A Tale Out of Luck (6 page)

“And Jay Blue?”

Poli smiled; he shrugged. “Muchachos will be muchachos.”

“He went to town.”

Poli nodded. “From the looks of his face this morning, he had a hell of a good time.”

Hank looked east toward town, then back out to the west, whence the Thoroughbred had run away with the wild ones. “You’ve done some mustanging, right, Poli?”

“
Seguro que sí, Jefe.
Plenty.”

“What are the chances of us getting that mare back?”

“From El Grullo?”

“Yes, from El Grullo. The famous Steel Dust Gray. The mare stealer. The uncatchable ghost. What are the chances?”

Poli narrowed his eyes and looked westward for quite a while, calculating odds. Finally, he set his jaw the way he always did when he knew he had to give the captain the cold, hard truth. “It would be easier—and probably cheaper—to go back to Kentucky and just buy another one.”

9

S
KEETER HAD JAY BLUE’S
plan figured out by the time they took the Fort Jennings trail off the Colorado River road. He was going to ask the U.S. Army for help in finding the stolen mare. Leaving the Pedernales River valley behind, they rode over high ground, through open grazing lands dotted with oak motts, the denser cedar brakes holding to the draws.

The four-hour ride brought them to the cool, clear waters of Cypress Creek. Rounding a bend in the creek, they came within view of the Stars and Stripes flying high over the fort.

They encountered a black soldier guarding the road, as they expected. The Ninth Cavalry garrisoned Fort Jennings. Except for the officers, all the soldiers in the Ninth were black—“buffalo soldiers,” as they were known. Skeeter had been told that the Indians likened the hair of the black recruits to the shag on the humps of the buffalo, hence the name.

“What do you want?” the sentry demanded.

“We want to talk to the post commander,” Jay Blue said.

“You have an appointment?”

Jay Blue shot a glance at Skeeter. “You don’t think we’d ride all this way without an appointment, do you?”

The soldier laughed. “Just joshin’ you, son. You don’t need no appointment. What’s the password?”

“Password?” Jay Blue said.

“That’s it! How’d you know?”

Skeeter slapped his knee and burst into laughter. “That’s a good one. He got your goat, Jay Blue.” He could tell Jay Blue did not see the humor in any of this.

“Seriously, what’s your business?” the soldier asked.

“We had a mare stolen by Indians,” Skeeter answered.

The soldier looked the two riders over for a few seconds, then spit on the ground. “I’m gonna take a chance and let you two desperados on in.” He gestured grandiloquently with his hat, showing them the way up the road.

“Obliged,” Jay Blue said, trying to tip his hat with equal sarcasm.

“The colonel’s campaigning up the Brazos,” the private shouted as they rode on. “Major Quitman is the acting post commander.”

Skeeter waved a gesture of thanks for the information.

Coming up to the brink of a slight elevation, Skeeter saw the grounds of the fort open up before him on a broad, level plain. A flagpole ascended from the center of a large, rectangular parade ground. The thirteen stripes and thirty-seven stars fluttered gracefully on the breeze. All around the edges of the parade ground stood lines of buildings constructed of sandstone. Some were barracks for the soldiers. The two grandest structures housed the post commander and the junior officers. The remaining buildings included the hospital, the chow hall, the armory, the stockade, the sutler’s store, and the quarters for the laundresses and other civilian employees.

Suddenly, a cheer rose from their left, and the riders looked to see a number of soldiers bunched around the corrals at the stables. One of the soldiers clung to the back of a horse that was bucking furiously inside a corral while uniformed spectators looked on.

“Damn,” Jay Blue said. “That son of a gun can sure ’nough ride a bronc! Let’s go watch!”

Skeeter trotted over to the corrals with Jay Blue for a closer look. A soldier noticed them, and elbowed the man next to him, who in turn slapped the shoulder of the next man until each soldier, one by one, ceased his cheering and turned away from the exhibition of bronc busting to regard the cowboys with suspicion. When the crowd had grown quiet, even the horse quit bucking, and the rider himself looked at the young civilians as if he had never seen such a sorry sight in his life.

“Hell of a ride!” Jay Blue said.

One of the soldiers pointed across the parade grounds. “Headquarters is over yonder, cowboy.”

“I’m aware of that, soldier. Just thought I’d watch the fun.”

“This is government business. You go on and check in with the commander over yonder.”

“Come on,” Skeeter said, reining his horse around and cutting between Jay Blue and the soldiers. He could see some of that Tomlinson temper swelling up in Jay Blue’s neck, and figured it was best to go talk to the commander as suggested.

Nearing the post headquarters, Skeeter noticed one of the buffalo soldiers sitting in a chair that had been pulled out into the sunshine just off the edge of the porch. The man wore an immaculate uniform with the stripes of a first sergeant on the sleeves.

Farther back on the porch, leaning against the wall, sat a brown-skinned man dressed in a mixture of Mexican and Indian garb—moccasins, buckskin leggings, white cotton shirt, embroidered vest, red silk scarf around his neck. A sombrero lay on the porch at his side. His features were leathery and severe, his eyes set on nothing in the sky.

As the boys walked their mounts up to a hitching rail, the first sergeant casually rose from his chair, giving the tails of his tunic a crisp yank to smooth his uniform. With every movement of his arms, those stripes on his sleeves bulged as if he had bulldogs in there. “Howdy, gents,” he said.

Skeeter had never heard a voice so deep. He touched his hat brim.

“First Sergeant,” Jay Blue said. “We need to see Major Quitman.”

“You sure about that?” The first sergeant smiled, then leaned closer to speak in a lower tone. “He ain’t in the best mood today.”

“Well, that’ll fit in fine with the way this day has gone so far,” Jay Blue said. “Anyway, you’re the only soul we’ve met on this post who understands hospitality.”

The first sergeant shrugged. “Fort Jennings ain’t the most popular choice of duty stations in this man’s cavalry. Tends to sour the disposition of soldiers and horses both. The fleas and bedbugs seem happy enough, though.”

“We’ll take our chances with the major.”

“Better get down and light a spell, then.” He waited for the boys to dismount before extending a welcoming hand. “I’m First Sergeant July Polk.”

“Izquierdo Rodriguez.” Skeeter felt as if he were looking straight up at that flagpole in the middle of the parade ground.

“Jay Blue Tomlinson.” Jay Blue shook the big hand and glanced at the other man sitting on the porch.

“That’s Gavilan Gutierrez, our post translator. What shall I say is your business here, gents?”

“We had a horse stolen.”

“By Indians,” Skeeter added.

“Maybe,” Jay Blue scolded.

The first sergeant did not look surprised or even interested. “Wait here.” He went inside.

Skeeter said, “
¿Como esta, señor?
” to the translator sitting on the porch, but the man only slid off the porch, donned his sombrero, and disappeared around the corner. Skeeter looked at Jay Blue and shrugged.

Polk came back out and whistled at the cowboys, motioning them inside with a tilt of his head. Inside, Skeeter found a bald man attacking a piece of paper with a pen. The man looked up from his desk, his glaring black eyes blazing at the cowboys over the lenses of wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Who are you?” he demanded, by chance addressing Skeeter first.

“Izquierdo Rodriguez.”

“Mr. Rodriguez,” he answered with a nod. “I’m Major Ralph Quitman. And you, sir?”

“I’m Jay Blue Tomlinson.”

The major put down his pen and took off his spectacles. “Tomlinson? As in Captain Hank Tomlinson?”

“That’s my father.”

He seemed suddenly intrigued. “What brings you here, gentlemen?”

“Well, sir, last night, a mare disappeared from our ranch. We found some tracks made by an unshod horse. We figured it was probably an Indian. I hear there are some Comanches camped over on Flat Rock Creek.”

The major’s hardwood and leather office chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “I know very well where the Comanches are camped, Mr. Tomlinson.” He laced his fingers together and placed them atop his middle-aged paunch.

“Yes, sir. Of course. Well, we were wondering if you had heard . . . or seen . . . or if you wouldn’t mind going to take a look . . .”

The major raised his right palm to silence Jay Blue. Slowly, he leaned forward in his squeaky chair. “Now, let me make sure I understand this. Your mare ‘disappeared,’ as you put it.”

“Yes, sir,” the cowboys said in unison.

“Would this be your father’s new Thoroughbred mare from Kentucky?”

“Yes, sir.”

The major stood. “So, your father’s Kentucky Thoroughbred
disappears
, and Captain Hank Tomlinson, the most famous Indian fighter in Texas, sends his peach-fuzzed son to the U.S. Army for help!”

“Oh, he didn’t send us,” Skeeter said, honestly trying to clear things up. “We’re lucky he didn’t kill us. You see, sir, Jay Blue was supposed to be on guard—”

“Skeeter!”

“First Sergeant Polk!”

In an instant, Polk had entered the office and snapped to attention. “Sir!”

“See that these cowboys are escorted off the post.”

“Yes, sir. And, Major, sir . . .”

“What is it?”

“Jubal’s back.”

“Who?”

“Jubal Hayes, sir. The mustanger. He’s leading six horses in.”

10

G
ET THESE BOYS
out of here,” the major repeated. He grabbed his hat on his way out the door. “And appropriate the funds to buy the remounts.”

“Yes, sir,” Polk said.

Jay Blue followed the major out onto the porch. “But, Major, about that mare . . .”

“Boy!” the commander fumed. “Go home and face your father! First Sergeant!”

“Coming, sir!” Polk stormed out of the office, stuffing some currency he had gathered up from somewhere into his pocket. “You boys lead your horses and come with me. I’ll detail an escort to see you off the post.”

“But . . .” Jay Blue began.

The big first sergeant, who had been so friendly, now cut Jay Blue off short. “You heard the major. You will be escorted off the post.”

With no choice left to them, the cowboys grabbed their reins and led their mounts across the parade ground, toward the corrals, on the heels of the major and the first sergeant. It was only now that Skeeter looked across the parade ground to see the mustanger Polk had announced. The man was riding toward the Fort Jennings corrals, in the lead of six wild-looking horses. Two strange things immediately struck Skeeter about this man. First of all, the six horses followed him untied. They plodded along behind him as if mesmerized, not a rope nor a halter among any of them. Second, the mustanger wore a scarf across his face, like a bandito,
and in fact had every square inch of his flesh covered, from the tips of his gloves and boots to the top of his dusty felt hat.

“Hey,” Jay Blue said. “You ever seen anything like that?”

“
Nunca
,” said Skeeter.

A soldier at the bronc-busting pen ran to open a separate corral, then backed away to give the mustanger and his followers plenty of room. The strange man led the loose stock into the corral. They followed him in there as if under his spell.

“Do y’all have to break mustangs to ride at this post?” Jay Blue asked the first sergeant.

“The colored regiments don’t get the money other regiments get. Mustangs is about all we can afford. We break ’em ourselves.”

“Who’s the man in the scarf?”

“Name’s Jubal Hayes. He catches mustangs for a livin’.”

“Catches ’em? Looks like he just sweet-talks them into following him around like pups.”

“Why’s he wearing that scarf?” Skeeter asked.

Polk didn’t answer, but looked over his shoulder at the cowboys and bared his teeth in a deep chuckle that sounded intentionally wicked to Skeeter.

By now, the masked man had slipped back out of the corral and shut the gate on the mustangs. He dismounted, left his horse at the corral, and began walking toward the captain. As they all came closer together, near the bronc-busting pen, Skeeter heard one of the buffalo soldiers, a corporal, speak up.

“Hey, whitey!”

At first Skeeter thought the corporal must have been taunting Jay Blue, then he saw that other soldiers were backing away, clearing the ground between the mustanger and the corporal.

A hawk cried, making Skeeter glance at the sky. There was nothing in that sky but the raptor and one lonely cloud.

“Are you talkin’ to me?” said the growling voice of the mysterious Jubal Hayes.

“You’re the whitest son of a bitch here, ain’t you?”

“First Sergeant,” Major Quitman warned.

“I’ll break it up, sir.” Polk quickened his pace.

Jubal drew a blade—a bowie knife that came from a belt scabbard. “Alright, this is how we’ll do it.”

The smirk on the corporal’s face dropped from view. “I ain’t got no knife.”

“Then use your sharp tongue.”

“Fists,” suggested the corporal, a hint of a plea in his voice.

“Alright.” Jubal threw his knife, sticking it in a corral post between two buffalo soldiers. Sunlight glinted on the blade until that one lonely cloud in the sky floated in front of the sun, casting its shadow on the knot of men at the bronc pen, softening everything with kindly shadows. Major Quitman and First Sergeant Polk were now trotting toward the scene.

Suddenly, Jubal pulled his scarf down and tossed his battered felt hat aside. Skeeter’s eyes bulged. Jubal Hayes was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of. His facial features were similar in form to those of the buffalo soldiers, but his skin was of a hue so pale that blue blood vessels could be seen running just under the surface of his powdery white flesh. And he wore spectacles like the ones Major Quitman had worn in his office, except that the lenses to Jubal’s glasses were dark as a colored bottle. His hair had the shaggy texture of the great buffalo—like that of the buffalo soldiers around him, except that Jubal’s hair was golden! And, unlike the soldiers, who kept their hair trimmed short, Jubal had let his go do whatever it wanted to do, and it had matted together in places and formed snakelike protuberances, mossy appendages, and comet-tail projections.