Storm's Thunder

by Brandon Boyce

  Cross looked over to Van Zant and was pleased that the Dutchman seemed to be getting the hang of the rope. Hang of the rope. Cross fought off a smile. He’d have to remember that one. Van Zant kept active tension on the rope, adjusting to the fugitive’s gyrations, but not letting him choke out either, not just yet. Two-Trees slumped, exhausted. Van Zant let him rest a moment before tightening the rope ever so gingerly. Van Zant checked to see if his boss was watching and, receiving the approval that he wanted, kept the dance going.... 33 . . . 32 . . . 31.

  Oh honestly, fat man. Do you think I’m this stupid? The lawyer had steered off into an anecdote about fishing with the Attorney General.

  “I said to Brewster, I said, ‘Ben, if you’re calling that a catfish, then I’m calling Atlanta the nation’s capital.’”

  Cross had heard enough, and upped the speed of his counting, blowing through the twenties in a single breath. . . . 19 . . . 18 . . . 17. But then something in the wind made the hairs on his neck stiffen. He stopped his count, spinning on his heels, and peered out, in disgust, at the broad plain to the south.

  “Get him up!” Cross snapped, charging to the mongrel and lifting—by his own considerable power—the man to his feet.

  “Sir, I have not yet reached my summation.”

  Cross ignored the lawyer and said to Van Zant, “The army. An entire bloody cavalry troop, looks like. Let’s get this done now.”

  Van Zant looked out over the cliff and saw the formations, dark squares of horse and rider, advancing like thunderheads across the desert.

  “The army’s coming!” Reggie breaking from the old woman and dashing toward the edge.

  “They’re still off a ways,” Van Zant dropping the rope and helping Cross get the half-breed into position. “A mile or more, I’d say.”

  “Say, how ’bout we see what the army’s got to say ’bout this?” Owens stepping forward, his daughter in his arms.

  “You’re pulling a fast one, and you know it,” George fuming.

  Cross had no interest in opinions other than his own. All the authorization he required was folded in his pocket. What he did not want was delay, or bureaucracy, or the slow-drip of stilted thought that eked from the brain of the United States Army. He was above all that, beholden only to the highest authority there is.

  “Tie it off!” Cross demanding. Van Zant cleated the tail end of the rope to the pylon.

  “I got too much slack, hang on.” Van Zant looped the excess around the base knot as fast as he could.

  “Leave it,” Cross hissing through gritted teeth. “Harlan Two-Trees, I sentence you to die. May God have mercy on your soul.” Cross lowered his hips, ready to drive the prisoner back and over the edge.

  “Don’t do it—you can’t—please stop,” all protesting voices bled into one. Harlan pushed his weight back into Cross, fighting to the end, enraging the man in brown.

  “I said die, you son of a bitch!”

  A rifle boomed behind them—frightfully close—the civilians screaming as they dropped to the ground. The shot splintered the wood pylon inches above Van Zant’s hands, the Dutchman stumbling backward, the knot unspooling itself as he falls on his backside. A horse nickers, hooves gobbling up the short distance as two riders—soldiers on horseback—arriving like phantoms from the train side—descend on Cross, rifles cocked and steady.

  “Hands in the air,” the corporal commanding. “Where I can see ’em.”

  Scouts, Cross thought. Fucking scouts.

  The second soldier, a buck private, halted his horse next to Van Zant, covering the Dutchman, but also the handful of cowering civilians, arms held high.

  “I am a federal officer. This man is my prisoner,” Cross said.

  “And I said get your hands off him and in the air.”

  Jacob Cross looked into the eyes of the low-ranking officer peering down a barrel at him and could smell the arrogance, the false sense of security the man-child took in his uniform.

  He could taste strict adherence to orders and could feel in his bones that attempting to reason with the unreasonable would most certainly get him shot. Cross let go of the half-breed and raised his hands.

  “This man is a murderer and a fugitive.”

  “So says you,” Owens yelling from his belly. But even the hint of confusion was enough for the corporal. And Cross knew it.

  “Ain’t nobody hanging nobody ’less the captain say so.”

  Cross let out a sigh of frustration. He had no doubt that this would all work out in his favor. The half-breed will hang, and hang today, so help him God. No, the thing that really chaffed Jacob Cross was that two white soldiers—schoolboys—had managed to sneak up on him. There was just no way.

  And then a third scout appeared from behind the train—dark-skinned, riding bareback—and Cross understood. There we go, that makes sense. Cross pegged him for Warm Spring Apache. The native was hanging back, as instructed, so as not to upset the White People, but no doubt it had been his talents that wended the path up the rocky hillside. The scout’s cavalry uniform—a loose interpretation of army standards, supplemented with feathers—involved no trousers at all, only a breechcloth.

  “I think you better get your captain, then,” Cross said.

  The corporal addressed the Apache in clear words. “Get Captain Oliver.” The Warm Spring Apache nodded that he understood. He weaved his horse around and rode off.

  Then Cross added, “And I hope all your scouts have proper documentation.”

  * * *

  U.S. Army Captain Terrence Oliver wanted answers from one person at a time. Talking over one another, he made quite clear, was not an option. Oliver had driven his full troop—nearly two hundred men—over eighty miles of high desert through the night to get here. That meant travelling light and lean—something Oliver did better than any commander in the Plains Cavalry. No wagons, pack mules only. His orders were to locate the missing Santa Fe (he’d done that), appraise the situation, and act accordingly.

  Appraisal and action.

  This was the appraisal phase. And he wanted it over as quickly as possible. Because his course of action had been clear for the last hour—hunt down the deserting sonsabitches who did this and drop the hammer of justice. But this business with a hanging, this was a sideshow.

  * * *

  His first sergeant returned to him with a list of names and began to read. As Oliver listened, he matched each name with the face of the participant. The federal agent, Cross, checked out, as did his goon. The private train crew that brought them verified that that they’d shoved out from Lamy around four this morning.

  “These folks here were passengers,” the sergeant said, gesturing to the ragtag civilians being tended to by the troop’s medical officer. “They claim they’re the only survivors. So far our men ain’t found nothing to say otherwise.”

  Oliver gazed out from the cliffside, surveying the scope of the wreckage. The entire landscape crawled with army blue—soldiers lining up and tagging the dead bodies as best they could.

  “What about this sniper I keep hearing about?”

  “Nothing yet, sir. But we got sharpshooters of our own fanned out across the ridge in case he shows himself. I have two recon teams working down from the top of the rim. Two more spiraling up from the bottom. If he’s in this bowl, we’ll find him.”

  “Captain, if I may have my identification and my sidearm back, please.”

  Oliver looked down at the heavy gold emblem in his hands. Special Agent–Department of Indian Affairs. This man Cross appeared to be who he says he is, but that didn’t mean Oliver was going to let him run roughshod over his investigation. As far as Oliver was concerned, they both worked for the same government. The captain handed the badge to his first sergeant.

  “Give him back his shield. Hold onto his gun for now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant striding toward Cross. He came back holding an envelope.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a letter of au
thorization,” Cross answering a question not directed at him. Good hearing on Cross, Oliver noticed.

  “Read it,” Oliver said. The first sergeant removed the letter and unfolded the parchment.

  “‘To whom it may concern,’” he began. “‘Please accord my special agent, Jacob Cross, every consideration and accommodation necessary in the execution of his duties to this office and to the United States of America.’”

  “Unless it’s signed by the Secretary of War, I don’t see how it changes much.”

  “‘Sincerely yours, Grover Cleveland, President of the States.’”

  “Do mind your thumbprints, sergeant,” Cross concerned about the letter’s handing. “The president’s ink tends to smudge.”

  * * *

  “Who is this condemned man, anyway?” Oliver asked, and before the sergeant could speak, four people, including Cross, drew in breath to answer. Oliver shot up his gloved palm, silencing all but the man he had addressed.

  “Apparently,” the sergeant checking his notepad for accuracy, “he’s a Navajo half-breed name of Harlan Two-Trees.”

  “How do I know that name?”

  “Well, I can’t verify this, sir. But what the lawyer Ballentine and that fella Owens are saying, this Two-Trees is the same Navajo what helped bring down the Snowman last summer.”

  “I’ll be damned, that’s it.” Captain Oliver nudged his Appaloosa toward the prisoner, who sat on the ground, arms shackled behind him, but his hooded head held upright, like he’d been listening. “Remove his hood.” Cross thought about protesting, but a solider whisked the hood off before he could get a word out. “And the blindfold,” Oliver added. The man called Harlan Two-Trees—his flesh damp and red-faced from the close, hot air beneath the cloth—looked up at him and nodded, like they knew each other.

  “Captain,” Two-Trees said. Indeed they did know each other, at least by sight. Oliver recognized him immediately as the man who’d been accosted on the street outside that man’s house in Santa Fe. He saw him again that night, at the Blue Duck.

  “Well, I’ll be. Trouble sure has a way of finding you, doesn’t it, Two-Trees?”

  “That it does,” Cross answering again. “I’m sorry we’ve taken up your time, Captain. I know you have a lot of work to do. I’ll conclude my business and get out of your way.”

  “You’re just itching to swing that poor boy, aren’t you? What he done, got you so hot under the collar?”

  Cross turned, and for the first time, leveled a withering gaze on Captain Oliver. “Tell me your third general order, Captain?”

  “What?” Oliver not sure he heard him right.

  “Your third general order. Let’s hear it.”

  “I don’t need to explain military business to you, Cross.”

  “My point precisely, Captain. This is a matter of Indian Affairs. I have neither the time nor the liberty to divulge the particulars of this fugitive’s case. I suggest you tend to your office and I’ll tend to mine. Now if you’ll please return my sidearm and release my deputy, we can all return to our sworn duties.”

  Captain Terrence Oliver did not normally care enough about strangers to hate them, but everything about Jacob Cross—from his rattlesnake eyes to his letter from Grover Fucking Cleveland—made his stomach turn.

  “I pity you, Cross. You have no scope of what’s really important out here. The resources you burned tracking down one sad kid, I could run my troop for a month. Go ahead and hang him if that’s what you want. Do it, and get the hell out of my territory.” Oliver turned his horse and eased it forward.

  And that’s when Harlan spoke.

  “Your squad that went missing, they’re dead. Tombed up in the cliffs about twenty miles north of Santa Fe, not far from the Grande.”

  “Quiet,” Cross said.

  The captain held up his hand. “How do you know?”

  “I stumbled on it, two, three days ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me in Santa Fe?”

  “I didn’t piece it all together till this morning. Sorry to tell you it weren’t pretty. Your men got massacred good. Them what done it tried to make it look like Apaches, got it almost right too. Just missed a couple things that gave them away.”

  “What makes you an authority on the Apache, Diné?” Cross hissed.

  “Same authority as you.”

  Cross’s eyes narrowed. He slapped Two-Trees hard across the face.

  “Cross, you touch that man again, my first sergeant has permission to shoot you dead. You hear that, First Sergeant?”

  “Loud and clear, Captain.”

  “You’re threatening a federal agent of the United States. I’ll have you brought up on charges.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I flirted with a court-martial,” Oliver shrugged.

  “Forget your commission. You’ll die in prison.”

  Oliver ignored him. He wanted to hear from Two-Trees. He looked right at him and said, “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “Men who robbed the train, they killed your missing squad, took everything—their uniforms, horses, rifles, even the standard—just so they could make this whole caper here look like it were them Dazers getting back at the army by stealing its pay.”

  “Huh.” Oliver considered that a moment, his brow puzzled. “If their clothes were taken, how do you know they were my men?”

  “Yes, do tell, Two-Trees,” Cross incredulous now.

  “Because I found this.” Harlan swung his bound arms best he could. Something shiny flipped through the air and landed on the ground. The first sergeant picked it up.

  “Brass belt buckle. Standard army issue. Could be anybody’s.”

  “Flip it over.”

  The first sergeant examined the backside, unimpressed. “Wait a minute.” He turned from the waist, letting the sunlight fall across the worn piece of metal in his hands. “Got something scratched into it, a name or something.”

  Captain Oliver held out one hand and with the other retrieved a pair of wire-frame spectacles from his vestment. He took the buckle from his sergeant and read what someone had etched into the metal.

  “E.W. MT. 5C.” The captain stared at it stone-faced. “M-Troop, Fifth Cav. That’s us.”

  “E.W.” The sergeant repeating. Then he snapped his fingers. “Why, I’ll bet that’s little Eddie Wyeth, he’s one of the missing.”

  “The youngest,” Oliver said. “Seventeen.” He had committed to memory the names, ages and hometowns of each missing solider in his charge.

  “This means nothing. He could’ve picked that up anywhere down there,” Cross thumbing down into the arroyo.

  “Maybe.” Oliver flipped the buckle over, holding it more carefully than he had a minute ago. “Maybe not.”

  “You disappoint me, Oliver,” Cross throwing up his hands in contempt, “entertaining the raving lies of a man who would say anything to save his neck.” Cross squared his prisoner in front of him and prepared to march him into position. “I’ve indulged you long enough. You have your investigation. I have mine. Mine is a federal matter, trumping whatever constabulary authority you might have in the territory.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Cross. Those robbers stole the army’s pay.”

  “I’m sorry your salary is in the wind. I wish you every success in its retrieval.”

  “And I’m telling you that robbing the U. S. Department of War is about as federal as it gets. And this man here,” pointing to Two-Trees, “is a material witness with valuable information and he will be interviewed to find out what he knows.” Oliver then addressed Two-Trees directly. “You could find that spot in the cliffs where my men are buried?”

  “I’ll lead you to whatever’s left of them.”

  “Well, Mister Cross, looks like your hanging party’s going to have to wait, because Two-Trees stays with us.”

  “Absolutely not.” Cross pulled out a pair of handcuffs, slapped one bracelet onto to the prisoner’s wrist and the other onto his own. “Come
morning this man would be gone with the breeze and neither of us would get what we want out of him. He is in my custody and will remain there.”

  “What’re you proposing?” Oliver asked.

  Jacob Cross, without admitting defeat, took solace that even though the serpent tongue of Two-Trees had staved off the hanging for a day or two at least, that inevitable death just got a little more painful, a little less clean. Piano wire, maybe, instead of rope. And now it would happen in the basement of jail, where no witnesses would complain.

  “You will find Two-Trees in the Santa Fe Central Jail. If you haven’t made your inquiries in forty-eight hours, I’ll assume you’ve come to your senses.”

  “Two-Trees stays alive until he is interviewed. I don’t care it takes me a month. And just to make sure you don’t get squirrelly in the meantime, First Sergeant Daniels and one of my corporals will be escorting you to Santa Fe, at which time a proper military detail will be installed to guard him.”

  “I’m a busy man,” Cross said. “You have a week.”

  Oliver correctly sensed he had pushed Cross as far as he would go.

  “Fine. A week. And you’re taking all of these people back with you,” Oliver indicating the civilians. Cross glanced at the wretched assortment staring back at him.

  “I’m not a cab service.”

  “Well, how about I just commandeer your whole fucking train? I assure you I have the manpower.”

  Cross flicked a bit of dust off his jacket sleeve and squared his bowler. Sharing his coach with injured men, and old women and filthy, whining children—that was about as appealing to him as a cup of cold puke.