Bosley was determined to find out more about what was going on to the south and used the rocks to tell him. He moved along the valley wall by short steps, putting his ear to the stones like a doctor searching a man’s chest for a heartbeat. He became mesmerized by what he heard: voices, a man and a woman. It was impossible to tell how far they were, since there was considerable echo. But the tones were improbably conversational.
It occurred to Bosley to take his fluted-cylinder Colt from its holster. If he encountered a bobcat or a Comanche, moments might matter. Feeling his way with his right hand, the gun in his left, he sought smooth spots among the ragged limestone edges on which to place his ear.
He moved ahead, listened again. More often than not, the voices were a muffled drone, like cello strings of different lengths. The sound seemed to originate from a point lower than where he was, since it was slightly louder the lower to the ground he placed his ear. Were the speakers underground? In a cave? He continued creeping forward in the dark. Though Bosley was exceeding his orders and might very well end up dead or mucking out stalls beside his brother in Austin, he decided not to turn back. He was doing what he was born to do.
He stopped when he heard a trio of splashing sounds, like big rocks tossed in water. They did not come from the rock, it came from somewhere ahead. But then he heard it echo through the rock.
An underground waterway, he realized. The police officer and the lady could well be down there . . . with Indians searching for them. The red men were no less adept than Bosley at listening when the earth “spoke.”
He stopped listening for echoes, started listening for water—not through the rocks but through cracks in the rocks. He moved more rapidly now, head tilted slightly toward the wall, hand waving in front of his ear, as though he were wiping a window, feeling for air. He heard another whisper, this one very close. The young man stopped, allowed his inquisitive fingers to hover over the area from which the sound had come. He felt a patch of cool air.
His heart beat faster, and he looked back toward the camp. He had rounded a gentle bend, had come farther than he had imagined. There was no time to go back. The silence of the couple suggested they were in some jeopardy from whoever had made the splash. He lowered his palm toward the opening. There was bristly foliage—where there was moisture and evaporation that was to be expected—and he pulled the plant from where the bold roots had taken hold in the rock. The sloshing was very close.
Bosley knew what he had to do but he had no idea how it would play out, other than it would not go well for him. He had deserted his post. He did not know how Sgt. Calvin would interpret the gunshot he was about to fire. He did not know what the Indians would do. Bosley raised the gun and pointed it straight ahead, over the opening. He did not know anything of what would follow, only that he could not be here and do nothing—
* * *
The shot came from the north. Perhaps fired at Roving Wolf; there was no way of knowing. The Indians wouldn’t know either. Something else that might not be known: that the air down here, and possibly close to the opening, was explosive. The shot gave the Indians and Gannon momentary pause.
His first thought was to charge them like a bull, with Constance on his back; push through them to the water and try to get away. But he might not make it through slashing knives—and he might not be able to help Constance. That left just one option.
Squatting, Gannon grabbed both ends of the suspended cloak. “Constance, grab my shoulders!” he said loudly, hoping whoever was on the surface had heard.
“Constance? Gannon, is that you?” said a nearby voice.
“There’s gas here!” Gannon yelled back. “Set it on fire at once!”
“But you—”
“Do it and fall back!”
Gannon yanked hard on the cloak, tore it free, bundled it around his shoulders, then turned and threw himself on top of Constance. She exhaled loudly as he hit, but he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, shielding her. Even if the man fired in, striking him, she would be safe—
There was a pop, a whooshing sound, and a moment later the tunnel lit like a barn on fire. Gannon heard screams, knew that the Comanche had been caught in the conflagration, and heard them either fall or jump into the water within moments.
The pelts on top of him did not burn because they were wet, although the dry corner had gotten singed, and the air quickly became acrid. His arms were still around Constance and he bundled her tightly, simultaneously rising. He took a moment to give her the knife since he would need both hands.
“We’re going back in the water!” he yelled, running with his back bent low, his sides stabbing him sharply. He half-ran, half-crumpled into the stream, pushing Constance ahead of him and shucking the cloak as he hit the water. The current carried them forward again, Gannon gasping as he drew breath against the will of his injured ribs. His biggest concern was that instead of remaining at this level, the flow took a downward turn. He had no idea if there were underground waterfalls and did not want to find out.
Constance remained in front, bumping against rock on both sides as the channel narrowed. The thought of being trapped in a too-narrow passage suddenly seemed very real. But then he saw something that made his racing heart throb with something other than fear: the vaguest hint of visible rock. Not phosphorescence, which he had seen in mineral samples at carnivals. This was light from outside the subterranean world.
Moments later he saw the vaguest hint of Constance’s outline as she swam toward it, moving with the flow.
It was the last thing he saw before a hand grabbed his ankle and dragged him underwater.
* * *
Constance saw a large, flat rock ahead. It was part of the wall above it and sat under a jagged bit of light that was noticeable only because it was dark gray instead of black. She threw an arm onto the surface, pulled herself from the water, then turned to help Gannon up. She knew he was injured and could probably use a hand.
She saw him go under the instant she turned. Pushing her hair from her eyes she slid back in, swimming with one hand, her other hand holding the knife. But even the slight current was too strong for her to make much headway. Fortunately, that same flow carried Gannon and the Indian toward her. She got back on the rock and waited until she could make out the figure who was trying to get free and the one who was trying to hold him down. The men crashed against the rock and Constance could now tell them apart: even in the dark, she could discern the skin of the Indian, mottled and blistered in the flames. She stabbed down at the arm and shoulder that presented itself, saw the arms bend toward one another, blood washing down the spine. She stabbed at the backbone in the middle, and the Indian moaned, relaxed, went down. His flesh took the knife with him.
Gannon had gotten free and was clawing to find the rock. Constance grabbed his wrist but wasn’t strong enough to pull him up. Instead, she placed his hand palm-down on the stone and let him pull himself from the water. As soon as he was enough ashore to speak, Gannon raised his face toward what appeared like a patch of dark sky.
“Whoever is up there!” he shouted. “Be careful! There’s another Comanche!”
The officer did not reply for several seconds.
“Are you still there?” Gannon asked, anxiety in his voice.
“I am,” he said. “The Indian has my gun.”
* * *
Roving Wolf stood with one hand on the fabric around his throat, the other holding the gun on the youth.
“Gannon!” the Indian said, his voice raw from the wound.
“I hear you!” the officer shouted.
“You stay, boy and girl go!”
“I agree!” Gannon shouted eagerly.
It had not taken much skill to sneak up on the distracted boy and hit him with a rock. Nor would any honor have attached itself to the death of such a soft warrior, one who was—like so many white men—deployed with just one or two skills, like ants in a colony. If there had been time, Roving Wolf could have used fire
and blade to remove the useless parts of this cub, reveal a screaming, angry manhood somewhere inside, one that was worth taking, however small. Each defeated enemy revealed more of the soul of his people, exposed shreds of strengths and tapestries of weaknesses. The attentive brave who guided them to their death became wiser. His spirit was enriched by the clinging shade of the dead man. As a result, combat with others of his kind was more precise.
That was why, despite his injuries—which even now made standing difficult—Roving Wolf was determined to meet Gannon in single combat. He believed that there was much to gain from the heart of that man.
Roving Wolf was standing just a few feet from the officer, but slightly below where he stood. There were muffled sounds of conversation from underground. Roving Wolf imagined the woman arguing to stay. But she would go. The Big Father would not permit this woman to interfere with the fate of two warriors.
“Can a person fit through the opening?” Gannon asked.
The Comanche motioned the gun at the boy to answer.
“I think so,” Bosley said.
“She’s coming up!” Gannon answered.
“Not you!” Roving Wolf said. “Later.”
“Agreed.”
The grunts and sharp exhalations of the woman echoed in the throat of the opening. Roving Wolf took a few quiet steps back. It had occurred to him that the quiet conversation might have been the white man giving her instructions to attack. He had made a pact, but white men did not always honor their words. And white women—he did not believe that they often heard what white men said.
The black sky with its partial moon threw very little light on the tableau, but enough to see shapes. The woman was passed up, arms first, and the boy braced himself with foot against rock, leaning back slightly, to receive her.
The woman was a shabby sight. She was wet, her garments ripped and in disarray, her body more snake than human as it writhed through the opening. She did not emerge on her feet but on her knees, and then on all fours. The boy crouched before her, asking if she was able to stand.
Constance turned her dark face toward Roving Wolf.
“I want my horse,” she said, panting.
“No. You walk.”
“I will lead it, then,” she said. “You have taken enough from me. No more.”
Roving Wolf considered going back and shooting the animal, but he did not want to do anything else to draw either his people or those of Gannon. Not until he had faced the white man.
“You get—both horses,” Roving Wolf said. It occurred to him that sending the pony back as well would be an insult to the white men. The red man had no use for such a small animal.
“Roving Wolf !” Gannon shouted from below the opening. “There’s no one waiting for them? No ambush?”
“Nothing. They take horses and go,” he promised.
“Constance?” Gannon said. “Will you do that?”
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “But Hank—”
“I will be fine,” he assured her.
The woman hesitated, but only a moment. Rising on Bosley’s proffered arm, she walked to the valley floor. Roving Wolf backed away to give them room. He waited in silence as they passed, the boy slumping and rubbing the bloodied back of his head, the woman striding like a man with her head erect. They were a strange people, these invaders. The chaos in their ranks, with boys and women both posing as men, must be considerable. Even without guns, were their numbers equal, the Comanche would have taken no more than a season or two to push them back into their ocean.
The clopping of the horses as they approached had a tired, even defeated sound. The draft horse came first, the woman before it. Then came the pony and the boy. No Comanche who ever lived wore shame as openly as this boy.
Attack me, Roving Wolf found himself thinking. Redeem your honor.
But he slouched onward, behind the woman, until he was lost in the darkness.
Gannon struggled with his efforts to get through the opening of the tunnel. He was either too broad or too hurt. Roving Wolf tucked the gun in his waistband and walked over.
“I’m not getting’ out this way,” the officer said as he tried to dip a shoulder through. The shape of the opening prevented him.
“Return,” Roving Wolf said, pointing to the first opening.
“Against the current—you gonna give me time to rest?”
“Return,” the Comanche repeated.
Without another word, Gannon retreated into the tunnel. Roving Wolf stepped from the hole and turned back, toward the place where he had heard the will of the Big Father.
Gannon was an impressive warrior, but he was not a brave. He could not know what was in store, Roving Wolf thought. But he believed the white man would agree to it. If not, the sun would rise on the body of one of them, resting beside the flesh of Wild Buck.
PART THREE
Blood and Resurrection
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
October 21, 1871
Sgt. Calvin was furious when Garcia reported that Evan Bosley was gone.
The Tejano officer had gone for a walk around the perimeter to help stay awake, always with an eye on the valley, always listening for a sound that hadn’t been present earlier in the night. He used to do that as a boy, when his father would ride to his post in Veracruz after visiting Garcia’s grandmother in their ancestral home of Jalapa. They made the trip several times a year to see to any repairs of her hut and to give her coins for her needs—which, to the frustration of Jesús Garcia, often included generous donations to the Church, which financially supported the conservative rebels.
The two Garcias would leave the jungled foliage by torchlight in order to make their destination by nightfall. That was where the boy acquired his passion for horses; it made him feel large, powerful, almost like his father. They would pass the graves of Hernando’s American-born mother and sister, who had drowned in a flash flood, and would then move on. It was an exciting time that stirred the senses of the ten-year-old. To this day, the creaking of wooden wagon wheels gave him a great sense of well-being. It was 1860, and the Mexican civil war had been raging for two years. The lawful government of President Benito Juárez, which was supported by the elder Garcia, was based on the coast in Veracruz. A succession of leaders would assume command of the military junta, and on this particular trip in March, 1860, the forces of the murderous Miguel Miramón were in siege position outside the city. Though favored by the Catholic church, Miramón was a hated figure who not only executed loyalists but anyone who assisted them, including doctors. Warships of many nations, including the United States, were anchored there in support of the Juárez government, creating an inspiring sight but also a false sense of well-being. On the land, Miramón’s forces were often searching for deserters whom they could capture and question and even enlist to their rebellious cause.
During these journeys, careful listening meant their survival, from both animal and human predators. When to remain very still, when to hurry, when to use a knife or a gun—all of these were decisions that had to be made, by ear, from dark until late morning, there was nothing to be seen beyond the head of the horse pulling their army cart—and sometimes, not even that if the mists were unusually thick.
They survived, sometimes just barely, and Hernando Garcia saw his first man shot when a deserter from the revolutionary army tried, at saber-point, to steal their horse to make his getaway. The poor, doomed man could not have imagined that the senior “peasant” had a Colt revolver in his lap, part of a shipment smuggled to Veracruz by the United States Navy. The deserter was brought back to the stronghold and thrown from the wall as a warning to the enemy. It took another ten months, but the enemy was routed at San Juan del Río, Querétaro, in December, just before Christmas—a fitting slap at the Church, Jesús Garcia had cheered. The coward Miramón escaped to Europe. He returned several years later and attempted to overthrow Juárez yet again. This time, he was wounded, captured, and executed by firing squad.
By t
hat time, Hernando Garcia was nearly of military age and had been honing the skills he felt he would need. Given his diminutive size, at five-foot-five, he became proficient at infiltration and fighting with his laguiole pocketknife. When engaged in the infiltration, Garcia was able to draw upon his greatest skill: being very still, very quiet, and listening for changes in the environment.
Garcia was able to monitor the perimeter wherever he was, and to note if even a single night bird had suddenly fallen attentively silent. If a man was out of place, he knew from the different location of his yawning; to him, the sounds were like a constellation in the night sky. A few moments of failing to hear Evan Bosley’s canteen rattle at his belt told him the man was not where he should be. Garcia went to investigate.
Bosley was indeed gone, and it had to be assumed that he heard something to draw him away—something there wasn’t time to report to Sgt. Calvin. Garcia understood that; sound was ephemeral and, losing it, one might not locate it again.
But investigating it was not the boy’s decision to make, Garcia knew.
The Mexican officer looked around, listening, before ascertaining that the man had not gone to urinate or had been abducted. There was no sign of a struggle, no hint of blood, no scents on the air that had not been there before. Garcia walked briskly back to Calvin to make his report.
Before the sergeant could decide what action to take, they heard the single shot from the valley.
“One of ours,” remarked Rufus Long, who was stationed within easy earshot of the sergeant.
The men waited in rigid silence for any other sounds of combat.
“So we have to assume that Bosley or someone with Bosley’s gun fired that shot,” Calvin said with unguarded exasperation.
“An Indian was not likely to give away his presence like that,” Garcia noted.
“That is a fact, unless he is looking to draw you in,” Calvin said. He looked over at the open horizon toward the east. There was not yet a hint of dawn. Setting out now, they would still be in the dark by the time they reached the general area from which the shot had come. It was still a prime area for an ambush.
War Valley Page 17