Mouth of Hell (The Law Wranglers Book 2)

by Ron Schwab

  "I will, Mr. Pierce, you can count on it."

  24

  The evening following his meeting with Clayborne Pierce, Josh did his penance and attended the ballet performance again. This time he did not miss a turn-out or pirouette and remained until the last standing ovation had ended.

  Jessica had evidently appreciated his effort to return to her good graces, for she had awakened him with a kiss, after letting herself in with her key at nearly two o'clock in the morning. Thereafter, she had proceeded with a performance worthy itself of a standing ovation, he thought.

  Josh sat at a corner table in the Exchange Hotel now, enjoying his morning coffee with a plate of scrambled eggs and a slice of thick sourdough bread covered with an unidentifiable purple jam that he found quite agreeable. His face was hidden behind the pages of The New Mexican as he read the recent reports of his little sister from the Red River War. She certainly knew how to turn a phrase and lay out a spellbinding narrative. He felt a sense of family pride as he read her stories and more than a little concern for her safety as he learned of her adventures on the Staked Plains.

  Tabby had arrived at Adobe Walls just a few days after a hodgepodge crew of buffalo hunters, skinners, merchants and drovers staved off an attack by a massive force of Comanche and Kiowa warriors. The trading post consisted of a saloon and two stores, and the defenders included twenty-eight men and one woman.

  The attackers numbered over two hundred fifty according to Tabby's account, but the buildings were constructed of sod walls that were two feet thick, and the occupants had the merchants' virtual arsenal of ammunition and new Sharps rifles at their disposal. The "big fifties" rifles were manufactured for buffalo hunting and could "nail a big bull at one thousand yards," according to a gambler by the name of Bat Masterson, who was oft quoted in the articles. When the fighting was over, the defenders of Adobe Walls suffered only three deaths, and the Indian losses were at least fifty, according to one count, not including the wounded. Tabby noted, though, that the casualty loss seemed to grow with each telling of the tale.

  Tabitha Rivers was the first journalist at the scene, and Josh speculated that her collection of stories about the battle of Adobe Walls would be a huge career boost. She was sure as hell earning it.

  "Mr. Rivers?"

  Josh looked up from his newspaper and saw a stocky man with thinning gray hair standing at the table. He was a fashionably attired man with an impressive diamond pin fastened to a silk, burgundy-colored cravat.

  Josh nodded. "Mr. McKenna."

  "May I sit down a moment?"

  Josh hesitated and then his curiosity won out. "Yeah, I guess so. Why not?"

  Oliver McKenna pulled out a chair across from Josh and sat down. "You must be reading about your sister's exploits. Fascinating stuff. She's a very talented young writer . . . with a barrel of grit, I might add. You must be proud of her."

  Josh did not acknowledge the man's remarks. "You obviously didn't sit down to talk about my sister, McKenna. Why don't you just spit it out?"

  McKenna shrugged. "Very well. It's come to my attention that you believe that I've retained hired guns to kill you. I want to assure you I have not."

  "And why should I believe that?"

  "Because I'm telling you the truth. Why would I want you killed? I don't like you, but there are many people I'm not fond of, and I don't arrange for their murders. As you know, Mr. Rivers, I am a wealthy man. I have too much to lose to risk a hangman's noose. I am not a stupid man. All of my enterprises operate within boundaries of the law."

  "You weren't above trying to steal your niece's ranch while she was a Comanche captive."

  "I thought she was dead. That left me as my brother's only heir. My claim was pursued through the courts, not with hired guns. I had every legal right to do so. I understand we have no love for each other as a result of that case. But your firm won fair and square. I don't have time to harbor a grudge . . . and certainly have no motive to kill because of it."

  "Okay, I've listened. Now I need to get to my office." Josh slid his chair back.

  "I have more to say, and I suggest you hear me out. I may be able to help you."

  Josh scooted his chair back to the table but did not respond.

  McKenna continued. "It's true that several of the men who have participated in attacks on you were former employees of mine. They were hired gunslingers . . . and not very good ones it appears, but I had discharged them long before their altercations with you."

  "Because they were incompetent?"

  "Because they served no purpose in my operations. My enterprises are primarily ranching and mining. There was a time when I required men who were willing to fight and kill to protect my properties, but now that the law is more or less arriving in this part of the country, such men can become embarrassments. That's not to say that their occasional use may not be needed. But my point is they are tools of last resort. Why in God's name would I employ these men for the sole purpose of revenge? That would be a terrible waste of money and a risk not worth taking. I don't care if you live or die, but I'm not going to spend a single gold piece to decide your outcome."

  McKenna was making certain sense, and he did not seem to be aware of Josh's relationship with Quanah--and why would he care? Comanche peace would probably be in the old rancher's best interest. "For sake of argument I'll accept that you're not trying to have me killed. Any suggestions on who might?"

  "If it's not revenge or sudden anger, it's usually money. Are you engaged in a case that might affect somebody's money flow? If so, find out who that somebody is and you might find the would-be killer."

  "That's not an easy task, but your suggestion is so obvious, I've been looking past it. I thank you for your insight."

  Without another word, McKenna rose and walked away, leaving Josh to ponder their strange meeting. He was inclined to believe the man, and Josh's suspicions had no doubt found their way to the older man who had a spider web network of information sources threaded through the Santa Fe community. It seemed highly unlikely that McKenna would have confronted him this way if he had been behind the attempts on Josh's life.

  Josh gazed at a painting of an old Spanish mission that hung on the plastered restaurant wall, sipping on the remains of his bitter, black coffee. Who had something to lose from Quanah negotiating an honorable and profitable peace? Another thought occurred to him. How did the person or persons learn of Josh's association with the famous Comanche war chief? How did they learn of Josh's last mission on the Staked Plains and the timing of it?

  25

  Tabitha Rivers had stacked a few larger stones to form a rough seat and now sat drowsily next to a sputtering, dying campfire. White Wolf sat across the fire from her, a haze of smoke drifting upward and nearly screening off his face from her view.

  They were bivouacked with a force of some two hundred fifty mixed cavalry and infantry troops somewhere on the southern edge of the Staked Plains. It had been nearly three weeks since she covered the aftermath of Adobe Walls, and there had been no further encounters with hostiles. The New Mexican was forced to make do these days with little features about the sixty-year old sergeant who had been serving in one army or another for forty-four years or the boy-soldier who was one of thirteen brothers--a baker's dozen--to serve in the U.S Army. Tabby itched for a real story, and she vowed she would ferret one out soon.

  Since the near-massacre, White Wolf had never been far from her side when he was in camp. He would go out on his scouting forays when ordered, but when he returned, he remained within easy calling distance. At night he spread his bedroll at a discreet distance but near enough to remain within her line of sight. She supposed he saw himself as her protector, and while she felt no particular fear, she could not deny she took some comfort from his presence.

  Several evenings she had invited him to join her with some of the male reporters at her fire. The others did not protest because White Wolf usually gathered the firewood, which was scarce out on these pla
ins, and brought in game to supplement the boring, if not disgusting, army rations. After the others drug their weary bodies to their blankets, Tabby had tried to engage in trivial conversation with White Wolf but with nominal success. She knew that he was fluent in her language, but he never initiated conversation, and his answers to her queries were unfailing brief and without emotion. She had yet to see him smile or hear him laugh. He was irritatingly calm and unexcitable whatever the seeming crisis. He had taken stoicism to a high art form, she thought.

  She speculated White Wolf carried a story worth retelling, but she was going to have to extricate it like a skilled surgeon. She had no doubt that, sooner or later, she would. That was the foundation of her writing skills. A lot of people could put interesting words to paper. But the key was finding the story.

  She looked across the smoldering embers. "Isn't this a strange place to camp?" she asked. "It's so flat you can see for miles. The Comanche can't miss seeing us."

  "We can see them, too, if they approach. It would be foolish, with a force this size, to think the Comanche don't know where we are at every minute."

  "Then why do we use such a huge force? Wouldn't it make sense to break up into a number of smaller units?"

  "That is not for me to say."

  "But you're thinking it."

  He shrugged.

  She shifted the subject, sensing he might be open to talking this evening.

  "May I ask where you learned to speak English?"

  "I have always spoken English."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I know that it might seem strange to you that a savage speaks your language, but many Cherokee have been bilingual for several generations. Unlike most Indian tribes, we have a written language and an alphabet, and whites have lived among our people for years . . . your famous Sam Houston among them. I attended a Quaker school where only English was spoken."

  He was speaking with some pride, she sensed, and there was a teacher within him who sought to dispatch her ignorance. She recognized this as a key moment on the road to satisfying her journalist's curiosity. "I never thought of you as a savage. But I have never encountered a man of your heritage who was so fluent. Actually, you make me feel incompetent. I have lived among Spanish people most of my life, but I only know some common phrases to allow me to get by."

  He remained silent.

  "If I angered or hurt you, I apologize."

  "You speak of my heritage. I think of myself as Cherokee, but my father's father was a Scottish trader. My mother is half Tonkawa. Rattlesnake is my cousin."

  "How did you end up here?"

  "The money. I was riding to Santa Fe and stopped at Rattlesnake's village. I had no money, and Rattlesnake told me the army was recruiting scouts for the coming campaign. I had military experience, of course, and saw no reason why I couldn't be an adequate scout, so I signed up with Rattlesnake, and we were fortunate to be attached to the same unit."

  "May I ask why you were going to Santa Fe?"

  "I am intrigued by the mingling of cultures there, but I also thought the Spanish architecture was suited to my skills. I am a carpenter and a mason, and I build things. I also dabble with sculpture and painting, and I thought I might find a market for my work."

  Tabitha found herself speechless for several minutes before she spoke. "This is all very bizarre, you know . . . an Indian scout who plans to set up a business in Santa Fe. You would make a great story."

  "No story."

  "But--"

  "No story."

  The tone of his voice warned her not to pursue the issue for now. But the seed was planted, and she was already writing the feature in her head. She had hundreds of questions, and, sooner or later, she would, sliver by sliver, pluck the answers from him. She changed the subject. "Are you and Rattlesnake riding out tomorrow?"

  "Yes."

  "I'd like to ride with you and see what you do. It would be a viewpoint probably never covered in a newspaper."

  "For a reason. The entire purpose of a scouting mission is to find clues and signs of what your enemy is doing without being discovered. Rattlesnake and I never remain together when we ride into the enemy's territory. One can move about unseen where several can be sighted with less astute eyes. Another person with us would be a distraction . . . and a danger."

  "Your answer is 'no' then?"

  "I cannot make myself clearer." He got up and walked away from the smoldering coals.

  Tabitha's eyes followed White Wolf's every step as he emerged from the smoke, pausing at the taut muscles of his buttocks and naked thighs that received only token cover from his loin-cloth. He was tall and lean and undeniably handsome. She wondered if the images that drifted through her mind now would be considered perverted. Certainly her father would have been disgusted by the thought of her lying with an Indian.

  26

  A few days after Rattlesnake and White Wolf left the encampment on their scouting missions, Rattlesnake returned and reported directly to Colonel Miles, who was in command pending the arrival of General Mackenzie. Even though his permanent generalship was still making its way through military and civilian bureaucracies, most soldiers referred to Mackenzie by his brevet rank, although he was technically, like Miles, a colonel. Miles was not above correcting the record if a soldier misidentified Mackenzie's rank in his presence.

  Less than an hour after Rattlesnake's report to Miles, Tabitha noticed activity at the far side of the camp and hurried to see if there might be a story in the making. As she approached, she could see that approximately twenty buffalo soldiers from Mackenzie's Ninth Cavalry were readying their mounts. The buffalo soldiers, so named by plains Indians because of hair that resembled the thick, kinky hair of the bison, comprised all-Negro units that Mackenzie had honed into a respected fighting force, renowned for ferocity in facing the enemy.

  Tabitha approached Sergeant Zeke Hooper, a massive, muscular former slave with flawless, ebony skin. She had befriended him early on and had written a story about his tragic history, which included a forced separation from his wife and two sons because of his being placed on auction and purchased by an Alabama plantation owner who took him far from Hooper's native Georgia. Hooper had searched for his family after the war but they had disappeared into the wave of black exodus that followed the freeing of the slaves. According to Hooper, his sale had been triggered by his spurning of advances by his master's wife, who subsequently, in her anger, claimed he had made the overtures. He had shown Tabitha the crisscrossed scars of the whip lashes on his back that had resulted.

  Hooper was adjusting the saddle on his sorrel gelding when Tabitha came up behind him. "Zeke, where are you headed?" she asked.

  Hooper turned, and when he saw her, smiled broadly. "Why, Miss Tabby, I ain't seen hide nor hair of you since we set up camp at this godforsaken place. Where you been keeping yourself?" His voice was deep and almost melodic like gently rolling bass drums.

  "I've been tracking down stories."

  He nodded his head knowingly. "And you all think you've tracked one down here?"

  "Have I?"

  "Depends."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Depends on what we runs into out there." He waved his arm toward the southwest. "Seems that Rattlesnake caught sight of some of them folks we been looking for. Little war party . . . dozen or so perched and waiting down by a place called Dry Creek that ain't so dry right now. Looks like they're waiting to join up with another bunch. About three miles from here. Colonel thinks we should show the big chiefs what we do with these varmints. Rattlesnake, he not too sure about this. Worried that others might show up."

  "But you're going after them?"

  "Seems so. Yes, ma'am."

  "Can I ride along?"

  Hooper's eyes widened. "No, Miss Tabby. I don't thinks so. There's likely going to be serious shooting and hand-to-hand. Too dangerous. Besides, I got no say-so with you news folks. Somebody up the ladder gots to do that. Not me. No, ma'am."

&
nbsp; "If Colonel Miles approves, can I ride with you?"

  He shook his head in disbelief. "I got no say. But I think Colonel Miles say it's a bad idea."

  Tabitha wheeled and raced to the other side of camp where she quickly gathered up her saddle, rifle, and other gear. Retrieving Smokey from the remuda was another matter, however. The hobbled horse was near the center of the herd, and Tabitha had to push her way through the jumble of grazing mounts in order to capture him and then repeat the task to lead him back out of the maze.

  By the time her gelding was saddled--and she was ready to ride--Hooper's buffalo soldiers were a lingering cloud of dust in the southwest. So she urged her mount forward and began to chase the cloud.

  Several miles out, she determined she was steadily gaining on the troops, and she figured she should catch up with them in another fifteen minutes. Then, suddenly, she caught a glimpse of a dark rider with a menacing, painted face angling toward her from her right. She started to veer to her left before she saw three Comanche warriors closing in on that side. All she could do was to forge straight ahead and try to outrace the marauding killers and reach the troops. It was possible, she thought. She would weigh less than any of her attackers, and she had yet to see a faster horse than Smokey given full rein. "Ride with the wind, big guy," she whispered, as her horse lunged forward.

  She was pulling well ahead of her pursuers when she caught sight of a swarm of Comanche ahead of her, not coming her way, but evidently attacking the soldiers from the rear. If she kept on riding, she would end up in the middle of the war party. She tugged lightly on Smokey's reins, tossed her head over her shoulder and looked back. The Comanche to her right was nearing, but he was only one, she concluded. The others, yelping enthusiastically like hounds chasing a rabbit, were three. She swung right, hoping to sweep past the oncoming horseman and win a race back to the encampment. That was before the stone end of a war club crashed into the side of her head and launched her off of her racing horse.