Mouth of Hell (The Law Wranglers Book 2)

by Ron Schwab

  "I shall." She sat down and helped her companions decimate the slab.

  Josh decided that bacon was off the menu for the trip home. He got up and took care of the little cleaning up he had to do, while She Who Speaks spoke to the warriors in their Comanche dialect. In a few moments the two Comanche disappeared.

  Shortly, she joined Josh. "I will tend to your shoulder, and then we can talk." She instructed him to sit down and lean back against the cottonwood. Then she cleaned the wounds, nodded with approval, and applied more of her poultice. "The wounds are doing very well . . . no sign of infection whatever."

  "Thanks to the skill of my physician. You sound strangely professional for someone who claims to be Comanche."

  She found her own spot next to the tree and rested her back against it, so she and Josh formed a rough right angle, neither facing the other. "My father was a physician. I suppose I have never forgotten his manner of speaking. Unlike most adopted members of the band, I have never forgotten or abandoned my language roots. I have a strange affinity for languages. Although Comanche, of course, have no written language, I learned it very quickly, and when white men came to the camp to trade . . . including the Comanchero thieves . . . I was quickly put to work translating. Many of these men were Mexican, and I began to pick up Spanish words. Then we had a Mexican captive in camp for nearly a year, and I was permitted to speak with him. He was eager to talk to me and help with the language because he had no one else to communicate with, and I was able to be his interpreter. Now I am reasonably fluent in five languages."

  "Five? English, Comanche, Spanish and--?"

  "German and Yiddish."

  "Yiddish? That's beyond bizarre if you don't mind my saying so. I'm not even certain what that is."

  "It is a variation of Hebrew with a German influence and a few other languages mixed in. I read Hebrew . . . I suppose I still could . . . but I am not fluent speaking the language. It was rarely spoken where I grew up. Yiddish was the language of our community."

  "And where was that?"

  "Germany. We were Jews."

  "You're Jewish?"

  "By birth, yes. By religion, I think not. I've adopted the gods of my tribe. They are convenient and make a certain sense."

  "How did you end up here?"

  "Following my father's dream. Tevel Chernik was a physician who decided he wanted to take his skills to America. My mother, Naomi, was a German school teacher, and she had a large family there. My father was stricken by the wanderlust at an early age and had immigrated to Germany from Poland, where he met and married my mother. He enjoyed a very successful medical practice in a small town on the Rhine. But America kept calling, and he was determined to answer. Mother resisted. I can still remember my parents' loud quarrels about immigrating, but my father was very strong-willed, and, in the end, he got his way. This was fine with me. It all sounded very exciting. I guess it turned out that way."

  "I detect a bit of sarcasm."

  "It wasn't enough for my father to settle with other Jews in New York. He insisted that we go west, and Santa Fe intrigued him. He was undaunted by the idea of a German Jew invading an entirely different culture. He declared that the language of medicine was universal and that he could do much good among the Mexicans and Indians there. So we travelled to St. Louis, eventually joined a small wagon train. While he was sometimes stern with my mother and me, Tevel . . . I have not spoken his name in more than eight years . . . it seems strange . . . Tevel made friends easily, and he put his skills to work during the journey, even delivering two babies. He was awed by the fact that no one seemed to mind his Jewishness."

  "But you didn't make it to Santa Fe."

  "No. A wheel broke on our wagon and we were separated from the main train. Several men stayed behind to help replace the wheel, but the Comanche burst from nowhere. And everyone died but me. My mother was raped many times and was scalped while still alive. My father and the others died before the scalping. I was taken captive, but several days later I was traded to a Kwahadi band for another captive who showed more promise as a wife. That was a good thing, because it would have been more difficult for me to make a place where my parents' scalps were exhibited by members of the tribe."

  "I'm sorry. Have you ever thought of escaping?"

  "Not since the first few months. I have mostly a good life among The People . . . that's what we call ourselves. Changes are coming. I know I can adapt. I find this an exciting time. I am hopeful I can help ease the pain for those who are not prepared for what lies ahead. The People must follow Quanah's trail. He is a great warrior, but he is an even greater leader."

  "You are already helping the Kwahadi."

  "At this moment, I feel very foolish. I have spoken only of myself. I have never talked about my past before today. I apologize."

  "The apology is unnecessary. You know much about me from Quanah's spies. It helps if we know something of each other. I have only one question before we talk about peace terms."

  "Yes?"

  "You had a name in your life before the Kwahadi. What were you called?"

  She hesitated. "Jael. I was known as Jael Chernik."

  "Jael. I like that name. A simple one that rolls smoothly off of the tongue. Perhaps you will claim it again in your new life."

  "Perhaps. I told you a small lie at our first meeting. I said I would not divulge my name because I feared my family would try to ransom me. I have no family. There is no person outside of The People who cares about what happened to Jael Chernik. My family consists of my son, Flying Crow, and me." She scrambled up from the hard ground and stood in front of him. "Now we walk, and you will tell me what you are doing to earn your fees."

  Josh strolled beside the former Jael Chernik along the grassy fringes of the stream. The sun had fully risen, and he welcomed its warming rays. He described to She Who Speaks the contacts he had made with civilian authorities in his efforts to negotiate peace terms. They spent several hours talking about the specifics that should be included in any peace plan that would satisfy Quanah. He assured her again that progress was being made.

  She was skeptical. "How can they be truly serious about peace when they are preparing to make war? Your Colonel Mackenzie is already assembling forces to crush the Kwahadi and our allies. Hundreds of troops are gathering along the Red River. This forces Quanah to prepare for war also. If your people are victorious, they will march the Kwahadi to the reservation, and there will be no terms but the white man's. Quanah prefers the honor of death in battle."

  "I understand that. What happens on the battlefield is beyond my control. I can only try to persuade the government people that it is in the mutual interest of the parties to hammer out a fair peace. It is difficult to persuade some that a war chief is sincere in his efforts to be a peacemaker."

  "He is sincere. I promise. You must understand that Quanah is a young man of no more than twenty-six years. He is extremely intelligent and a leader with vision. He knows the years of war are numbered. Settlers are swarming like locusts over the Comanche lands. He knows that most of his lifetime, if he survives the wars, will be lived out in a different world. But how many lives are the whites willing to sacrifice before peace is forced upon the Comanche?"

  "My efforts are necessarily secretive. Every decision is political. Many whites who live in the Southwest will settle for no less than the total destruction of the Kwahadi. Their representatives in Washington listen to those voices. Peace with honor and dignity does not win votes. We can only hope that wise men prevail. It happens on rare occasions."

  "You should understand that Quanah is also a politician. There are those in the band who have grander titles and their own followers. Some who are older resent Quanah's influence, especially among the young warriors. He also has a serious rival, Isa-tai, who has a large following. Isa-tai is a shaman, or what some whites might call a medicine man. He claims great powers, and it is said he has ascended to the Great Spirit in the sky and returned again. He has declared that
he had a vision that the Comanche will be restored to their rightful place on the plains. He is younger than Quanah, but is a squatty man who looks like an old toad. His name means 'coyote's vagina.' Very suitable in my opinion," she said contemptuously.

  "You obviously are not fond of Isa-tai."

  "He is an obstacle on the trail to peace and is formidable. But Quanah has been very clever in building ties with the different factions, and most know that Quanah decides when it is time for peace. It is your responsibility to bring acceptable terms to Quanah to hasten that time. In the meantime, you must understand that the Kwahadi will carry on their raids, and although Isa-tai and Quanah and others may be rivals for influence, they will be united and allied in the conduct of war."

  "I will do everything I can to end the fighting."

  "When you can bring a true proposal, notify Antonio at the Exchange Hotel. He will see that I get word and will convey a response. Please do not waste my time with something frivolous." She turned from him and walked away.

  7

  When Josh returned to Santa Fe, after leaving his buckskin at the Exchange Hotel stable, he stopped by the Rivers and Sinclair office, where he was greeted by the firm's grumpy law clerk. George Hatter ruled the administration of the firm's business with an iron fist and was nearly the equivalent of another lawyer. He was an excellent draftsman and researcher and did everything legal but appear in court. Josh had given up urging the middle-aged, balding man to take the bar examination. For some reason Hatter had decided he had found his niche and was content with his lot.

  George looked up from his Remington typewriter when Josh entered the office and examined his boss with obvious disdain. Josh admitted to himself he was not suitable for public inspection after several weeks in the saddle. And Hatter did not approve of the lawyer's lengthy office absences. "What brings you here?" the clerk asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

  "I thought I'd check in before the office closed for the day and let you know I'm in town before I go to the Exchange Hotel to clean up. Is Danna in?"

  "No, Miss Sinclair is in court. She has a breach of contract case before Judge Robinson. She has a heavy case load . . . being the only lawyer who is regularly in the office."

  He ignored the clerk's little barb. "Well, I'll be here in the morning. It's after four o'clock, and I need a hot bath, a decent meal and a good night's sleep."

  "Miss Sinclair said to tell you she had something very important to discuss with you. And, by the way, there is a stack of mail and messages on your desk."

  "They'll wait." He wheeled and headed for the door, feeling the disapproving eyes of George Hatter burning in his back. If the little weasel disliked him so much, Josh wondered, why did he stay with the firm? He answered his own question: because Rivers and Sinclair paid him very well to manage the office. He was not indispensable, but Linda de la Cruz, although certainly carrying the raw intelligence to do the job, needed a few more years' experience before taking on the responsibility. When she was ready, watch out Hatter. When Josh left the law office, he strolled down the dusty street of the Plaza on his way to the small suite he maintained at the Exchange--a bedroom and a cramped, usually cluttered, living area. He approached the Teatro Santa Fe, the town's budding cultural center, founded and managed by his friend and occasional lover, Jessica Chandler. He wondered if she was working in the theatre and decided to find out. He tested the curved, ornate door handle. It was unlocked, so he tapped on the heavy door, before he pushed it slowly open.

  "Jess," he called, as he stepped into the entranceway.

  "Over here. I'll be finished in a moment."

  He saw her then, on her knees in a far corner of the lobby, tapping lightly on the floor with what looked like a miniature hammer. She was wearing sandals, faded denim trousers and a baggy gray shirt, and had never looked more alluring, he thought. He noticed a short wooden bench pushed against the wall and tossed his gear on the floor and sat down, content to follow the sway of her butt as she worked at whatever she was doing. Finally, she got up and turned and faced him.

  "You stink," she said. "I can smell you from here. Stale sweat, horseshit, and a mix of other revolting odors."

  "And I'm glad to see you, too," he replied.

  She brushed her soft, black hair away from her forehead. "What do you think?"

  "About what?"

  She stepped back and extended her open hand as though presenting a guest speaker. "The floor."

  "The floor?"

  "It's new, you idiot. I just set the last tile."

  "Oh, sure." He studied the floor, nodding his head approvingly. "Very nice. I like brown. Brown's good."

  She placed her hands on her hips, and he could see her green eyes starting to spark. "The color is terra cotta. You make your living with words, and the best you can come up with is 'brown?'"

  "Sorry, that's what I meant to say. 'Terra cotta.'"

  "Liar."

  "Forgive me. You have made some impressive improvements." He cast his eyes about the room and realized she had re-plastered the walls and had been putting a lot of work into dressing up the building, which had been a small, abandoned Catholic church. There had been several performances there since Jessica arrived with him in Santa Fe the previous fall. She had adapted the raised pulpit area as a stage and kept the existing pews for seating. Jessica, an experienced actress, performed the lead female roles and recruited local would-be thespians for other parts. These actors appeared for whatever satisfaction they received from performing, which enhanced profits. This appealed to Josh because he had invested for a ten percent share in the enterprise.

  "You're making progress," she said. "I'm saving money by doing most of the work myself."

  "That, I do like."

  "The Bella Union Theatre Ballet is going to perform here in July, you know."

  "Ballet?"

  "From San Francisco. They've committed to four days. They're on tour. We're the next stop after Denver."

  "Who will attend?"

  "The place will be packed. And you will attend, if you know what's good for you."

  "Peace offering. Let me take you to dinner at La Castillo this evening."

  "You'll take a bath?"

  "I promise."

  8

  Jessica's naked body clung to Josh's like a magnet, one long leg draped over his thigh, arm flung across his waist and her long, black hair splayed over his chest, where her head nestled. He had awakened when he thought he heard steps in the hallway outside his suite, which afforded access to all of the rooms that lined it. The sound of folks walking would not have been so unusual a few hours after midnight. Strangely, it was the stealth of the movement that had alerted him. Too many days in Comanche land, he thought. Nonetheless, he listened.

  Jessica seemed to be sleeping the sleep of the dead. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breasts against his ribs. She had been finally sated but had ridden him to near exhaustion after they returned to his rooms, which were at the opposite end of the long hallway from hers. This second floor of the hotel housed mostly full-time residents, and their proximity was convenient for their occasional wild coupling, but they were more friends than lovers, and their stolen moments in one of their rooms were essentially to satisfy a hunger they mutually recognized in each other.

  Jessica, in her mid-thirties, was some half dozen years older than Josh and had made clear she was not seeking a mate, in the matrimonial sense. She had been married to her acting mentor, a man twenty years her senior, for many years before he was savagely murdered during a Comanche attack on their small theatrical troupe, which had foolishly ventured upon the Staked Plains. Josh had come upon the scene and intervened to liberate Jessica from the attackers. She had endured widowhood well, mourning her late husband for all of a day before she crawled into Josh's bedroll. To Josh's embarrassment this had led to the both of them being captured naked at sunrise by Quanah and a small war party. It was during their captivity that he met She Who Speaks and negotiated
for Jessica's release as a part of his bargain for ransom of Erin McKenna and his agreement to represent Quanah. This common experience had forged their bond.

  He heard the footsteps in the hallway again and, then, someone tinkering with the door lock. He gently eased away from Jessica's clinging body and quietly got out of bed. She rolled over, clutched her pillow and seemed not to notice his absence, as he slipped into his cotton undershorts and reached for his Colt, which was nestled in its holster on the bed stand. He moved stealthily from the bedroom to the hallway door. Then, just before he slid back the deadbolt, an envelope slipped under the door and he heard light footsteps racing down the hall. He opened the door and stepped out into the hazy light of the few oil lamps that lit the hallway in time to catch a glimpse of a gangly, barefoot Mexican boy turning the corner that led to the stairway.

  He shrugged and returned to his suite, stooping to pick up the envelope. It was unsealed, and he plucked a small sheet of thick, unlined parchment paper from it. He walked over to the little two-chair table that served as his desk and dining set. He lit the kerosene lamp, turning it up just enough to allow him to read the message. The writing was something of a scrawl, probably intentionally so, he thought. It was a short, simple note: Meet Quanah's contact in St. Mary's sanctuary at sundown. Tomorrow night. Important.

  He flipped the message onto the table and turned off the lamp. He needed to sleep on this. Damn, he was tired. He returned to the bedroom and climbed back into bed and collapsed on the straw mattress. Jessica stirred and rolled toward him. He froze, turning very still.

  "Josh," she murmured.

  He feigned sleep. He felt her fingers gently raking his curly chest hair.

  "I'd better go to my room. One more time?"

  "I don't think I can," he said groggily.

  She snuggled up to him, and he could feel a taut nipple brushing his skin. Her fingers danced down his belly and inched beneath his undershorts. "I guess I can," he said, rising to the occasion.