by Mike Resnick
“You an art critic or you here for something?” the bartender asked.
Andrew shut his mouth. The two cowpokes glanced back, then dismissed him. No one—a little to his surprise—was yelling redskin or anything like that. He placed a quarter on the counter. “Cold beer.”
The bartender snorted. “Funny, this here’s Arizona in summer.” But he took the two-bit piece and went to draw the beer.
Andrew was hoping not to have to drink the beer, when Marshal Dawson came through the door, hands close to the butts of his two revolvers.
“Oh, hell,” said one of the cowpokes. “It’s Fast Sam!”
Still ignoring Andrew, they both lined up facing Sam, their hands close to their six-shooters.
Andrew took a couple of quiet steps to close on them and jerked both their guns from the holsters and stepped back. They whirled to find what they had assumed was a harmless cowboy covering them with their own dang guns.
Sam came up. “Say the words, Andrew.”
“Butch Martin and Ike Clavers,” Andrew said with a formal intonation, “We are U.S. Marshals, and you are under arrest for murder on the Navaho Indian Reservation.”
“He was just an Injun,” Clavers said.
Andrew’s hands trembled slightly, but he did not shoot them. The marshal nodded his approval.
“Let’s go, boys,” Sam said. “The sheriff here is gonna give you room and board until the circuit judge gets up this way.”
On the way out, Andrew saw the bartender pouring his beer back into the barrel. He walked over and held out his hand. In disgust, the man returned his quarter.
After they had deposited the prisoners, Sam treated Andrew to a steak at what passed for a cafe in this one-horse, one-train town.
“Very handy getting information by letter and telegram. Coulda used something like in my old job.”
The marshal cut and speared a piece of steak. “Got a network of law-enforcement officers and others all through this here territory. But you had smoke signals, didn’t you?”
“Smoke signals low word count. Not much information. Can’t carry around to read later.”
Sam laughed, then grew serious. “And what did you learn from today?”
Andrew waved a fork of steak. “Trickery better than gunfight. This Apache concept also.”
Sam nodded. Pleased.
A few days afterwards, late one evening, Homer McClusky and his pard Texas Slim Smith were moseying their trade wagon, pulled by two mules, along a trail toward a nearby Indian reservation. They were licensed by the federal government to trade foodstuffs, geegaws, and whatever else the savages would accept in return for skins. Back in civilization, McClusky and Smith got good money for the skins. It was a high-profit occupation, but they had devised ways to make it even more profitable.
As they rounded a bend, they found an Indian setting on a horse saddled only with a blanket. He was naked except for a loincloth, bronzed and muscled. He held up his hand, but they had already stopped.
“What you want?” Homer asked, a bit nervously.
“Want trade.”
“Wal, we’ll be set up near the chief’s hogan tomorrow. Come on by then,” Texas Slim said.
“Want trade for something no can on reservation.”
Homer glanced at Texas Slim, avarice in both their eyes.
“Want some firewater, d’ye?” Homer asked.
The Indian shook his head and waited, staring at them.
“Ah, what do you have to trade?”
The Indian reached in his loincloth and pulled out a roll of greenbacks.
“Now, where would a heathen Indian get real money?” Texas Slim asked.
The Indian just stared at them.
“Ah, right, none of our business, now, is it?”
“Reckon not,” Texas Slim said. “You wanting a rifle or pistol? We got both for sale.”
“Rifle,” the Indian said.
“That’ll be $50 for a good Winchester,” Homer said while Texas Slim bit his lip to keep from laughing. The junk weapons they had were about as far from Winchester as you could get. As liable to blow up in your face as roll a bullet out from the rusted barrel’s business end.
The Indian looked at his roll of bills in confusion.
Homer was quick on the uptake. “Reckon you might be a little short, but we’ll take what you got for one rifle.”
The Indian nodded. “Where rifle?”
The two men got off the wagon, moved some trade stock, and pried up some false floorboards. They never heard Marshal Dawson come up behind them until he cocked both his weapons, which sounded mighty loud in the cool, quiet evening. The Indian had pulled a big revolver from under his saddle blanket and had them covered as well.
“U.S. Marshals,” Andrew said. “You are under arrest for gunrunning. That’s a federal crime.”
Homer and Texas Slim resignedly raised their hands while Sam disarmed them.
“You purely make a convincing Indian, Marshal,” Homer said.
“I do, don’t I,” Andrew said in agreement.
Gunfight at the Not So OK Corral
Two days later, near noon, the marshal and Andrew were back on horseback. The marshal had gotten a telegram about trouble in the small town of Red Rock but didn’t want to arrive so obviously as getting off the train in sight of anyone who might be watching for someone like them. They had gotten off the train one town earlier.
“So when do we start looking for Death Bringer?” Andrew asked.
“After we take care of this gang that killed the sheriff and postmaster and took over Red Rock. Federal crime killing a mailman.” Sam removed his hat, wiped sweat from his forehead, and replaced it. “Andy, to be honest, I ain’t got much idea how to find him. I’ve heard rumor he’s in Tucson, the territorial capital. Reckon we’ll just have to go down there and let you see if you detect any Apaches masquerading as white men.”
“Like me, Sam?”
Sam looked at him. “No, not like you. These are bad men. Very bad men.”
They rode on for a bit, and the buildings of Red Rock came into view.
“The Billings ranch is on our way back down south. We can stop in for a visit.”
Andrew nodded in enthusiasm. He was sure missing Chita. Luke, Luis, and Chung also.
“Hope they got the last bit of money I mailed,” he said. “I’m not hankering to eat beans again.”
“You and me both,” Sam said as they reached the edge of town, dismounted, and tied their horses to a rail. “Check your gun, Andy.”
“And the lesson here?” Andy said, spinning his Colt’s cylinder to make sure it was fully loaded, then adding a round to the empty chamber so he’d have a full six shots.
“Sometimes there ain’t nothing for it but to shoot their damn ears off,” Sam answered. “You carry the rifle. We might have need of it.”
Andrew worked the rifle’s lever to jack a shell into the firing chamber.
They walked up the dirt street, hard packed by the hooves of many horses over the dry, hot summer. Their approach was not unobserved. Six gunslingers came out of the saloon and spread out across the street. It was obvious they were not interested in talking.
Shoz-Dijiji—savage war chief of the Be-don-ko-he Apaches—walked the battleground now. Andrew was pushed to the back of his mind. They were at the sagging fence of the corral attached to the town’s livery stable.
“Two on roofs with rifles,” Shoz-Dijiji said.
“You take them. I’ll plug as many of the six on the ground as I can, but you help me quick like.”
Shoz-Diji grunted. “No need give chance.” He whipped the rifle to his shoulder and quick-fired left then right. Two bodies plummeted from buildings opposite each other. That started the six gunslingers on the street firing from farther away than they had meant to. Fast Sam’s two sixguns were blazing before any of them had finished their draws.
Andrew dropped his rifle, drew his Colt like lightning, and rapidly fired at the two gunm
en still standing. They dropped.
“You are Fast Sam, you got four,” he said, turning to look at Sam, only to find him lying there, clutching his side and groaning as blood soaked into the hungry dust. Andrew, returned again now that battle was ended, dropped to his knees and tried to staunch the bleeding.
Across from the corral was the doctor’s office, its waiting room a few chairs on the small front porch, but a handy place right now for a doctor’s office to be. The doctor, seeing the action was over, rushed out with his bag and knelt in the street next to Andrew. He checked the wound then called over some of the townsfolk who were now coming out of hiding. He pointed to a couple of the stronger-looking men. “Get this man inside and on the table so I can try and save his life. And be gentle with him. These two heroes here just saved your worthless hides.”
Andrew followed them inside, but the sawbones shooed him out and went to working desperately to save the marshal. Andrew, for something to do—and to put out of his mind how pale and helpless the unconscious Sam looked—went over to the depot and found the tiny telegraph office. He showed the operator his badge.
“Name’s Boyles, Jake Boyles,” the man said. “Heard the shooting. Glad Sam got my message about the gang here. Sam okay?”
“No, he’s hit bad,” Andrew informed him. “Your doc’s working on him. I need something to occupy my mind. Any messages?”
“Oh, God,” Jake said but tapped on his key and soon was copying down a telegram as the Morse code characters clicked the sounder. Finished, he handed Andrew the message.
Andrew started trying to puzzle out the message, having to silently move his mouth in sounding out unfamiliar words. Seeing this, Jake took the paper from him and read the message aloud.
The telegram said the Death Bringer’s move against the territorial government had been moved up to September 10, less than two weeks away. The marshal’s intelligence network was reaching out and pulling in information. He thanked Jake and returned to the doctor’s office and was told to wait on the porch by the doctor, who was still working to extract the bullet.
* * *
Finally the doctor came out and collapsed wearily into the rocker next to Andrew. “He will live, I think,” the doctor said, “but he will be laid up for weeks at least. He’s awake for the moment. Wants to see you.”
Andrew went inside. Sam was still deathly pale, obviously in pain, and barely awake. He grabbed Andrew’s hand. “It’s all up to you now, Andy. Take all my papers, talk to the telegraphers, and stop that monster.”
Andrew nodded. “Already been down to see Jake here. Got some information about Death Bringer that can’t wait. I’ll take care of it.”
Sam sighed. “You do the best you can, son. I sure made the right decision taking you on as a deputy. You be careful, though!”
“Shoz-Dijiji will. He has spoken.”
But Sam was now asleep. Andrew found the marshal’s wallet, took out the folded papers, and put what little money he had with Sam’s.
“I’ll take good care of him,” the doctor said in assurance. “Known him for years. I’m Doc Finch, by the way.”
They shook hands, and Andrew left after telling the doctor to take what money he needed. “I’ll be back as quick as possible.”
Losing the Ranch
Andrew rode to the Billings ranch, only to find things dire there as well. Wichita—very glad to see him but almost distraught, certainly worn to a frazzle—told him the bank had sent a foreclosure letter. They had two weeks to repay the outstanding loans or forfeit the land and cattle.
In the bunkhouse, Andrew sat down at the kitchen table with Wichita, Luke, and Luis. Chung was bustling about, getting supper ready. On the stove a huge pot of noodles—handmade by Chung—bubbled, as did a saucepan of his special topping. “Only got real spaghetti tonight, Andrew. But you can pretend it beans if you like.”
Andrew shook his head, pleased to be back. He turned to Wichita as they continued their hastily convened council of war.
Wichita was paging through the marshal’s papers and re-reading the telegram Andrew had gotten from Jake. “This information,” she said, “it comes from lawmen and others like the telegraph operators talking to people?” Andrew nodded. “Andrew, such secrets are often a two-way street. Word of the law’s interest might already have gotten back to the conspirators. They will act fast to protect their conspiracy.”
Andrew watched as Chung heaped a tin plate with noodles, poured sauce on it, and placed it in front of him. Picking up his fork, he said, “I agree, Chita, but I got no idea right now how to find Death Bringer, much less stop him. Things could not get worse.”
“Beans,” Luke said. “We could still be eating beans.”
Meanwhile, in town at the Bank of Sunrise, banker Sheridan Adams was hosting a visit from the newly elected Mayor William F. Foster of Tucson, capital of the Territory of Arizona. Flattered for such an important, up-and-coming political personage to be visiting his small bank, Adams was withholding nothing. He mentioned the news that Marshal Fast Sam Dawson was shot and that their own local man, Andrew MacDuff, was now acting U.S. Marshal of Arizona Territory. The mayor turned to his assistant, dark-looking like the mayor, who said he was from Boston originally—and who actually had gone to boarding school there like his boss—and smiled. The marshal had been a bit worrisome, but now it seemed he was out of the picture.
Adams offered his visitors cigars, and they lit up. “He’s an Apache, you know,” Adams said.
Foster dropped his cigar but quickly picked it up, his face betraying nothing. “Is that so?” he asked.
Adams continued blabbering. “And we’re foreclosing on the ranch he’s foreman at.”
Foster blew smoke in thought. “By the way, I’m looking for a few investments in this area. Sounds like that might be a good one.”
“Comes with the cattle,” Adams said eagerly, going into selling mode—anything to get rid of these worthless loans. “We got a lien on them, too.” They dickered a bit and Foster bought all the paper on the Billings ranch for a song.
* * *
In his hotel room a few minutes later, Foster talked with his “assistant” and two more of his fellow Chi-e-a-hen Apaches, both masquerading as Mexicans.
“The interfering marshal is shot and perhaps dying. He is no longer of concern, and white-eye outlaws have done our work for us. The only one left is his deputy.” He looked at each of them sternly. “This man is an Apache. He might expose us before our plans go into effect. We kill him tonight and return to Tucson.”
“But where is this Apache? Who is he?”
Death Bringer shrugged. “It does not matter. He will soon be dead. He is at a nearby ranch, which we now own. There’s still daylight. Let us go evict the owner. Her Apache foreman will die resisting our legitimate serving of foreclosure papers.”
After supper, Andrew, who had been to the outhouse back of the bunkhouse—for even former Apaches and Scotch-Irish people have to go sometimes—was returning around the corner when he heard horses come into the yard. Except for the knife in his boot, he was unarmed.
When he could see the yard, Wichita, Chung, Luis, and Luke were already facing the newcomers, most of whom pointed drawn guns. Their leader was a swarthy man but very distinguished looking in an expensive suit. The others looked like Mexican vaqueros. The distinguished man had a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Miss Billings?” Wichita warily nodded. “My name is Mayor William F. Foster of Tucson. I now hold the papers on this ranch. We are foreclosing immediately. These gentlemen with me will assist you to pack personal items only.” He gestured at them with the papers. “Disarm them.”
Several of the men slid to the ground to do so. But Andrew had recognized Foster for who he was.
“Death Bringer!” he called. Foster turned in his saddle and looked at Andrew. Recognition was immediate.
“Shoz-Dijiji,” he said in disbelief. Then, “Kill him now,” to his men.
Andrew did t
he only thing he could. He ran behind the bunkhouse, rolled under the fence, and sprinted out into the desert range, melting into the terrain as only an Apache could. But those now chasing him on horseback were Apache also. “Death Bringer will kill your woman if you do not come back,” one of them yelled.
Dark Night of Defeat
Andrew huddled in dejection at the secret spring where he and Geronimo had conversed not so many weeks past. He had lost everything. The woman he loved was in danger, if not already killed, as were his friends. The ranch that had become his home was in the hands of others. He could not even return to the Be-don-ko-he band of Apaches. They were all dead or surrendered like his father and on a reservation. He had gone from hope to nothing.
For a time he sat still. Then he looked up at Klego-na-ay, the full moon. Well, he had himself, and that had to be enough. He moved to a nearby boulder and started feverishly digging under its edge. Soon there came to sight a bundle. From it he removed a bow, then flint-tipped arrows, then several other items.
He quickly stripped and dressed in the G-string, rough sandals, and buffalo headdress of an Apache warrior on the war trail. He hung a small medicine bag around his neck. Squatting, he opened small jars and dabbed the colorful war paint on his face. Shoz-Dijiji was back and this time it was personal.
He rose and paused, looking at the discarded clothes of his white persona. Kneeling, he retrieved his deputy marshal’s badge. Having no place to pin it, he put it in his medicine bag.
If he could no longer be either an Apache or a white man, he would become both. And win!
Back through the desert ran Shoz-Dijiji, the Black Bear, the Apache Devil, the Deputy Marshal of the Arizona Territory. If they had harmed his Chita they would not die, not for a while. He would stake them out on ant hills and dance around them while they lay in agony in the hot sun.