Ghost Warrior (17 page)
Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson
Rogers, he thought. Rogers did it.
He thought about what he would say when he buried his friend. The choice was obvious. “Good night, sweet prince, / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”
DEAD MAN'S JOURNEY
R
afe named the mule Othello because he was aristocratic, loyal, the color of very strong coffee, and prone to jealous snits at imagined slights. Othello's nigh-wheeler position was reserved for the strongest, smartest animal. At night Rafe preferred to ride him rather than occupy the wagon seat.
afe named the mule Othello because he was aristocratic, loyal, the color of very strong coffee, and prone to jealous snits at imagined slights. Othello's nigh-wheeler position was reserved for the strongest, smartest animal. At night Rafe preferred to ride him rather than occupy the wagon seat.
He had started to doze in Othello's saddle when a crack like a rifle shot jerked him upright. The noise came from just behind Othello's hindquarters. In the middle of the hundred-mile stretch of desolation known as the Jornada del Muerto, with dawn's hot breath almost on his neck, a spoke in the front wheel had snapped.
“Whoa, Rosie.” Rafe pulled on the jerk line to the left lead mule, a compact and nervous sidestepper with a reproachful gaze and the name of Rosencrantz.
Rafe walked to the side of the wagon and ran his hands around the wheel until he found the broken spoke. The others were sound. He could keep going until light.
He felt hot breath tickling his ear. He reached up and cradled Red's velvety muzzle in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. Red nibbled his shirt, then his ear. Red was the reason Rafe dared to travel the Horn, as the Americans called the Jornada, alone. Red could throw dirt on any horse the Apaches could put up against him.
He climbed back aboard Othello and collected the jerk line. He raised up in the stirrups, cracked the whip, and gave a Comanche yell. The singletree chains jangled, and the wagon moved forward, the dry wood of its parts groaning as they rubbed together.
The thread of light at the horizon broadened to a ribbon
and diffused into a soft glow. It hardly seemed capable of creating the inferno that he knew the summer day would become. Rafe felt like a beetle crawling over that flat expanse. He imagined an Apache lookout perched on some outcrop in the mountains about five miles to the east. He would be squatting on a rock there, with his forearms on his bare thighs, smoking the first cigarillo of the day. Rafe imagined him spotting the beetle wagon with its paired feelers of mules, then calling to the others, and all of them starting out full of bustle and glee on their day's enterprise.
and diffused into a soft glow. It hardly seemed capable of creating the inferno that he knew the summer day would become. Rafe felt like a beetle crawling over that flat expanse. He imagined an Apache lookout perched on some outcrop in the mountains about five miles to the east. He would be squatting on a rock there, with his forearms on his bare thighs, smoking the first cigarillo of the day. Rafe imagined him spotting the beetle wagon with its paired feelers of mules, then calling to the others, and all of them starting out full of bustle and glee on their day's enterprise.
Don't borrow trouble, he thought. He always grazed the mules at sunup out here anyway, if no one was chasing him.
When the sky lightened enough to see the dark patch on Rosie's rump, he halted the team. He carried buckets of water to them from the keg in the back of the wagon and picketed them where they could graze. Red joined them.
Rafe took a stout piece of mesquite cut to the length he needed from inside the coffin in the wagon. He braced it under the axle and dug a shallow hole under the wheel. Next, he rifled through the spare spokes and wedges, the hammer, saw, adze, the coils of rope, and the box of nails, bolts, harping pins, cleats, and linchpins until he found the pry bar, pliers, and wooden mallet in the coffin.
He had won the pine box from an undertaker in a game of euchre. Rafe said it was the only possession that would come in handy whether he was dead or alive. The other teamsters thought him mad to tweak fate by carrying it. They had also mentioned that he was crazy to squander cargo space on tools and parts when wrecked wagons littered the countryside like so many abandoned good intentions. Rafe preferred to leave as little to chance as possible.
He had even paid a blacksmith in Santa Fe to fashion a metal rack and fasten it to the outside of the wagon bed at the rear. Rafe went back there now and lifted off the spare wheel that hung on it. The sight of it entertained the freighters so much that they had taken to calling him Fifth Wheel.
He rolled the wheel to the front of the wagon. He unlatched the removable section of the wooden cap that fit over
the hub and pulled it out to expose the end of the axle and the iron linchpin. The broad head of the pin had broken off. He would have to take the entire cover off the hub so he could hammer it out.
the hub and pulled it out to expose the end of the axle and the iron linchpin. The broad head of the pin had broken off. He would have to take the entire cover off the hub so he could hammer it out.
He could lose his temper. He could curse luck, the world and the devil by sections and miles, then by yards, feet, and inches. Or he could be grateful that a spoke had broken and not the axletree. A less careful man would have tried to finish the trip with the broken spoke, but Rafe knew better.
Of course, those same less careful men were now bedded down in the wagon yard in Santa Fe, or with their shores, they were disturbing the sleep of the comely señoritas at Dona Rosa's. Not one of those careless men had agreed to come with him, even though the army offered six times the going rate. Given the fact that the Apaches had been making travel in the Jornada del Muerto a precarious propostition, it was cheap at the price.
Rogers had not taught Red Sleeves a lesson by whipping him. On the contrary, Red Sleeves and his marauders were now teaching even Rogers a lesson in rascality. The Apaches had vengeance down pat.
He hung the old wheel on the rack at the rear and was positioning the new one when Red whickered. Rafe saw the cloud of dust with more exasperation than fear. He had gotten out of the habit of fearing. He took his brass spyglass out of his saddlebag, but the dust obscured the riders' identity.
“I expect what we have here, Red, is not a fleet of deacons.”
Rafe put his hand to his hat brim and studied the cloud. He tried to judge the number of men and horses that had raised it, and how soon he could expect them.
I'm like some Mesopotamian humbug, he thought, pretending to read omens in a swirl of smoke or in the quivering liver of a goat.
“I expect what we have here is a distilled extract of murder and inconvenience,” he added aloud for Red's benefit.
He was angry about losing the cargo. He had always gotten
his loads through. Except for the fat and sassy mule named Iago, he was sorry that the team would most likely end up in Apache stew pots. He was angrier then he wanted to admit at the prospect of losing the wagon. It had become his only home.
his loads through. Except for the fat and sassy mule named Iago, he was sorry that the team would most likely end up in Apache stew pots. He was angrier then he wanted to admit at the prospect of losing the wagon. It had become his only home.
He unharnessed the mules and swatted his hat at them. “Git, you worthless sacks of sorry.”
Iago took off immediately. Loyalty had never been one of his virtues. Rosie and Guildenstern, Lear and The Fool circled until Rafe threw rocks at them. They galloped off to turn, stand, and watch him from a distance. Othello stood his ground.
“Suit yourself,” Rafe muttered.
He saddled Red, trying not to stare at the cloud. Whoever was raising it would be richer by a few crates of guns. They were the same .69-caliber smoothbore flintlocks the infantry had carried, with few modifications, since 1795. Those in charge in Washington City were supplying the soldiers with a gun designed for close combat with massed armies. Never mind that their present enemies never fought massed or close.
Rafe had suggested removing the firing mechanisms, but the colonel couldn't be bothered. He had taken offense at Rafe for advising him at all. If the mechanisms had been in a sack, Rafe could have disposed of them so the muskets would be useless in Apache hands.
He recapped his six-shooters and stuck two in his belt and two in his saddle holsters. He knotted the cords of his hat under his chin. He doubled a Mexican blanket, flung it over his shoulders, and tied it with a thong to deflect arrows. The Apaches didn't have many guns, but as of today that would change for this mob.
He could see that the dust cloud had shifted. The raiding party planned to head him off. If he could make it to the foothills, he knew a shortcut. The Apaches almost certainly knew about it, but they wouldn't expect him to.
He gathered the reins while Red danced from one foot to the other. Rafe vaulted into the saddle and grabbed the pommel. The seat of his trousers had hardly brushed saddle
leather when Red gathered the almighty muscles of his shoulders and haunches into the fleshly equivalent of steel springs, tightly wound. Red's front hooves dug in so hard they left furrows deep enough to plant potatoes. He launched himself with a power and exuberance that made Rafe throw his head back and howl with joy.
leather when Red gathered the almighty muscles of his shoulders and haunches into the fleshly equivalent of steel springs, tightly wound. Red's front hooves dug in so hard they left furrows deep enough to plant potatoes. He launched himself with a power and exuberance that made Rafe throw his head back and howl with joy.
As the wind blew the brim of his hat up and the desert floor flashed past, Rafe's only worry was whether Red would survive the run. He decided that when he reached the fort he would rub him down with soft straw. He would administer a dose of whiskey for Red and some for himself. He would wrap him in blankets and give him hay with raw beefsteak, diced. A bed of clean hay to sleep in, and Red would be fine in the morning.
If something unforeseen happened and he lost the race, Rafe would leave two bullets in his pistol for Red and for himself.
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As VICTORIO RODE, HE ADMIRED THE NEW MUSKET RIDING across his thighs. It was a beautiful thing, with vines etched into the face plate and tendrils twining out along the barrel. A mountain lion prowled the brass lid of the patch box set in the burnished walnut stock. He wondered who had first thought of such an amazing thing. What Pale Eyes shaman had carved these pictures into it, and what spirits did they represent?
Loco rode a pony of the color brown that the Mexicans called
tostado.
Loco hummed to himself, a Bear song probably. The stranger behind him rode a big gray stallion. When the sun shone on the horse, the white hairs scattered through his coat made him glint like steel dust. The stranger had an old musket of his own with a winged metal snake engraved on the side.
tostado.
Loco hummed to himself, a Bear song probably. The stranger behind him rode a big gray stallion. When the sun shone on the horse, the white hairs scattered through his coat made him glint like steel dust. The stranger had an old musket of his own with a winged metal snake engraved on the side.
Victorio, Loco, He Steals Love, and the three herd boys had killed no deer on this hunting trip, but they didn't care. They had taken twenty-four of these firesticks along with powder and bullets and five mules. They had found knives
in Hairy Foot's wagon, as well as blankets, cloth, shovels, hoes, axes, and shiny copper kettles.
in Hairy Foot's wagon, as well as blankets, cloth, shovels, hoes, axes, and shiny copper kettles.
In a way, the miners at Pinos Altos had done them all a favor when they humiliated Red Sleeves. The old man had tried to keep the promises he made on the Pale Eyes' paper talk. He had tried to persuade the Red Paint warriors to stop stealing the Americans' horses and cattle and killing the owners when they objected.
In return the Pale Eyes had driven away the game. They attacked the women at harvest time and destroyed the winter food supply. Bluecoat patrols intercepted the warriors on their way back from Mexico and seized the stock they had stolen there. Now the diggers had sent Red Sleeves back on the war trail where he had excelled in the past. They had restored the natural order of life.
When Victorio reached the cleft in the wall of rock, he looked back. Talks A Lot, Flies In His Stew, and Ears So Big prodded the mules along at the rear of the procession. He Steals Love, wearing a coat of red dust, rode guard behind them.
Victorio didn't have to see He Steals Love's handsome face to know he looked morose. He hadn't wanted to come on this trip, and even the new musket had not cheered him. Jealousy prodded him like a pebble in his moccasin or a cactus spine in his breechclout.
He Steals Love was wondering if one of his rivals had won Lozen's affections while he was away. Since most of the eligible women in the village had flirted with him, being spurned was new to him. The experience had him confused and truculent.
Victorio had asked him to come along so Lozen could have a respite from his attentions. Victorio was saving He Steals Love from her, too. He shadowed her constantly, and that caused her to become irritable. An irritated Lozen was likely to play some prank that would make him even more miserable and a laughingstock, as well.
When Victorio asked him to join them on the hunt, He Steals Love had stared at him like a rabbit at a rattlesnake.
He couldn't turn down a chance to go with his beloved's older brother. Maybe Victorio would come to regard him as a friend. Maybe he would persuade his sister to behave sensibly and marry him.
He couldn't turn down a chance to go with his beloved's older brother. Maybe Victorio would come to regard him as a friend. Maybe he would persuade his sister to behave sensibly and marry him.
On the other hand, one of those shameless coyotes who'd been courting Lozen might acquire love magic and bewitch her in his absence. He Steals Love would return with gifts, only to find that she'd moved in with Short Rope or Swimmer or that fool Poppy. The prospect had him in a seethe.
The shimmering summer day cooled and dimmed as Victorio guided Coyote into the defile and the walls closed around him. Half a day's ride from here the Bluecoats were mixing clay and water and straw like mud dauber wasps. They were perpetually repairing the cluster of adobe hovels they called a fort. Victorio laid his head back and looked up at the strip of sunlight far above him. It glittered like the shiny yellow trim decorating the Bluecoat soldiers' jackets. He held an arm out so that the tips of his fingers brushed the cool stone. This was a
fortaleza.
fortaleza.
When he thought about the valley on the other side, he could almost feel the cool air under the huge cottonwoods along the stream. He could almost hear the children's laughter as they splashed in the water. His people would feast and dance tonight to celebrate the plunder he brought. The men would hold council with the rider who came with them, the mysterious one they called Gray Ghost. People had been talking about Gray Ghost since a hunting party first sighted him a month ago. They discussed the possibility that he really was a ghost, or an omen. Maybe the men in council could discover more about him than Victorio had been able to.
Victorio wondered what Lozen had done in his absence to set the other women's tongues to flapping like loose pack ropes. What arguments would be brewing between her and She Moves Like Water over her refusal to behave like a young woman ready for marriage? What jokes had she played on the young men who courted her?
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