by Mark Henry
Clay’s lariat settled over the neck of a snorting beast as Al Seiber, chief of scouts, splashed up the little canyon on a copper sorrel. A squad of mounted troopers from C company followed a hundred yards to the rear, flankers out as far as they could get in the narrow confines of the canyon.
Clay took a dally around his saddle horn and came as close to attention as Trap ever saw him. The strong-jawed chief of scouts was one of the few people who caused Madsen to go quiet. Trap didn’t ever mention it, but he was pretty certain Clay hadn’t even considered growing a mustache until his met his new mentor.
Seiber was an affable man, with a direct manner that made him either feared or admired. His Apache scouts followed him faithfully and trusted him as they did one another. “I always tell ’em the truth,” he would often say. “When I tell an Apache, ‘If you do thus and such, I’ll kill you,’ and he does it, well, then, he knows I’ll keep my word, because he’s seen me do it before. If I promise one I’ll help him, he knows he can count on that too, just as sure as the other.”
The capable frontiersman lived an honest life out in the open and his motives lived out there too for everyone to see. Seiber reined his Roman-nosed gelding to a sliding stop and pulled his oilskin tighter around his neck to ward off the pelting rain.
“Good work, boys,” he shouted above the squall. He eyed the brooding herd of mules with a jaundiced gaze. “Don’t know whether you saved the Army some money by recovering stolen stock or cost it in the way of medical bills for the damage these cursed animals are bound to inflict.” The rain began to ease as quickly as it started. Seiber took a kerchief from the crown of his wide-brimmed hat and wiped rainwater off his face and high forehead. He took great care to smooth his thick mustache before he replaced the hat.
“Still,” he continued. “We can’t have the hostiles stealin’ our animals, no matter how wicked the beasts are. Did you boys catch sight of the renegades? It took some cojones for sure—you almost have to admire ’em.”
“No, sir,” Trap said.
Seiber rubbed a strong jaw in thought. “I got me a little problem, boys.”
Trap watched as the ramrod-straight lieutenant in charge of C Company broke away from his men and picked his way through the rocks toward them.
“My problem is thus,” the chief of scouts continued. “Victorio and that spooky sister of his are causin’ quite a stir since they slipped away. I’m to guide a company of troops east to join forces with men from Grant and see if we can’t catch the wily son of a bitch.”
The tall lieutenant dismounted and checked his cinch while Seiber continued with his explanation. The rain had stopped, but a bitter wind blew down the mountain like an omen of things to come.
“To be honest,” Seiber said, “I didn’t have a lot of faith that you boys would be able to hold the trail with the rain and all. I should have brought a couple of the White Mountain scouts with me.”
The lieutenant removed a gauntlet and stepped forward to shake Trap’s hand and then Clay’s hand in turn. Gray eyes peered over a slightly hooked nose. There was a hint of honest weariness about his angular face, as if he carried the burden of the world on his shoulders.
“Hezekiah Roman,” he said, leaving off his rank since he was speaking to civilians. It didn’t matter. Though he was no more than five or six years older than Trap, Roman had a dignified air about him that left no doubt about who was in charge. Even Seiber took note of the young officer’s quiet, yet piercing voice.
“I wonder if you men would feel comfortable tracking for my column while we go after these renegades.” He scanned the surrounding mesas with a gaze so flint-hard, it looked as though he might set fire to every tree. “It was a bold move to come right onto the compound like that—a move that can’t go unpunished.”
Trap shot a glance at Clay, who looked at him and shrugged.
Seiber cleared his throat. “They’re young, sir—young but capable. I’ve been watching them and I’ve not seen many of my Apache scouts that can track as good as young O’Shannon here. Both know their way around a horse. And if you can get past his constant jabbering, Madsen is as stalwart a hand on the trail as any man in the Army. He’s got an eye like a hawk and can use that fancy long gun of his to shoot the heads off turkeys for the camp pot at two hundred paces.”
Trap hated to admit it, but the prospect of tracking the mule thieves appealed to him. He could see by the glint in Clay’s eyes he felt the same way. The adventure would be a welcome change to the drudgery of garrison life even if it did mean time away from Maggie. Under the watchful eye of the Reverend O’Shannon, the two hardly got to spend any time alone together anyway.
“We’ll do our best for you, Lieutenant Roman.” Trap held out his hand to shake again. It seemed to be the proper thing to do since an agreement had been reached.
“Excellent,” Roman said. He remounted immediately and nodded up the canyon. It was apparent that he was not the sort to sit around and contemplate things once a decision was made. He turned and spoke over his shoulder to a gaunt sergeant who’d ridden up behind him. “Sergeant Martini, have a detail of two men fall out and take that string of mules from Mr. Madsen and see them back to the camp. The rest of us will take up the trail.”
“Aye, sir,” the sallow sergeant said in a clipped Italian accent. “Fitzsimmons, Wallace, fall out for detail!” His barked orders belied his slender build.
“You’ll need supplies, men,” Roman said, turning matter-of-factly back to Trap and Clay. “I took the liberty of packing you each a kit when Sergeant James came in with the news. Mr. Webber.” Roman didn’t so much raise his voice as he put more energy into it. A redheaded trooper riding a massive bay gelding trotted up from the ranks.
The lieutenant dipped his head at the trooper. “Private Webber will see that you have your gear. From this point on, I’d suggest neither of you leave the camp without at least enough supplies to spend the night. It’s been my experience that things seldom go as planned.”
* * *
Trap O’Shannon knew how to track, but the idea of having a column of twenty armed soldiers behind him was a big responsibility and it put him a little on edge.
The steady rain had washed away almost all sign of the renegades. For the first two hours, Trap went on little more than instinct and the fact that there were very few directions meant anyone could take a horse in the jagged confines of the red rock canyon. As the sandstone walls began to fan out, the options for travel increased and the tension mounted inside the young tracker.
He moved slowly, leading his little black gelding, stooping now and then to study a bit of compressed gravel or crushed vegetation. Often, he had little more to go on than a flake of earth that looked out of place for its surroundings or the telltale scuff a hoof might leave behind on wet rock. Always, he was aware of the soldiers behind him, pressing him. The rattle of bits and groan of horses added to his stress.
Luckily, the rain had not come as hard on the far side of the mountains. Trap was relieved to find the faint tracks of unshod horses weaving in and out between the pungent creosote bushes and chaparral. The ground softened and the trail became easier to follow just before sundown.
“We’ll stop up there by that little creek and rest the horses,” Roman said, pointing with his gauntlet at a line of scrubby salt cedars.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant,” Clay said, drawing rein beside the officer. “But these animals look mighty near worn out and we haven’t been gone more than a few hours.”
Trap had been so focused on the trail he hadn’t noticed how poor and stumble-footed most of the Army mounts were. Roman’s was in good flesh, as was Private Webber’s bay and a handful of others, but by and large the horses were winded and hollow-eyed.
Lieutenant Roman rested both hands on the smooth pommel of his McClellan saddle. “Yes, Mr. Madsen, I’m afraid they are. All the best stock went out after Victorio, along with Mr. Seiber and Captain Rollins’ company. I’m afraid bringing in a
couple of renegade mule thieves didn’t rate high on the colonel’s priorities when it came to doling out supplies and horseflesh.”
Fifty yards from the creek, Trap pulled up short and scanned the darkening horizon. He slid off his horse and studied the mass of tracks before him in the dust. At least ten new riders had joined the two renegades, maybe as many as fifteen.
It was getting too dark to see well, but Trap could tell the new horses were shod, so if they were Indians they were riding stolen ponies.
Still, something nagged at Trap as he studied the tracks in the long shadows of waning light. He nodded his head slowly when he’d figured it out.
Trap looked up at Roman as the young officer rode up alongside him.
“Sir.” Trap gazed into the gathering darkness and shivered in spite of himself. “Someone else is chasing the Apaches. Somebody besides us.”
“Chasing, you say?” Roman raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, sir. The two that took our mules have picked up their pace some. They spin every now and again to catch a look behind them. The new tracks never look back, and they’re moving at a pretty good clip.”
“Another cavalry unit?” Clay smoothed his fledgling mustache.
“Could be,” Roman said.
Trap put a hand flat on the ground, feeling the tracks. “I don’t think so, sir. No rank and file to this group. Whoever it is, they ride as a bunch, not a disciplined column.”
A drawn look spread over Roman’s weary face. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he whispered. His breath clouded in front of him in the cold night air. “This is troublesome,” he said, as much to himself as anyone else. “Extremely troublesome.”
He didn’t say why.
* * *
Lieutenant Roman chose the only seven men with fit horses to ride before dawn, Private Webber and Sergeant Martini among them. “We need to make good speed, men,” he said as the group mounted up in the gray darkness. He was not a man to explain himself any more than that.
The remaining horses appeared unable to follow at any speed, and though he was loath to split his forces, Roman left thirteen men behind to pick their way back to Camp Apache as their mounts were able.
The trail was a bold one, with at least a dozen shod horses producing a considerable amount of sign. Trap had no trouble following it even in the scant light of false dawn.
When the sun was still a faint orange wafer on the knife edge of the eastern horizon, Trap reined in his horse and motioned for the others to stop. Crows circled above a distant pueblo, whirling black dots against a gunmetal sky. Their grating caws added to the chill of the morning air and sent a shiver up the young tracker’s spine.
“Can you smell it, Lieutenant?” Private Webber stood in the stirrups and inclined his red head toward the handful of drab adobe buildings and rough goat pens.
“Keep to your column, Mr. Webber,” Roman said without looking back.
“Yessir.” The private lifted his reins and moved his gelding back two steps into the ranks.
“Smell what?” Clay turned in the saddle from his spot beside Trap. “I don’t smell anything but dirt and wind.”
Roman rode forward and motioned for the column to follow with a flick of his hand. “Death, Mr. Madsen,” he said over his shoulder. “That smell on the wind is the smell of death.”
CHAPTER 28
Huge flies crowded around the exposed white skull of a butchered Mexican goatherd at the outskirts of the little town. A shotgun blast to the chest had torn half of his slight body away.
The tracks showed how a group of mounted men had swept through the village like a bad storm. A dozen other bodies littered the street, each mutilated and scalped like the goatherd. Three women lay clumped together in the threshold of a tiny pink church. Bullet holes riddled the adobe walls like pockmarks where the women had been cut down, seeking refuge in the only sanctuary they knew.
The troopers dismounted and led their skittish mounts through the grizzly scene, checking for survivors. Trap knew there wouldn’t be any.
“Those two Apaches we’re after didn’t do all this,” Trap said in a husky voice, full of disgust.
Lieutenant Roman took a deep breath and looked south toward the Black River. “No, Mr. O’Shannon,” he whispered. “This is the work of scalp hunters. The Apache kills his share of Mexicans, mind you—and in some awful ways. . . .” Roman closed his gray eyes, remembering. When he opened them again, he moved off to survey the rest of the scene.
“The Mexican government still pays quite a few pesos for Apache scalps,” Johannes Webber said. His voice was quiet but stoic, as if he was reading all this from a book and not living in the middle of it. He flipped his gelding’s reins around a broken fence rail. “It was big business back in the forties and fifties. Lots of folks came down to collect a quick fortune. Now, only Mexican citizens can collect the bounty, but that doesn’t stop the determined ones. Hard to tell the difference between an Apache scalp and a peon goat-herd’s.”
The red-haired trooper toed at the body of an elderly woman. “They took both her ears. That’s the only way the Mexican government can be sure the scalp hunters aren’t cheating them—you know, trying to get two for one.”
“Oh, no, no, no . . .” Clay Madsen’s voice drifted soft and piteous from a slumped adobe shack on the sad little street. He appeared a moment later, framed in the black backdrop of an open doorway. The lifeless body of a girl in her teens was draped across his arms. Slender arms and legs hung in the air. Her face and bare chest were covered with blood. A modest peasant dress was ripped to tattered rags. Her scalp, along with both of her ears, had been peeled away.
Flecks of vomit dripped from Madsen’s chin. He shook his head solemnly and held the dead girl up to Roman. “Who would do such a thing, Lieutenant? She ain’t no older than I am.”
Fire burned in the back of Trap’s throat and he thought of Maggie. Whenever he worried, his thoughts always turned to her.
“Sergeant Martini,” Roman said. His voice was clipped and quiet.
“Aye, sir.” Martini stepped forward leading his mount.
“Get the men to move these bodies into the pueblos where the birds and coyotes can’t get them.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” Martini turned to carry out his orders.
“Sergeant,” Roman said, removing his hat. “One more thing; you’re Catholic, I believe.”
Martini turned back on his heels. “I am at that, sir.”
“Very good.” Roman’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I imagine most of these people were as well. Please see to whatever it is good Catholics need at times like this. We’ll come back and bury them after we tend to our more pressing matters.” He returned the hat to his head and stepped forward to put a hand on Madsen’s shoulder.
Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks. “I’m sorry to be such a bawl-baby, Lieutenant Roman.” Clay set the dead girl gently at his feet. He sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “I won’t let it happen again.”
“You’re a strong one, Mr. Madsen, chock-full of wit and humor. I know, I’ve watched you.” Roman looked wistfully at the ground. “This world is full of wicked men—and what these wicked men chiefly lack is heart. I’ve seen a bundle of evil men who were chock-full of bravery, but I’ve never seen one of them cry for anyone but himself. In my book, a man who’ll weep for the soul of another is a man indeed.”
Roman turned and started for the edge of town. “You two come with me,” he said over his shoulder. “Mr. O’Shannon, can you find us the trail?”
Trap took off his hat and rubbed a hand through his hair. “The scalp hunters are all riding shod horses. There’s fourteen or fifteen of them. Should be a simple trail to follow.”
“Good,” Roman said. “Our Apaches are most certainly heading back to their own people. The time to punish them for their thievery will have to wait. Our primary mission now is to save their lives.”
CHAPTER 29
No mat
ter how the O’Shannons saw it, Maggie already thought of Hummingbird as her mother-in-law and gave her all the respect and deference a daughter should. For the first time in two years, she found herself truly happy—even with Trap gone on frequent little forays with the Army. Just knowing he shared her feelings was enough to make her glow.
Though not as beautiful as the Wallowa, the mountains around Camp Apache held their own quiet splendor and enjoyed a pleasantly cool fall. A nice breeze blew through the canyon along the White River, and the hot-natured girl would often go sit on a rock below a twisted pine to think and feel the wind. While others layered on cloaks and woolen wraps of assorted sizes, Maggie stalked about the camp with nothing more than a light shawl and her feelings for Trap to keep her warm.
Maggie drew plenty of looks and smiles from the enlisted men when they were in garrison. Not so much because she was an Indian. Most of the Apache had been moved to San Carlos, but there were plenty around camp. Some worked as domestic help for the married soldiers. Most of the others were little more than beggars, dressed in rags and begging for their rations. Some of the Apache women were pretty, or would have been if given their freedom, but reservation life had taken its toll.
Star, a young woman only a few years Maggie’s senior, worked as a housekeeper for the colonel’s wife. She seemed happy enough, and often joked with Maggie when they bumped into one another around camp. Star stood out as one of the true beauties among her people, until her husband, a sullen, filthy man, accused her of infidelity and cut off the fleshy part of her nose. She disappeared from the camp shortly afterward and forced the colonel’s wife to find a new maid.
After that, Maggie resolved to keep to herself and save her friendships for Trap.