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Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson

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BOOK: Ghost Warrior
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The scalp hunters were too busy ransacking the lodges to notice him. One of them stooped to carve a circle around the crown of the head of the body sprawled on the ground. He put a foot on the nape of the corpse's neck and yanked. The skin came off with a sucking sound. By the light of burning
brush shelters Caesar recognized the individual who held up the long hank of black hair. He was Shadrach Rogers, the blacksmith's apprentice.
Caesar jumped at the sound of the voice behind him.
“Who in hell are you?”
Caesar held his hands out from his sides to show he meant no harm.
“Turn around slowly.”
Caesar pivoted on his heels to face a small man whose eyes were hidden in the curved shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. He held an old caplock rifle, cocked and leveled at Caesar's chest.
“What are you doin' here, nigger?” The man's North Carolina accent started up an old, chaotic fear in Caesar.
It brought back childhood memories of packs of men with voices such as his, of baying bloodhounds, galloping hooves, and the pop of musket-fire in the night. It reminded him of flaring torchlight and white men standing at ease, laughing over the mutilated body of the man Caesar had called father. It reminded him of his young mother weeping.
“I come to see what the shootin' was 'bout, massa.”
“You needn't meddle in other folks' business.” John Glanton surveyed Caesar's solid, six-foot-three-inch frame, the thick muscles of his arms, the breadth of his shoulders. He nodded to the scalped corpse. “The Comanch there cashed in. We're short a man. Are you looking for work?”
“Suh, I's headin' for California with my massa.”
Glanton braced the butt of his rifle on the ground, covered the muzzle with his hands, and leaned his chin on them. Caesar thought it would be a boon to humanity if the gun were to go off and take the man's brains with it.
Glanton surveyed the burning camp and the absence of dead Apaches. “We been off chasing ‘Patch through the bushes like quail.” He sounded peeved. “We was all set to murder them in their beds. Somethin' spooked ‘em, though, and we had to ride in and try to catch 'em on the run.”
Caesar didn't offer his sympathies for the failure of the
man's enterprise. He put two fingers to the brim of his hat, turned, and went to collect his horse.
He wondered where Pandora and her people had gone. He thought of them hiding in the mountains in the cold of the night. He could easily imagine what they were feeling. He breathed a short prayer for them. He asked God to give them a safe haven, even though they were heathens, but safe havens seemed in as short supply here as where he came from.
HER FUTURE IS IN THE CARDS
T
he next time Rafe visited the Santa Rita mines he was alone. Absalom and Caesar had left for California in early November almost three months ago. Rafe wondered if they had gotten through the mountains before the snows. He didn't like the thought of them as a main course for fellow travelers, like the misfortunate souls in George Donner's group.
Here in the high country of southwest New Mexico Territory snow had halted the survey of the new border with Mexico. It piled in three-foot drifts against the sides of John Cremony's big tent. Inside, Rafe sat knitting on an empty powder keg. He shared the heat from the iron stove with Cremony of the United States Boundary Commission, Cremony's two mastiff dogs, and his employee, José Valdez.
Hundreds of Apaches had come for talks with the Americans of the Boundary Commission. Warriors sauntered about like lords of the manor, but John Cremony placed his confidence in the goodwill of chief Red Sleeves. He also trusted in God, José, the mastiffs, four six-shooters, a Whitney percussion rifle, a double-barreled shot gun, a machete, two bowie knives, and the shiny, Smith-Jennings .54 caliber repeating rife that the United States government had issued to the commission. Cremony figured he and José could fire twenty-eight shots without reloading.
Rafe inspected the new Smith-Jennings. “The government finally bought repeating rifles,” he said. “So why did you seal the breech and turn it into a single-shot muzzle loader?”
“Damned bureaucrats,” grumbled Cremony. “It requires a newfangled cartridge that doesn't carry enough powder.
They call it a ‘rocket ball,' but it's a fizzle, if you ask me. As a single shot, with the new sight, it'll knock a crow out of a tree at three hundred yards.”
Rafe leaned the rifle against the center pole and ducked to avoid the cluster of cartridge belts and powder horns hanging there.
“A Major Heintzelman passed through here,” Cremony said. “He told me the Yuma Indians killed someone named Glanton.”
“John Glanton?”
“Yes. Who is he?”
“A scalp hunter.”
“Well, it seems the lad was killing off the competition for ferry service across the Colorado River. What with the gold rushers passing through, the ferry has proved lucrative.”
“He was probably taking Yuma scalps for the Mexican bounty, too.”
“The Yumas came in unarmed to his camp. They brought firewood and built a blaze with the branches pointing out from the center. Everybody sat down for whiskey and philosophy, and when the branches burned down to the size of clubs, the Yumas grabbed them and attacked. The fire had hardened the ends into fine weapons.”
Rafe was dubious. A man as evil as Glanton couldn't be killed that easily.
The dogs' hackles rose along their backs. José reached for the carbine and laid it across his thighs. Rafe's hand went to his pistol. John Cremony relit his pipe and settled deeper into the camp chair.
“A month ago,” he said, “I had hardly finished setting up my tent when a villainous-looking set of Apaches showed up, wanting tobacco. They've been on the prowl ever since.”
“They watch you from up there.” Rafe nodded toward the wooded clefts and crags of the nearest peak.
“They beg, but I think begging is not their foremost objective.”
“They're after information,” said Rafe. “The number of arms, men and horses, amount of ammunition. They're asessing
the morale here, the discipline, and the plunder to be taken at the least risk. Every time you scratch your arse, they know about it.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Habla del diablo,”
muttered José Valdez. “Speak of the devil.”
Brown fingers as stout as tent pegs pulled back the edge of the front flap. Red Sleeves and five or six Apaches filed in after him, along with a few Navajos. Rafe wondered what they were doing here.
The two dogs set up a steady duet of growling until Cremony ordered them to cease. The Apaches carried no weapons, and Rafe couldn't see where they would hide anything larger than a toothpick. In spite of the deep snow, all of them except Red Sleeves wore the usual cloth headbands, breechclouts, and high moccasins. Some of them wore cotton Mexican blankets over their shoulders or wrapped around their waists, but more as decoration than as cover.
Red Sleeves had on the uniform of a United States Army officer. In the two days since the head of the Boundary Commission had presented it to him, the old chief had made some modifications. Rafe didn't blame him for cutting away the front half of the black leather shoes. Red Sleeves' casehardened toes hung so far out from the holes that it was plain he could never have worn them otherwise.
One gold-fringed epaulette dangled on a thong around his neck. The other was sewn at rear of the coat where it hung like a docked tail. Another man wore two of the brass army buttons as earrings. Red Sleeves must have wagered and lost them at cards. A second man wore the uniform's once-white canvas shoulder strap across his bare chest. He had already hung an assortment of amulets and pouches from it.
Red Sleeves grinned and stretched out his right hand. John Cremony reached up from his camp chair and allowed it to engulf his.
Cremony gestured to each of the Apaches in turn. “You know Red Sleeves. May I present Delgadito, Skinny, chief of the Warm Springs band.” He waved a hand at the three
Navajos. “I don't know those bucks, but that broad-shouldered fellow by the door is Cochise, chief of the Chiricahuas to the west of here.
Rafe had heard of Cochise. Even men who hated Apaches admitted Cochise was tolerably good looking. They understated the case.
“They tell me he's known as Cheis by his people,” said Cremony. “The shorter one who resembles him is his younger brother.”
Cochise turned to face them. His black eyes were bright and opaque at the same time. Apache eyes always made Rafe uneasy. They sank, dark as wells, into those high-cheeked brown faces. They took everything in and let nothing out. Cochise was muscular and taller than average. The look in Red Sleeves' eyes struck Rafe as shrewd. Cochise's expression was wise. Rafe appreciated the difference.
If one could choose one's enemies, Rafe thought, these men would be worthy candidates for the job. Rafe doubted the government could keep them as friends for long. The role of enemy suited them better.
Rafe picked up his knitting where he had left off.
“What are you making?” Red Sleeves asked in Spanish.
“A sock.”
“What is a sock?”
Rafe braced the toe of one boot against the heel of the other and pried it off. He held up a foot clad in one of the lumpy, bison wool stockings he had already completed. Red Sleeves tugged the sock away from Rafe's ankle and rubbed it between his thumb and fingers. He pinched Rafe's toes, maybe to see if Rafe had the standard number of them. Embarrassed by the fact that the stocking was perfuming the tent, Rafe pulled his boot back on.
“Pata Peluda.”
Red Sleeves laid a hand on Rafe's shoulder as though conferring a knighthood. Rafe knew that from now on he would be called Pata Peluda, Spanish for “Hairy Foot,” by any Apache who approached within hailing range. He hoped none got that close.
Red Sleeves had a request to make of John Cremony. José
Valdez helped him with the more complicated Spanish.
“We want you to explain to us what your
nantan,
your chief, says in council tomorrow.”
“I can tell you now that he will invite you to go to Washington to visit your Great Father. He will tell you to stop raiding, and to live in peace. He'll advise you to cultivate the soil and to raise your own horses and mules, rather than stealing them from the Mexicans.”
The crackle of wood in the stove and the dogs' growls punctuated the silence in the tent while Red Sleeves thought about that.
Finally he said, “I am too old to raise corn. If the young people want to dig in the soil, that's for them to decide. And as for killing Mexicans, are we to stand with our arms folded while they murder our women and children as they did at Janos?”
“The Mexicans were once our enemies, too, but now we are friends. You, too, can be friends with them.”
“The Americans are a brave and clever people,” Red Sleeves said. “I want to be friends with them, but never with the Mexicans.” He turned and ducked through the tent door, and the others filed after him. The air in the tent resonated with the backwash of their departure.
“Well,” John Cremony looked pleased. “With old Red Sleeves on our side, our problems with ambuscades and horse thievery are solved. If anyone can keep the young bucks in line, he can.” He saw the look on Rafe's face. “Don't you think so?”
“With the Apaches, it's every man for himself. Red Sleeves can only try to influence their opinion.”
Rafe started to say that he wasn't sure Red Sleeves wanted an alliance, in spite of his bunkum about eternal friendship. He decided to wait until he could eavesdrop on those Navajos some more.
 
 
SISTER KNEW THAT HAIRY FOOT'S BIG ROAN WOULD WIN even though he faced the opposite direction, and Hairy Foot
sat with one leg hooked over the pommel. Hairy Foot seemed to doze through the uproar of betting, but Sister saw the muscles of the roan's shoulders and hindquarters quiver, and his ears twitch.
Talks A Lot and Flies In His Stew sidled up next to Sister. Talks A Lot stared straight ahead, as though he didn't notice her.
“Which horse do you think will win?” he muttered.
“Hairy Foot's red.”
Flies In His Stew snorted. “He might win if they move the finish line back there.”
Talks A Lot turned his head slightly so Sister could see his shadow of a smile. He had bet on the roan.
The Bluecoat in charge raised a pistol over his head. Still Hairy Foot sat with his eyes closed and his leg up. Sister began to worry. She had wagered her new moccasins on him. They were the first pair she had sewn by herself, and she didn't want to lose them.
The pistol shot rang out, and Hairy Foot swung his leg down, shoved his boots in the stirrups, and held on. The big roan whirled. While still turning, he bunched his hooves and soared. Sister's heart took flight with him. When he landed, his long legs devoured the ground in such huge strides that he overtook the rest of the field as though they stood still. Sister fell in love with him.
She ignored the footraces and the wrestling matches among the Ndee, the Mexicans, and the Americans who had come for the council. When Hairy Foot led the big red horse away, she knew he was heading for his camp at the base of the butte by the river.
She walked through the Pale Eyes' settlement, making her way around the broken machinery and the rotting timbers. Her people called the Santa Rita mines The Place Where They Cry because for generations the Mexicans had forced Ndee captives to dig here. Their tears had saturated this ground. Their cries of pain and grief had seeped into the rocks. Sometimes when the wind blew around the stony promontories The People could hear them crying still.
The diggers had left foothills of rubble. They had trampled the grass. They had cut down the trees. The ore crushers caused Sister the most dread. A mule walked in an endless circle, pushing the long pole tied to his harness. The heavy stone attached to other end of it ground the earth's bones to powder with a crunch and shriek that raised bumps on the skin of her arms. The sound symbolized the Pale Eyes' incessant digging, hammering, sawing, chopping, and building.
This was winter, the season of Ghost Face. Sensible people took life easier in winter. During the cold nights sensible people gathered to dance, but these men had no women to dance with. In winter sensible people told stories about Old Man Snake, Ugly Buttocks the Bear, and Trickster Coyote, but the Pale Eyes here had no children to listen to their stories. Maybe they had no stories, and if they had, what kind would such men tell?
Sister climbed through the cactus and scrub cedars growing among the boulders of the butte. When she reached the outcrop that provided the best view of the meadow below, she inched out to a large rock at the edge of the drop-off to the valley. Below her, the big roan's coat gleamed like new copper in the dappled sunlight.
Sister scanned the trees, bushes, and boulders around the pasture, assessing the hiding places, the best approaches. She felt a twinge of reproach about wanting to steal from someone who had returned her cousin to her. Stands Alone said that Hairy Foot was different from the other Pale Eyes. He had sense. He kept his word.
Still, this wasn't just any horse.
She imagined riding him to Mexico on a horse-stealing raid with her brother. She felt the powerful surge of him under her and the blur of the ground rushing past her, carrying her away from any enemy who might pursue her.
BOOK: Ghost Warrior
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