn you, Mr. Reeves, I shoot to kill, also."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Already, they could hear the distant whistle of the train. Lincoln followed the line of the tracks and there, just crawling into view at the edge of the city, was the President's festooned train, the brightly colored Southern Pacific engine pulling three dark-green coaches. People lining the tracks began to cheer, and, briefly, a figure appeared, leaning from one of the windows in the last car, waving.

  "He sure does know how to put on a show," Lincoln said.

  Ten minutes later, the streets now swelling with people, the band began to play, a ragged tune that quickly resolved itself into "Hail to the Chief."

  In the hotel up the street, Lone Wolf pressed his eye to the Walthers's sight. Ragged strains of music reached him. Below, on the street, his warriors had signaled that the train had stopped. It would not be long. Squinting through the gun sight, Lone Wolf could see the rear platform of the observation car, the door opening slightly, then closing again as a bland, thin man in a suit stepped out. It was not the President, and Lone Wolf's finger eased slightly on the trigger. He was pleased that he had a clear shot to the train. If he chose, he could shoot the President even be-fore he reached the podium and gave his silly speech. But that would not be dramatic. He would wait until the little man was at the height of his glory, giving the white crowd what they had come to see, smiling under his mustache, holding his hands out over the cheering masses. Then Lone Wolf would cut him down, not as a buffalo after all, but a dog.

  Lone Wolf smiled to himself, and kept the Walthers steady on the sill of the window.

  The crowd pressed forward. Lincoln and Mary Murphy were about halfway up, with a good view, about as good as they thought it would get. But suddenly, a pushing figure appeared in the crowd, Josh and his friend, Nick. They stopped breathless in front of Mary and Lincoln.

  "Mom! Mom! The President wants to meet me! And him, too!" Josh said, pointing excitedly at Lincoln.

  "What?" Mary Murphy said.


  "It's true!" Josh shouted, and his friend, Nick, said, "Yes, it's true!"

  Mary looked over the crowd toward the podium, and saw her husband gesturing at her. Beside him was a thin man in a suit, holding a pad of paper.

  "Well . . ." Mary Murphy said.

  "Come on, Mom! Come on!" Josh said, tugging at her.

  They made their way through the crowd, Lincoln cutting a wide swath with his crutches while Mary apologized for making people move. Soon they had reached the front of the podium, and Marshal Murphy was reaching down to help them up onto the stage.

  "Roosevelt wants to hold Josh while he's speaking, and introduce Lincoln as a hero of the Indian wars and Abraham Lincoln's namesake," the Marshal said.

  "Well, all right," Mary Murphy said, a bit overcome. Josh was helped up onto the podium, then disappeared, running, into the door of the observation car, while Lincoln was assisted onto the podium.

  "Just stand there and look heroic," the thin man in the suit, who then introduced himself as Jenkins, said.

  Another man, taller, with a sleepy-looking face but hard eyes, emerged from the observation car and closed the door behind him. From the car emerged a loud bellow, the word, "Bully!"

  The tall man leaned over to Jenkins and said, "He'll be out in a minute. He's showing the boy his Indian arrowhead collection."

  "Lord," Jenkins said, then he made a motion at the bandleader, who immediately started his people into "Hail to the Chief" again.

  The door to the train's observation car opened wide.