Ghost Warrior (14 page)

T
he stars seemed fixed in place, pinholes in a giant swatch of black velvet curtain. Pete Carmody stood like an obsidian obelisk below that backdrop, rifle in hand, his senses as much in the dark as his body.

“Who's there?” he said. Then, in Spanish, “
Quien es?
”

Zak thought that Pete probably thought one of his own sentries had made the sound, and the sentries were mostly Navajo.

“Jorge,” Zak answered.

Pete would not be expecting Jorge, but he did not know that he was dead, either.

“Jorge,” Pete said. “Ralph with you?”

Zak stood up. His pistol was still in its holster, but his hand floated just above the grip.

“Uh-uh,” Zak said.

“Did you rub out Cody?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. You sound funny. Been sippin' on that mescal, amigo?”

Zak measured the distance between himself and Carmody. Less than fifteen yards. Maybe twelve. Close enough.

Pete relaxed and lowered his rifle.

When Zak didn't answer, Pete spoke again. “Hell, come on, Jorge. I want to hear all about it. You get Vickers, too? And what about Carlita?”

Zak took a step toward Pete. “Pete,” he said, “you see that curtain hanging over your head?”

“What the hell? You ain't Jorge.”

“No, Pete. And that rifle better stay where it is. I asked you about the curtain.”

“What curtain?”

“Just think of me as a stagehand, Pete.” Zak spoke in a low voice. He was very calm.

“What in hell are you talkin' about? That you, Cody?”

“That curtain,” Zak said.

“You ain't makin' no sense, Cody.”

“Take your last breath, Pete. I'm going to drop the curtain on you.”

Pete started to bring his rifle up to his shoulder.

Zak went into a crouch. His hand dove for his pistol like a plummeting bird of prey. The Colt jumped from its holster, smooth and steady like a striking snake. He thumbed the hammer back. The gun came level at his hip, its snout aimed just below Pete's breastbone.

Zak squeezed the trigger and the pistol barked, spat lead and smoke and fire, littering the air with orange lightning bugs. The bullet struck Pete square in his chest. A crimson flower blossomed on his chest and there was the ugly sound of bone cracking and splintering as the soft lead mashed into a fist-shaped mushroom and ripped through flesh and veins before it blew a hole in his back and sent a rosy mist onto the hillside, spattering the rocks with red freckles.

“Ahhh,” Pete gasped as the air flew out of his lungs. He staggered backward and looked up at the curtain of sky, saw it come down on him, with all those little pinholes of silver. He fell against the side of the hill, lay splayed there like some ravished mannequin, his rifle still gripped tightly in one hand.

A small plume of smoke curled out of Zak's pistol barrel. He walked over and stood looking down at what was left of Pete.

He could see little stars in Pete's eyes. Blood bubbled up into his mouth and spilled over his lower lip and onto his chin.

“Arrrgh,” Pete gasped, unable to form the single curse word that had leaked from his dying mind.

Zak opened the gate to the Colt's cylinder, worked the ejection lever. The empty hull
spanged
against a rock on the ground. Zak worked a fresh cartridge from his belt and replaced the empty shell, closed the gate, spun the cylinder and eased the hammer down to half cock. He slipped the pistol back in its holster.

A last rasp of air escaped from Pete's throat and his eyes closed as he shuddered one last time.

Zak retrieved the Henry and climbed the little hill. Biederman's camp lay a mile away. The sound of the shot would carry far in the night air. But that far? It depended upon how many hills and rocky outcroppings lay between. He could still feel its reverberations in his ear, then only the rush of air like the sound of the ocean in a seashell.

Zak moved quickly up the hill and into another world, a world that reeked of its ancient past. There, just beyond the hill, lay a long, wide valley.
The moon rose above the rimrock and shone down on the ruins of old adobes. There were canyons formed by towering cliffs, small buttes and mesas. He crossed an old riverbed and trekked through crumbling adobe dwellings, their corners white with thick cobwebs, their roofs washed away by some long-ago flood. He saw shards of old pottery and the bones and skulls of animals—sheep and squirrel and deer. There was a mesa ahead, and he heard horses whickering and smelled their dung. He saw shadowy figures walking guard posts atop the mesa, and below, more adobe dwellings, which seemed to surround it.

In the soft glow of the moon, the mesa looked like an ancient fortress. Zak did not walk close to it, but skirted it at a distance of three hundred yards, skulking through empty adobes, climbing small rock piles. He kept his bearings, reflecting on where Loomis had gone and what he must do to attack such a stronghold.

Zak traveled beyond the low mesa and saw others, and when he climbed to higher ground, he knew where many of the Navajos were, for he saw their small campfires and smelled sheep and horses and mules, saw them on grassy swards in between the mesas and some atop them.

He took one of the canyons that veered off from the valley and strode into silence and deep shadows. He followed its winding track, reduced to miniature by the size of the walls on both sides, and the sheer immensity of a land full of secret hiding places and secret legends long lost to time.

By dead reckoning, Zak figured where Loomis was camped and found a fissure in the rock wall,
a game trail behind it, leading up to the rimrock. He marked the position of the stars, figuring by the pole star where he had to go. He was still cautious and made little sound. He walked on sandy and rocky soil mixed in with lava dust and finally reached the rim and took his bearings.

He built a small stone cairn at the top to mark the trail he had taken. He headed east, away from the Navajo camp and the mesa, where, surely, Biederman and his men were occupying the old adobe huts. He could see hazy outlines of white men atop one hill and the forms of Indians on another, and knew there might be more men farther up the valley. Perhaps
many
more. Any army marching up the valley would face a storm of bullets shot from high ground right on top of them. A deadly place, a place soaked in blood from past conflicts, he was sure, and a place sacred to the Navajos, who remembered the stories the old wise men told and perhaps remembered from their childhood that place of safety and ritual.

He walked back to the cairn and then headed west, taking his guidance from the North Star, the pole star. He drifted across lumpy ground flocked with wind-gnarled scrub pines, ocotillo, prickly pear, cholla, juniper, and deadwood turned gray and twisted by the wind and rain and time. It was like walking through a graveyard, for skulls—animal and human—littered the ground here and there, and he came across broken arrows and arrowheads and the stones of war clubs and broken bows, cracked war shields and lances reduced to splinters, jutting from between rocks or lying in sandy swales. There were tattered pieces of tanned
leather, some bearing skewed beadwork, others dried up like dead leaves or turned to parchment by the elements.

It took Zak less than an hour to reach the mountain where Loomis had made camp. He passed the place where he and Bullard had looked down upon the Navajo encampment, taking only a quick glance to reassure himself of its location and verifying that Navajos still occupied that place. He was sure that some of those canyons in the big valley were avenues connecting that camp to the others.

All the time he was walking over that desolate moonscape, Zak was figuring strategy. No place was impregnable. Formidable, yes, but the very complexity of the area offered an attacking army concealment and enough places to mount rifle-men and cannon that would at least give Loomis a chance to attack and perhaps conquer.

He descended to the big hill and was challenged by an army sentry.

“Who goes there?” a voice called from the shadow of some trees.

“Colonel Zak Cody,” he said.

“You come this way real slow, mister.”

“I'm not in uniform.”

“I know who you are, sir. I got to see your face.”

Zak approached, the rifle over his left shoulder.

“Stop right there,” the voice commanded.

Zak halted and stood there.

“Corporal of the guard,” the man sounded out, and Zak heard running boots on hard ground.

“What is it, Private?”

“Man says he's Colonel Zak Cody. That him there?”

A corporal with a rifle approached. The muzzle was aimed straight at Cody.

“You Colonel Cody?”

“I am.”

“Colonel Loomis said you might come from anywheres. Or out of nowhere. I guess it's you.”

“Take me to him immediately,” Zak said.

The corporal started to salute, but brought his hand down.

Zak smiled.

Moments later he was sitting in a tent with Jerry Loomis. The flap was open to let in the moonlight.

“Not safe to light a lamp,” Loomis said apologetically.

“I don't need to see you, Jerry. And you sure as hell don't want to see me.”

“I understand. You reek of death.”

“You're in a good spot here,” Zak said. “But you're going to have to move. Tonight.”

“Again?”

“Yes. And it's going to be rough.”

“Are you going to give me a report? I need to know what we're facing.”

Zak told him where Biederman was camped with his men and where many of the Navajos were. He left out details of his encounters with both white men and Indians.

“In the morning, I'll draw you a map and show you where you can deploy men and the howitzers on high ground. And I'll show you where you can run cavalry in on those who desert the mesas. If
you make it hot enough for them, they'll come down into that valley and you'll find excellent hunting.”

“You make it sound like a lark, Zak.”

“It's not a lark, Jerry. It's going to be damned bloody, but I think you can tack their hides to the barn door.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“I'll be there, Colonel, scouting for you, like I once did for General Crook.”

“That gives me some comfort,” Loomis said wryly.

Zak whistled for Nox after he emerged from Loomis's tent, and the horse came running up after a few minutes.

The camp was moving within an hour, following Zak up to the deserted mesa. Loomis had issued orders to his men: no talking, no smoking, no noise.

They made noise, of course, but were fairly quiet. The carts avoided going over large stones, and the men guiding the howitzers were careful to stay away from rocky stretches and to stop often to breathe the mules.

Vickers and Bullard caught up with Zak two hours into the march.

“I brung your hat, Zak,” Bullard said, handing the black hat over to him. “Case you need it.”

Zak put the hat on over his headband, squared it off at a jaunty tilt.

“Zak,” Vickers said, “you've got blood all over you. You get into a fight?”

“This is old blood,” Zak said. “Tomorrow I'll get a fresh coat. And so will you and Randy.”

They rode across that empty land of bones and weapons, the moon spraying them with a ghostly light, their shadows rippling like wrinkles on an old man's bare hide. The snowcapped mountains in the distance looked like the heads of bald eagles, wise and silent as the stars above them.

T
he tent walls shivered in the wind. Candlelight threw skulking shadows on the ground and scrawled them on the white fabric. Men huddled around Zak, who, with his knife, was drawing a series of squares and circles into the dirt. The tent made a sound like a ship's sail flapping in a stiff breeze. Colonel Loomis chewed on an unlit cigar. Captain Jubal Hazard, a dwarfish man with a craggy face and full beard, squatted like a gnome, his tiny blue eyes crackling like star sapphires as he breathed out sour whiskey fumes mixed with the scent from a cinnamon stick.

Vickers and Bullard watched the knife cut deep and score trails and lines that represented two sides of a valley.

“Captain Hazard,” Zak said, “you won't be able to cover the field with your howitzers. You'll place one here and the other, here. Mostly, they will be used to cause confusion and repel any Navajo brave enough to climb up after you.”

“You show me the spots, I'll set 'em,” Hazard said.

“Jeff, you'll take a dozen troops and ride down to this end of the valley. Colonel Loomis, you'll
split your remaining forces into two groups, one to lay down fire on this mesa, the other to rake that one with rifle fire. Then you'll draw them together at this point and form into a circle. You'll have targets at every point on that circle.”

“What are you going to do, Zak?” Loomis asked.

“Sergeant Bullard and I are going on a special mission. First, we'll sneak up into Biederman's camp and slay his fat ass, if we can, and anyone who gets in our way or crosses our sights.”

“Pretty risky.”

“Jerry, down in that flat, breathing is risky,” Zak said.

“And then what?” Vickers asked.

“I want to draw Narbona out. I think he's on this other mesa. I figure he'll stand out from the rest of the Navajos and might be with his man, Largos. If I can, I want to blow both their lamps out. Pop, pop.” Zak made a pistol with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

Nobody laughed.

“Seems to me you're taking the most risks,” Loomis said, cradling his chin in the palm of his left hand and working his cigar to the other side of his mouth.

“Sergeant Bullard is going to watch my back. I'm going up to the Biederman mesa decked out like a Navajo. But I'll be a shadow. When you hear the first shot, Captain Hazard, you'll start lobbing cannonballs onto the Narbona mesa. Colonel, I want some of your men on this shelf right above the Biederman mesa. When they see men running out of those adobe lodges, they should fire at will.”

Zak drew a large B in the center of one circle, and a large N in the other.

“I figure there are more Navajos up those canyons. When they come out into the valley, Colonel, your two groups will be able to drop them before they can do any damage. So, you'll have plenty of shooting to do. Both mesas, the valley, and any who come riding out of those canyons.”

“Any idea of how many we're facing?” Loomis asked, his forehead knitted into deep furrows of flesh.

“You'll probably be outnumbered. But you'll have the advantage. If I can cut off the heads of Narbona and Biederman, their men may run around like chickens with their heads cut off.”

“That's a lot of cutting,” Vickers said, trying to be cheerful.

“It's going to be a butcher shop down there,” Zak said. “You'll all be lopping off heads, legs, arms, and maybe a few balls.”

Everyone laughed except Loomis.

Later, Zak erased his map and blew out the candle. He took Hazard to the edge of the flat mountain and showed him where to place his two cannon.

“Can't see much in this dark,” Hazard said.

“You will when it gets light. I'll show you your aiming points to start you off. You just have your men set and ready to load powder and ball.”

“Yes, sir,” Hazard said, and he waddled after Zak over the ground where he would set his howitzers as Zak blazed the small trees that marked boundaries and positions.

Zak showed Loomis the defile where he would
send his troops, and just before dawn, he wished him luck.

He met with Vickers and Bullard near where all the horses were gathered. He took off his hat and gave it to Bullard.

“Tie this to my saddle, Randy,” he said. “And where'd you put my boots?”

“In one of your saddlebags, Zak.”

“And what did you do with that Henry I gave you?”

“I stored it with my kit. A souvenir, unless you want it.”

“No. You and Captain Vickers take your carbines. I'm just going to carry my pistol and my knife.”

“You sure you know what you're doing, Zak?” Jeff asked.

“Right now, I'm going over my part in my mind. It's like cards.”

“Like cards?”

“If you're a good gambler, you play the game before you even get to the table. You deal every hand, play every ace, draw every hole card, place every bet.”

“What good does that do?” Randy asked, scratching his head.

“It helps to eliminate any surprises.”

Zak shook hands with Vickers and wished him luck.

Then, in the darkness before dawn, he and Bullard set off down the trail to the valley.

“Don't talk to me, Randy,” Zak warned him as they started down the defile. “If you need to say something, tap me on the shoulder and use hand signals. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Randy said, swallowing a lump of air.

“Let's go.”

“One, thing, Zak. You goin' to kill Biederman. Right?”

“That's right.”

“What about his wife? Minnie.”

“You want to kill her?”

“Well, no, sir. I mean, she's a woman and all.”

“She's the enemy, Randy. Blood sister to Narbona.”

“You'd shoot a woman?”

“I would this one. Come on.”

The two men stole into the valley. Bullard matched Zak step for step and stopped when he stopped, listened when he listened. They got to the Biederman mesa without being detected. In the predawn darkness, Zak found the trail up to the top. He saw men walking guard duty, shadowy silhouettes with no definition, no personalities. They might as well have been scarecrows, as far as he was concerned. A stiff breeze blew down the wide canyon and chilled them to the bone.

“When we get up there, you lay low. Just watch my back. Shoot anyone who comes up behind me. But I'm going to use my knife, so you probably won't have to use your rifle. Once that first shot is fired, all hell's going to break loose.”

There were only two men walking the camp's perimeter. Zak motioned for Bullard to lie flat and wait.

It was still dark, but the stars told him that dawn was not far away.

Zak huddled next to the nearest adobe and waited for the guard on his side to walk past him.

The sky seemed to grow darker.

It's true, then, he thought. It's always darkest before the dawn.

And it was also the most dangerous time, he knew.

The guard walked past where Bullard was lying flat. Zak watched him. He didn't see the sergeant.

He drew his knife to play his hand of cards before the guard came to his table. Zak knew just what to do and how to do it.

He heard a man snoring. Another hawked up a gob of phlegm in one of the adobes.

He listened to the men inside the adobe next to him. Their breathing was like a sighing wind, even and steady. Dead to the world, he thought. Wasn't that what mothers said about their children when they were fast asleep?

He drew his knife.

Dead to the world.

Almost.