Piccadilly Doubles 1

by Lou Cameron

A hundred yards out front, Rabbit-Boss was aware of all the little eyes that watched him from the surrounding brush. This was partly because he was much closer to the earth than the mounted white men, and partly because he knew the way his universe worked much better than even Greenberg, although, in truth, the big bearded man who’d saved him from the Great Sleep many moons before saw much the others did not. Greenberg was not as foolish as his White-Eyed brothers, who died like untended babes if left alone in the bountiful lands between the mountains.

  Rabbit-Boss caught a whiff of what a white man might have smelled as vinegar, and slowed to approach a clump of saltbush dead ahead with caution. He probed the saltbush with his digging stick and murmured, “Go and hide yourself somewhere else, little brother. The Spirit Horses stick their great split noses into this sort of greenery, and your sting would earn you nothing but the Great Sleep!”

  The scorpion he’d disturbed scuttled across the gray gravel to the shade of a clump of cholla as in the distance Greenberg called, “What is it, Rabbit-Boss? You spot Apache sign out there, Old Son?”

  The Indian tracker moved on without answering. He didn’t like to be called Rabbit-Boss, although he understood enough English to understand why the White Eyes laughed at his true name, Wee-Tshitz. Old Son was a stupid name, too. Wee-Tshitz had not been adopted into the maternal clan of Greenberg or any other White Eyes. Under his breath, the Indian repeated “I am Wee-Tshitz, son of Our-Ye-Voka, and Rabbit-Boss of the Sage-Grouse People … ” and then his eyes began to mist and he swallowed the lump that suddenly grew in his throat. For the Sage-Grouse People were no more. Driven from their old hunting grounds by mounted Bannock, they’d been ambushed and ridden down by raiding Snakes of the Southern Utes. All were caught but him, and only the skill of the White-Eyed Greenberg had saved Wee-Tshitz when the last of the Sage-Grouse People had staggered delirious into that trapper’s camp in Arroyo Seco. Heya! That had been a bad Rabbit Moon. Someday he would pay the Southern Utes back for what they’d done. Meanwhile, Greenberg wanted him to find those other mounted Snakes, the ones they called Apache. The Apache had not killed his friends and family, but they rode horses, and to Wee-Tshitz of the Sage-Grouse People all mounted Indians were the same. All deserved a long, bad death before they took the Great Sleep.

  Matt Caldwell had dropped back beside Digger Greenberg to ask the scout what the Indian had seen. Greenberg said, “Beats the shit out of me, Lieutenant. Rabbit-Boss reads sign in running water on a dark night.”

  “He didn’t answer when you shouted to him. Is he sulking about something?”

  “Don’t think so. Injuns ain’t polite like you an’ me. When your average Injun don’t have nothin’ to say, he usually keeps his mouth shut. It ain’t a thing to git spooked about. When an Injun’s really pissed off at you, he lets you know it, same as anyone else. I mind one time on the Milk River a mess of us old boys got some Blackfeet riled at us. I mean, you never heard so much cussin’ and singin’ and dancin’ and carryin’ on in your life! I reckon Rabbit-Boss just stopped to have a look-see at a bird turd or somethin’. Injuns take a lot more interest in things than ussen.”

  Caldwell noticed Rabbit-Boss had slowed again and was bearing a bit to the right. He told Greenberg, “He’s turning more to the west. Ask him what the Devil’s going on!”

  Greenberg spit a jet of tobacco juice on the polite side of his camel. “Don’t have to ask. Don’t you see them buzzards ’bout a mile off to west-sou’west?”

  Caldwell screened his eyes against the afternoon glare and made out a dozen rising motes of black. He said, “I see them going up!”

  “So?”

  “So wouldn’t they be going down if something was lying dead over there?”

  Greenberg nodded. “They would iffen it was up to them, Lieutenant. The way Rabbit-Boss and me reads it, them buzzards was feedin’ yonder, till somethin’ spooked them.”

  Caldwell raised his free hand to halt the column and reached for the dragoon pistol on his hip. Greenberg snorted, “Shoot, it’s likely only a coyote, Lieutenant.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if those buzzards were flushed by Apache?”

  Greenberg shook his head and said, “Apache don’t flush buzzards or nothin’ else, Lieutenant. Besides, if Rabbit-Boss thought there was Hoss Injuns up ahead, he wouldn’t be joggin’ over to see what them buzzards was feedin’ on, would he?”

  “Doesn’t Rabbit-Boss ever make a mistake?”

  “About Hoss Injuns? He did once. That’s how I come by him in the first place. He come limpin’ in outten the Great Basin with a Ute arrow in him couple of seasons back. Like to drank ever’ drop of Taos Lightnin’ I had in my pack, afore we got him patched up enough to walk agin. The best way I ever put it together, he was off makin’ medicine fer a rabbit drive when the Utes hit his folks. They was scalp huntin’ fer the Mexicans, and Rabbit-Boss was the onliest one in his band as got away.”

  Caldwell frowned and asked, “These Horse Utes were hunting Diggers for the Mexican government on this side of the border?”

  Greenberg shook his head. “It was Mexican territory all the way to the Humboldt afore we’uns took it away from ’em in forty-eight. The Utes was gittin’ paid, of course, fer Apache scalps. But one Injun’s scalp looks pretty much like any other’s, and besides, them Apache fight back a lot, so … ”

  “I see what you mean. What do the Mexicans pay for a scalp?”

  “’Bout forty Yankee dollars last I heard. The scalp-huntin’ trade ain’t as good as it used to was, when Scalpin’ Jamie Johnson and his gang was gittin’ rich at it. Used to be they paid a hundred fer a warrior’s scalp, fifty fer a squaw’s and twenty-five fer a kid’s. But of course, the scalp hunters never turnt in no scalps they allowed was women an children’s. Fool Mexicans paid out a heap of warrior bounties on the skinned haids of Pueblo women, and even Mexican gals, afore they wised up.”

  Greenberg spit again and added, “Governor of Chihuahua won’t give dime fer a scalp these days, but Sonora still pays forty and ain’t too particular ’bout who it comes from.”

  “That’s crazy! Forty dollars is a fortune to many a white man out here! What good does it do Sonora to pay for the killing of friendly Indians on our side of the border?”

  “Don’t do them much good at all, Lieutenant. That’s likely why the folks in Chihuahua stopped doin’ it. But Sonora’s populated thin, and the ranchers down thataway are plumb spooked by almost any Injun, so ...”

  “So we’re left to fight the hornets’ nest these murdering red and white scalp hunters stir up! By God, if I ever get my hands on anyone like this Johnson you were telling me about...”

  “Ain’t no need to get riled,” Greenberg cut in. “The scalp trade’s goin’ the way the beaver trade went. Ain’t hardly a white man left in the business, and as fer the Horse Utes, they jest kill Diggers fer practice, whether they’§ paid or not.”

  By this time, they were nearing the place where the buzzards had been feeding, and Rabbit-Boss had stopped. Greenberg’s camel suddenly pulled back on its lead, and the surprised Dorfler cursed and yanked on the braided line as Caldwell’s mount, in turn, began to dance nervously from side to side. Greenberg yelled, “Schweigst du, Schmo! The sons of bitches smell dead meat! We’d best go in afoot!”

  Caldwell nodded, halted the others with a raised hand, and made the guttural “Khhh!” that High Jolly and the others used to make a camel kneel. Fatima danced in a little circle as she considered the suggestion. Then, as High Jolly moved in on one side and Matt Caldwell slammed her head from the other, Fatima sank to her knees with a gargle of complaint. Caldwell rolled off her hump and jogged over to where Rabbit-Boss was standing, looking down at something. At first, Caldwell thought it was a pile of butcher’s rags thrown out with meat scraps and a few unsold soup bones. Then the misshapen mass resolved itself into a mangled human form, and Caldwell gagged. Rabbit-Boss said, “Not dead long. Coyotes bury head someplace, I think.”

  “Do you think i
t was a white man, Rabbit-Boss?”

  “White man, maybe white woman wearing pants and checkered shirt. Buzzards take guts and private parts. That leg bone long for woman. I think this was man, before somebody kill him.”

  Digger Greenberg had joined them by the time Caldwell asked the Indian, “How do you know he was killed? Couldn’t he have died of thirst?”

  Rabbit-Boss looked away, disgusted.

  Greenberg said, “That’s easy, Lieutenant. There ain’t no boots.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No boots. What’s the matter, you got wax in your ears, Lieutenant?”

  “I can see this body’s not wearing boots, dammit. As far as that goes, it’s not wearing feet!”

  “Aw, that’s a foot bone over there by that grease-wood clump. But that’s not the point. Rabbit-Boss knows he was kilt because somebody took his boots often him. I mean, neither coyotes nor buzzards has all that much use fer a pair of boots when there’s fresh red meat to be had.”

  “You don’t have to draw me a picture.”

  “Well, keep your damn eyes open, then. What does the sign say, Rabbit-Boss? Which way was this hombre headed when they jumped him?”

  Rabbit-Boss shook his head. “Not killed here. Snakes play old trick. Drop dead man here to draw buzzards away from true start of trail.”

  Greenberg bent to pick a broken twig from the gravel as he mused, “Yeah, I see where they dragged a mess of chamiso brush ahint them to brush out their tracks. I make it two men on foot, packin’ this deader betwixt ’em. How do you read it, Old Son?”

  The Indian said, “One man, one squaw. Man hold shoulders. Squaw carry feet and drag brush. They drop this here. Go back same way to where others hold ponies.”

  Matt Caldwell stared down at what to him was absolutely unbroken desert pavement. The winds of centuries had blown away all fine-grained soil, leaving only this hard-packed gray-white gravel. A white man’s heel or the hoof of any animal left a noticeable impression in the desert pavement. How Greenberg and his Indian companion could trace the outline of a moccasin track, male or female, was beyond him. He asked the scout, “How far do you think they would have carried the body from where they killed this man?” and Greenberg opined, “Couple of miles mebbe. Depands on what kinda Injuns we’re a-dealin’ with. What do you say, Rabbit-Boss? You think this old boy was hit by Diggers or Snakes?”

  “Snakes,” said Rabbit-Boss, not bothering to explain his reasons. If the White Eyes could not see the heel impressions of a man used to spending most of his time on horseback, they were even blinder than he’d thought.

  Greenberg spit and said, “Too far south fer Bannock, and Mojave wouldn’t have sent that hombre Owns-the-Water in fer a powwow iffen they’d been killin’ white folks. So I suspicion we’ve located Diablito and his band. We’d best circle up and wait fer nightfall afore we head back to the fort.”

  Caldwell frowned and asked, “What do you mean, head back to the fort? We don’t know where Diablito is or which way he’s heading!”

  Greenberg nodded. “That’s a good way to keep it, Lieutenant. Iffen we don’t know where he is, them Apache don’t know where we’uns is.”

  “Damn it, man, I didn’t ride all this way just to turn back at the first Indian sign!”

  “You didn’t? What in tarnation did you have in mind, Lieutenant?”

  “Well, I thought our mission was to locate Diablito, find out what he was doing on our side of the border, and . ..”

  “That’s jest what you done!” Greenberg cut in. “You know he’s around here someplace, and you know he’s killin’ white folks hereabouts. So why don’t we shoot back to Fort Havasu, and tell the goddamn captain about it?”

  “Come on, you’re not afraid of a handful of border-jumping renegades, are you?”

  “When they’s at least three dozen Nedni-Apache? You just bet your ass I am! Your job out here ain’t to fight Diablito, Lieutenant. It’s to find the ornery rascal so’s Captain Lodge can chase him home with at least a full troop of dragoons and a couple of field pieces!”

  Caldwell had to think about that. His orders had been vague, and it wasn’t clear whether the post commander wanted him to gather intelligence or simply take a dozen camels out and lose them. He knew his Abolitionist superior had mixed feelings about the Camel Corps. Matt himself was not too keen on making their brilliant, treacherous Secretary of War look good in President Buchanan’s fuzzy vision. The weak, well-meaning administration in Washington swung like a weathercock in every political wind, and Jefferson Davis was the biggest wind from the South. If some of his more fantastic schemes were to fail. . .

  “We need more information to go on,” said Caldwell, his mind made up for the moment. He was a soldier, not a politician, and his mission was to find out what Diablito was doing and, if it was hostile to the United States, put a stop to it.

  Digger Greenberg said, “We know all we need to, Lieutenant. Them Apache is hereabouts, and they’s on the warpath. What else do you aim to carry back to the captain?”

  “The identity of this man, and the name of the tribe that killed him, for openers.”

  “Shoot, his mother’d never recognize him now, and, as fer who done him in ...”

  “You don’t know shit,” snapped Caldwell. “The missing boots may or may not indicate he was murdered. He may or may not have been murdered by Indians. As for the tribe we’re talking about, you’re just guessing and you know it.”

  “Well, shoot, we know Diablito’s jumped the border and … ”

  “We know no such thing, Digger. A Mojave told us Apache were over here on this side of the river. Have any of us seen one Apache since we left the fort this morning?”

  Greenberg spit again. “If you knowed enough to pour piss outten your boots, you’d know better than to expect to see Apache.” He pointed at the mangled remains at his feet. “Who else would have kilt this old boy here?”

  Caldwell threw back, “How the hell should I know? Why couldn’t it have been Mojave, or more likely, another white man?”

  Greenberg asked Rabbit-Boss, “What do you think, Old Son? You reckon this jasper was kilt by his own people fer his boots?”

  The Indian stared soberly at Matt Caldwell for a time before he answered. The Blue Sleeves, he’d decided, was not the fool he’d first appeared. He was wrong, of course: Nadene moccasin prints were not hard to read. But for a White Eyes, the lieutenant was a man who chewed his thoughts before he swallowed them. This was a habit to be encouraged. Too many Real People had been blamed for bad things by White Eyes who acted before they’d taken time to think.

  Rabbit-Boss said, “I think we will know better after we trace sign back to where this one was ambushed. Not enough sign here to say what happened.

  Digger Greenberg frowned, “goddamn it, Rabbit-Boss, if that ain’t an Apache heel mark right there by that quartz pebble, I’ll kiss your Injun ass!”

  Rabbit-Boss shrugged. “Maybe Apache. Maybe White Eyes in Apache moccasin. Maybe Mojave make big fool of Greenberg. Maybe if we look more, we find out.”

  Greenberg turned to Caldwell with an apologetic smile. “I can’t do nothin’ with him when he’s got an idear stuck crosswise in his Injun haid, Lieutenant. Old Rabbit-Boss just won’t let go that bone until he’s chawed it some.”

  “You just let him chaw, Digger. I’m a curious cuss myself.”

  “Well, we’d best form a circle and set a spell then. No tellin’ how long it’s gonna take old Rabbit-Boss to follow the sign back to where … ”

  “This way!” Rabbit-Boss cut in, pointing due west toward a distant ridge of lavender hills. The Indian started jogging across the flat without looking back, and Caldwell asked Greenberg, “You were saying ... ?”

  “Aw, shut up and saddle up. How do you expect me to know what that fool Injun’s fixin’ to do, when he don’t know his ownself?”

  The Nadene people did not build fires in strange country during daylight hours, if they could help it. Few w
hite men realized how easy it was to hide the glow of a fire in a depression at night, while far too many learned to their sorrow that rising smoke can be seen for miles in sunlight.

  Hence, Kaya-Tenay was as puzzled as he was annoyed when he found his principal wife, Cho-Ko-Ley, setting fire to a small pile of cheat grass against the north wall of the dry-wash. Kaya-Tenay stared soberly up at the western sky and observed, “The sun has not even started to bleed upon the ridges, old woman. I know cheat grass burns with little smoke, but do we have to have smoke at all in broad daylight?”

  Cho-Ko-Key said, “I need the fire to brew a Black Drink. There is sickness among us and the fever demons must be taught a lesson.”

  “The herbs you carry in your medicine bundle are powerful, wisest of my wives, but who is sick? I have just been up and down this arroyo and everyone seems ready to ride this night.”

  Cho-Ko-Ley shook her head. “The little boy you carried with the other White Eyes from their wagon is half dead from those water demons the Mexicans brought to our rivers. If I can drive them out with Black Drink, the boy may live.”

  Kaya-Tenay frowned. “You are risking an enemy seeing our smoke for a foolish reason, old woman.”

  Cho-Ko-Ley nodded. “You should have killed all of the White Eyes in the first place, before I had to listen to the little boy cry.”

  “I will go over there and kill him for you now. That way, you will not hear him crying and our enemies will not see our smoke.”

  “You waited too long to make the offer, Kaya-Tenay. I will be careful with my little fire.”

  “Women!” muttered Kaya-Tenay, walking away without giving or refusing his wife permission to brew her medicinal tea. That was the trouble with taking prisoners. You never knew what to do with them after you had them. Kaya-Tenay wandered down the wash to where young Eskinya was rubbing down a pony with sand. Kaya-Tenay stared at the younger Husband for a time. Then he said, “You should have killed those women when we killed their men. The old one with the yellow hair has a sick child and my principal wife is upset about it.”