Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (31 page)

“Everybody out. Jump to it!” He waved a gun in their direction. “Come on. We haven’t got all day.” His voice was deep and rumbling, with a rough edge to it.

One by one they climbed down stiffly into the swirling dust. Through the murk they could make out that they were in the midst of a circle of horsemen, with guns aimed in their direction. Their faces were covered by similar neckerchiefs and their hats shielded their eyes. The drivers had already climbed down and were standing with their hands in the air and worried looks on their faces.

“I tell ya, we ain’t carrying nothing worth having,” one of the drivers was saying. “We don’t have no money on board. Just the mail and some goods to be delivered.”

“Get them down and let’s take a look then,” one of the men on horseback said. “And it will be a sorry day for you if you’ve been lying to us.”

Holmes noted that his speech was more refined than the first man’s. He spoke with what almost might have been an English accent. The terrified drivers complied, climbing up to the roof of the coach and wrestling with the ropes that lashed down the baggage. The group of passengers huddled together, coughing and holding up hands to fight off the biting sand.

“And you guys. Hand over your valuables and money,” the first man barked.

The big westerner shifted uneasily. “As you can see, we are only poor folk. We don’t have much in the way of valuables. I’ve a few dollars in my pocket and you’re welcome to those.” He came forward, hand full of silver dollars. The masked man took them, then grabbed around the westerner’s wrist. “And your gun, friend. You don’t think we’re stupid enough to let you keep that?” He reached down and pulled a pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle from a holster at the man’s hip, then dropped it on the ground beside the pile of goods that was now being flung down from the roof. “And I’ll wager there’s a fine pocket watch in that vest of yours.” He reached inside and crowed with glee as he produced a shiny watch. “No valuables, huh? We’ll be takin’ a close look at your bags, you can bet your bottom dollar.”

Two other men had now descended from their horses and slit open bundles and packages with fierce-looking knives. Out came calico and coffee, books and beans, spilling in a horrible mixture onto the dry earth.

Mrs. Williams leaped forward with a cry. “Those are our Bibles for the heathen. You have no right to destroy them. God will surely punish you if you do.”

Holmes had to admire her brave if foolhardy action.

The leader on foot approached her in a threatening manner. “You shut your mouth, ma’am, and keep it shut if you know what’s good for you.” He pointed the gun deliberately at her face and she stepped back with a cry of horror.

“Come now, sir. You are speaking to the wife of a missionary,” her husband attempted to say.

“And you too, ya old windbag.” The first man prodded
Reverend Williams in his ample belly with his gun. “Just hand over your trinkets and you’ll be all right.”

“But we are poor missionaries. We have no worldly goods,” Rev. Williams whined, but to no avail. Rough hands were already delving into his pockets. The first man had moved on to the schoolteacher from Ohio. “Well, what have we here? A little beauty, with a trim little waist. We might just carry her off for ourselves, eh, boys?”

She let out a whimper of fear. Holmes could stand it no longer. He stepped forward. “Take your hands off her this instant.”

The man turned toward him and a deep chuckle emanated from under the bandana. “And you’re going to make me, are ya? A dandy from back east?”

“If you care to fight me fair and square, I am competent in the martial arts,” Holmes said, “and I would fight for the honor of a lady, as would any man of breeding.”

“Would you listen to him?” the man chuckled again, and Holmes heard another of the men laughing, a high “hee hee” sound. Holmes glanced around and saw a glimpse of red hair under the man’s hat, and an arm covered in so many freckles that it looked almost orange. I won’t forget you in a hurry, Holmes thought.

The leader came toward Holmes. “Wanna fight, do ya? Well, this is how I fight, boy.” And he brought the butt of his pistol crashing down on the side of Holmes’s head. Holmes fell to the ground and knew no more.

He awoke to darkness and silence. His mouth was encrusted with sand, and when he tried to open his eyes, they too were
caked together with sand. He sat up and the world swung around alarmingly. A wave of nausea overcame him. Where the devil was he? Then it came to him—the coach, the robbery, and that blow descending. At least he wasn’t dead, he decided. They had spared his life. He got to his feet and looked around him. Complete darkness. The only pinpricks of light came from stars that hung, unnaturally large and bright, in the heavens. He realized then that it had been no act of mercy to spare his life, but rather the reverse. He had been left in the middle of nowhere to die slowly.

For a moment he fought with despair. Then resolve triumphed. He was going to make it out of here alive. He was going to bring those men to justice. It was imperative that he cover as much ground as possible while it was still dark, because he would have to seek refuge during the blistering heat of the day. He stared up at the sky until he located the North Star. Tucson, he reasoned, was due west. He turned to face what he decided was the right direction and set out. It was not easy going. The ground underfoot was a horrible mixture of rocks and sand, dotted with sharp, scrubby bushes and the occasional cactus. He blundered forward, cursing when he met cactus spines or tripped on a loose rock. In this manner he kept going for some time, fighting waves of nausea. His head throbbed like the devil and sometimes lights danced before his eyes in the blackness.

At last he could go on no longer. He sank to the ground, intending to rest for only a short while, but instead fell into a sound sleep. He woke with the first rays of the morning sun shining straight into his face His mouth was parched and dry and his tongue felt like an alien object. He staggered to his feet, pain shooting through his head. The landscape had changed. It was no longer flat and
featureless. Rugged purple mountain chains rose up ahead of him. There was no sign of human habitation. Just more rock, more cactus. If anything, it looked more hostile and forbidding than the day before. Those mountains obviously stood between him and the green valley of Tucson. How would he find the strength to climb them without water?

He wondered what time it was and reached for his pocket watch. It wasn’t there. They had taken it, and all his money. Anger welled up inside him, propelling him forward. He set off, lurching rather than walking, a grotesque figure covered in yellow dust moving jerkily like a puppet. As the sun came up, the desert flamed with orange light. Even in his current pain and despair, Holmes stood for a moment, appreciating the savage beauty of it. Then on again, rugged mile after mile.

As the sun rose in the sky, the heat on the back of his neck was intense. He realized then that he wore no hat. Of course it still resided on the luggage rack of the coach. No point in wasting energy thinking about it. By noon the mirages appeared—sheets of water hanging improbably on mountainsides, always just out of reach. The desert shimmered with heat. Nothing moved, except for a snake that slithered across his path and under a rock. He wondered how one killed a snake and whether they could be eaten. He put his hand into his pocket. They had even taken his pipe and tinder box.

Water. He must find water or die. But every depression and hollow was dry. He could see where streams had cut through the sandstone on their way down from mountains, but only in a rainy season, if there ever was one in this accursed place. He thought of home—misty days, green grass, the sound of a cricket ball against
a bat, rain pattering on windows, afternoon tea on the lawn—and wondered if he’d ever see it again. At last he could go on no longer. He dropped to his knees and crawled under the shade of a prickly bush, where he fell into a half sleep.

He awoke with a start. Someone was squatting over him. A hand reached to touch him. He raised his head to look and saw the bronzed, naked torso, the red-brown face, the long black braids of an Indian brave. Rumors of savagery flashed through his mind—victims scalped and other unmentionable tortures. He tried to get to his feet, realizing he had no weapon and was defenseless.

The Indian must have seen the panic in his eyes. “Be still. I wish you no harm,” he said in a deep, guttural voice. “I come to help.”

“How did you find me?” Holmes asked.

“I see vultures circling. They know when a creature is about to die.”

Holmes glanced up in horror.

“How did white man come to be so far from his brothers? Where is his horse?”

Holmes explained the stagecoach and the robbery. “I’ve been trying to walk to the settlement in Tucson. Do you know it? Am I far away?”

The Indian pointed toward what looked like the north. “Beyond those hills. Two days’ march for a man in good health.”

“So far? I don’t understand.”

“You are to the south of the white man’s houses. You have almost crossed the boundary to the land they call Mexico.”

“How did I get here? I tried to walk due west. I should have followed the track.”

“It is easy to go astray in the desert,” the Indian said. “You are thirsty. You need to drink.”

“Do you have any water?” Holmes asked, wondering where on his person it could be stored, seeing that he wore little more than a loincloth.

The Indian had already turned away and approached a giant cactus. He studied it, then produced a hatchet and lopped off a branch, nodding in satisfaction. “Watch for spines,” he warned, then demonstrated, reaching into the cactus and scooping out liquid. Holmes drank greedily, then washed his face.

“I’m much obliged to you,” he said. “You’ve undoubtedly saved my life. May name is Holmes. May I know yours?”

“You can call me Shadow Wolf,” the man said.

“Do your people live nearby?” Holmes asked, studying the desert scenery.

“Not near. Now they are camped a day away, on the other side of the white man’s border. I have been sent to the town to trade.”

“What do you trade?” Again Holmes looked at the almost naked man.

“I bring precious stones and animal skins. I will return with tobacco and cloth and wool for weaving blankets.” He opened a little pouch he carried tied to his waist and Holmes saw the glint of unpolished stones. “The skins are over there. By that bush.”

He went to retrieve the tightly wrapped bundle. “Can you walk? I do not think you can walk all the way to the white man’s town. I will take you to the nearest of their ranches. Come.”

He motioned for Holmes to follow him and set off mercifully slowly.

“How do you know your way?” Holmes asked. “I see no kind of trail.”

Shadow Wolf smiled. “I read the signs. My people call it ‘cutting for sign.’ To me the desert is like a story, waiting to be read.” He paused. “See here?” He bent down and pointed to a low shrub. “A rabbit passed this way.” Holmes noticed a tiny shred of white fur caught on a spine. “And here, where the sand is soft, we can see his trail. The footmarks are fresh. Yesterday the wind blew the sand, so I know that he passed this way since last night. But his trail does not continue here, so what happened? A drama. I will show you. Specks of blood on the rock, here. But no other animal tracks. How can that be? I will tell you. A great bird came down and took him. An eagle maybe. See here where the wing tip brushed the sand?”

He nodded at Holmes with satisfaction. “Even the smallest of signs tells me a story. I can tell you who walked here and how long ago, whether they were carrying burdens or walking lightly.”

“Fascinating.” Holmes was still staring at the tiny specks of blood on the rock. “Can you teach me to read the signs?”

Shadow Wolf smiled again. “It takes a lifetime of practice. Maybe a man has to be born to it. But I can show you how I cut for sign.”

“And how do you find your way in this featureless place?”

“In this place there is no problem. We must cross those mountains. The water takes the easiest path downward after rain, so we will follow the path of the river.” He indicated the dry wash and motioned Holmes to follow. Holmes struggled after him. All afternoon they climbed steadily. At last the sun sank behind the hills, speckling the vast sky with pink, like an archipelago of islands in a blue ocean.

“We make camp,” Shadow Wolf said. “You must eat and rest.”

He found an area of soft sand. Holmes sank down gratefully. His head no longer throbbed dangerously, but his feet were blistered and his tongue felt so swollen that his lips wouldn’t close around it.

“Do we have any food?”

“I will find food for us.” He moved off. Holmes was disappointed to see him returning empty-handed. “I have found the road of the pouched rat,” he said. “I have set traps. We will wait. But until then . . .” He climbed effortlessly up to where a spreading cactus bush spilled over a rock, and lopped off some green tips. “Your people call this prickly pear,” he said. “When I have taken off the spikes, it is good to eat.”

With his hatchet he skillfully removed the outer layer and handed the segment to Holmes, who crunched on it greedily. It was full of moisture, almost like a fruit. The Indian then set about building a fire, taking a piece of flint from a small leather pouch and striking it against the side of his hatchet. Sparks fell upon a small heap of dried moss, which he carefully blew on, and he soon had a blaze going. “There are wolves in these mountains,” he said, “and coyotes and even puma. They will not harm us unless they are very hungry. But they may be very hungry. We must be prepared.”