by Ron Schwab
"I'll sign, but I will trust you to deposit the funds."
"How long before we hear from you?"
"It may be as long as a month. But I will report as soon as I have verified your son's location and made a deal with the Comanche."
"Will there be trouble making a deal?"
"I have never failed to come to terms. I have had several families who could not raise the funds. The Comanche will likely want gold coinage, possibly in Mexican dollars. It has been easier to reach an agreement the past few years with the end of the Comanche wars in sight. They know if they don't get a price for the captives, the white women and children will likely be repatriated without compensation on the reservation."
"I'll look to hear from you within a month then. If I'm not in Santa Fe when you return, you may speak with Miss Sinclair. She will have authority to proceed with arrangements for any ransom."
16
Josh sat in a tattered buffalo hide-covered chair in the single room of the clapboard building that served as Dr. Jacob Sturm's office, examining room, clinic and hospital. The structure was set off a half mile west of Fort Sill proper, and Josh was unclear whether the medical facility was sponsored by the army or by the Quakers, who operated an Indian school no more than fifty paces down the road. The three beds were occupied by two ancient, frail Indians, who appeared not far from meeting up with the Great Spirit, and a young soldier, whose scarlet and sweat-soaked face and neck indicated a raging fever. Josh knew the man was military because of the rumpled uniform that was tossed haphazardly over a chair next to his bed.
A young, blonde woman, with a bright smile that seemed out of place in the gloomy environment, entered the room, which was about fifteen feet wide by thirty feet long. She carried a tin pail of water and some rags and headed directly toward the soldier, calling over her shoulder, "Doctor Sturm will be here shortly."
Josh watched as the cheery woman began to bathe the soldier's face and neck, humming a familiar but unidentifiable tune, as her fingers danced the wet cotton cloths over his burning skin. No privacy here, he thought. No curtains to separate the patients. Surgery performed on the rickety operating table would play to an audience, most of whom apparently would not have much interest, though.
The army maintained an infirmary of sorts within the fort boundaries, so Josh was a bit curious about Sturm's facility. He had heard that Dr. Sturm was essentially a self-anointed physician, which was not all that uncommon in the West. He knew that the man, married to a Caddo woman, occasionally served as a scout for the army, had passable fluency in several native languages, and was frequently hired on as an interpreter for peace conferences with the tribes. He was also looked upon by some in the Bureau of Indian Affairs as something of an expert in the field of army and Indian relations. In particular he had the ear and respect of Colonel Ranald Slidell Mackenzie, known among many of the Indians of the southern plains as the No Finger Chief or Bad Hand, because of disfiguring Civil War injuries to his hand. Mackenzie, in turn, had the ear of President Ulysses S. Grant.
Josh's contacts had informed him that Sturm was the man to know if he wanted to hammer out favorable peace terms for Quanah. Time was running out. He needed a breakthrough.
The door opened again, and a scruffy-looking man with a short-cropped beard and deeply receding hairline walked in. Josh stood, but the wiry man seemed preoccupied and did not notice him at first. Then, when he saw Josh, the man looked at his visitor quizzically. Josh stepped forward and offered his hand. "Josh Rivers, Dr. Sturm. I'm a lawyer from Santa Fe. I represent Quanah of the Kwahadi Comanche."
As Josh suspected, the last statement caught Sturm's attention. Now he could see the man was studying him with some interest.
"Pull your chair up to my desk, Mr. Rivers. I'm always interested in anything to do with Quanah." Sturm moved around the desk and took a seat in a wobbly chair. He nodded, which Josh took as a signal to tell his story.
The man's pale blue eyes were bloodshot, and his skin burnt brown and dry by the sun. The wrinkles that fanned out from his eyes aged him some, but Josh did not think he was much past forty. He looked very tired. Josh explained in some detail his own relationship with Quanah, leaving out anything that might provide a clue as to the Comanche war chief's whereabouts--not that he had any idea of Quanah's location anyway.
"So you're Quanah's law wrangler?" Sturm said. "That's one for the books. A savage with his own lawyer . . . I'll be damned. Doesn't that make you some kind of an accomplice or something?"
"Believe me, I've thought long and hard about this. Maybe I'm just rationalizing, but I just see myself as a lawyer negotiating the best deal for my client before he turns himself in. If I knew Quanah planned a specific attack, I'd have an obligation to inform the law or the army. But I've never had that kind of information. He has ways of finding me when he wants, but I have no way of knowing where he's at, and, in light of the murder of my contact, I don't know how to get in touch with him right now. He'll find me when he's ready, though. Even then I'll probably just talk to the woman I told you about, She Who Speaks."
"Jael Chernik. I recall something about a Dr. Chernik and his family who got separated from a wagon train some years back and were never heard from again."
"Yes. And the daughter ended up with Quanah's band and made herself pretty much indispensable. She has an unbelievable gift for languages, and she's damned shrewd. She understands the politics of things, and Quanah's smart enough to listen to her."
"I'd like to meet her. But it sounds like she might put me out of business. Let's not tell Mackenzie Quanah's got his own interpreter. I need the money. I'm sure as hell not making it with my doctoring skills." He waved his hand in the direction of his bed-bound patients. "Two starving Comanche. All we can do is feed them for a while and turn them back out on the reservation to go hungry again. The old ones are supposed to go off someplace and die when there's not enough food for everybody."
"I thought the government was providing food allotments."
"When does the government ever do what it promises? The President and even a fair number of Congressmen have good intentions, but the bureaucrats run it all. The government's own agents are very adept at siphoning off the cattle and grains and selling everything on the markets. The Indians don't see half of it."
"This takes me to what I want to talk about. Quanah will use his influence with the other chiefs to bring in his Comanche if three demands are met."
Sturm gave a cynical smile. "I suppose we surrender the state of Texas to the Comanche and kick out all of the whites and Mexicans."
Josh ignored the remark. "No punishment for the Comanche warriors or their chiefs. Land to be owned by, and under total control of, the tribe. And cattle to stock the grazing lands. Quanah wants the tribe to become self-sufficient so his people aren't forced to depend upon the whim of those bureaucrats who are starving your patients."
Sturm raked his fingers through his beard and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "He's right, of course, but the land will still be reservation property subject to political manipulation in the years ahead. His new warriors will be lawyers."
"I suspect Quanah has healthy political instincts of his own, and I hope to set up an office near the reservation and convince Jael Chernek to manage it as a clerk until she can pass the territorial bar. I haven't told her what I have in mind, but it would be an opportunity for her to help the Comanche as well as herself."
"You seem quite enamored of this woman."
"Not in a romantic way. I just see her as a formidable woman with skills that I would like to harvest for my law firm." Josh detected a note of skepticism in the physician's eyes.
"Well, Josh, I have reason to believe I'm going to be one of the emissaries when the final peace overtures are made . . . and I believe that will be within a year's time . . . so I will certainly get word to the right places. Frankly, though, you're not negotiating with great leverage. The Comanche are on their last legs. They are going to die or surrend
er. It's just a matter of time. It's a wretched situation. The march of civilization . . . if that's what one would call it . . . stomps those who happen to be in the way. This will be a sorry chapter in our country's history when the books are written about these times."
"I just ask that you do what you can. I don't see Quanah surrendering anytime soon, and there are chiefs in his band with less foresight, who must be convinced of the wisdom of making peace. Unfortunately, many needless deaths will take place on both sides in the meantime."
"Dr. Sturm. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I think you need to take a look at Private Henkel." It was the young nurse calling from the soldier's bedside. The look of alarm on her face did not portend good news.
Sturm got up from his chair and walked deliberately to the far end of the room. He bent over the bed, and Josh saw him take the soldier's wrist in his hand. After a few moments, he announced, "He's gone."
Sturm pulled the blanket over the dead soldier's face and addressed the nurse matter-of-factly. "Get word to the post surgeon. They'll send someone out to pick him up."
The nurse seemed to accept the announcement stoically and hurried away. Josh supposed she had repeated the scene many times before. Sturm returned to his desk and sat down.
"Typhoid," Sturm said. "Most of our military patients are sent here to die. Less disturbing to infirmary patients, I guess. Occasionally, a patient walks out of here, but not often. I put in a claim with the commandant and eventually get paid half of it. I guess a young man could do worse than have Elizabeth's angelic face hovering over him at the time of his departure. She's a kind, caring young woman. Why in the hell she'd want to spend her days doing this baffles me. She'd make more money in the post laundry."
"Some people seem to be born caregivers, and they can't help themselves." He thought of his beloved Cassie and was overtaken by a sudden melancholy. Cassie and Josh and Michael. And then there was one. But there was hope there might be two again. That would please Cassie if she was out there somewhere.
Sturm suddenly dismissed him. "Contact me again in September if you haven't heard from me before. We'll talk specifics."
17
Jessica was nibbling on his ear when Josh woke up. Her naked body was snuggled spoon-like against his back, making him wonder why he chose all of those lonely nights on the trail. Maybe his absence made their reunions more treasured.
He rolled over and kissed her softly on her waiting lips. "What time is it?"
"Past nine o'clock," she said. "You're going to get voted out of your own firm if you don't start showing up for work on time."
"I work twenty-four hours a day when I'm not in Santa Fe. I don't owe the firm any time."
She slipped away from him and scooted to the edge of the bed. She sat on the bed a few minutes, and he wondered if she was intentionally provoking him by affording him the view of her slender back and the little crevice of her ass. Probably. And it was working. She leaped up from the bed and began gathering up her clothes, which were strewn about the room.
"I have to get ready for work. The ballet troupe should arrive today."
"Ballet troupe?"
"You've been back a week. The Bella Union Theatre Ballet. From San Francisco. There are signs posted all over town. You've been with me the last five nights. I haven't talked about anything else. You don't listen to a word I say. And by the way, this is making me look like a whore."
"What is?"
"I'm in your room every night. And I don't leave until after sunrise. Everybody knows. Shit, the people in the next room probably hear us."
"You. Not me."
She shot him an annoyed glare, as she pulled on her dress.
"I've offered to come to your room."
"I don't want you in my room. It seems too much like you're moving in. Besides, you tend to be on the slovenly side when it comes to housekeeping."
"You seem to make yourself comfortable when you're here." They had spent a few nights in her room, and Josh found it so immaculate and organized he was ill at ease there. Fortunately, Jessica preferred his room for their lovemaking trysts.
She ignored him. "I won't see you tonight. I'll be working with the Bella group setting up the stage for their performance. By the way, my new piano arrived yesterday with the wagons that came in. The troupe has their own violins and a magnificent pianist. But there weren't any decent pianos in Santa Fe . . . until now."
"How much did the piano cost the shareholders?"
"You don't want to know."
She was sufficiently clothed now for the escape to her own room.
"When will I see you?"
"Unless you want to help out as a stage hand, I'll see you tomorrow night for opening night. The shareholders will be introduced before the performance. And you will be one of the hosts here at the Exchange following the performance. Remember?"
"Sorry. I forgot." He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't miss it."
She gave him the look again before she slipped out the door. "No, I don't think you would dare."
18
Danna was at her desk reading The New Mexican when Josh tapped on the door and entered the office. He sat down while she continued to read. After a few moments Danna folded the paper and passed it across the desk. "Take it with you," she said. "Your sister has claimed the entire front page."
Josh picked up the newspaper and perused the front page. He saw three Tabitha Rivers bylines on separate stories. Impressive. God, he hoped she didn't get herself killed--or worse--traipsing around Comanche country with the U.S. Army.
"Her dispatches came all in one sweep so The New Mexican says there will be a week's worth of stories. They're calling it the Red River War. Tabby promised me she'd name it that."
"She's named a war? My little sister?"
"It appears so. Besides her daring, she's a brilliant writer. Her story about a family of slaughtered settlers forced me to relive a part of my own life."
"Maybe she was reliving part of her own."
"Could be. You've got something on your mind?"
"Several things. You've been so tied up with legal business, we haven't had a chance to talk since I got back."
"Business is booming. We're handling three major land grant disputes right now, and Lucien Maxwell has hired the firm to represent the First National Bank of Santa Fe. This is an enormous opportunity for the firm. Until the Second National organized two years ago, it was the only bank within four hundred miles. And now I've received discreet inquiries from one of the Spiegelberg brothers about whether we'd be interested in doing some work for Second National."
Josh had met several of the brothers but was never clear on which brother bore which first name. The Spiegelbergs were German Jews. There were five brothers, who had opened the bank in a corner of their huge mercantile store. Josh had done some real estate work for Willi Spiegelberg and had met Levi in the Spiegelberg Brothers store, the largest business on the Plaza. He was not acquainted with Emanuel, Lehman or Jacob. The banking business was dwarfed by Maxwell's First National, but Josh had no doubt about the Second National Bank's ultimate success. "Can we represent both banks? Are there conflict of interest problems?"
"They're competitors, but they're not adversaries in the legal sense. It is unlikely that either would have reason to sue the other. If so, we'd have to disqualify ourselves from representing either. Our work would be mostly real estate related. Mortgages, title searches, foreclosures and that sort of thing. What I've been learning about corporate structuring would be useful. I would want to get Maxwell's approval before we took on the Spiegelbergs. The Second National knew of that relationship before the contact, so there should be no problem on that end."
"You seem to have it figured out."
"Would you talk to Lucien Maxwell? I know he's a friend of your father's. And he should talk with the firm's senior partner. I think you said a piece of the Slash R came from the Maxwell grant."
"It did. If Lucien's in town, I'll speak with him today."
"He is. Linda made an appointment for you at the bank at two o'clock."
A year ago, her presumptiveness would have annoyed him considerably, but now it earned only a passive thought. He changed the subject. "What about Marty? How is he working out?"
"Magnificently. He's very versatile, totally comfortable in the courtroom but more than willing to take on anything I throw at him from the office practice. To establish a bit of separation, I plan to have him focus on the Second National legal matters while I retain responsibility for the First National account. He works like a man obsessed. He's often here when I leave at night."
That was saying something, because Danna was no slacker when it came to logging in office hours. "He seems to be keeping my desk clear. It's nice to get back and not find a pile of work waiting."
"He's a fit for us. But within a year we'll need another lawyer."
He was going to have to slow this woman down. "Let's talk about it then."
"Now what did you really want to talk about?"
"I've got two concerns, and they both involve Comanche."
"One is Michael, I assume."
"Yes. It's getting close to a month and no word from Pierce. It makes me nervous."
"He said it could be a month, didn't he? And who knows in that godforsaken country what kinds of delays they could have run into? I don't think you can assume that the delay means anything."
"Well, on my way back from Fort Sill I lined up the ransom . . . I hope. I stopped at the Slash R and talked to Pop. It didn't take a second to sign him on. I just hope he doesn't have to deal with disappointment. He signed a letter of guaranty to the First National backing any loans I might take out for ransom money. That's another reason I'm glad to speak with Lucien."