Ghost Warrior (5 page)

I
t is during those post-midnight hours of the nocturnal cycle that the earth cools and gives up its scents along with its heat. There was the smell of burnt cedar and piñon from the campfire, the cloying fragrance of man-sweat and blood, the sandy scent of scorched earth and another that was almost indefinable, the aroma of fear mingled with the passing spoor of red men who made no sound, like the skulking wolf or the padding cougar up on the rimrock.

“You West Point?” Zak asked Vickers, his voice pitched low but with a timbre that struck the eardrums and made a man listen with all his might.

“VMI.”

“Virginia Military Institute. William T. Sherman. Cumpy.”

“Yes, he was one of my instructors before the war,” Vickers said.

“Good man,” Zak said. “He knew how to stop a war in its tracks. That's what I'm hoping to do.”

“Stop a war?”

“If I can.”

“What war?”

“The war that's just over the horizon, a war that will bring back all the old hates, all the old enemies and soak this fair land with blood and bleach the bones of many a promising young man.”

“You—You're the one that the Mexican sheep rancher talked about, aren't you?” There was an undertone of awe and sudden revelation in Vickers' voice. “You're the one who found those sheep that belonged to Delacruz.”

“Did Gregorio tell you what happened to his brother and his sister-in-law, his dogs, and one of his herders?”

“He did,” Vickers said. “He spoke in Spanish, which is a tongue I'm trying to master. He called you something like ‘horseman of the shadow.' And now I'm remembering some stories I heard since I came out West. Stories I never really listened to real hard.”

Vickers paused, his gaze searching Zak's face, his lips quivering slightly as if trying to form words, as if, for once, he was trying to summon reason to frame a question. “Walsh said you work for Crook. And President Grant. Is that true?”

“It is. And that must remain something unspoken between us.”

“You saved Crook's life, I heard.”

“Stories have a way of growing larger with time and the telling of them.”

“You—You're the one. They call you the Shadow Rider. What Delacruz was trying to tell me. The horseman of the shadow, that's who you are. Zak Cody.”

“What's in a name?” Zak said. “We have more important things to discuss, Vickers.”

“I'm beginning to realize that. Sir.”

“You don't have to call me ‘sir,' Vickers. And I'm not going to pull rank on you. Unless you force me to. You lost two sentries tonight. If the Navajos had wanted to, they could have killed the other soldiers you left behind. With that fire, they made perfect targets.”

“Yes, I know. Now. I can't figure that out.”

“Have you ever heard of a Navajo named Narbona?”

“No, can't say as I have.”

“Well, no matter. That's the leader of the bunch that stole those sheep from Gregorio Delacruz. And he made sure that Gregorio knew his name.”

“Why?”

“I'm still trying to figure that out,” Zak said.

“Is there a point to this, then?”

“Be patient, Vickers. I think Narbona was killed, or died, some years ago. The man who calls himself Narbona is too young to be the original.”

“So, maybe his mother named him after the original Narbona.”

Zak shook his head.

“The Navajos never say the name of one who has died. They never rename their children after a dead person.”

“But—”

“But now we have another Narbona. The one who lived before gave Kearney and Kit Carson a great deal of trouble. He was revered by the entire Navajo nation. So now he's alive again. Or his namesake is. He amounts to something bigger than what we might expect.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that
this
Narbona is a kind of ghost warrior, a man risen from the dead. I think this one is bent on reclaiming all the Navajo lands. And I think he has a plan to do just that.”

Vickers was silent for a change. Zak could see that wheels and gears were turning in the man's mind. He hoped the impact of his statement, his assessment of Narbona, was sinking in deeply. He wanted Vickers to comprehend the gravity of the situation. He knew he was going to need an ally in this shadowy prelude to what might become a full-blown war. New Mexico had seen its share of troubles with the Navajo, and nobody in Washington or the territory wanted to see a return to those blood-soaked days when the Navajos raided, pillaged, and murdered many a settler.

Finally, Vickers broke his silence.

“I've got to warn Colonel Loomis. He'll want to go after this Narbona, nip his plan in the bud.”

“I think that's exactly what Narbona hopes you will do, Vickers.”

“Huh?”

“Can't you see it yet?” Zak asked.

“See what?”

“Narbona told Gregorio to tell the soldiers about what he did to his family and one of his sheepherders. Narbona wants the army to take to the field and come after him.”

“Why?”

“So he can lead them into the Jemez and destroy the entire force stationed at the Presidio.”

“Hell, Cody, Colonel Loomis would bring field artillery and blow him to kingdom come.”

“Loomis would never get a howitzer anywhere near Narbona. Not in that country.”

“Well, there has to be a way. Loomis is more than competent. He's a fighter.”

“Right now, Vickers, I don't want Colonel Loomis to know about any of this.”

“Sir, I'm bound to report all this to my commanding officer.”

Zak sucked in a breath. They could hear the men talking in low tones. Some were grumbling about the late hour and the lack of sleep. Others were mourning the deaths of the two sentries, Kelso and Deming.

“Vickers, I ought to shoot you here where you now stand,” Zak said.

“What did you say?” Vickers had his hackles up, Zak knew.

“You heard me, Vickers. I'm asking you to hold off on that report for a while. There are some things I want to check. I want to find out more about Narbona, track him, find out how much strength he has. That will take time and patience. You've heard of patience, haven't you?”

“Sir, I think I've had quite enough of your slanderous and demeaning remarks.”

“Then, listen to me real careful, Vickers. If you report to Loomis what has happened this day and what I've told you about Narbona, you'll be responsible for the deaths of many men. Can you understand that?”

“I believe in the United States Army, not in some renegade redskin with a dead man's name.”

“I think it's a lot more than that, Vickers. Narbona probably has a sufficient number of men
who know the country, who can hide in plain sight, and who can ambush any soldiers sent against him and defeat them. I also know that Narbona is getting help from people in Santa Fe. White men.”

“Do you have any proof of that?”

“Not yet. That's why I need some time.”

“I can't sit on this information forever, you know.”

A small cloud passed under the moon and a brief shadow blotted out Vickers' face, but Zak knew the captain was right on that score.

“I need one man to go with me in the morning. One of your men, Vickers. I need someone who can live off the land, who can endure heat and hunger and thirst. Any suggestions?”

“You want me to volunteer?”

The cloud passed on and there was a pasty sheen to Vickers' face.

“No, you need to command and lead your men while I'm gone. Do not go back to Santa Fe until I return. Can you do that?”

“We're low on provisions ourselves.”

“Don't try my patience too much, Vickers.”

“Yes, I can do that. The only man I know who might be of help to you is Sergeant Bullard.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He has a good record. He's fought Indians before. He's tough as an army boot and loyal as a bird dog.”

“I'll take Bullard with me, then.”

“How long do you expect to be gone?”

“Two days. Maybe three.”

“Three days is a long time.”

“Not when you weigh it against a war that could last years.”

“I wish I could honor your prediction with credence,” Vickers said.

“I'll put it to you this way, Captain. If I'm not back on the third day, you can ride to Santa Fe and tell Colonel Loomis anything you want. You can give him your report and your opinion and tell him that Zak Cody is a bag of wind. Fair enough?”

Vickers looked down at his feet. He dug a small furrow in the dirt with the toe of his boot, then looked up at Zak.

“Fair enough,” he said.

Zak smiled.

“If you run out of meat, Vickers,” he said, “you can buy a sheep or two from Gregorio.”

“I—I…” Vickers was at a loss for words.

“I'll pay for the vittles,” Zak said. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out several folded bills. He slapped them into Vickers' hand, turned, and walked back to where the soldiers were starting to lie down on their bedrolls.

Vickers stood there, shaking his head. He looked down at the bills in his hand and then tucked them into his pocket.

“What manner of man is this?” he whispered to himself.

T
he seam along the eastern horizon parted, and gray light spilled through and spread across the sky. Zak and Sergeant Randy Bullard were already up, pouring hot coffee down their throats. By the time the sky was aflame with the dawn, the two were riding up the small canyon, their rifle butts resting on their pommels, the barrels pointing straight up like iron stakes. Zak pointed to the tracks from the day before, which were still evident, although filled with sand and grit.

The two men did not speak. Zak had briefed Bullard the night before and Randy seemed eager to follow Zak into the wilderness. They both carried full canteens and enough grub to last three days, if they didn't eat much.

They came to the place where Zak had found the sheep.

“Those sheepskins?” Randy asked.

“Narbona killed two sheep. I figure they made camp somewhere and cooked the meat.”

“Or ate it raw.”

Zak didn't laugh. It was plain to him that Bullard had his own opinions of Indians and nothing Zak could say would change his mind.

“You ever do any tracking, Randy?”

“Some. Not in country like this. It looks like somebody took a firebrand to it and burned it to a crisp.”

“That's volcanic ash,” Zak said.

“I see a lot of tracks. Horse and sheep and what looks like Injun mockersons.”

“And what do they tell you?” Zak asked.

Bullard studied the ground. He rode his horse around in a circle, then returned to his starting point, next to Nox.

“Well, looks to me like they all scattered like a covey of bobwhites.”

Zak smiled.

“They split up, all right. But Narbona wanted soldiers to come up here, find those sheep and come after him.”

“That what you think, Zak?”

“That's part of what I think. In some ways, it doesn't make sense. He didn't drive the sheep any farther than here. He and his men went their separate ways. Why?”

“Hell, I don't know.”

“Neither do I, but I expect, if we look close enough, we'll find places up ahead where some of those men could hide and look right down here.”

Bullard raised his head and gazed at the high ground, scanning every cone-shaped hill and rocky outcropping.

“Maybe someone's a-watchin' us now,” Randy said.

“Maybe.”

Zak rode out of the flat place and followed a pair of horse tracks that wound through small hills
and strange formations—lumps of earth that were small and squat or head-high and round—that rose out of the ground in erratic patterns. Each was flecked with stones and rocks and scraggly plants that were so twisted and malformed, they seemed to have grown up in agony.

An hour's ride further, the two sets of tracks separated: one to the south; the other due west, through jumbles of small spires and coned hills that gave the landscape a look of desolation as far as the eye could see.

On either side of the horse tracks, larger hills began to appear as if to indicate there was much higher ground ahead. Yet, it seemed to Zak that they were in a kind of bowl, separated from the Sangre de Cristo range, as if the land had been permanently cut off from the main range in the far distant past. It became plain to him that the rider was following a trail, but not a heavily traveled one. It wasn't a game trail, because there were no animal tracks other than the horse's, and yet he could see some definition across the lava ash, a faint path less than a foot wide.

“How come you're follerin' this here track, 'stead of any of the others, Zak?”

The two men were sweating under the high sun. Their shadows were puddles ahead of them, but shrinking as the sun neared its zenith.

“Because the man riding the horse we're following is staying to open ground. He has nothing to worry about. He knows the country. He knows where he's going.”

“What about the other'ns?” Bullard asked.

“Those might be the ones watching the back trail.
Two of them left drops of blood on the ground. This is one of them.”

“Huh? I didn't see no blood.”

“Hard to see on that black ground. But those sheep were dripping blood. A while back, I saw a place where the rider who turned off to the south passed his sheep carcass to the other man. That's the man we're following.”

Bullard stared hard at the ground. He saw unshod hoof scuffs and marks, but nothing else.

“You must have eyes like a damned eagle, Zak.”

“You generally see what you're looking for.”

“And you was lookin' for blood drops?”

“They cut the throats of those sheep and rode on. They let the sheep bleed out. They didn't gut them out or quarter them. So I don't think they were going far.”

“You think we're getting close to that Injun camp?”

Zak didn't answer. There was no answer. In that country, what was close? What was far? It was a place that nature had forgotten, or perhaps had never known about. What had created the myriad of cone-shaped hills that looked like the caps of elves? What volcano had erupted and cloaked the soil with that black dust? What wind had swept through and wiped all but the most primitive life from its black surface?

As they rode, the land rose gradually. They were gaining altitude, a few inches at a time, and the features were changing. Hills on the other side of them began to rise higher and grow broader and longer. They found themselves in a trackless, jumbled terrain that defied mapping and remembrance.
There were no outstanding landmarks, no distinctive features that a man could remember passing in an hour, a day, or two days. There were no trees to blaze, no trail to mark for their return. There were only the faint tracks of an unshod horse with no definable destination.

An hour later, with the sun past its zenith and glaring into their faces, the tracks led up a narrow defile that looked like an old wash from an ancient flood. The defile rose up a slope, and they climbed a small hill and kept on to an even larger hill, and then reached a still larger mound with a slightly rounded top that took them into a cooler, slightly thinner atmosphere.

Zak called a halt and looked around. They were in the open and there was no cover for several hundred yards in any direction. They were surrounded by larger hills, and any one or all of them could harbor watchful men with rifles whose bullets could reach them. Off to the right, Zak spotted a cluster of large boulders.

Bullard pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches. He offered a Piedmont to Zak, who shook his head.

“You don't smoke,” Randy said.

“It blocks the sense of smell.”

“You ain't a dog, Zak. What do you need a sense of smell for?”

Zak smiled.

“Everything on this earth gives off a scent. Smelling something that can eat you could save your life.”

“Never thought of it thataway.”

Bullard lit up.

Zak studied the tracks. They were heading
toward the strewn boulders, which formed a kind of bulwark to an open place that was barely visible. He sniffed the air: A faint mixture wafted from that rocky place—the scents of wood smoke and cooked mutton, the tang of urine and human feces.

While Bullard smoked, Zak scanned the terrain around them and saw an overturned pebble, a small furrow a few yards away, a faint hoofprint near a scuffed patch of soil.

He left Bullard there and rode in a wide circle, staring at the ground. He saw more tracks. Tracks going and coming. A dozen or so at first glance. He rode back to where Bullard was waiting and cocked his head toward the boulders.

“This is where the whole bunch came,” he said. “Let's go where those boulders are. You take the right flank and I'll come in from the left side. Keep your thumb on that hammer.”

“You think Injuns are behind them big rocks?”

“No, Randy. But you never know. Just go in slow and be ready to shoot.”

Bullard ground out his cigarette on his saddle horn and stuck the remains in his shirt pocket. Zak rode off to the left. Bullard approached from the right.

The boulders formed a semicircle around the large, flat patch. Zak rode Nox in between two of the rocks and looked down at the ground.

Bullard came in from the other side. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Nary a soul here, red or otherwise,” the sergeant said.

“They ate their supper here,” Zak said.

“I see bones and places where they sat.”

“That fire ring is full of ashes.”

“What did they burn? Ain't no trees real close.”

“They carried in their wood,” Zak said. “See that piece of scrub pine? It didn't burn all the way down.”

“You're sayin' they got a camp up in the mountains?”

“Maybe more than one camp.”

“You read a lot from just a few scraps, Zak.”

“They were here less than two hours, I'd say. Pretty well organized. Look, from the front here, they can see the way we came up, and all around. They were safe here and they knew it.”

“Yeah. Gives me a funny feelin'. Hell, they could have bunked here overnight and picked us off when we rode up.”

“Easy as pie,” Zak said.

Zak heard a far-off sound. Just a snick of a sound, but he knew what it meant.

“Get off your horse, Randy,” he said. “Put him up flat against that big rock, and take cover.”

Before Randy could react, Zak had dismounted and snubbed Nox up against another large boulder.

“What's up, Zak?”

Bullard crouched behind a smaller boulder next to the one where his horse stood.

“I heard someone cock a Henry or a Winchester.”

“I never heard nothin'.”

“Well, one of those two bucks came back here, or they left a lookout behind.”

“Where?”

“Up on that next hill, I figure. Let's see.”

Zak stripped his bandanna from around his neck and tied it to the end of his rifle. Then he poked the rifle barrel in between two boulders, shook it for a second, then quickly pulled it back out of sight.

A second later they heard the crack of a rifle. Both men ducked and a bullet struck the side of the boulder behind which Bullard was squatting. It caromed off the granite and whined off into space.

Bullard swore under his breath.

Zak untied the bandanna and stuffed it in his back pocket. Both horses whickered in fear, and Bullard's gelding pawed the ground. Bullard pulled on the reins to hold his horse's head down and prevent the animal from bolting.

“That trick won't work a second time,” Zak said.

“What are we going to do? The bastard's got us pinned down.”

Zak drew a breath and thought about the situation. Whoever had fired the shot knew he hadn't hit anyone. He could be moving in closer or taking up another position. The shooter could afford to wait them out.

Zak knew that he and Bullard could probably sneak off down the side of the hill they were on, gain a few minutes until they mounted up and rode like hell for cover. Or he might be able to draw another shot from the bushwhacker and see the muzzle flash. That would be dangerous, and might not work.

He looked at Bullard. The man was ready to fight, but he was as blind as Zak was. They were
pinned down behind the boulders. Safe, but unable to return fire to an enemy they could not see.

“Well?” Bullard asked again. “Any ideas, Zak?”

“I know one thing,” Zak said.

“What's that?”

“We aren't going to surrender.”

Another shot rang out and the bullet plowed a furrow between the two men. The shooter had aimed between the boulders and gotten through with a round.

That shot told Zak something.

The shooter had moved, or there was another one out there.

The last shot had been several yards closer. But how close?

Too damned close, Zak thought.