“Mr. Kent, really—” Tessa said incredulously.
“If I’d known who you were, I never would have poked fun at you. Give me your promise that you won’t say a word to him. Swear on the Bible.”
Tessa glanced at Harvey. His expression showed that he was just as bewildered as she. Facing the lecher, she said mildly, “You’re being silly, Mr. Kent. There is no need to make a spectacle of yourself. I’m sure my father would not shoot you over a few loose remarks. He’s a lawman, after all.”
Kent did something that stunned Tessa even more. He tossed back his head and cackled like someone not in their right mind. “A lawman? That’s a good one, missy! Did you hear her, Gallagher? She thinks her pa lives by that badge he totes. Don’t she know that he’s the slimiest, back-stabbin’, murderin’ son of a—”
Kent never finished his statement. The gambler moved again, and that time, the barrel of his Colt caught Ira Kent above the right ear and felled him. Kent wound up on his side in the narrow space between the seats, curled up with his hands between his legs, looking for all the world like a bearded baby taking a nap.
“Some gents talk too much,” Gallagher said, tucking away the Colt. Adjusting his jacket, he sat and stared out the window at the barren terrain surrounding them. “If I were you, ma’am, I’d pay him no mind.”
But Tessa couldn’t let the matter drop. “Why is he so afraid of my father, Mr. Gallagher? What did he mean by those comments he made?”
For a while, Tessa thought the gambler was not going to answer. When he did, he was plainly troubled at having to broach the subject.
“Pardon my prying, ma’am, but how well do you know your father?”
Tessa had to tell the truth. “To be perfectly candid, I’ve never met him before.”
Gallagher swung toward her, his surprise self-evident. “That explains a lot.” He removed his hat and ran a hand through his shock of sandy hair. “I don’t rightly know how to put this without hurting your feelings. The truth is, ma’am, that your father has a reputation for being a mite mean tempered.” The hat went back on. “You heard the boy here mention that I’m supposed to have gunned down fourteen men. Well, that’s not quite accurate. It’s fewer than that. But it’s safe to say that your pa has made wolf meat of twice as many as I have, maybe a lot more.”
“All in the performance of his duty?”
“Some might see it that way.”
Tessa was growing more confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow you. Can you be more specific?”
The gambler frowned. “Maybe it would best if you found out on your own. Do some asking around when you get to Tucson. It won’t take long for you to learn the truth.”
“I’d rather hear it from someone I trust. Like you.”
Gallagher dipped his chin, preventing her from seeing his face. “Keep up with these compliments, ma’am, and I’m liable to blush myself to death. The best way I know how to put it is to point out that there are good lawmen and there are bad lawmen. Your father has a reputation for being one of the very worst.”
“Oh, my!” Tessa said. She did not feel comfortable prying any deeper. She had learned more in the past two minutes than she had in the previous eighteen years. “I had no idea. In his letters to me, he never talked a lot about his job. And my mother would never say much about him.”
Suddenly Tessa realized the stage was creaking to a stop. She could hear the driver muttering to the team. There was a loud thud and the crunch of boots.
A grizzled face was framed by the door window. “Are you folks all right back here? I heard a bunch of hollerin’.” said Curly Decker, the driver. His bloodshot eyes dropped to the limp form of Ira Kent, then automatically darted to the gambler. “Dang it, Jess. Don’t tell me you bedded him down permanent? The front office will raise a stink, and I’ll be the one has to sit and listen to Grimes jaw on half the night about my duty to the passengers.”
Tessa half expected the gambler to take offense at the driver s remarks. Instead, he grinned good-naturedly. “Sheath your horns, you ornery cuss. I didn’t put lead into him. He was mistreating the lady; so I gave him a little tap on the noggin.”
“You don’t say.” Curly pivoted toward Tessa. “Are you okay, ma’am? No harm done?”
“I’m fine.” Tessa displayed her rec wrist. “All he did was grab me.”
“Kent did that to you? Then he’s earned himself the right to ride topside with the shotgun and me.” Cupping a hand to his mouth, Curly said, “Will! Get down here! We have us another idiot!”
Tessa heard Kent groan. “There’s no need to put yourselves out on my account.”
“T’ain’t no bother at all, ma’am,” Curly said, flinging the door wide. “It’s standard policy, you might say. Any passenger who acts up has to ride on top until I say otherwise. Believe you me, four or five hours of being baked by the sun and swallowin’ enough dust to fill a tub makes a ma n mighty sorry he ever misbehaved. Next time this buzzard takes my stage, you can bet he’ll act civilized.”
It took hardly any time at all for Curly and the shotgun messenger – a stocky man who never said a word – to haul Kent from the coach and hoist him on top. They were not the least bit gentle while doing so.
Curly clambered back down to close the door, saying as he did, “In a few more hours, we’ll be at Horner’s home station, ma’am. You can take it easy and chat with Mrs. Homer. She’s a real sweet woman, and she makes some of the tastiest corn dodgers you’re ever likely to eat. Usually she has cold tea, which I’d guzzle by the gallon if she’d let me.” He wiped a finger along the side of the coach, and it came up coated thick with alkali dust. “We’ll spend the night there and head out at first light. By tomorrow evening, you’ll be in Tucson.”
“I can hardly wait,” Tessa said, although inwardly she had grave reservations.
The driver left. Within moments, the stage lurched into motion, bouncing and swaying across the bleak landscape.
Tessa had to grip the window to keep from being tossed forward. Once the rocking motion slackened, she made herself as comfortable as she could, retying her bonnet so it wouldn’t be blown off. She studiously avoided meeting the eyes of her traveling companions, fearful they would bring up the subject of her father again.
The auburn-haired beauty did not want them to know that secretly she had been scared to death at the prospect of meeting Tom Crane. And that now she was more scared than ever.
Captain Vincent Eldritch, Fifth Cavalry, was fit to be tied. He had nearly worn a rut in the ground with his tireless pacing. Taking his watch from his pocket, he saw he’d had been pacing the better part of an hour. Then he slapped the watch case shut and swore under his breath.
“Sir?” said Corporal Tinsdale, who stood nearby ready to carry out any orders’ that might be given.
“I don’t like it, Corporal,” Captain Eldritch said. “I don’t like it one bit. Sergeant O’Shaughnessy and his men should have rejoined us hours ago.”
“Do we go looking for them, sir?”
Eldritch had been debating that very question. The truth was that without their scout they were severely hampered. He could get the patrol back to Fort Bowie if he had to, but scouring the Dragoons was a whole different proposition. Wending through the canyons, gorges, and ravines was like trying to navigate a maze. Yet they could not just ride off and abandon their own.
Slapping his gauntlet against his sleeve, Eldritch nodded. “We do, Corporal. Have the men break camp and be ready to ride in three minutes.”
“Yes, sir!” Tinsdale offered a snappy salute and was off to do his duty.
Captain Eldritch slid the gauntlet on and thoughtfully surveyed nearby peaks. The Maricopa had given him a fair idea of where the tracks had been; so with diligence, he might be able to pick up O’Shaughnessy’s trail. If not, he would keep on searching for as long as their rations held out.
Eldritch was military to the core, a West Point graduate who aspired to be a ranking general one day. He lov
ed everything about the army, from the uniforms to the arms to the parades. He had always been an orderly, methodical person, and a life based on perfect precision appealed to him vastly.
Reveille at the crack of dawn? Eldritch didn’t care. He liked getting up with the birds. The army’s notoriously poor food? Eldritch wolfed it down without complaint. The long hours? The grueling patrols? The constant danger from hostiles? Eldritch relished them as a measure of his manhood.
No, the only problem with Captain Vincent Eldritch’s current assignment was Arizona itself. For the life of him, Eldritch could not think of a more inhospitable spot on the face of the planet. The relentless heat, the parched soil, the months and months that went by without a drop of rain – Eldritch hated it all. In his more whimsical moments, he imagined that Arizona was really hell, and the prophets had forgotten to mention the fact in the Bible.
Eldritch had been in the Arizona Territory over a year. In another ten months, he could put in for transfer, and he couldn’t wait. In the meantime, he had to do his best to stay alive and perform the duties required of him with the utmost efficiency.
“Ready when you are, sir!”
Corporal Tinsdale’s comment shook Eldritch out of his deep reverie. He was startled to see all twenty-four troopers mounted in a column of twos, awaiting his command. Stepping to his horse, he swung onto the McClellan, hiked his arm, and said, “Move them out, Corporal.”
At Tinsdale’s bellow, the entire patrol moved like the cogs in a well-oiled machine. Captain Eldritch glanced back and nodded in approval. They were good boys, the troopers of the Fifth Cavalry. Every last one of them was as dependable as the day was long. He would gladly lead them into battle anywhere, anytime.
That thought brought to mind Sergeant O’Shaughnessy. Where the men of the Fifth might be compared to stout oaks, the massive sergeant was a giant redwood. O’Shaughnessy had over a decade of Indian fighting under his belt, and he was widely regarded as one of the best soldiers in the army. So what could have happened to him? Eldritch wondered.
The officer recalled his superior s warning prior to leaving Fort Bowie. “Watch that Maricopa like a hawk,” Col. Reynolds had said. “We don’t usually employ them as scouts because they have a tendency to head for the hills at the first sign of Apaches. I’m giving Chivari the benefit of the doubt because he comes highly recommended by Brewster, one of our civilian scouts.”
Was that the answer? Captain Eldritch wondered. Was the Maricopa to blame for O’Shaughnessy’s failure to return? If so, the captain made a vow that he would make sure the wretched heathen spent the rest of his miserable days in a federal prison.
Giving his head a toss to derail his gloomy train of thought, Captain Eldritch rode deeper into the heart of the land he loathed so much.
Six
After a few moments, Private Calhoun realized that the Apache sitting there watching him was the very same warrior who had chased him after the bloody clash high up in the mountains.
“I thought I’d lost you!” the young trooper said. Then he clawed at the flap of his holster. In his haste, he nearly dropped the pistol. Getting a better grip, he elevated his arm and sighted down the barrel to take precise aim, but the Apache was gone.
Calhoun blinked a few times. He scoured the brush, dumbfounded. “It can’t be! Where in the world did the red devil go?”
Shuffling forward to investigate, he abruptly caught himself and shook his head. It would be a mistake to stumble on in his condition. If the Apache had not been just a figment of his overheated brain, he’d be asking to have his throat slit. In the condition he was in, he couldn’t tussle with a five year old, let alone a fierce savage.
Calhoun let down the hammer on his pistol, but didn’t slip it back into his holster. Holding the gun at his side where he could bring it into instant use, he continued on into the foothills, glancing back often to see if the Apache reappeared. When over half an hour had elapsed and all he’d seen were a few birds and a lizard that darted under a flat rock at his approach, he replaced the weapon.
Soon the sun rested on the brink of the western horizon. Calhoun knew that he could not possibly catch the horse before dark fell unless it had stopped close by. He searched for a spot to spend the night, a sheltered nook where he would be safe from beasts and hostiles.
A gorge opened before him. Hoping that he could locate a fissure or perhaps even a small cave, Calhoun entered. Here the shadows deepened. He was alert for rattlesnakes.
Another soldier had once told Calhoun that while rattlers liked to sun themselves during the heat of the day, the unpredictable reptiles did their hunting in the cool night. Once the sun began to sink, they would emerge from their dens and slither off to find food. A number of people had made the mistake of stepping on one in the dark and paid n fearful price.
Calhoun spied a crack in the north wall. Going over, he discovered it was a gap wide enough to sit in, but not lie down. Undecided whether to stay there or not, he gnawed on his lower lip and turned to gaze farther into the gorge.
Above him, a pebble clattered.
Calhoun did not attach much significance to the noise. Loose dirt and stones frequently fell when the wind gusted. But suddenly it hit him that the wind was deathly still. There was no reason for that pebble to have dislodged. Curious, he tilted his head back.
Like a great bird of prey, the Apache swooped toward him! Calhoun stabbed his right hand to his holster, but he hardly touched the flap this time when the Apache’s rifle butt slammed into the side of his head. Calhoun thought that his skull had burst. The last sensation he felt was that of his body falling.
Clay Taggart stood over the unconscious trooper and grinned. It had been ridiculously easy to shadow the man undetected and await an opportune moment. Taking the soldier s Colt, he slid it under his belt.
The troopers hat had fallen off, revealing his youthful features. Clay marveled that the army would send such boys to do a job only the most experienced men could handle. The average soldier had no more business being in Arizona than on an iceberg.
Squatting, Clay slowly drew his Bowie. The blade was so sharp that in short order he had cut three wide strips from the bottom of the trooper s jacket. With those strips, he securely tied the troopers wrist. Squatting Apache fashion, he waited.
The sun was long gone when Calhoun felt himself floating upward through a murky well of dank water. With a start, he remembered the last sight he had seen before unconsciousness claimed him. His eyes snapped wide, and he went to sit up.
As he did, he found that he couldn’t move his arms and he pitched onto his side. Then, a keg of black powder went off inside his skull, nearly causing him to pass out a second time. Everything spun. His stomach flipped and flopped, and for a few seconds, he feared he’d be sick. When the feeling went away, he looked up and stiffened in undisguised terror.
“You!”
Clay Taggart said nothing. The while part of him wanted to respond, to tell the trooper that he had no business being there, that he was lucky to be alive. But the Apache part of him did as an Apache would do in front of a mortal enemy and stayed grimly silent.
Calhoun tucked his knees under him and rose onto them. His mouth had gone as dry as sand, and he had a hard time swallowing. It was foolish to expect the Apache to say anything, out he spoke anyway.
“I’m Private James Calhoun, Fifth Calvary. If you know what’s good for you, Injun, you’ll let me go. Harm me, and the entire might of the United States Army will be brought to bear against you. You’ll be hunted down and exterminated.”
Clay kept his face as impassive as he rock wall behind him. Inside, though, he smiled at the young man’s show of bravado. The trooper h ad the brains of a turnip, but he wasn’t a coward.
“Savvy English, Injun?” Calhoun asked when he got no response. It was spooky the way that the savage just squatted there watching him He couldn’t see the Apache’s eyes clearly in the dark, but he imagined they were filled with hate a id bloodl
ust.
“What do you intend to do with me?” Calhoun asked. The many lurid tales he’d heard of Apache atrocities came back to him again in a rush. He had to make a special effort to resist a tidal wave of panic that threatened to engulf him. He was a soldier, damn it! It would be unbecoming to show fear in the face of the enemy.
Clay studied the trooper closely. The man’s inner struggle was plainly reflected by his shifting features. Clay was pleased to see that the younger man did not give in to the fear, and he almost chuckled when Calhoun set his jaw firmly and regarded him defiantly.
“Well, whatever you have planned, do your worst,” Calhoun said. “I refuse to give you the satisfaction of seeing me grovel. Cut my heart out, skin me alive, stake me to an anthill – it won’t make any difference. I’ll die as a man should!”
Once again Calhoun’s captor did not react. Calhoun squared his shoulders, determined not to betray a lick of weakness. His sudden resolve in the face of certain death surprised him.
Being a soldier meant that Calhoun faced the prospect of dying daily. Many a night he had lain awake wondering how and when his end would come and, if it were in battle, whether he would die with dignity.
Calhoun could not say why, but that was important to him. Some of the other troopers scoffed when he brought dying up, saying the only important thing was to get through his tour of duty with his hide intact. He didn’t agree.
A man had little control over most aspects of his life. How he died was one he did have a say in, provided it wasn’t in a blinding instant thanks to a bullet in the heart or some such calamity. Calhoun would rather go to meet his Maker with some semblance of honor.
Clay Taggart glanced up at the sky. A sliver of moon promised enough illumination to see by. Standing, he leveled the Winchester at the soldier.
Calhoun thought that the savage was about to shoot him. He closed his eyes, then changed his mind. He would look death in the face not cringe in craven fright. “Go ahead! Do it!”
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