“Yes, Goyathlay,” Delshay admitted.
“I think you should return.”
“I cannot return.”
“Why not?”
“Because to return would be to abandon you and my brothers. That I will not do.”
“While you were with us, you fought well, ciye,” Goyathlay said, calling him his “son.” “You will not leave us, you can never leave us for no matter where you are, your warrior spirit will remain with us to fight with us against the whites.”
“That is not enough. My warrior spirit cannot shoot a rifle,” Delshay said. “My warrior spirit cannot shoot a bow. Only my body can kill our enemies.”
“And only your body can look after your woman and your children. Go now. Be with them. It is the thing you must do.”
“I have learned much from you, Goyathlay,” Delshay said.
“Do not let the lessons you have learned here die with you,” Geronimo said. “Our children, and our children’s children, as well as the children of their children, must forever keep alive the spirit of the Chiricahua. I have had dreams, Delshay, and I have read the signs. I know that the time will come when there will be no Chiricahua. Then, the memories we pass on to our children will be all that is left of our people.”
“This I will do,” Delshay said. “You have my promise.”
Geronimo reached out to put his hand on Delshay’s shoulder. “My brother, the dreams and the signs I have seen are also about you. They tell me that there will be much sadness in the life that awaits you,” he said. “But there will also be much honor, for you will become a leader whose name will be spoken with wonder for many seasons to come, even after you have died.”
“Ka dish day, Goyathlay. Good-bye.”
“Egogahan, Delshay. Until we meet again.”
Chapter Four
New York City
Ken Hendel, a rather small, fastidious man, cleaned his wire-rim glasses, then carefully put them back on before stepping up to the window. He was in the third story of a brownstone mansion, and as he stood at the window, he looked down on Union Square and the statue of a mounted George Washington.
A street orator was giving a speech just outside the iron picket fence that surrounded the statue, and several were gathered around to listen. At the moment, the speaker was railing against the use of bicycles by women.
“The bicycle is a tool of Satan! To women of impure desires, this insidious device provides a ready means for facilitating the execution of depraved activity! Why, a young woman can be riding the wheel engrossed in the illicit pleasures of immoral behavior, all the while passing children who are totally innocent of the sin being perpetrated in their very midst!”
“Mr. Hendel?”
Turning away from the window, Hendel saw Dr. Petrie standing just outside the door to Mr. Montgomery’s bedroom.
“Is he—is he still alive?” Hendel asked.
“Yes. For now,” Dr. Petrie said. “He has asked for you.”
Hendel nodded, then stepped into the room. Because the drapes were closed, the room was dark. And even though it was quite large, it seemed close. It was also redolent of the smell of scented candles, put into the room in an ineffective attempt to overcome the stench of putrefying flesh.
“Ken?” a weak voice called from the bed. “Ken, is that you?”
“Yes, Mr. Montgomery,” Hendel answered.
“Come closer, Ken. Sit by me for a while.”
Hendel moved a chair closer to the bed and looked at the man for whom he had worked for the last eight years after having assumed the same position his father had held for the previous thirty years.
Joel Montgomery, a shipping magnate, was a wealthy man. But now the seventy-six-year-old man was dying of cancer.
It was warm in the room, and there were beads of perspiration on the old man’s forehead. Hendel took a washcloth from a basin on the bedside table and bathed Montgomery’s forehead.
“You are a very good man, Ken,” Montgomery said, his voice made thin by his weakened state.
“You have been very good to me, Mr. Montgomery,” Hendel said. “And to my father before me.”
“It is no wonder that you are a good man,” Montgomery said. “For your father was as well. You come of good stock.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment longer before Montgomery spoke again.
“I made a mistake, Ken,” he finally said.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I made a mistake,” Montgomery said. “I should have never insisted that Cynthia marry Bixby. He is not the man I thought him to be.”
Hendel did not respond to the comment. He had felt that way about Jay Peerless Bixby from the moment the old man pushed his beautiful young daughter into marrying him.
“You don’t like Bixby, do you?”
“Not particularly,” Hendel replied.
“You were against this marriage from the beginning, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure it was the best thing for Miss Montgomery.”
“For heaven’s sake, man, why didn’t you say something?” Montgomery asked. “Why didn’t you speak out?”
“I am but an employee, sir,” Hendel said. “It was not my place to speak out.”
“Nonsense, my boy, you are much more than an employee,” Montgomery said.
“I did not want to presume.”
“Yes, well, it is all water under the bridge now,” Montgomery said. He sighed. “I don’t mind dying, Ken—death comes to us all. But it does gall me to think that I have compromised my daughter’s future. I thought that, by having her marry Bixby, I was providing her with a husband who is a good businessman and who would look after her for the rest of her life. I fear now that all I have done is make it so that she will be beholden to him for the rest of her life.”
“That is not necessarily the case, sir,” Hendel said.
“What do you mean?”
“There is a way to insure your daughter’s security. That is, if you are willing to take those steps.”
“Yes!” Montgomery said, and with that one word, his voice was as strong as it had ever been.
There was a light knock on the door. “Papa?”
“Take care of that for me, Ken, will you?” Montgomery said. “Whatever you have to do, do it.”
“I shall require your signature, sir.”
“Then, by all means, do it quickly, while I still have the strength to hold a pen,” Montgomery said.
“Papa?” the voice called again.
“Cynthia, yes, dear, come in, come in,” Montgomery called back.
Cynthia opened the door, but seeing Hendel with her father, she hesitated.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll return when your business is done.”
“It’s done, Ken was just leaving,” Montgomery said.
“Miss Montgomery,” Hendel said with a slight nod. Then quickly, he corrected himself. “I beg your pardon, I mean Mrs. Bixby.”
Cynthia chuckled. “Mr. Hendel, you have known me as Cynthia Montgomery for my entire life. It isn’t surprising that you would slip up.”
“I suppose that’s right,” Hendel said. He looked back toward the figure lying in the shadows on the bed. “I’ll get right on that, Mr. Montgomery.”
“Good, good, I appreciate it,” Montgomery replied.
“Papa, you are looking better this morning,” Cynthia said, forcing the enthusiasm as she approached her father’s bed.
“Nonsense, my dear, I am dying, and I am closer to death this morning than I was yesterday.”
“Well, Papa, if you put it that way, we all are,” Cynthia replied.
Cynthia’s unexpected response tickled Montgomery’s funny bone and he laughed out loud.
“I suppose we are at that,” he said. “Thank you for coming by to see me, my dear. Have a seat and tell your papa all that you have been doing.”
Hendel left before the conversation went any further, but he was happy to hea
r that the old man was still able to laugh.
When Hendel stepped into the parlor, he saw Jay Peerless Bixby sitting on the sofa, looking at photographs through a stereopticon.
“Mr. Bixby,” Hendel said. “My business with Mr. Montgomery has concluded. If you wish to go in now, you may.”
“Cynthia is here, she’s his daughter,” Bixby said without lowering the stereopticon.
“Oh, but I’m sure Mr. Montgomery would enjoy a visit from you as well.”
“I’m not going in there,” Bixby said. “It stinks in there. It smells like the old man has already died.”
“I agree, it can get a little close in there,” Hendel said.
“Where are you going when the old man dies?” Bixby asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“When the old man dies, you’ll be out of a job, won’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I will.”
“So where are you going?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t actually given it that much thought.”
“How would you like to come work for me?”
“You are offering me a job?”
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Why are you surprised?”
“Because, to tell you the truth, Mr. Bixby, I’ve always had the belief that you didn’t particularly like me.”
“I don’t like you,” Bixby said. “You are just too damn meek for my tastes. I like a man who has a little gumption.”
“And yet, you offer me a job.”
Bixby laughed. “What does one have to do with the other?” he asked. “I’m wanting to hire you, not socialize with you. Besides, a little obsequiousness is not a bad thing for an employee. I don’t want to be challenged.”
“I see.”
“And let’s face it, I’ll be taking over the old man’s business,” Bixby said. “Who knows his business better than you? I think it’s a very good situation for both of us.”
“What does Mrs. Bixby think?”
“It doesn’t matter what she thinks. I’m the one hiring you, not her,” Bixby replied. “But as a matter of fact, hiring you was her idea. Normally, I wouldn’t listen to any suggestion she had to make, but in this case, I think it was a good one. So, what do you say, Hendel? Do you want to come to work for me?”
“Mr. Hendel! Mr. Hendel!” Cynthia called from the bedroom. “Please, come quickly! Papa is calling for you!”
Hendel hurried into the room and saw Montgomery sitting up in his bed. He was gasping for breath.
“Mr. Montgomery, you should lie back down, sir!” Hendel said, concerned over the old man’s condition.
“The papers,” Montgomery gasped. “The papers you want signed, give them to me now quickly.”
“But they aren’t made out yet,” Hendel said.
Montgomery shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll sign at the bottom, you can fill them out later. Quickly, man.”
“Yes, sir,” Hendel said. Hurrying over to the old man’s desk, Hendel rifled through it until he found three blank sheets of paper. He brought the papers and a fountain pen to Montgomery. Montgomery signed all three of them, then handed them to his daughter.
“Witness that you saw me sign these,” he said.
“What are they, Papa?”
“Do you trust Mr. Hendel?”
“Yes, implicitly,” Cynthia answered.
“Then sign them.” Montgomery lay back on his pillow, as if exhausted.
Cynthia signed all three blank sheets of paper, then returned the pages to Hendel.
“I signed them, Papa, though I don’t know what—Papa!” she screamed.
Montgomery was lying back on his pillow—his eyes open but already clouding over with the opaqueness of death.
“Papa!” she screamed again.
Hendel hurried over to the desk and picked up the telephone. “Number 271, please,” he said. He looked over at the bed and saw that Cynthia was bent over at her waist, with her head on her father’s chest. “Dr. Petrie,” Hendel said when the doctor answered his telephone. “You had better return to the Montgomery home. I believe he has died.”
Hanging up the phone, Hendel walked back into the parlor. Bixby was still there, but now he was reading the newspaper.
“Mrs. Bixby needs you, sir,” he said.
“What for?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Montgomery has just died.”
“So? What does she need me for? If the old man is dead, there is nothing I can do about it.”
Bixby went back to reading the newspaper. “Says here there is a beef shortage,” he said. “The price of cattle is going to go sky high.”
Joel Montgomery left instructions that he was to be buried at sea. He wanted his funeral to be conducted at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, a small neighborhood church that had come into existence primarily because of Montgomery’s generosity. He had paid for the building, and put enough money into the church coffers to hire a priest and organist. He had also been senior warden for the church, a position he held until the time of his death.
The church was filled to overflowing during the funeral, and it wasn’t until then that everyone realized just how generous a man Montgomery had been in his life. He had donated money, not only to the church, but to several orphanages and needy families around town, and though during his lifetime he had kept his charitable contributions secret, his benevolence was well known to Ken Hendel, who, as his business manager, had set up many of the altruistic endeavors.
“My God, would you look at all this?” Bixby said as he read the pew sheet that told about Montgomery’s beneficence. “With all the money he was giving away, it’s a wonder he had any left at all. Well, I can tell you right now, that’s all coming to an end. Hendel, the first thing I want you to do is contact all these people and tell them that the cow has dried up.”
After the service in the church, Montgomery’s body was taken by hearse down to the waterfront, where it was put on board the Prometheus, Montgomery’s personal yacht, for transport to a spot far enough offshore for his body to be committed to the deep. Only his family and his closest friends were invited for that part of the rite, so Hendel stood by as the body was taken on board.
“Please, Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia said. “You must come.”
“There isn’t room for me,” Hendel said.
“Take my place,” Bixby said.
“Oh, Mr. Bixby, I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You won’t be putting me out. I’m not going, whether you go or not. I don’t like boats.”
“Please do come, Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia pleaded.
“Very well, I would consider it an honor,” Hendel said.
Hendel found a place at the bow of the yacht so as to be out of the way of the family. Then, when they reached the place where Montgomery was to be committed, he stood reverently while the priest intoned the interment prayer. As the body slid off the plank and into the water, he saw Cynthia making a strong effort to control her grief.
He knew at that moment that he could not totally abandon her to Jay Peerless Bixby. He would take the job Bixby offered.
Besides, in this job, he would be better positioned to make certain that the papers he had filed, after Montgomery’s signature, were followed to the letter.
Chapter Five
Fort Collins, Colorado
The sound of flesh on flesh, followed by a woman’s cry of pain, brought to a halt all conversation in the Hungry Miner Saloon in Fort Collins, Colorado. When the other patrons of the saloon turned toward the sound, they saw an angry Pogue Willis glaring at Juanita Simpson, one of the bar girls.
“When you bring me a drink, don’t you be a-stickin’ your finger down into the whiskey,” Willis said angrily.
“Mr. Willis, I didn’t have my finger down in your whiskey,” Juanita said, her voice quivering in fright.
Willis slapped her again, harder this time than he did the first time, and her eye
swelled shut almost instantly.
“Please, don’t hit me again,” she said.
“Then don’t be a-lyin’ to me,” Willis said.
“Mr. Willis, I don’t think you ought to be hittin’ a woman like that, even if she did stick her finger down into your drink,” one of the customers said. “It’s such a pretty little finger anyway. Why, more than likely, all she done was sweetin’ the drink a bit,” he added, smiling to lighten his comment.
There was a nervous twitter of laughter from some of the others in the room.
Willis turned away from Juanita and looked toward the other end of the bar where the man who had spoken to him was standing, nursing his own drink.
“What’s your name, mister?” Willis asked.
“It’s Marcus. Lee Marcus,” the man answered. “No need for you to introduce yourself, Mr. Willis. Why, I reckon ever’body in town knows you, if not ever’body in the whole state.”
Marcus wasn’t exaggerating. Pogue Willis had the reputation of being a gunman. It was a well-earned reputation, for Willis had put several men in their graves—at least fifteen and maybe as many as twenty-five, depending on who was doing the telling.
“What was it you was just sayin’ to me?” Willis asked.
“Oh, nothin’ much,” Marcus replied. “I was just commentin’ that there didn’t seem to me to be no need for you to be knockin’ around that young woman like you was doin’. Even if she did stick her finger down into your drink, you know it wasn’t somethin’ she done on purpose. And her bein’ a woman and all, why, there’s just no call for you to be beatin’ up on her like that. I mean, when you think about, it don’t seem all that gentlemanly a thing to do, does it?”
“I tell you what, Mr. Marcus. Maybe you’d like to take part in this fight,” Willis said. “Because if you want to, I’ll be more than willing to accommodate you.”
“What? Fight? No, what are you talkin’ about?” Marcus asked, wondering now if he had gone too far. “There ain’t no fight here for me to take a part in. I was just commentin’ as to how it don’t seem right to me for a man to be hittin’ a woman, that’s all. I sure wasn’t challengin’ you to a fight or nothin’ like that.”
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Page 3