by Mark Henry
A cool wind kicked up while Trap repacked the trowels. When he turned, something in the scrubby branches of a creosote bush caught his eye.
At first he thought it was a desert cottontail scurrying for shelter. Then, the wind moved the bush and he could make out straight edges, angular like something man-made.
Trap gave Skunk a reassuring pat on the rump and went to investigate. The others were already mounting up.
“What is it?” Clay asked, trotting over to see what Trap had found. It was a light brown envelope, half-burned. Scrawled in block letters, the ink smeared by an unsteady hand, was the word URGENT!
* * *
A single sheet of tan paper folded lengthwise down the center slid out of the envelope and into Roman’s gloved hand. More than half of it crumbled into parched ashes when he tried to open it. He read what was left slowly to himself, then passed it back to Trap.
“Gentlemen, we can stop wasting our time feeling sorry for those men. It looks as though they were part of the group that kidnapped Señorita de la Cruz. I am assuming they were on their way to deliver these ransom instructions when they had the bad fortune to run into this little band of hostiles.”
Trap read over the note twice to make sure he got it all, then handed it up to Clay.
“It instructs the Army to build a fire on top of Kill Devil Mesa as soon as this message is received and the money is ready.” Roman rubbed his tired eyes. “Further instructions follow, but they are burned away. Whatever their plan was, it may have changed since the message never got delivered. It’s dated two days ago. The signal fire should have been set by now.”
Clay’s mouth dropped open and he began to fidget with his catch rope. “You think they might spook and kill her?”
“It’s possible,” Roman said. “More likely, they would send out another note since these two never returned. Sergeant O’Shannon. Can you pick up the dead men’s back trail?”
Trap nodded, spinning Skunk. He was already on it. The track of two shod horses moving across the desert was easy enough to find and follow.
“Very well,” Roman said. “We’ll follow the tracks right back to the men that sent them—and hopefully to the girl. We need to move quickly. . . .” Roman’s voice trailed off. He motioned with his hat toward a cloud of dust billowing on the distant horizon.
Someone was coming.
Clay turned in the saddle to slide Clarice out of her scabbard. “Apache?” he said under his breath as he lowered the block a hair to be certain he had a fresh round in place.
A growing red cloud boiled over the hills to the east. Whoever it was, they were getting closer.
Roman dismounted and stood quietly. He scanned the area around them, thinking. At length he looked up at Clay.
“Sergeant Madsen, see that patch of rocks?” He pointed to a long hill a hundred yards away.
Clay grunted. “Yessir.”
“Take your long gun and set up a position of cover amid those rocks. Stay out of sight until I take off my hat. Don’t rejoin us until I put my hat back on.”
“How will I know if I should fire?”
Roman patted Madsen’s horse on the rump. He smiled. “Clay, if we start shooting, you go ahead and feel free to join in.”
“Aye, sir.” Clay put the spurs to his blue roan and loped up the steady incline to the pile of boulders. It was big enough to hide both horse and rider.
Roman stood by in silence as the dust cloud boiled ever larger on the horizon.
Trap was surprised that he felt no fear. He found himself too worried about letting Captain Roman and the others down to have any time to be afraid. He repeated Clay’s earlier question. “Do you think it’s Apaches? Victorio coming back, maybe?”
“They’re coming in from the southeast.” Roman shook his head. “It’s almost sunset. That means the light is shining directly in their eyes. No self-respecting Apache would launch an attack unless the sun was to his back.”
“Maybe they don’t know we’re here,” Webber offered. His gaze too was locked on the horizon, the Winchester in his hands.
“Could be,” Roman said. “But I doubt it. That cloud of dust has United States Cavalry written all over it. We horse soldiers are generally the only breed of human around these parts with enough hubris to let everyone and everything in the country know we’re on our way. No, that’s cavalry all right. And if it’s who I think it is, I’m afraid he could pose nearly as much of a problem as Apaches.”
CHAPTER 36
D Troop was under the command of Captain Fredrick Paul Lyons; Fredrick to the few friends he had, not Fred, not Freddy, or even F.P. He’d been known to correct generals if they attempted to call him anything but his proper given name.
A tall man with gray circles under matching eyes, he stood firmly on all points of formality and expected all those around him to do the same. The joke around the Army was that he required his wife to address him as Captain Lyons when he was in uniform and Your Highness when he was not.
A normal company was comprised of about a hundred men including officers, but with sickness, desertion, and other manpower shortages, D Company was lucky to have a complement of fifty. They breasted the sandstone ridge in columns of four, with Captain Lyons out front on a stodgy white horse. His aide rode next to him, followed by a mustachioed bugler. The swallow-tailed company guidon snapped on its nine-foot lance in the freshening breeze above the next trooper in line. Each man’s face was set in a sort of grim, pinch-faced annoyance, as if he was being pestered by a fly but was unable to shoo it away because his hands were busy.
“The whole lot of them looks like they’re marching off to Perdition,” Trap muttered, moving up next to Roman.
Webber flashed a knowing smirk. “The poor bastards. You’d look that way too if you had to ride with Lyons. The man’s an ass who can’t . . .”
“That’ll do,” Roman said, his voice sharp but not unfriendly. “Explain to Mr. O’Shannon about Captain Lyons and his many idiosyncrasies another time. Just be certain you don’t do it in front of me.”
“Aye, sir.” Webber winked at Trap, confirming he’d fill him in later.
Approaching, Lyons raised his bony arm to the square and gave the command to halt in a loud if somewhat nasal voice.
“The Lyons roar,” Webber whispered, blank-faced.
Roman shot him a sideways look.
“Sorry, sir,” Webber said. “Won’t happen again.”
Lyons urged his mount forward. “Lieutenant Roman, you’re out of uniform,” he barked from the back of his sullen horse. “Leave garrison for a few days and you go to hell in a handbasket, eh?”
Trap had seen the type before. Some men, officers and enlisted alike, felt like they were invincible from the back of a horse—ten feet tall and bullet-proof.
Two Apache scouts, wearing red scarves around their heads to set them apart from any hostiles, slouched on their sullen ponies and watched the two white leaders. One rolled his eyes and gave Roman a quiet, conspiratorial grin.
Roman nodded to Lyons. “I am, but not without orders. We’re conducting business for Colonel Branchflower.”
Lyons rubbed his receding chin and sighed. “You’re filthy—covered in sweat and dirt from head to boot. A shambles, Hezekiah, that’s what you are.” He peeled off his glove and held out a hand. “Let’s have a look at those orders of yours.”
“Afraid I can’t do that,” Roman said. “They’re classified in nature.”
Lyons puffed up like a toad. “May I remind you,” he harrumphed. “As long as I remain your superior officer, you are obliged to comply with my orders.”
“While that’s not entirely true”—Roman smiled—“it is a moot issue. Colonel Branchflower brevetted me to captain.”
The bugler stifled a snicker behind his mustache.
“Is that a fact?” Lyons looked down his nose in unmasked disgust. “In any case, I am still your senior.” He gave his hand a dismissive flick. “You and your men are enlisted to r
ide with me against Victorio. The savage and his band have been spotted raiding near this very spot.”
“I know.” Roman gestured over his shoulder. “We just buried two of his victims.”
“Then you also know I’ll need every man I can get my hand on when we find him. My scouts say he’s two days away, but my gut tells me he’s within a day’s ride.” Lyons took up the slack in his reins, preparing to move out without further discussion. His horse fought the bits, and he slapped it on the neck with a leather shoofly that hung from his wrist. “Have your men fall in at the rear. You may ride up here with me.”
Trap and Johannes both looked to Roman for guidance. He stood completely still.
“Request denied,” he said at length, folding his hands in front of him.
“That was not a request, Captain. That was an order.”
Roman kept his voice low and calm in contrast to Lyons’s high-toned quiver. “I have my orders and I intend to see them through to the end.”
“I am still the senior officer here,” Lyons spit though gritted teeth. “I will decide what missions are important and which ones are not while we are in the field. You will fall in with my command. I’ll sort it out with the old man upon our return.”
Every man in D Troop eased up slightly, leaning forward in the saddle to try and hear how the standoff would play out. The air buzzed with tension. Hoarse whispers moved like a wave through the ranks. From the crooked grins on their faces, Trap decided few of these men were rooting for their commander.
Roman was calm as a summer’s morning, his voice firm and matter-of-fact, as if he was speaking to a small child who didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation.
“Captain Lyons, with all due respect, I suggest you continue on your mission and leave us to ours.”
Lyons’s eyes blazed. Feeling the tension, his horse tried to charge forward, and the captain had to yank on the reins to keep the animal under control. He shook his fist at Roman. “I’ve had enough of you. Sergeant Collins, put Mr. Roman in irons. If his men give you any trouble, shoot them.”
Trap and Johannes both stepped forward to flank their commander. He motioned them back with a faint smile. Trap had never seen anyone so cool under pressure.
“Sergeant Collins,” Roman said. There was the slightest hint of fatigue in his voice. “Delay that order.”
“Collins.” Lyons glared at his subordinate. “Do as I say or I’ll bring you up on charges!” His head shook on stooped shoulders. His bloodshot eyes bulged in their sockets and looked like they might pop out of his skull.
Roman’s voice rose at once like a clap of rolling thunder. “Captain Lyons, dismount and speak to me privately and I’ll explain my orders to you.”
Collins looked back and forth between the two commanders and swallowed hard. He took half a step forward, but Trap sent him a look that kept him in his place.
Lyons climbed down from his horse and handed the reins to his blank-faced aide. He stepped forward, out of earshot of his troop, and shot a dismissive look at Trap and Johannes.
“I thought you wished to speak in private. Aren’t you going to have your men pull back?”
“I don’t care if they hear every word I say,” Roman whispered. He was smiling, so the rest of D Troop had no idea what was going on. “I asked you down here so I didn’t embarrass you in front of your command.”
Lyons started to turn and go.
Roman stopped him with a hiss. “My orders are more important than you could ever imagine, and I am not about to let a self-important boob who couldn’t command an army of pissants dissuade me in my duty just because he thinks he has some power.”
Lyons was taken aback for a moment while he struggled to regain control of the situation. A sly smile suddenly crossed his seething face. “You forget, Hezekiah. There are only three of you. If you turn this into a battle of force, I have forty-seven men at my disposal.”
Roman ripped off his hat and moved nose-to-nose with the other captain. “Now you listen to me, you arrogant bastard. You may have an entire company, but the fourth man in my unit, the man you didn’t even know existed until now, is up in those rocks behind you. I’m sick of your bullshit, Freddy. I don’t take orders from you. I take my direction straight from Colonel Branchflower.”
Roman smiled. His voice softened again. “My rifleman takes his direction from me. I’ll leave it to you to figure out what that direction is.”
Lyons turned his twitching face slowly to look up at the rocks. Madsen stared down the glinting barrel of his Sharps and gave him a little wave for effect. He’d moved up slightly so he could be seen once Roman removed his hat.
“He’s loyal as hell to Captain Roman,” Webber said. “And his skill with that rifle of his is unmatched. Wouldn’t you say, Sergeant O’Shannon?”
Trap nodded. “None better, Sergeant Webber. He could part your hair at this range, that’s for certain.”
Lyons’s face flushed a deeper shade of red. A purple vein throbbed along his temple. “I’ll see you busted back to mucking stables for this, Hezekiah. I have friends in high places.”
“So do I, Freddy.” Roman tossed his head toward Clay and his rifle. “So do I.”
* * *
Captain Fredrick Paul Lyons wasted no time in mustering his troops away after Victorio, who he no doubt would find an easier customer to deal with than Hezekiah Roman.
“I’d hate to be assigned to Company D tonight,” Webber allowed as he mounted up. Clay skittered down the hill above them on his roan.
“Or ever,” Trap agreed. He loped Skunk out a few paces to the east and studied the ground while the others married up and prepared to move. He shook his head and figured out another reason to hate Freddy Lyons: D Troop, with their sixty-plus horses and pack animals, had completely obliterated the outlaws’ back trail.
“Can you find where they crossed?” Roman looked at the ground in disgust.
“Yessir,” Trap said. “I can, but not with any speed. It’ll take some time.”
Roman sighed. “As fast as possible then,” he said. “I’m sure the kidnappers are getting antsy since their companions have failed to return. Time is something that’s in extremely short supply.”
CHAPTER 37
All of the men were horrible, lewd things who melded together in the girl’s fevered mind into one awful mass of putrid cruelty. Two of them took Straw’s body by the heels and dragged it out of the sandstone cave to feed it to the buzzards while his blood still pooled fresh in the sand at her feet.
The big Indian had ended her torment for the moment when he stabbed Straw to death, but there was no mercy in his black eyes. To him she was nothing more than property—property he was paid to protect. If the one paying the bills gave the order, he’d stab her just as quickly as he’d killed Straw.
The short man with a cowlick and close-set eyes appeared to be the leader. In the beginning, when she was in pain, but still had some semblance of her wits about her, she’d watched the group, looked for a weakness to see if there might be a chance for escape. If the group had what could be termed a boss, this one was him. He was the one who had the plan. He seemed to be the one paying for any operating costs. The others deferred to him a tiny bit more than they did each other—and that wasn’t much. Whatever hold he had on his filthy band of confederates, it was tenuous at best.
She studied him the first day, thinking him at times weak, at times just foolish. Though she was in tremendous pain, it was easy for her to feel morally superior to a little Napoleon who barely had a grip on his group of cutthroats. Then, he’d ordered poor Charlie Dolan killed.
The brutality with which the bloodthirsty group fell on her poor friend had changed her. They seemed to her like raging beasts more than men, lusting for violence the way some craved a woman. She’d been unable to turn away as Charlie, a strong, courageous man who had a wife and two daughters, screamed and thrashed in horrific pain while they cut off his head—slowly.
Now,
with thirst and pain and terror eating away at her fevered brain, she could only cringe when any of the men so much as looked in her direction. She wanted to die, to be free from the pain. But she didn’t want to die like Charlie.
She shuddered uncontrollably when the leader staggered to his feet and swayed over to her in the dark cave. The fire behind him cast a huge shadow against the back wall.
“I aim to turn you in for the ransom,” he said, assuring her that if she cooperated she might make it home alive. “I can’t have you ruined by a fool like Straw. If the Army and your papa don’t pay, you’ll still fetch a little money from my contacts.” His small eyes narrowed when he caught her looking at the entrance to the cave. “Don’t even think about trying to escape, Pilar. There’s snakes and lizards out there that would kill all of us here with just one bite.”
“I wish one would then,” she heard herself say. Her teeth chattered when she spoke. It would serve the fool right if she died in her sleep from fever and infection.
The man chuckled. He knelt in the sand beside her and reached for her injured hand. He was gentle in an odd, uncaring sort of way, as one might carefully check an injured horse to see if it was still fit to race.
“It’s been a hard-fought battle to get this far. I’ll not let you run off and steal my fortune.” The smirk on his pitiless face caused her to look away. “I got an awful lot riding on you, little girl. Don’t you disappoint me.”
She looked away, thinking she would rather brave a pit full of the deadliest of vipers as listen to one more word this man had to say.
It was as if he read her thoughts.
He grabbed her by the waist and pinched her hard in the tender belly just above her navel, hard enough to make her yelp. “Papago will cut two little slits in your skin right here; then he’ll take the cord he uses to tie you up and run it through the holes.” The man laughed. “Makes it hell tryin’ to get away while you’re rippin’ your own guts out.”