Barker watched until they rode out of sight. He had no problem letting the six keep the stage company’s horses. The Halliday agent in Mesilla was a son of a bitch and would have to be content with getting his passengers to the depot without any extra holes in their hides. Barker considered the trade worth it, even if the agent would argue the point. He knew where the outlaws hailed from and had a description that might fit any Mexican, but he might know more about their leader than he had before. All this was a start toward arresting them, however small a step it might be, if they poked their noses back into his territory.
And he reckoned they would. They had committed an easy robbery once. They would assume they could continue breaking the law. Until he caught them.
Frustrated, Mason Barker turned back and rode for Mesilla.
4
MASON BARKER DOZED IN THE SADDLE AS HE RODE. For close to a month he had ridden the main road, waiting for the Mexican outlaws to show themselves again, and he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them. It was too much to believe they had skulked back to Sonora after robbing the Halliday stage.
It took a bit of work to keep alive the thought of hunting down the road agents, because he was so tired. The setting sun was like a muzzy cotton blanket swaddling him in warmth that took him back to his childhood, when his ma would tuck him between his two bigger siblings on a cold Colorado night. The blanket always smelled sweet, of sunlight and herbs and her. He jerked awake when his mare suddenly reared, snorting in fear. The lawman grabbed hard at the saddle horn to hang on even as he was searching the parched ground for a sign of what had spooked his horse. Rattlers came out this time of day, but so did other predators. He had noticed the coyotes were especially bad this year, owing to the drought that had forced them down out of the mountains into regions where they could dine on the hardy, hearty rabbits and prairie dogs.
“Whoa, settle down. Good girl,” Barker said, regaining control of his horse. He frowned when he didn’t see what had caused the usually stolid mare to buck like that. Then he lifted his gaze to the horizon and caught sight of light reflecting off brass.
“Let’s go see what the army’s up to now,” Barker said. His horse tried to crow-hop on him, but he persevered and finally got her moving in the direction of the soldiers.
At the head of the column, next to the guidon, rode a newly minted lieutenant, evidenced by the highly polished, unblemished gleam of his bars. Gold bars on a shavetail’s shoulders. That usually meant trouble for someone, though even a lieutenant could learn if he lived long enough. Barker waved and then advanced when the officer ordered a halt in what he thought was a commanding tone. The officer was barely old enough so his voice didn’t crack from adolescence. As he got closer, Barker saw that the lieutenant led a platoon of buffalo soldiers, Tenth Cavalry by their insignia. The men’s sweaty black faces shone like mirrors in the setting sun, but none looked too happy about being in the field. Barker could agree with them on that, especially since they wore heavy wool uniforms in about the hottest summer he could remember.
Barker was glad he wasn’t in the army any longer. His eighteen months of service had been hectic, dangerous, and ultimately useful since the Navajos had been removed from their land and put over near Fort Sumner at Bosque Redondo. Barker wasn’t sure how he felt when he heard that General Sherman, that red-haired devil incarnate, had allowed them to return to Navajoland. He shrugged that off since it was yet another reason he was no longer in the army. Too many decisions were made back in Washington and not enough by the officers in the field having to deal daily with real problems. General Carleton had a vision for the territory lacking in politicians, and Colonel Carson was about the finest man Barker had ever met.
“Howdy,” he called. “I’m Deputy Marshal Barker out of Mesilla.”
“Federal?” asked the lieutenant, his tone curt. From his florid, sweaty face and the way he sat, as if someone had jammed a rod up his ass, it was clear the lieutenant was new to command and probably to the West. If he didn’t ease up, he would fall out of the saddle, fainting dead away from heatstroke and probably doing it all at full attention. Barker doubted any of the buffalo soldiers would jump to the man’s aid, either, not that he blamed them much. Might be they had bets on how long he could sit at attention before keeling over. Barker wasn’t much of a betting man, but he would have laid a silver dollar that the lieutenant didn’t last another day and maybe not even until noon tomorrow.
Barker looked past the lieutenant and saw a familiar soldier. Sergeant Willie Sturgeon was as soaked with sweat as his superior but had the look of a man able to ride another fifty miles before the sun returned.
“Sergeant, how’re you doing?” Barker called. Sturgeon gave him a broad smile but said nothing. Barker turned back to the shavetail lieutenant and said, “Yep, I’m the federal deputy in these parts. I was out serving process. Folks are getting kinda nervy about watering holes because it’s been so dry. Better to let them duke it out in court than to start a range war.”
Barker fell silent, waiting for the lieutenant to respond with his mission, but the officer said nothing.
“You looking for anyone in particular, Lieutenant, or just riding patrol?” asked Barker, as much to find out as fill the verbal void. He took off his hat and felt a mite cooler as a soft breeze evaporated the rivers of sweat escaping the brim to run down his forehead. After wringing out his blue-and-white bandanna, he mopped at his brow and felt better for it.
“Rustlers,” the laconic lieutenant said.
“I chased a gang of road agents a while back. Must have been more’n three weeks ago now. From all I can tell, they were from Mexico.” Barker wasn’t sure why he wanted to hold his own counsel about being on the trail of those road agents now. It might be he took it as a personal affront that they had robbed a stagecoach so close to Mesilla, or it could be that the lieutenant’s attitude annoyed him and he wanted nothing more than to ride on without answering pointless questions.
“Sonora?” asked Sergeant Sturgeon. He was a powerful man but short. Barker wouldn’t have known that from the way the sergeant appeared when mounted, but he had seen him on the ground and had towered over him.
“You think the rustlers and my Mexican highwaymen are one and the same? It happens. A gang like them moves in and takes a fancy to an area.”
“We’re chasing Apaches,” the lieutenant said. “Not Mexicans.”
“But you must have some reason for asking if the owlhoots I’m after were from Sonora,” Barker said. He ignored the officer and directed his words to Sturgeon. This would only reflect badly on the sergeant, but Barker wanted to round up the outlaws. His outlaws. If a white officer new to the frontier got his nose out of joint because he had to command a company of Negroes, there wasn’t anything Barker was likely to do or say that would make matters worse for Sturgeon and the other enlisted men.
“Rumors, suh,” Sturgeon said. “We was a day out of the fort—”
“Fort Selden.” The lieutenant cut in, obviously irked at being left out of the conversation. “We found a butchered cow. A ranch hand claimed a half-dozen vaqueros had rustled and eaten it.”
“Half dozen, eh?” mused Barker. “Might be the ones I’m hunting.”
“This was two weeks ago,” the lieutenant said.
“Sir,” Barker said, sick of the officer’s mulishness, “we’re on the same side. You don’t want this gang running roughshod through the territory any more than I want Apaches rustling cattle.”
“I’m sorry, Marshal Barker.” The lieutenant indicated that he wished to speak privately, so Barker allowed himself to be led a few yards off. “You seem a decent sort, Marshal.”
“Not too many’d make that claim, but I try to be fair-minded.”
“Yes, well, you might be about the only one in this godforsaken hellhole willing even to speak to my troopers.”
“Because they’re black?”
“Yes,” the lieutenant said. “We are in serious need of decent food. W
e requisition meat, and it has maggots in it. The flour is so old it is more like ground chalk. Even the army’s commanders back in Washington are less than enthusiastic about supplying Negro units with proper arms and ammunition.”
“I’ve heard tell General Ord down in San Antonio isn’t much of a supporter of the buffalo soldier units,” Barker said.
“He gets his orders from General Sheridan, though I suspect he is quite zealous about carrying them out. Neither Colonel Hatch, commanding the Tenth Cavalry, nor Colonel Grierson down at Fort Concho in charge of the Ninth is valued highly by their superiors.”
Barker said nothing about the lieutenant’s complaints. He could read between the lines what the man was saying. If a colonel with Ben Grierson’s outstanding war record was shit upon by higher-ups, what did that mean to a lowly lieutenant with his first command?
“You allowed to purchase from civilian stores?” asked Barker.
“To some extent,” the lieutenant said suspiciously.
“Unless you got real pressing business, why don’t we all mosey on back to Mesilla? Your men can swill some of the rotgut at the town’s saloons while you and me and Mr. Dooley at the general store see if he can do better supplying your post. It’s a ways off to Fort Selden, but not that far. Considering his bent, I doubt Mr. Dooley would mind adding to his business.”
Barker had another motive for bringing the business to Hugh Dooley. As good as his word, the merchant had hired Nate Barker and had kept him working hard for almost a month. If Barker could return the favor in the form of new business, it might repay Dooley. Even better, Dooley might put Nate in charge of military accounts and let him taste what it was like to be a real businessman.
“We are seldom welcomed with open arms, Marshal,” said the lieutenant.
“Well, sir, you haven’t been to Mesilla. It’s a right friendly town and one where you can do business.”
The lieutenant pursed his chapped lips, then rubbed them with his gloved hand as he thought.
“My men don’t drink much. They don’t have much chance, but as a company they have the lowest incidence of drunkenness in the Tenth Cavalry.”
“Sergeant Sturgeon’s a good noncom, but I wasn’t suggesting that your men would get drunk and hurrah my town. Neither of us’d like that. But a taste of whiskey, just a taste, wouldn’t hurt any man in uniform.”
“My name’s Lieutenant Greenberg.” The officer thrust out his hand. Barker solemnly shook it, seeing that the man was slowly coming around to being a tad more human. He still straddled his horse like he had a rod up his ass, but that might be due to the uncomfortable McClellan saddle. Good for the horse, not so good for the rider.
“Let’s ride for Mesilla, Lieutenant Greenberg.”
The bugler needed a great deal more practice before he hit all the right notes, but he was as enthusiastic as the rest of the company that they were taking a furlough, however brief, in Mesilla. Barker and Greenberg rode along, getting to know each other better.
It was past nine o’clock when they rode down Mesilla’s Calle de Guadalupe.
“We’ve got a fair number of saloons where your men can wet their whistles, Lieutenant,” Barker said, “but my favorite’s that one.”
“The Plugged Nickel Saloon and Gambling Euphorium?” Greenberg chuckled as he read the sign aloud. Barker liked the man even more for understanding the unintentional double entendre in the name.
“Sturgeon can deal with the barkeep. You and I can talk turkey with Mr. Dooley.” Barker saw the store owner on the boardwalk in front of his establishment, his sharp eyes counting the soldiers as they rode past. Barker could almost hear the money clinking on the counter and Dooley’s poorly hidden gloating because of it.
“If you don’t think there’ll be any trouble,” Lieutenant Greenberg said dubiously.
“As long as they don’t pick a fight and keep to themselves, there’s not likely to be any cause to worry,” Barker said, anxious to get down to negotiating with Dooley. Bring the man business and obligate him to apprentice Nate as a purchasing assistant, so he could learn the business rather than just sweeping up and stocking the shelves—it was simple enough.
Greenberg dismissed Sturgeon and the rest of the company, all of whom went off with whoops of glee. Barker rode to the front of the general store and dismounted.
“You’re up mighty late, Mr. Dooley. Waiting for me to bring you some business?”
“Hardly, Deputy,” Dooley said in his acerbic way. “I’m not sure I want more army business. The quartermaster at Fort Bayard’s slow to pay.”
“Might be the one at Fort Selden is better. Why don’t you and Lieutenant Greenberg discuss what he needs and how likely you are to get paid?”
“Talk’s cheap,” Dooley said.
“But it can’t hurt,” Barker reminded him. He saw that the merchant only wanted to be coaxed. In a few minutes, after the preliminary poking and prodding and feeling out was over, Greenberg and Dooley got down to serious discussion about the type of supplies, quality, quantity, and payment.
Barker enjoyed listening to the negotiating but was distracted by a ruckus down the street. He eased away, not wanting to bother the lieutenant, but the officer saw.
“My men,” Greenberg said. He growled like a guard dog. “I should have known there’d be trouble.”
“Why don’t you stay here and let me take care of it, Lieutenant?” suggested Barker. He felt guilty about inviting the buffalo soldiers to town and then having the rowdier element in Mesilla make life miserable for them. “If you go, it’s an army matter. If I do, it’s just a local dustup.”
“Very well,” Greenberg said, displeased.
“Don’t you go rooking him none, Mr. Dooley, while I’m gone,” Barker said, trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.
Barker hurried down the street to the crowd gathered in front of the Lost Dutchman Saloon. Two of the soiled doves from inside were egging on the more drunken patrons.
“What’s the trouble, Sergeant?” Barker asked in a loud voice.
“Seems they don’t cotton to our kind, suh,” Willie Sturgeon said. He hardly came to Barker’s chin, but the marshal would never have crossed the man. Sturgeon’s biceps strained the cloth of his uniform and he barely had a neck, solid muscle going from just under the earlobes straight to his shoulders. Sturgeon radiated power—and more than a little anger.
“By ‘your kind,’ you mean soldiers?” Barker hitched up his gun belt and turned to face a man dressed in an expensive coat and brocade vest. He had spent more on his boots than Barker made in a year. “Anything wrong with their money, Mr. Delacroix?” he asked the saloon owner, who had one Cyprian on each arm. Barker saw that it was the whores who had sparked this, not the Frenchman who owned the saloon. But Delacroix knew he had to keep both his women and his patrons happy. The buffalo soldiers were interlopers in an otherwise ordered, disorderly house of ill repute.
“Wrong color, might be,” grumbled a private who was almost as powerfully built as Sergeant Sturgeon.
“Well then, let’s all go to another drinking establishment,” Barker said, stepping between a drunk who came up fast, fist cocked, and the private. With a quick belly thrust, the marshal sent the drunk reeling before he could unload his punch. The storm cloud of anger on the marshal’s face kept the man from recovering his balance and causing more trouble.
His arm around Sturgeon’s shoulders, Barker walked the buffalo soldiers down to the Plugged Nickel.
“Let me go in and make sure Gus has enough liquor for such a thirsty bunch,” Barker said. He hurried into the saloon, went to the bar, grabbed Gus Phillips by the front of his shirt, and pulled him halfway over the bar.
“Wh-what’re you doin’, Marshal?” croaked out the barkeep.
“Making sure my friends get a decent reception here. Seems others in town aren’t as willing to roll out the welcome mat.”
“Bring ’em in, Marshal,” came a cheery voice. “Are they gambling men?”
Barker released Gus’s shirt and saw the tinhorn gambler he had run out of town—or thought he had—standing in his starched white, ruffled shirt and looking like a million dollars. He riffled through a deck of cards as he spoke.
“What are you doing back in Mesilla?” Barker asked.
“I’m running the faro game for Mr. Phillips. Do these friends of yours need a bit of instruction in bucking the tiger?” The gambler flashed a feral grin. “I can open the table for penny ante until they feel comfortable with larger bets.”
“Sergeant Sturgeon?” called Barker. “Any of your men want to try their luck at faro?”
“Might be one or two. Most of ’em’s jist thirsty. Sarsaparilla’s good as anything to them boys. We been on patrol for a long spell.”
Barker glanced at Gus. The barkeep swallowed hard.
“He’s an honest gambler, Marshal. I never seen him cheat.”
“You never caught him at it,” Barker said. That made for an honest gambler in most parts, but not in Mesilla. Not in his town.
“Never, but I got to get a new keg of beer if you want me to serve that many, uh, soldiers.”
Barker noticed that several of the regular patrons slipped out when they saw the color of the troopers, but enough stayed. They might have remained just to see if blood would be shed. The marshal nodded and brought in the company of buffalo soldiers. They filled the place from wall to wall, and some even ordered more than the weak beer Gus served.
The Plugged Nickel would show a profit for the night, and tomorrow no one would remember that the customers were black. More likely, they’d remember the bad piano playing and how the gambler smelled all purty with his violet-scented toilet water and never seemed to lose as the cards flopped over, one after another, on his faro table.
Barker returned to the general store in time to see Greenberg and Dooley shaking hands.
He had to smile. Everything had gone real well this night. Dooley had a new account to supply, and the lieutenant could get decent food for his soldiers. The only thing more he could ask was to catch the gang of desperadoes from Sonora.
The Sonora Noose Page 4