by Steve Hayes
Devlin danced his mount backward out of range, and sat there shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Know how long I’ve been after this fella?’ he said to Gabriel. ‘Must be two years, maybe longer.’
‘He’s not the one who stole your mares,’ Raven said. ‘He was with us all night through the storm.’
‘Wouldn’t matter even if he wasn’t, little lady. Stallion I’m looking for is all black. And powerful mean.’
Gabriel and Raven swapped uneasy glances.
‘You got a good look at him then?’
‘My night-watch, Smoky Forster, did. Came close to being stomped by him. Said the horse actually tried to run him down. Damnedest thing he ever saw. Stallion then somehow got the corral gate open and ran off with my mares. Whole thing only took a few seconds. Then he was gone like a shadow.’
Gabriel again exchanged looks with Raven.
‘Any idea where he is now, Mr Devlin?’
‘Not after the storm hit, no. Rain washed the desert clean. But we’ll find him, believe me. Tall Tree, here’ – he thumbed at a sturdy young Mescalero in a white breech-clout, an old navy-blue flannel Army shirt and a red turban who was riding a paint – ‘he can track a snake over rocks.’
Gabriel, who’d heard of Tall Tree, didn’t doubt it. ‘What happens after you find him?’
‘I’ll make sure that black devil don’t steal any more mares, not from me or anyone else. Ever.’
There was an uneasy silence.
‘Your night-watch,’ Gabriel said finally, ‘was he sure the horse was a broomtail or could it have been a purebred?’
Devlin, who’d seen the looks passing between Gabriel and Raven, wheeled around and reined up beside them. ‘A purebred, you say?’
‘A Morgan,’ said Raven. ‘Black as my hair an’ not a speck of white on him.’
Devlin looked from Raven to Gabriel, saw how uneasy they were and said, ‘All right, you two. What’s going on? Tell me straight. Do you know something I don’t?’
‘Rustlers,’ Gabriel said. ‘They stole my horse, a purebred Morgan, an’ somehow it got away from ’em. We been trackin’ him since early yesterday.’
‘And you think he’s the one who ran off my mares?’
‘Just a hunch.’
‘Based on what?’
‘How we found him,’ Gabriel indicated El Tigre. ‘He was wanderin’ around in the desert, all cut up like he was in a fight, an’ it’s possible that—’
‘The horse he fought was Brandy,’ put in Raven.
Devlin snorted. ‘That ain’t likely, little lady. Horse raised in a barn hasn’t been born yet could whip a wild mustang, especially one the likes of El Tigre. He’s maimed or killed half a dozen rivals. Seen their carcasses myself, rottin’ in the sun after the buzzards got their fill.’
‘Not sayin’ it is Brandy,’ Gabriel said. ‘Just that it could be.’
‘What’s your point?’ Devlin said, frowning.
‘I’d like to ride along with you. Make sure it ain’t my horse ’fore you get around to shootin’ him.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ Raven said.
‘Not this time, scout. I mean it,’ Gabriel said firmly when she began to protest. ‘You got your job. Get your horse to Doc Pritchard. Have him take care of those wounds before they get infected.’
‘Then, what? Sit around waitin’ for you to get back?’
Gabriel answered by handing her money from his money belt. ‘Here, take this. Get a room at the Carlisle Hotel. I’ll be back ’fore you know it.’
Raven took the money but didn’t say anything.
Devlin stood up in his stirrups and signaled to one of his hands. ‘Go with her, Jensen. Make sure she’s taken care of.’
‘I don’t need nobody to take care of me,’ Raven said angrily. ‘I grew up around here for God’s sake!’ She spurred her horse toward town, El Tigre grudgingly loping along behind her.
Gabriel grinned ruefully at Devlin. ‘She has a sweet side, too.’
Devlin chuckled. ‘So did her pa. But the rest of him was pure down-home stubborn. How’s Mrs Bjorkman?’ he added as he and Gabriel rode back to the riders. ‘Pulled up stakes and moved to California, I heard.’
Gabriel nodded. ‘We lost her to typhoid,’ he said grimly. ‘That’s why I’m ridin’ herd on Raven.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dr Ezra Pritchard’s office was on the corner of Front and Oak Streets. Behind his office was a stable in which he examined and housed his four-legged patients, and next door, facing Lee’s Food and Grain Store, was a rooming house run by Carlotta, his Mexican-born wife of forty-one years.
Doctor P, as his friends called him, was a small, mild-mannered, congenial man in his sixty-third year, with merry blue eyes, a bulbous nose kept red by constant tippling, and wisps of straggly brown hair that grew around his bald dome like a horseshoe. As Santa Rosa’s only veterinarian, he was busy day and night, especially during spring foaling and, but for an addiction to poker, he would have been a rich man.
Now, as he examined a leggy, sleek sorrel gelding that had a stone bruise on its sole, he happened to glance up, and under the belly of the horse saw Raven standing in the open doorway. Taking a second look to make sure it was really her, he turned the sorrel over to his helper, a gimpy former buffalo soldier named Jesse Philo, and hurried out to greet her.
He was full of cheerful questions until he learned Raven’s mother had passed away; then, as if her loss made him aware of his own mortality, he lost his exuberance, excused himself long enough to take a nip from his pocket flask, then returned and asked Raven what she wanted. She led him outside where the leopard stallion was tied up beside her horse.
Dr Pritchard’s bushy eyebrows arched with surprise. ‘My goodness, an Appaloosa! How on earth did you come by him?’
Raven quickly explained everything. Dr Pritchard listened without interrupting her, nodding occasionally, grunting ‘uh-huh, uh-huh,’ eyes fixed on El Tigre, until Raven concluded by asking if she could leave the injured stallion with him until it was healed and Gabriel returned.
‘Of course, my dear. It’s the least I can do, considering the number of fine meals your dear departed mother cooked for me over the years.’
As he spoke, Raven noticed a small, curious crowd gathering around the leopard mustang. Their chattering agitated El Tigre. He fought the rope, twisting his head and rearing up as high as the rope would let him, kicking and whinnying, until Raven lost her temper and shouted at them to go away.
‘Never mind them,’ Dr Pritchard told her. ‘Let’s bring him inside. Hopefully, he’ll calm down enough to let me examine him.’
Untying the mustang from the hitch-rack, Raven spoke soothingly to him. He made no attempt to bite or kick her. But his pink eyes remained wild and fierce, and, ready to dodge any lunge he made at her, she gently led him into the stable. There, roping him to a post, she explained to Dr Pritchard that while she was waiting for Gabriel she was staying at the Carlisle Hotel. If he needed her for anything, he could reach her there.
Thanking her, Dr Pritchard had only one question: ‘This Gabriel you refer to, who is he? I don’t think I’ve made his acquaintance.’
‘He’s a friend of my mother’s. They were going to get married, but then she got sick and … an’ … now he’s my guardian.’ Beating the doctor to his next question, she added: ‘Gabe’s gone with Mr Devlin to hunt down a stallion that stole some of his mares.’
‘Yes, yes, Shadow Horse, I heard,’ Dr Pritchard said. ‘Mr Devlin was here earlier, telling everyone what happened. Of course, it’s not really that unusual, you know – wild stallions running off mares, I mean. Why, when I first came here in ’77, ranchers were always complaining about—’ He stopped as someone entered and came up to them.
He was a small, slim, handsome man who moved like a cougar on the prowl. Despite the heat he wore a black silk vest over his white shirt, string tie, gray corduroy pants and a black Plains hat set square
ly on his head. He had two ivory-handled Colt .44s in low-slung, tied-down holsters and carried a new, expensive repeating rifle.
Raven recognized him immediately. And by his warm charming smile, she knew he recognized her.
‘Why, Miss Bjorkman.’ He doffed his hat revealing curly hair the color of pale ale. ‘What a fine surprise. Last time I saw you, you were—’
‘In Old Calico, I know,’ she replied. ‘How are you, Mr Rawlins?’
‘Fair to middlin’, thank you.’ Latigo Rawlins replaced his hat and glanced about him. ‘Yourself?’
‘I’m fine. Gabe’s not here,’ she said as Latigo continued to look around. ‘He’s off in the desert somewhere with Mr Devlin.’
‘I see.’ The small, neat gunman studied her as if trying to read her mind. He had beautiful eyes, too beautiful for a man, with long fair lashes, but they were hard as marbles and the color of amber. They darted about, forever restless, and few could look into them without feeling threatened. ‘Any idea when he might be back?’
‘None,’ Raven said. ‘Like I was tellin’ Dr Pritchard, here, he may be gone for days. Weeks even. But if you want, I’ll give him a message when I next see him.’
Latigo chuckled, as if amused by her suggestion. ‘Thank you, no,’ he said politely. ‘I always deliver my messages personally.’ He turned to Dr Pritchard, adding: ‘Did you figure out why my sorrel went lame?’
‘I did indeed, sir. He has a mild stone bruise on his left front sole. I recommend you leave the animal with me for a few days. I can’t guarantee I can cure him but I can definitely relieve some of the tenderness.’
Latigo nodded, satisfied. Politely tipping his hat to Raven, he left. He walked, she thought, like a coiled spring ready to uncoil at any second.
Dr Pritchard sighed as if an evil presence had departed.
‘Is that man a friend of yours by any chance, my dear?’
‘Uh-uh. He’s a gunman, you know.’
‘Yes, I guessed as much.’
‘Gabe says he’s the fastest he’s ever seen.’
‘Wouldn’t doubt it … wouldn’t doubt it for a second.’ Dr Pritchard shuddered. ‘He makes me feel like someone’s walking on my grave.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
For three days now they had searched every canyon, valley, water hole and plateau within a fifty-mile radius of Devlin’s ranch for Brandy and the stolen mares, and found no trace of them. Worse, Tall Tree’s superstitious nature had surfaced. The famed Mescalero tracker had overheard the riders talking about ‘Shadow Horse,’ and now believed they were trailing a shape-shifter. For all they knew, he might have turned himself into a mountain lion or an eagle and was mocking them from on high.
‘Bad medicine,’ he told Devlin and Gabriel as they camped in a ravine that night. ‘Not know what animal we look for. Search forever. Never find.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Devlin. ‘We’re not dealin’ with a shape-shifter or a shadow. He’s a goddamn horse, like any other goddamn horse, and he’s out there somewhere with my mares an’ we’ll find him.’
‘Not true,’ Tall Tree said solemnly. ‘All die in desert if continue.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Gabriel inquired.
‘Evil bird leave sign on rock. Say if we look more we all die from poison water.’
‘Good Christ,’ raged Devlin. ‘First shape-shifters an’ now evil birds. By God, I’ve had my fill of this!’ He stabbed his stubby finger in Tall Tree’s impassive face. ‘Listen, you ignorant heathen. You signed on to find my mares an’ you better find ’em or so help me Jesus I’ll leather you with my chaps!’
‘Easy,’ Gabriel said, pulling Devlin aside. ‘Won’t get anywhere by threatenin’ him. He’ll just disappear in the night.’
‘Then talk to him, Gabe. Make the sumbitch understand that either he earns his money or when we get back to Santa Rosa I’ll have him thrown in the brig.’ He stormed off to his bedroll.
Gabriel hunkered down beside the fire, rolled a smoke, lit it and handed the makings to the Mescalero. They smoked in silence for a while. The wind had died down and the night was eerily still. The only noise came from the occasional crackling of the fire, the snoring of a weary rider or a distant coyote yip-yipping at the moon.
Gradually, the flames flickered out. The glowing embers reflected redly on their faces. Gabriel waited patiently. It was strange, he thought. He had little or no patience when dealing with whites, but with Indians his patience seemed inexhaustible. Was there some significance to this?
Overhead, the moon hung like a luminous orb in an indigo sky. About them the rocky, barren hills shone like pewter. After an hour or so Gabriel rose, stretched the stiffness from his legs and then sat cross-legged next to the dying embers. He yawned, wondering as he did if the motionless Apache would ever speak.
Presently, Tall Tree began to rock back and forth. Gabriel ignored him. Next the young Indian took a tiny bag of yucca pollen from his pouch. Rubbing the pollen between his palms over the fire, he chanted under his breath in Apache. Gabriel couldn’t hear what the Mescalero was singing but whatever it was it ended as abruptly as it started. Then as if protected by his ritual, Tall Tree stared off into the darkness and spoke to Gabriel in Apache.
‘I have heard of you, Tall Man. Your name is known to The People.’
Gabriel, having learned from the Raramuri that it was rude to reply too quickly since the speaker may not have finished, kept silent.
‘It is told around our fires that you were dying once and the Sacred One came to your side and begged Yusan, the creator of life, to return your spirit to you.’
‘This is true,’ Gabriel replied in Apache. ‘Lolotea did save my life in this fashion.’
‘It is also told that because of this your medicine is very powerful.’
‘This also is true.’
‘Almighty Sky has said as much.’
‘This pleases me,’ Gabriel said, ‘for Almighty Sky is the wisest of all Mescaleros and would not say this if it were not true.’
Tall Tree nodded vigorously as if reassuring himself that he had nothing to fear. ‘This medicine,’ he said presently, ‘would a man be unwise to believe it is powerful enough to protect him from the evil bird?’
‘He would not be unwise at all,’ Gabriel said. ‘He would merely be proving to others that he has the courage to believe what he knows is true.’
Again Tall Tree nodded, this time slowly and solemnly. ‘It is as I thought,’ he said after a long pause. Rising suddenly, he stepped over the ash-covered embers and melted into the darkness.
Dawn came. Like a silent, invisible brush it painted the dull gray sky with streaks of opalescent pinks and yellows that gradually turned the western slopes of the barren hills the same incredible colors. Even the faces of the weary riders, as they crawled out of their blankets, gulped a quick cup of coffee and saddled up, were tinted yellowy pink, so that everyone’s skin had an unnatural glow.
‘Well, you were right,’ Devlin said as he and Gabriel saddled their horses. ‘The injun didn’t take kindly to my threat. Sumbitch has skipped.’
‘I doubt that, Mr Devlin.’
‘Then where the hell is he?’
‘Lookin’ for tracks most likely.’
‘In the dark?’
‘Full moon last night. More’n enough light for an Apache.’
‘I thought Apaches were afraid of the dark. I was told they think if they die at night their spirits will get lost.’
‘Just ’cause they’re afraid of somethin’,’ Gabriel said, ‘doesn’t mean they won’t do it; ’specially if they believe they’re protected by powerful medicine.’
Tall Tree had not showed up by the time everyone was ready to ride. Disgruntled, Devlin decided not to wait any longer. With Gabriel riding beside him, he led the riders out of camp. There was only one trail out of the ravine. It led across a landscape as barren and pock-marked as the moon. There was no sign of life, not even the ever-present ants. All around them th
e desolate hills had been bleached white by the relentless sun.
They rode slowly, stopping every hundred yards or so to let Gabriel dismount and search the ground for hoof prints. But even his trained eye could find no sign of Brandy or Devlin’s mares in the hard, ash-colored dirt. Finally, the trail dead-ended at the foot of a sprawling, rocky escarpment.
Cursing, Devlin called a halt. Everyone dismounted and drank from their canteens. They then wetted their bandanas and wiped away the salt caking their horses’ muzzles. Devlin, knowing Gabriel knew the territory better than anyone save the Apaches, asked him if he thought they should go back or find a way around the cliffs. Before he could reply, Gabriel saw a familiar figure descending the rocky slope ahead of them. It was Tall Tree, rifle in one hand, a twisted piece of iron in the other, and Gabriel felt a sense of relief.
‘Ask him,’ he said, thumbing at the approaching tracker. ‘Looks like he’s found somethin’.’
‘Dammit to hell,’ said Devlin, exasperated. ‘If I live to be a hundred and ten, I will never understand injuns. I mean, why the devil didn’t he just tell us where he was going?’
‘Trust,’ Gabriel said. ‘Apaches live by it an’ expect us to do the same.’ He waited for Tall Tree to join them. Their gazes met, each man silently conveying respect, and then the tracker held up his find.
It was a twisted horseshoe, with a nail hanging from it. ‘Find on trail last night. Belong to saddle horse, not mustang. Fall off as run downhill. Recognize?’ he said to Gabriel.
‘Uh-uh. Ain’t Brandy’s.’
‘Belongs to one of my mares,’ Devlin said, pointing at the shoe. ‘See, there’s my Box M brand. Had my smithy make ’em special in case rustlers burned another brand over mine.’
‘Smart,’ Tall Tree said. ‘Unless rustler eat horse.’
‘Never mind the jokes,’ Gabriel said, seeing Devlin was about to erupt. ‘What about the mares? Did you find ’em?’