Logan asked, "May I share your water, amigo? We will be quickly on our way."
"The water is God's, senor, and it is for all men."
While his horses drank, Logan bent to fill the big canteens. The motion hurt, and he swore softly. The herder was quickly at his side. "Allow me to help, senor." Logan allowed gratefully. Damn but his hip ached. Maybe a bone had cracked or a chip had been broken away.
"I would ask your name, amigo?" Logan's request was a special courtesy because others would not have cared or simply demanded.
"I am Garcia, the keeper of goats, senor." The herder sensed Logan's next query and added. "To my family I am simply Jose."
Logan suspected that every third peon in Mexico was named Jose. "I am Josh Logan, Jose. I am in your country hunting bandidos who raided our village to the north." He looked toward the bodies. "So far, I have been successful, but they are many, and I am one."
To his surprise the Mexican laughed aloud. A smile as wide as his face lit brown features, and the eyes beneath the great hat sparkled with knowledge and astonishing merriment.
His head bobbing Jose Garcia said, "Long ago you hunted wild men in this very land, senor. Then you were called Sombra Preta, and I remember those times with great excitement."
Logan was astounded. He looked closely, but could not recall the man. "You have a long memory, Jose. Most have forgotten Dark Shadow and that hard fighting. Did we know each other in those times?"
"No senor, I was but a boy, but if you will share my simple meal I would enjoy telling you of the time we met."
10
Logan took his horses and the mule because his departure could be precipitous. The goats were left to forage along the Zapata Water and in the surrounding brush. It was claimed that a goat could eat anything, and if compared to the sparse desert grazing, the water hole foliage was luxurious.
The men chose a slight rise beyond the flies and smells of death which also provided Logan with better visibility. Jose Garcia brought forth his simple fare. Logan contributed the last of his bread and a single can of beans which the men divided and ate cold. Wheat bread was almost unknown south of the Rio Grande, but Garcia ate with gusto. Under some circumstances dried goat meat might have seemed questionable, but in the old days Logan had eaten it often, and the strong taste lay easy on his palate. There was only water to wash down the fare, but for men of the plains and desert that too was normal.
Downwind the goat keeper smelled a lot like his flock, but water was a scarce commodity in the desert, and most living there smelled the same. Logan doubted his own scent would fit a drawing room. He had been days in the north mountains before coming south, and he expected Erni would have marched him back to the Zapata and insisted that he soak thoroughly. Erni...her name and the thought of her loving presence closed his throat.
Garcia rolled a cigar from his own wild tobaccos and politely offered it to his guest. Logan graciously refused, and the goat keeper began his story from behind an almost impenetrable smoke cloud.
"When I was a child, the family of my mother lived in the village of Caliente. We were a family of many children as were all in the village.
"On special evenings the oldest grandfathers would gather the people and speak to them of marvelous things. Sometimes we would have a fire of wood, and the flames and shadows would make the stories live and become real in our young minds.
"In those times the Apache pressed in upon us, and their raiders from the mountains stole and burned. Federales came to kill the Apache, but they were as bad as the wild ones. They too looted and burned, and left little after their passing. When the Federales returned to their camps, the Apache were still there and nothing had changed.
"Then, from the north came the gringo scouts, and they chased the Apache in all directions. Soon the raiding ceased, but still the scouts searched for they knew that the wild men were merely hiding in the mountains. Our skilled hunters led scouts to find the Apache, but they found few.
"Among the scouts, one hunter became known for his cleverness in finding and killing the Apache dog soldiers. The Apache themselves came to know the deadly hunter, and they gave him a special name.
"On a night like many others, our grandfather gathered the families to speak of mighty deeds and of warriors and heroes and perhaps of devils and spirits that wandered in the night. No one could say what the tales would be for our ancient grandfather followed wherever his interests led.
"This was an important night because one of the scouts had used his shotgun to kill many grouse, and the birds cooked on sticks around the fire coals raising delicious scents and making mouths water.
"Yankee scouts too came to the fire to listen to the grandfather, for many of them now lived with our women and had learned our language.
"The grandfather turned his stories to the wild Apache who haunted our mountains and raided our adobes. Soon the special name was spoken and attention sharpened so that even the babes were silent in listening.
Sombra Preta, how the name rolled on the tongue. Sombra Preta who drifted like cloud shadow through the mountains. Sombra Preta who wore moccasins instead of boots, who struck like a mountain storm and killed all Apaches who could not hide.
"The grandfather would say, ‘And the Apache slithered as silent as snakes among the rocks and believed that no living thing could detect them, but from one other they could not escape.’
"Then the children would whisper, 'Sombra Preta,' and the words would float like haunted music above the fire circle.
'"Yes, Sombra Preta, the Dark Shadow,’ the grandfather would say. And, the people would shiver with excitement.
"In the stories, Sombra Preta rescued the lonely herder, and Sombra Preta tracked down the killers of fine horses. Sombra Preta visited the sick, and his hand could sometimes cure illness. Sombra Preta’s eye alone could turn a maddened Apache into a fleeing coward, and Sombra Preta slaughtered the feared and hated Apache as the village butcher did ducks, geese, and pigs.
"The children were lost in the stories, and few noticed the tall Yankee who appeared at the fire. Then, the grandfather's voice turned to a whisper of death and he spoke as if of the devil himself.
"'He is here, people of Caliente." His finger pointed, and our eyes turned. "Behold the killer of Apache, Sombra Preta!" The figure at the fire seemed a giant whose moccasins moved without sound, and his deadly rifle was alight with magical reflections from the council fire. For a long moment Sombra Preta met our eyes, and lightening seemed to flash from his into ours. Soundlessly, he seized a bird on a stick and soundlessly he disappeared into the darkness of the night.
"The spell broke, and terrified children rushed to their mothers who wrapped them protectively in their skirts and serapes, and babies felt the fear and began their screaming. Above the noise our voices as one breathed the magic words, 'Sombra Preta.' We had seen, and we believed."
Logan listened with amazed interest. He too remembered the incident, but he recalled it differently.
He had come in from a week in the mountains. He was dead tired and as dirty as a skunk. The tensions of hunting Apache still bound him, and he was wound as tight as a coil spring.
The scent of his companions' roasting birds was overpowering, and he went for one. He had barely entered the firelight when an old Mexican had pointed a shaking finger at him and called him Sombra Preta.
And in the instant all sound had ceased. Every eye stared as if he had risen from the dead. His still charged senses had sought danger, but there was none. He saw only villagers and scouts waiting for the birds to cook.
Uncertain of what had happened, he had taken a bird and left the circle. A great uproar immediately rose from the fire circle, and Logan wondered if he might have taken someone's personal bird, but in his worn state he did not care.
Logan let his mind drift through the memory. There had been many children at that fire, but one stuck in his memory. The boy had been close beside the old Mexican. A young boy perhaps ten years or
so. He had worn a bright red cloth and had a medicine bag around his neck. The boy's eyes had burned into his own. These many years later, the scene washed over Logan as if it had been only days.
Logan said, "I remember the moment. I recall wondering at the howling and crying. I also remember one boy with a red head band and a medicine bag. Could that have been you?"
Garcia chuckled, "No, Dark Shadow. I believe I was already hidden within my mother's shawl. Those stories scared me until I shook."
Logan moved to ease the ache in his hip. "They were only stories, Jose. I was little different from other scouts."
"That cannot be, Senor Logan. Even the scouts told the stories, and we heard that it was you and another who killed the last of the wild Apache."
Before Logan could answer, Garcia went on.
"It has been said that you found the last of them at the Apache Water, but if that is so, no others have ever found the secret place."
Logan sighed, "It is so, Jose. There is an Apache Water. It is deep in the earth, and the entrance is hidden so that only one who knows could find it. The water is impossible to discover unless it is pointed out, and I may now be the only one who remembers its location. If it were not so hidden, I would tell you now how to find it."
Jose Garcia would allow his goats to forage through the night. Then he would return to his hut closer to Caliente. Logan thought he knew the place, and recorded it in his memory.
Logan said, "I have too many guns, Jose. One is yours if you can use it."
The herder answered slowly and with thought. "I would like to have a gun, Senor Logan, but it is not wise. At times strong bands come upon me. Each time they take anything that I have, and they would take my gun. When strangers approach, my wife flees to the brush, and my children know the animal paths to hide along. In this land it is not wise for a poor man to have good things, Senor Logan."
Logan mounted with some difficulty, but once in the saddle his pain settled into a monotonous ache. He trailed his mule and two horses tied into a string of animals. In Caliente he could trade the extra animals, the saddles and bridles and the guns to Tobias Brisbane, if the man still lived. If Punto's band was in the town he would slide in and out quietly, unless he had an open shot at the raider, of course.
Logan needed the Caliente stop to resupply. His grain was gone, and his own food was down.
He had much to think about. He could worry about the girl riding north, by this time approaching the border. He could enjoy the thought that in The United States a poor man could possess all that he could gain, while only a day's ride to the south the same poor man would be at the mercy of anyone stronger who happened upon him. Logan wondered if the presence of guns might not have much to do with security north of the border. In the states every man was armed, and that ever-present threat made attacking anyone a dangerous proposition. In Mexico, the populace was mostly unarmed and were therefore victims of anyone with a gun. He sighed, recognizing that the system was not perfect. He was hunting raiders because townsmen who had guns had been too hesitant in using them.
He had killed three more men this day, but other than a small satisfaction at chopping away at Punto's band, he did not dwell on the number. Counting dead men mattered less than knowing the number of enemies still alive.
He chose to consider those peripheral subjects to hold his mind from his personal loss, but at times, when he was not careful, Erni and all that was gone slapped his senses, and he wished to wail aloud.
Before dusk set in, Logan was forced to quit. Even his leg ache was failing to keep him alert. He found himself sleeping in the saddle, and in a land of enemies that was dangerous. He had to rest, and it had to be now.
He found a draw that meandered into a deeper crevice, and within it there was a flat spot with a bit of stringy grass to occupy the animals. He staked out the bandit mounts, staking and hobbling only his own horse and mule. If the others wandered, he would find them in the morning, but he would take no chances with his own animals.
He spent some effort making his sleeping spot smooth with a perfect hole for his hip. He placed the buffalo hide against the ground and doubled it over. Tonight he would use his blanket for cover and add a saddle blanket to help keep out the cold. With his camp made, Logan forced himself to climb to the crevice rim, and spend time carefully glassing his surroundings, chewing a supper of jerky, and searching for rising dust.
He located a small antelope band, and saw buzzards circling something further south. A big animal down, he figured, but no danger met his view. He wished he could camp and then move again after dark. That was the safest way, but he was too blown. Night was not far away, and if he was not going to move he could begin sleeping now. If a clever ambusher caught him deep in sleep his hunt would end here, but sleep he must.
Logan drew his rifles close beside him, and gripped the Colt pistol loosely under his blankets. His head rested on another smelly saddle blanket, but with the softness of the buffalo robe beneath him and his eyes covered by his hat brim, he felt especially comfortable.
His plan was to doze lightly, waking to listen as often as he could, and to be up and away with the first morning light. By evening he should be nearing Caliente, and he would decide then whether or not to enter the town, or perhaps to lie in ambush where he could watch the single street. If Punto showed himself, Logan could end it there.
Of course, Punto might have moved on or never have paused in Caliente, or...Josh Logan dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep from which he did not awaken until the morning sun was high.
11
Logan woke disoriented. Experience held him unmoving, but sunlight struck full on his body, and from beneath his hat brim he saw only an earth bank. Where in ...?
Then he remembered. Good God, he must have slept the entire night without waking. Barely lifting his chin, he examined his surroundings. He felt his fingers harden around the pistol’s grip, but no enemies grinned at him. The animals switched at flies, and all were there. His rifles lay where he had placed them, and by all the gods, luck had been with him. No one had discovered his sleeping body to rob or kill as they wished.
In a way he felt a little foolish about his fears because almost everyone on the desert slept through their nights without disturbance, but when he was hunting men, or being hunted by men, Logan knew it was far different. He had worn his old body down too far, and his systems had simply claimed the rest they had to have. So, he would learn and remember that, unlike the Dark Shadow of twenty years earlier, he had to rest often and preserve energy as he would precious water.
When he attempted to rise he was again shocked. His bruised hip had stiffened into immobility. He began limbering it with the gentlest of movements, and gradually the muscles and tendons loosened, but the pain returned with a now familiar debilitating ache.
He relieved an overfull bladder marveling that he had made the night through. Old men answered at least one nature call a sleep, but not this time. Maybe he was in better shape than he had realized.
Logan struggled up the ravine wall, and raised his head with care. Nothing. Even the antelope band was gone. Jose Garcia's goats raised no dust. Perhaps the herdsman was also getting a late start. Buzzards dropped and circled on the downed animal further south. Logan guessed he would pass it closely when he moved on.
The animals were next. He watered each, seeing his canteens empty alarmingly. Four animals were too many. He had no grain to distribute, but they had gained some sustenance by eating the sparse grass to the roots.
He broke camp, finding his hip easing as he used it. The camp had been good. The long sleep had refreshed him. He mounted and found a route out of the crevice. He chewed on a piece of Jose's goat meat and swilled from his small canteen as he rode.
Logan moved at a faster pace than usual. He wished to reach Caliente while there was light so that he could examine the town with his telescope. Even if Punto was not in the village, Logan would slide in a back way, but the more he knew about w
ho was in town the better.
He came suddenly onto the regular trail. As old as the mountains the path was beaten in by a million hooves and many wagons. It was the same trail that he had paralleled since leaving Micah, and that made him think of Julie Smith who would still be working her way north but should now be only a few hours from home. At least he hoped that would be so.
Two decades before he and the scouts had come often this way. The latest horse prints on the trail were those of a large group. Punto’s tracks from the day before, Logan knew.
Ahead the buzzards swarmed, and as Logan drew close they lumbered aside and finally flailed their way aloft. Their meal had once been a man, but there was little left to see. Logan experienced another small satisfaction. The body had to have been one of Punto's raiders, and he had probably died from a Spencer bullet Logan had punched into him at the Zapata Water. Logan looked closer to see if the corpse was the tracker Juan of the one eye. No such luck. The wounded tracker was still ahead.
Through encroaching dusk Caliente looked little changed. Twenty years had not improved the place, although there were a few more buildings. The main street was still the only street. It staggered along one side of the narrow canyon bottom, and buildings along the high side perched on flattened spots. The adobes on the lower side sprawled across the valley floor in a patternless cluster.
Corrals appeared busy with many horses and pack animals. Further out, Mexican donkeys honked a steady cacophony, as if protesting the setting sun.
Because dusk was creeping in Logan had come close. Only a quarter of a mile out he could hear the playing of children, and sudden male shouting and bellowing was followed by a cluster of figures that reeled from a doorway and struggled violently before again plunging inside and out of his view.
Caliente lay like a sealing cork at the end of the long valley where the mountain chains finally collided. There was a stream here, and wells were many. That convenient and bountiful water accounted for the town. Only three days from the border, Caliente offered a convenient escape for men wanted in the north. Mexican authority was far away, and Texas law had no meaning south of the Rio Grande.
Dark Shadow Page 12