Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  “Well, friend, that’s a finer whiskey than I’ll find aboard that bag of bolts, I’m sure. But you’ll have to forgive me for not sticking around to return the hospitality.”

  “A man don’t need to explain his business,” I say. “Good to know you.”

  “At least let me buy you a beer chaser, as that bottle is nearly killed and I helped kill it.”

  “You save your money. I’m plenty drunk as is.”

  “Well, when our paths cross again, then. Although I believe three days in Santa Fe has been one too many for me, and three too many for my wife.”

  “Owens and his family migrate westward, on to the golden hills and fortunes of California, as do I,” Spooner twirling his glass in reflection. “Astonishing how quickly two nomads learn one another’s story when watering from the same brook.”

  “Company needs me out California, what see if there’s any gold left in those hills at all. And if there ain’t, I’ll turn them inside out and shake out any other colors they got,” Owens pushing back from the bar now. “All right, then. Ballentine, I’ll see you in the palace car. G’night, gentlemen.” Owens doffs his hat and heads out, unaware our paths will cross in the palace car as well, where I hope to take him up on that drink. I think of telling the lawyer that I’m on the train too, but even with the liquor, I check myself, remembering my resolve to keep my private details just that.

  I notice the Irishman fix his gaze out toward the street, where a patch of Appaloosa hindquarter has come to be parked just outside the door. Seamus nods thoughtful to himself and starts two mugs of beer beneath the tap. The doors swing open and in walks the army captain and his regular, the same pair who stood witness to my fracas in the street this morning. The Irishman sets the two mugs on the counter and waits to receive the soldiers, clearing a spot for their easy approach. The officer takes a step toward the bar, but then stops and surveys the room, his eyes scanning, first at the far corner and then working slowly, face by face, until he has clocked all in attendance. His gaze falls upon me, blank, and then moves on, only to snap straight back with doubled intensity. I do not turn away, but hold his gaze and offer a slight dip of the hat brim—careful to temper the act not as a challenge, but a simple act of respect for the stars and bars represented by his station. A thin wrinkle of bemusement crosses his eye and then vanishes quick as it came, along with his attention. Whomever the object of his search, I am grateful to not be it. All I know in this moment is that the captain’s earlier suggestion that I leave town had not been open to interpretation, the least of which would entail—not only defying his order—but dressing up in the White Man’s clothes, taking a room at his best hotel and ingesting his finest liquor in the presence of underdressed White Women. I have no indication from the officer’s inscrutable stare if he simply does not believe me to be the same person, or if more pressing matters supersede, such that he cannot be bothered to care one way or the other. A third scenario, flashing through my mind like a thunder crack, figures that he knows damn well who I am, and having given me a fair warning to vacate, washes his hands of the foolhardy Indian who thought this all a game.

  “Those boys appear to be on the hunt.” An uneasiness in the lawyer’s voice sends it low. “You’re not a deserter, are you?”

  “Can’t say I’ve had much use for the U.S. Army.”

  “I can assure you, I’ve had far less use for it.” Looking over at Spooner, sweat now beads on his neck where there was only redness. He breathing grows shallow.

  “You all right?”

  “Let’s just say there’s a particular shade of blue I shall never find welcoming.” Spooner leaves it at that. I reckon even twenty-odd years on from the War’s end, his distaste at the sight of uniformed Yankee aggression burns as hot as it does for the Diné, the Inde and all the displaced peoples of the plains. The officer utters something short to Seamus, who brings his mouth up to the captain’s ear and offers some length of explanation. Through all of it, the officer’s eyes never stop their investigation of the room.

  “Right in front of you!” a voice calling out from some darkened corner, barely distinguishable over the general din of piano and revelry. I question if the liquor is playing tricks on me. The captain appears not to have heard it at all, what with Seamus yarning his ear. Behind him, the grim-faced army regular grips his rifle, keeping an eye on the patrons, but never allowing his commander to stray from his periphery. Then the piano kick up, the player’s clear voice demanding attention as he introduces the next girl. I turn toward the back corner just as the sodium light flares bright again and I am unable to discern any faces beyond the stage.

  “That’s the one you want, Cap’n!” This time I have no doubt I hear it, the voice more brazen in its drunkenness. The Irishman finishes his piece, his hands open in apology and the captain nods, accepting whatever accommodation has been offered.

  The graybeard, Kep Wilder, seated, by pure coincidence, in nearest proximity to the conference, blurts out his own unsolicited appraisal. “No Dazers in here, Captain. Beer’s too pricey.”

  “And if the gentleman needs your opinion he’ll seek it out, you wet-brained bastard,” Seamus spanking him down quick. The officer glances in the general direction of Kep and grimaces like a fly just landed in his coffee. He picks up one of the beers, takes a short sip and then replaces the glass on the bar. The second drink sits untouched. Then he tosses down a gold piece to pay for both and heads out the exit, the regular not budging until his officer has cleared the door.

  “You missed one, Cap’n!” the voice drunker now, but unmistakable in its clarity—a high, screechy tenor drenched in churlish entitlement. I pivot in my seat and make out through the glare a silhouette of a man’s face—dark, greasy hair framing a scraggly attempt at whiskers. Offsetting the shadowed figure, behind the right ear, sits a white square—a bandage—and I make him as the one called Lem, his neck no doubt smarting and in need of the dulling effects of liquor, thanks to Storm’s well-placed bite. Lem sits with his chair tilted back, his shoulders resting against the wall. Two men flank him on either side. One strikes a resemblance to my assailant, Kirby, but that would be impossible. I saw that leg break sure as the sun will rise. And the red-bearded Kirby at this moment lies in a bed somewhere cursing my name and immobile, without the aide of cast or crutch. Yet this man’s fiery coloring and broad shoulders ring even more recent in my memory. Then the new girl on stage, prettier than the last, but of poorer voice—a trend I am sure will continue as the evening progresses—removes a silk glove and steps out into the audience, to the approving whistles of men. The sodium light follows her, killing my view of the heckler and them seated with him.

  “What’s the rumpus, Seamus?” a rail-thin man in spectacles asking over his beer suds. “Those fellas lose the way to Fort Wingate?”

  “Captain Oliver’s got a job to do, same as the rest of us, Marvin.”

  “Well, drinking’s part of soldiering, but he didn’t seem too interested in that, so what’s he up to, I wonder?” Marvin not letting it drift.

  “Some Dazers run off. A whole squad of ’em!” Kep Wilder unable to contain his newfound gossip.

  “Dammit to hell, Kep. I swear if ya don’t stop your muckraking that’s the last pint you’ll get out of me and you can do your drinking down with the Norwegians.”

  “Jeez, Seamus. It ain’t like it’s a secret. Man said the squad’s been on the loose nearly two weeks now. I don’t see why we gotta be all tight-lipped.”

  “Two weeks, you say?” Marvin producing from his jacket a nickel tablet and pencil stub that reveal him for that most meddlesome creature, a newspaper man.

  “Now here you go, trying to get your name in the papers based on privileged information.”

  “Well, it ain’t privileged to me, now Seamus. I can’t help what happens to cross my own ears just by sitting here on the by and by.”

  “Point of order, he’s correct on that,” Spooner muttering for my benefit alone, the lawyer justi
fiably wary of jumping into an argument so far removed—in miles and mentality—from the cozy sanity of a Virginia courthouse. Still, I would come to learn that a man who enjoys hearing his own voice as much as Shelby J. Ballentine, can hardly contain himself at the first opportunity for oration.

  “That captain’s a good man,” Seamus says. “I needn’t be getting on his bad side on account of your gabbing like me granny.”

  “Y’all talkin’ ’bout that missing regiment?” says another man, an ironworker, judging by his scorched fingers, jumping into this conversation, now that the sharp thinness of the singer’s voice has squandered any goodwill her womanly curves might have earned her.

  “We were just deciding there’s nothing to be talking about, Tom,” Seamus says firm.

  “Not what I hear,” the man continuing. “My wife’s sister’s husband works down at the Western Union. Says the wires been buzzing all day about the regiment gone rogue. Bunch of Hundred Dazers, they was.”

  “It weren’t a regiment,” Kep correcting him. “It were a squad. That’s about a dozen or so. And the prevailing perception is they have probably run off for Mexico, based on the direction of their tracks.”

  “They were out of Fort Defiance, then?” Marvin asks.

  “No, Fort Wingate, hence the assumption of Mexico.” Kep Wilder, his chest puffed like a peacock, enjoys being the man with the knowledge.

  * * *

  “Oh, the hell with it, then,” Seamus giving up on attempt at secrecy. “The cat’s so far outta the bag, you might well as hang a feckin’ sign on the door.”

  “It’s certainly nothing new,” the newspaper man editorializing now; it didn’t take long for him to get there. “Historically the Dazers have not proved the most reliable soldiers by a long shot.”

  I feel Spooner’s elbow nudge my arm. “I suppose I should know what a Dazer is, but I confess my ignorance.”

  The newspaper man overhears and wastes no time in launching into an explanation, but I turn my attention inward. I knew what the Hundred Dazers were. Everyone on the frontier did—men who conscript themselves to the army for a hundred days, the briefest term of enlistment currently available. Some consider it that last desperate measure of employment. Other men seek out the short-term duty until something better comes along, like a cattle drive, or farm that’s hiring up for harvest. But the majority of Dazers are running from something—women, the law, hungry children, or sometimes just boredom. Although this particular quest for adventure usually snakebites the pursuer, as the true meaning of boredom takes on new, unfathomable depths among the garrisoned regiments of the U.S. Army. With the Indians mostly crushed and reservationed, there proves little diversion for the young soldier, beyond rotgut whiskey and endless drilling back and forth upon the parade ground. The monotony has driven many men to madness. And those unfortunate enough to come across an infected whore soon share their boredom with the agony of pissing fire and the lunacy of a worm-eaten brain.

  Upon digesting the information, the lawyer scrunches his face in wonder. “I would imagine buckling oneself into a wooly blue blouse every morning would make even Mexico seem like a viable alternative.” It is a straight dig at the U.S. Army and I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but none of the others appear to catch it.

  “Well, you can never predict what a bunch of crazy Dazers will get themselves up to,” Kep says.

  “The Crazy Dazers,” the newspaperman repeating, sucking the marrow out of every word. “Now that’s got quite a ring to it.”

  “There you go, Kep, gone and got your name quoted in papers,” Seamus snapping his towel onto the bar. “And you, Marvin, got yourself a headline for the afternoon edition.”

  “It’s Kep, with an E,” Kep wagging a finger toward Marvin, “and Wilder. W-I-L-D—”

  A man’s shoulder brushes against my own. Enough weight propels the shove to know that it is no accident. Turning, I catch only a wide-shouldered figure lumbering slow away from me. His head cocks, revealing the reddish whiskers similar to that what has plagued me all day. “No Bluecoat’s gonna save you this time, Injun.” I feel my hand going toward the thirty-two as the man twists his neck back to make sure his words landed. Rising, the thirty-two palmed for easy use, I watch him filter through the crowd and back toward the far wall where he reclaims his seat next to Lem. I could kill them both from where I stand and have four bullets left for any comers who objected. The fire of the whiskey—already in full flame—stokes up against the newfound rage at this man’s spineless threat.

  And what would happen, if I acted? Drink has taken down far nobler men than me in a flutter of vengeance. I am leaving town in the morning with a first-class ticket and the finest stallion in the Territory. Santa Fe can have the rest.

  I stow the pistol, square my hat and leave without saying a word.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cross let himself through the picket gate on Palace Street, Van Zant a step behind him. The two men took note of the well-tended garden, but forewent discussion as they glided silently up the front steps and made their way to the door. Cross raised a hand to knock, and as his gloved knuckle touched wood, the door creaked open. Then he saw gouged bits of exposed wood along the edge. Three heavy locks jutted from the door, their bolts extending out into nothingness. The men drew their weapons.

  “Somebody pushed in,” Van Zant clutching the stubbier of the two shotguns he carried. “Them locks held up. It’s the wood that give out.”

  Cross concurred with a nod and stepped inside, his pistol leading the way. On the floor of the foyer, a discarded crowbar confirmed the forced entry. The trail of blood leading to Garber’s body confirmed murder.

  * * *

  Van Zant fell in behind him as Cross looked to his right. There, in the office, lay Milton Garber, flat on his back in a pool of thickening crimson, his torso cratered with rifle shot. The door of his empty safe hung open above him, like a laughing maw. Cross felt Van Zant press forward.

  “No,” blocking him with an arm. “Don’t foul the blood.” Cross reached down, undid his boots, and slipped out of them. Van Zant watched as the little man entered the office, his stocking feet so light upon the ground he nearly floated. A deep, trancelike calm overtook Cross, but his eyes fired with simmering energy. Van Zant had seen this before—he never got tired of seeing it—Cross transporting himself to the exact moment of confrontation.

  “They knew he kept money here,” Cross waving his hand over the safe. “Even though this Christ-killer pretended otherwise.” Cross knelt down and inspected Garber’s left temple, where a reddened lump had swollen over his eye. “A rifle butt to the forehead, that got his attention. And even then, the Jew held tight to his money.” Cross moved down to Garber’s hand, two of the digits broken at unnatural angles. “They had to break his fingers.” His eyes combing further, Cross discovered the Derringer, half submerged in the congealing puddle of blood around Garber’s body. He picked up the tiny pistol and brought it—dripping—to his nose. He sniffed both barrels separately.

  “Wrong sort of iron for a rifle fight,” Van Zant said.

  “Yes, but effective at close range. He managed to get off both rounds, didn’t he?” Cross’s eyes danced about the room and then settled, locking on a spot on the wall behind Van Zant. “There.” He pointed at a small hole in the wallpaper. “A clean miss.” Van Zant turned and squinted at the bullet hole.

  “What about the second shot? You think it hit the robber?”

  Cross considered it. “If it did, it just made him angry.”

  “Way the Shylock’s been worked over, I reckon the man who shot him showed up angry.”

  “Two men,” Cross correcting. He stepped to the window and drew back the curtain. Light filled the room. He turned his attention to the floor and studied the patchwork of bloody smears—fragments of footprints—crisscrossing in some unintelligible hieroglyph that Cross deciphered with his eyes. He began nodding to himself, confident of the narrative forming in his mind. The floor t
old a story. “Two large men, nearly equal in size. Brothers, perhaps? The first one stood here and wore ordinary flat soles—indoor shoes—mostly likely a clerk or an office worker. But the second man wore riding boots.” Cross followed the markings toward the body, then stopped abruptly, his brow furrowed. “No, riding boot.”

  “You telling me the sum’bitch come in here to rob the joint with only one shoe?”

  “Indeed I am, his right shoe, to be exact. Because if my hypothesis is correct, Mister Van Zant, our killer . . .” Cross eased himself down on all fours and stared back at the trail, his eyes only inches above the floor, “is hobbled. His left leg resides in some sort of cast.” Cross pointed to a series of wide, square-like patterns that appeared every few feet.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in donkey shit.”

  “I’d prefer you weren’t. And if I’m not mistaken . . . yes.” Cross rose and waved his finger at a small, circular splotch, no wider than a half dollar. “Our man gets about with the aid of a crutch, or cane.”

  Van Zant’s mouth hung open. Yet his amazement was cut short by the approach of rapid footsteps up the front porch. A man bounded into the house. Van Zant leveled his shotgun at the office door, Cross’s forty poised similar. And then the arriving man turned the corner and saw the guns pointed at him. He screamed, his feet flying from under him as he fell backward onto the seat of his pants.

  “Don’t shoot! I’m the law!” his voice was young and wracked with fear.

  “What is your business here, constable?” Cross flashed his credential and stowed it again, before the boy had time to make sense of it. The young lawman wore a city constable’s uniform, void of any rank or commendation. Cross pegged him as a recent hire.