“‘Sir, I’m big for my age.’
“‘You’re big, for any age, but mount up.’
“‘Is that a direct order, sir?’
“‘When, and if, you get to be a soldier—three or four years from now—you’ll know there’s no such thing as an “indirect order.”’
“‘I was born in Ohio, sir . . .’
“‘So was I. Good farm country. Go back to Ohio and farm.’
“‘Besides growing it, we had to hunt for our food. I’m a good shot, sir.’
“‘So are the Sioux . . . and as I said, you wouldn’t make the difference. If I kept you with us knowing you’re underage it’ud be my ass in a sling again, and I don’t want to go through another court-martial.”
“‘But, sir . . .’
“‘Good night and good luck, Mister Huntly.’”
* * *
“Mister Huntly went on to tell me that the next morning he and his horse, Buckeye, watched the battle of the Little Big Horn from Crow’s Nest Bluff, a distant hill, but close enough to see it wasn’t a battle. It was slaughter. The 7th was outnumbered by more than fifty to one, maybe a hundred to one. The entire command, including Custer, killed and mutilated. He thought of going back but trembled and threw up, thinking of Custer’s words, ‘You wouldn’t make the difference.’
“Like one seared with an invisible branding iron of dismay, he watched until the carnage was done with . . . the dead Custer’s words ringing in his fevered brain—‘You wouldn’t make the difference.’ But still, he couldn’t help wondering:
“‘Why was I spared?
Like Lazarus why was I given
a second chance to live?
What did Lazarus do with the rest
of his life?
What would Jim Huntly do
with the rest of his life?’
“Somewhere, somehow, he vowed that the time would come where and when he would make the difference.
“Years later on that lost and beleaguered wagon train, where we knew that the Sioux would charge again with the dawn, he thought this place and time might be the chance for him to make a difference, and breathlessly talked to me about it.
“‘Some miles back, before the storm hit, we passed an army outpost. If I could make it there and bring back enough troopers . . .’
“‘Like hell!’ It was the barking voice of Sam Waters, wagon master, that broke through the blistery night. He had been listening. ‘I need every gun and sonofabitch who can pull a trigger right here!’
“‘Mr. Waters,’ I spoke in a soft but firm voice, ‘there aren’t enough of us “sonsofbitches” to stop the Sioux.’
“‘We can die trying, old-timer.’
“Sam Waters was furious. I do believe partly because he blamed himself for taking the wrong turn in the snowstorm and getting us lost. He had to vent his fury on someone, and at that time young Jim Huntly was his target.
“‘Huntly, you’re a damn coward who wants to leave the women and children and save your own rotten skin.’
“‘Mr. Waters,’ Huntly pleaded, ‘you say you need guns. I’ll leave my gun here, but let me try. It’s our only chance.’
“‘You got no chance. We’re surrounded. It’s still snowing. With this weather you’d never get through.’
“‘With this weather I can get through; they’d never expect anybody to try.’
“‘He’s right, Mr. Waters,’ I nodded. ‘We’ve got more, much more to gain than lose. Otherwise, as Jim said, we’ve got no chance at all.’
“There was silence except for the whistling wind through the falling snow.
“Sam Waters wiped the flakes from his mouth and chin.
“‘All right, but take your gun. You might want to shoot yourself before they catch you and . . . well, you know what would happen then.’”
* * *
“The upper Northwest is untrustworthy, especially in the winter months. At noon the sky is clear blue and relatively warm with a rugged horizon visible for miles. Within minutes it is overcome by a whirlwind of fierce, blinding snow making it impossible to see the palm of your hand inches in front of your quivering face. The storm might last a short spell, or stretch into a frozen hell. For us, either way was hell enough, but what would follow by the savage Sioux was worse. With the Sioux there was no mercy, only death, or capture, torture, and mutilation.
“Almost miraculously, Jim Huntly, on his mount, Buckeye, somehow made it through the swirling snow as the hostiles had found refuge and rest in a tree-lined dale more than a mile from the wagon train. And somewhere ahead lay the army outpost if he could find it in the infinite no-path terrain.
“As he spurred Buckeye, Huntly was hit hard from above. In that split second he thought it was a heavy tree branch, but instantly realized it was something alive and deadly. A Sioux warrior slammed into Huntly, and they both tumbled from Buckeye onto the ground, as the warrior’s knife hand lashed at him with one arm and his other hand clutched hard at the young man’s throat.
“Over and over they twisted and turned with a piercing pain throbbing at Huntly’s side where the knife had struck.
“Thunder. Then a bolt of lightning split a nearby tree and as the warrior instinctively reacted, Huntly in one swift motion slid out his Army Colt, pressed it against the Sioux’s temple, and squeezed the trigger. Bone and brain matter sprayed from the dead warrior’s shattered head as the shot reverberated through the night.
“Then silence.
“If there were any other Sioux in the vicinity they must have thought it was more thunder.
“Huntly’s movement was no longer swift. There was that knife ache along with the leak of blood slipping down his side. He managed to find the stirrup with his boot, straddle onto the saddle, then rein the animal toward what he hoped was the right direction to the outpost.
“For how far, how long, he wasn’t sure. Buckeye breathed hard as cold wind penetrated its nostrils, invaded its innards, challenging its heartbeat in a heart that seemed ready to explode. But the great animal’s heart kept beating.
“On they struggled, with Huntly squinting for the sight of some familiar landmark he might recognize to be near the outpost. But if there was one, it would have been camouflaged in a white blanket with snow still falling through the endless night.
“Eyes bleary and unfocused, Huntly, close to comatose, suddenly seemed to make out a blanched wall.
“Buckeye whinnied, then reared, and Huntly fell hard into a deep petrified pit of oblivion.
“The next thing he remembered was comparative warmth, voices, then the forms of uniformed men tending to him, while he tried to regain his senses.
“‘Army outpost?’
“‘Yes, Captain Jeb Hawkins. We patched you up . . . Who are you?’
“‘Jim Huntly . . . wagon train . . . attacked . . . Sioux . . . going to hit again . . . soon . . . need help . . .’
“‘Where?’
“‘You won’t find it . . . I’ll take you . . .’
“‘You’re hurt...’
“‘I’ll make it . . . their only chance . . . for God’s sake . . . got to save them . . .’
“‘You can’t ride . . .’
“‘Yes, I can . . . I’ve got to . . .’
“There was a suspended moment with Captain Hawkins’s critical decision.
“‘All right. We’ll get you a fresh mount . . .’
“‘No! My horse! Help guide us . . . please . . . for God’s sake . . . hurry . . .’
“‘All right . . . Sergeant, sound ‘Boots and Saddles’!’
“Through the icy open outpost gates, Huntly mounted on Buckeye, and Captain Hawkins riding beside him, Company C, with two color guards bearing the U.S. flag and regimental guidon, hoofed into the still storm-stricken dawn.
“As Huntly’s eyes and head cleared, he sensed that he was moving in the right direction and pressed his mount into a strained gallop through the snow-clogged terrain. The troopers followed.
“Even though the
weather had not subsided, Huntly knew the Sioux would attack as the rising sun provided light enough to outline the besieged Conestogas and their doomed defenders.
“Through the intermittent drum of thunder and crack of lightning, the company made its way in an ever-increasing pace as Huntly waved them on in spite of the stabbing ache in his side.
“Company C relentlessly plowed ahead until the sound of thunder and crooked white streaks of lightning clashed into the eruption of . . . gunfire.
“‘CHARGE! CHARGE!’ blared Captain Hawkins, and the troopers obeyed.
“The Sioux had encircled the Conestogas. Guns from both sides blazed until the Sioux realized what was happening.
“‘Fire at will!’ Hawkins commanded.
“A fusillade of gunfire from the troopers felled almost a dozen warriors.
“The Sioux broke their circle and re-formed into a charging brigade.
“Cheers from the relieved wagon train were barely audible as the Sioux and troopers clashed in close combat with both Company C’s regimental standards snapping amid swirling snowflakes and falling bodies.
“The tide quickly turned toward defeat for the Sioux. Rifles, pistols, and drawn sabers of the troopers overwhelmed the warriors. The regimental guidon was still fluttering. But the color guard of the United States flag had suffered a deadly wound. He wobbled, about to drop the banner.
“Jim Huntly fired his last shot, threw away his pistol, rode to the flag bearer, and grasped the flag pole, then, leading the charge, turned Buckeye toward the retreating, but still-firing remnants of Sioux. A final streak of warriors’ gunfire tore into the troopers, targeting the bearer of the United States flag.
“Buckeye and Huntly both fell. Buckeye dead. Jim Huntly barely alive, still clutching the bullet-riddled flag.”
The Wise Old Man concluded his story.
“Inside one of the wagons Jim Huntly lay on a cot with the tattered, bloodstained flag folded lengthwise beside him.
“Captain Hawkins, the wagon master, Sam Waters, and I looked down at him with moist eyes. Mortally wounded, Jim Huntly struggled to speak . . .
“‘I’m going . . . to . . .’
“But I spoke for all of us. ‘Rest easy, son. Your wounds were torn from the cloth of the flag you fought for. Rest easy.’ But Huntly went on.
“‘I’m going . . . to meet Colonel Custer and the 7th . . . and tell them . . . that maybe . . . this time . . . I . . .’
“He never finished his last sentence.”
* * *
The Wise Old Man reached for his hat and cane, walked to the cantina door, opened it, then turned back to the bartender, who never had touched his drink.
“We didn’t know much else about him, but I had an inscription put on his grave marker.”
“What did it say?”
“It said:
“Jim Huntly
He made
The difference”
The Wise Old Man closed the door and disappeared into the deep blue Arizona night.
Keep reading for a special excerpt of Black Noon
by award-winning author
ANDREW J. FENADY.
When their wagon breaks down in the desert, Reverend Jon Keyes and his ailing wife, Lorna, find themselves at the mercy of blistering heat, punishing thirst, and circling buzzards. On the brink of death, they are rescued by Caleb Hobbs and his beguiling daughter, Deliverance, who take them to their home in San Melas. It’s a strange little town, built to resemble the New England village they left behind. Everyone in the community is convinced that Jon’s been sent from heaven—that he’s capable of healing their sick and saving their flock. But can he save these God-fearing folk from the gunslinger Moon, who descends on the town like a bloodthirsty vulture? Can he explain the robed figures who gather and chant after midnight? And finally, can a good man wage war with evil itself . . . without losing his life . . . or his soul?
Look for Black Noon.
Available now from Pinnacle Books.
Preamble
As when a misty dream unfolds—out of the darkness of the mind; black, impenetrable, until—the face of a cat appears, lambent, saffron eyes glinting, mouth distended, then twisted.
The cat screeches.
An unearthly sound.
The cat creeps noiselessly on its pads, then stops in front of something burning; the flames fling leaping towers, yellow and blue, behind the hunched feline as it looks at something, or someone, and emits an audible purr of contentment while its gaze travels ever slowly upward—the length of a human figure.
The figure of a young woman—she wears a gossamer white gown that slithers across her long and sinuous body, and her face is the fulfillment of the promise of the upward journey. Silver-blue eyes illuminated by the flames, flowing flaxen hair, a claret mouth, and sensuous alabaster skin all molded into a living mask of mythic perfection. She watches, fascinated by the trident flames.
The cat leaps effortlessly, and just as easily, the beautiful young woman catches the purring animal, presses and softly strokes its flanks. The cat purrs even louder as it is stroked by tapering white fingers, while ascending flames, glowing against the chocolate night, reach up to a burning cross atop the tower of a church that is on fire.
The curling flames turn to sable.
AND THE BLACK FLAMES RISE INTO THE STARLESS DESERT NIGHT.
* * *
Reverend Jonathon Keyes woke abruptly, stared at the ribbed top of the Conestoga, then at the stirring figure of his wife, Lorna, lying next to him.
“What is it, Jon?”
“Nothing, dear.”
“Nothing?! You’re trembling . . . was it that dream again? The war? The battle of Yellow Tavern? The wound?”
This was not the first time since he had come home from the war with a head wound that his sleep had been breached by a bad dream. She reached out and gently touched the back of his head as she had done before.
“No, Lorna. It was a dream, but not about the war. Something different this time,” he tried to smile.
“Then tell me about it. They say that dreams often have some meaning . . . sometimes about something that’s happened, or even about what’s going to happen . . .”
“Or,” he said smiling, “as Dickens’s friend, Scrooge, said, ‘the result of an undigested bit of beef, a fragment of underdone potato.’ Let’s just forget about it.”
“But, Jon . . .”
“Actually, I thought I heard something, something out there. Probably the cry of a lonesome coyote.”
“Well, I’ll never be lonesome, Jon . . . so long as we’re together.”
“That makes two of us.” He moved and kissed her forehead. “Now, go back to sleep. It’s only midnight, and we’ve still got a long way to Saguaro.”
Chapter 1
It was a long way from Monroe to Saguaro, much longer than they had anticipated as they journeyed by creaking wagon—pulled by a two-up team, through Missouri, southwest into Kansas, across the one hundredth meridian, to the panhandle of Texas, then the desolate New Mexico Territory and its arid, unforgiving terrain.
There had been a few respites such as Amarillo and Santa Fe, too few and too far between, and they had so far averted sudden, deadly threats from hostile red natives, who resented trespassers coming into their ancient domain.
This was Dry Tortuga—although they didn’t know it—and no one really knew where it began and ended—a worthless span of earth where God had stomped the dirt and dust off his boots, with little or no water to provide nourishment, no game to provide food, or no fertile fields to provide crops.
And so they faced the vast emptiness between the winds—grassless, barren, rock hard, boiling windless days under a blistering sun, and relentless freezing nights under the worn canvas of the Conestoga.
Still, there were forced smiles, mostly from the young bride, unaccustomed to such trials.
“Jon, tell me more about Saguaro.”
“There’s not much I can tel
l except what was in the letter from the retiring reverend that we served together in the war . . .”
“Served gallantly.”
“Most of those who served gallantly are dead.”
“But not all, those medals you . . .”
“The war’s over, Lorna. That’s all in the past.”
“But not our honeymoon. That’s just beginning.” She smiled.
“Some honeymoon.” Keyes barely smiled. “Hundreds of miles in nowhere, to a place we know little about . . .”
“Except they need a minister named Jon Keyes.”
She rested a soft white hand on his muscled arm that held the reins.
After a strained silence, he spoke without looking at her.
“But, Lorna . . .”
“What, Jon?”
“I’ve been thinking . . .”
“About what?”
“You and me. You mostly . . . did you make the right choice? You could have had your pick of rich young men in Monroe, of the elite society you were born into, with all the comfort you’re used to, with everything . . .”
“. . . Everything except the man I love . . .”
“. . . Maybe your family was right . . .”
“As you said, Jon, about the war . . . all that’s in the past. Our future’s in Saguaro.”
“Saguaro . . . you know what’s been said. ‘There’s no God in Saguaro.’”
“Reverend Jonathan Keyes can do something about that.”
“We’ll see.” Then he added, “If we ever get there.”
“We’ll get there. I have no doubt about that . . . or you.”
But after what seemed like infinite days and nights, the prospect of Saguaro became less likely and more doubtful—much more doubtful.
The parched earth of the desert had claimed countless pilgrims wasted into dried-out meatless bones, picked clean by ravenous, far-seeing blackbirds who preyed on those who had prayed in vain—until they could pray and breathe no longer.
After scores of unnumbered days and nights lost in the no path terrain, with far away mountain peaks that never came closer—but vultures that circled ever nearer, it seemed inevitable that two more bodies and souls would soon surrender to the fate of those who had gone before.
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