Longarm and the War Clouds

by Tabor Evans

  So far, however, they’d seen no Chiricahuas themselves. In fact, the only movement they’d seen at all in these godforsaken hills were coyotes, a rattlesnake trailing a jackrabbit, and one golden eagle hunting the crest of rocky dike.

  War Cloud glanced over his shoulder at Longarm, who met his partner’s cautious gaze. Then the scout touched moccasin heels to his horse’s flanks, and continued forward, jerking the brave’s mustang along behind him. Longarm followed, staying close to the brave, keeping his index finger curled through his Winchester’s trigger guard.

  Roughly fifteen minutes later, there was a soft, ominous whistle followed by a thud. Again, War Cloud stopped his horse abruptly, as did Longarm. Both men stared down at the arrow angling into the red clay dirt to the right of the trail.

  They were between two sandstone outcroppings. A bare-chest Chiricahua in deerskin breeches stood atop the outcropping on the right. Another stood atop the one on the left. The one on the left aimed a rifle at War Cloud and Longarm.

  The brave on the right outcropping stepped forward and dropped ten feet straight down the pile of eroded, tan rock to land flat-footed and bent-kneed on a flat boulder only a few feet from where the arrow protruded from the ground. The remaining brave atop the left pile of rock steadied his rifle threateningly.

  The brave on the boulder near the trail scowled at War Cloud and Longarm, then his molasses-dark eyes, ringed with ochre dye, shifted to the interlopers’ captive. He spoke angrily in his native tongue too quickly for Longarm to follow.

  War Cloud spoke to the stocky Chiricahua in his own tongue, using sign language that included liberal gesturing with his arms and hands. He finished with a dark glance back at his and Longarm’s hostage and made an angry slashing motion across his throat.

  The brave on the boulder glared at War Cloud. Then he glanced up at the brave standing atop the left escarpment. He threw his right hand up angrily and barked briefly at War Cloud.

  The scout glanced back at Longarm, jerked his chin to indicate they would continue, and then touched heels to his horse’s flanks once more, starting forward.

  Longarm put his own horse forward, glancing at the brave on his right and then at the one on his left. His wounded arm ached more than ever as his pulse throbbed in his temples, and his throat went dry. The last way he wanted to leave this world was by being slow-roasted in a large clay pot over a Chiricahua campfire . . .

  When he and War Cloud had ridden about two hundred more feet, he glanced back. The Chiricahuas were gone. In the south, the smoke signals were beginning to rise again.

  He felt a bead of cold sweat dribble down between his shoulder blades when he saw several figures clad in white and red run up the side of a distant hogback, weaving amongst trees and boulders. Longarm and War Cloud must have been approaching the Chiricahua camp, and the men ahead of him were pickets signaled by whoever was sending up the smoke.

  Behind Longarm, hooves thudded. He looked back again to see the two braves they’d just passed now following from about two hundred feet behind, straddling white-and-brown paint mustangs with blanket saddles and braided horsehair hackamores.

  Longarm followed War Cloud and their captive up the hogback the Apache pickets had been on and checked their mounts down at the crest. Blood Mountain suddenly appeared so close in the clear, dry air that Longarm almost believed he could reach out and run his hand across its scaly surface that was not blood colored at this time of the day but a darker shade of tan.

  But its nearness was a mirage.

  Below him, down the far side of the hogback, a deep, airy bowl opened, revealing the small, light-brown clumps of brush houses that Longarm knew to be wickiups—traditional Apache dwellings that fit the Natives’ nomadic lifestyle in that they were easy to take down and put up again. The hovels were thumb-sized from Longarm’s vantage.

  The canyon—walled off on the far side by Blood Mountain itself—must have been a good five hundred yards across. A single cook fire burned. At the moment it was not being tended. A dozen or so men of various ages walked out away from the small makeshift village to stare up at Longarm’s party.

  The warriors were either wielding bows and arrows or rifles—in some cases, both.

  War Cloud glanced at Longarm and then started down the slope toward the waiting warriors. Longarm said fatefully under his breath, “Here we go,” and put his own horse down the ridge, following a switchbacking trail. He kept his rifle aimed at the back of their hostage, hoping that consideration for the brave’s life would keep any of the warriors from squeezing off a bullet or an arrow at either himself or War Cloud.

  On the ridge above and behind him, one of the two braves who’d been following yelled down at the others. The warriors in the canyon glanced around at one another. A low hum of Chiricahua chatter rose briefly, and then all eyes returned to the visitors.

  Longarm kept his finger taut against his rifle’s trigger as he followed the other two horses down the steep slope. Lower and lower they rode, dropping down toward the canyon at the base of Blood Mountain.

  When they reached the canyon floor, Longarm followed War Cloud and the tied and gagged brave ahead toward the waiting group of hard-eyed warriors flanked by the wickiups, the smoking fire, and the mountain wall beyond.

  It was a small band, Longarm saw. About thirteen men of various ages, none appearing much over forty. They were a young renegade band who’d remained defiantly in the Shadow Montañas, likely to keep their sacred ground unspoiled by whites until, ideally, the Apache nation had run all the whites entirely out of their territory.

  As he approached the group, Longarm saw that he had been wrong about there being no one older than forty here. Lingering beyond the others was a stocky oldster with coal-black hair but a face much more wizened and craggy than the others.

  Clad in doeskin the color of lamb’s wool and adorned with colored beads and porcupine quills, he sat on rock near the fire. He was a small man with a pinched-up face and deep-set eyes. He held a long, ceremonial spear trimmed with colored feathers in his right hand, straight up and down on the ground.

  This man, an old chief and leader of the Blood Mountain protectors, remained sitting on his rock and staring through eyes that were hard to see back within their deep, sun-seared sockets.

  One of the warriors—a tall, broad-shouldered hombre wearing a deerskin tunic, his hair in braids—stepped forward. He, too, had painted rings around his eyes and three periwinkle blue slashes on each cheek. He walked up in front of War Cloud’s horse and by the way the two men looked at each other, Longarm knew that they’d found Black Twisted Pine.

  The two men said nothing for what seemed an hour but was probably only a minute or so.

  “So they sent you,” Black Twisted Pine said finally, gravely, wrinkling one of his broad nostrils. He was a handsome man despite fairly close-set eyes and a high forehead. Longarm thought he was probably as tall as he himself was. A proud, straight, broad-shouldered Chiricahua with a regal bearing.

  “Not to kill,” War Cloud said, holding up his right hand, palm out. “We want only the girl, my friend.”

  Black Twisted Pine seemed to flinch at that. The others around him didn’t appear to understand English. They kept their angry gazes on Longarm and War Cloud, saying nothing.

  Black Twisted Pine said, “You came here . . .”

  “To take Mrs. Belcher back to the fort, my friend. It is the best way for your people and the White Eyes. The major is very angry. His father, the governor, is very angry. The governor has made the Great White Father in Washington very angry, as well. No good can come of this.”

  Black Twisted Pine looked at their bound and gagged captive. “You have dishonored our chief, Stalking Puma”—he glanced over his shoulder at the old man sitting on his rock—“by trussing up his grandson as though he were a calf for the white man’s branding irons.”

  “We will
let him go, my friend, if you give us your word we will not be harmed. We have done this to the brave only for our own protection. We did not mean to dishonor the chief. We came here only to speak to Mrs. Belcher in hopes that we can convince her to return to Fort McHenry with us.”

  Black Twisted Pine stared obliquely up at his ex-partner and then switched his gaze to Longarm. Repressed emotion caused his brows to wrinkle slightly. And then he said, “You want to see Mrs. Belcher? Put your weapons down and come—I will take you to her.”

  Longarm and War Cloud shared a look. Then Longarm depressed his Winchester’s hammer and slid the long gun into its scabbard. As War Cloud sheathed his own rifle, Black Twisted Pine spoke to the Chiricahuas flanking him. Several lurched forward, drawing knives from belt sheaths. Longarm froze for an instant, staring at the blades winking in the afternoon sun, but then the three braves surrounded his captive’s horse and began sawing at the ropes tying him to his saddle.

  War Cloud strode south, past the old man still sitting his rock, his wrinkled face implacable, and along the camp’s perimeter. War Cloud and Longarm followed, both men looking around tensely at the other Chiricahuas. None appeared to be about to toss a knife or loose an arrow at them. That eased the worms of tension wringling up and down Longarm’s spine only a little.

  He was on foot now without his horse or his Winchester, and he and War Cloud were outnumbered. He could still end up in a large clay pot hung over the cook fire now smoking to his left as he and War Cloud followed Black Twisted Pine to the far southern end of the camp.

  Blood Mountain rose nearly straight up at the far eastern end of the camp, the west-angling sunlight glistening on its stony surface, taking away all relief so that it looked like a massive, polished marble slab. Now it was a shiny brown. When the sun angled lower in the west, it would turn the color of blood.

  Longarm and War Cloud followed Black Twisted Pine down a gradual slope. Ahead, a weird noise grew gradually louder. A warbling sound. The ridge on the right rose more steeply, narrowing the canyon between that ridge and the wall of Blood Mountain. Both Longarm and War Cloud stopped abruptly. They stared into the canyon that was roughly seventy yards across.

  Longarm felt a tingling in his gut.

  Ahead were a dozen or more crude scaffolds of peeled pine logs and branches. Now Longarm realized what was making the warbling sound. Birds of several varieties, including magpies and crows—all carrion-eaters—were milling around the scaffolds. They were also scrounging the bones littering the canyon floor. Skulls, thigh bones, rib cages, hands, feet . . .

  All human.

  “Christ,” Longarm heard himself mutter.

  War Cloud stood beside him, staring gravely toward Black Twisted Pine who strode through the strewn bones, between the scaffolds. The bird’s squawking and barking grew louder, angrier. Several birds took flight while others defiantly held their ground. War Cloud’s scout’s deep chest rose and fell heavily as his severe gaze studied the bones and scaffolds.

  A Chiricahua burial ground.

  Black Twisted Pine stopped suddenly and turned back toward Longarm and War Cloud. He beckoned angrily. “Come!” he yelled. “You wanted to see Mrs. Belcher. I am taking you to her!”

  Chapter 19

  “She is with Ta-Ki-O-May—Woman God who resides inside the mountain and gives strength to all who come to her. To women, she gives a special strength. I wish to believe that Ta-Ki-O-May gave that special strength to Lucy, who needed it most of all, before she died, and that she has it now inside the Mountain Spirit. I wish there were other women here, to console her, but there is only Stalking Puma’s braves—here to protect this sacred ground until it is safe for our entire band, the Blood Mountain People, to come and live here again.”

  Black Twisted Pine stared up into the scaffold that had been erected beyond all the other ones. It was the newest scaffold, its poles unskinned, and it stood at a point where the canyon began to dogleg to the west. Longarm followed Black Twisted Pine’s gaze at the hide-wrapped body resting on the woven bed of brush extended between the scaffold’s four legs. The body was entirely wrapped though the birds had worked loose a bit of the deerskin at the top, and some locks of red hair protruded to blow around in the wind.

  Three large crows were on the body, pecking at it. Black Twisted Pine did nothing to interfere. It was the natural order. Lucy Belcher was dead and her body would feed the living until her bones were strewn down on the canyon floor with the others. Then, in time, her bones would be dust.

  The body did not matter to the Chiricahua. Only the spirit mattered.

  Longarm was still trying to work his mind around what he’d been told. Lucy Belcher was dead.

  “How?” he asked Black Twisted Pine.

  “Belcher.”

  Longarm stared at the man, who continued to stare up at the scaffold until he turned to Longarm, his eyes hard and angry. “I went to the Belcher house early in the morning like I always did, to split firewood and help Mrs. Belcher start the day. I sensed something was wrong, so I went upstairs. Their bedroom door was open. I went in and found Belcher passed out, holding a bloody knife to his chest. Lucy lay beside him, dead. Stabbed. Belcher woke up. He was covered in blood and he smelled like whiskey. He was confused, but when he realized what he’d done he blamed me. He told me that Lucy had told him that she and I were going to go away together. So he killed her in a drunken rage and passed out. He laughed and told me to go ahead and take her . . . to take Lucy if I loved her so much . . . and he hoped we would have a very beautiful life together!

  “I was in shock, but I wanted to kill him. Only, he had a gun on me. He didn’t use it because he didn’t want to alert anyone else around the fort. I took Lucy. I had told her about Blood Mountain, and she wanted very badly to come here and live and to be given the strength she’d wanted for so long. In my sorrow, I thought that perhaps the goddess in the mountain would bring Lucy back to me. So I took Lucy, saddled two horses, and rode out away from the fort under cover of darkness.”

  He stopped and looked down. Tears dribbled down Black Twisted Pine’s rugged cheeks.

  Longarm glanced at the scaffold once more, grinding his molars on the fury he felt for Belcher. The major had killed his wife in a fit of jealous rage and then told her father that she’d run off with Black Twisted Pine. Was the man so deep in his proverbial and literal cups that he didn’t think that Longarm and War Cloud would learn the truth?

  Black Twisted Pine said tightly, “I vowed that one day I would go back across the border and I would kill Major Belcher. Until then, I would remain here and protect this sacred ground with my brothers.”

  A voice rose from the rocky western slope: “I’m sorry you won’t have that opportunity, renegade!”

  Longarm jerked his head toward the slope, and felt his lower jaw loosen when he saw the blue-clad soldiers standing there amongst the rocks. Belcher was at the center of the group. He was flanked by Captain Kilroy, who didn’t look any too happy about being there. There were five other soldiers—three privates, Sergeant Fitzpatrick, and a corporal.

  “How in the hell . . . ?” Longarm said, aghast.

  “We just followed my sister-in-law and my housekeeper,” Belcher said through a self-satisfied grin. “You were probably so busy keeping an eye on them that you didn’t look far enough back to see us.”

  Black Twisted Pine took one step toward Belcher. Longarm threw an arm out in front of the man, holding him back. Belcher and the other soldiers were all armed with Winchesters. Just then yet another soldier appeared about twenty feet up the slope from the others. He lowered a Gatling gun from his shoulder and spread the tripod it wasn’t mounted on atop a flat-topped boulder. The redheaded private with a broad, freckled, sunburned face, slanted the barrel toward the canyon, eyes threatening beneath the brim of his leather-billed hat.

  Belcher glanced up at the Gatling gun and then returned his
maddeningly self-assured gaze back toward the canyon. “Marshal Long, War Cloud—I suggest you step aside. I am having my men arrest this man and take him back to Fort McHenry to await court-martial.”

  “On what charge?” Longarm asked, incredulous.

  “Why, for the killing of my wife, of course.” Belcher studied Longarm and then scowled with feigned incredulity. “Surely, you don’t believe what he said about my having killed Lucy?” He gave a caustic chuff. “He somehow filled the poor girl’s head with a bunch of nonsense about this mountain, convincing her to run off with him, and then, being the savage that he is, killed her. Probably got tired of her and cut her throat . . . or maybe he was drunk on tiswin. The Apaches love that stuff, you know.”

  As he’d spoke that last sentence, Belcher had turned his gaze up canyon. Longarm looked in the same direction. The other Apaches were walking toward him, all staring through the scaffolds at the soldiers, some nocking arrows, others bringing old-model Springfield or Spencer rifles to their shoulders.

  Belcher jerked a suddenly nervous gaze at War Cloud. “Keep them back! I have a Gatling gun here, and I will not hesitate in the slightest to cut them down. To cut them all down—to a man! Hell, I’d get a medal for it!”

  Both War Cloud and Black Twisted Pine thrust their hands out, forestalling the dozen or so warriors. They all stopped as a loosely formed group, some dropping to their knees, all keeping their angry gazes on the soldiers.

  Black Twisted Pine shouted at his people to stay back, that the soldiers were after him, not them.

  Then he turned to Belcher. “You are a liar, white man. But if you promise to leave my people alone, and just take me, I will come with you willingly.”

  “Hold on!” Longarm stepped forward, his face flushed with fury. “Belcher, it’s Black Twisted Pine I believe. Not you. And none of you other men should believe the major, either.” He glanced at Captain Kilroy, who looked as though he were trying to pass a kidney stone. “What about you, Captain. You know both the major and Black Twisted Pine. Who do you believe?”