Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (32 page)

They sat on opposite sides of the fire. The red man’s face glowed in the firelight. Slowly a young moon rose over the horizon. The Indian stood up. “We will see if the traps have brought us dinner yet.”

Holmes followed him, trying to walk as silently as the Indian but somehow managing to step on dry twigs and kick loose pebbles, much to his embarrassment. Shadow Wolf did not look back at
him, but proceeded at a steady pace, staring down at an invisible trail with interest. At last he held up his hand for Holmes to stop. Holmes could see that some kind of trap had been rigged between two rocks—a thin sapling bent back, bait beneath, and a rock poised to drop at the right moment.

It had not yet been triggered. The Indian shook his head and motioned for Holmes to step around the trap. They went on and then the Indian trotted forward to another trap. This one had been sprung. A small mammal lay beneath a rock, quite dead. It was hardly enough to feed two men, but the Indian seemed satisfied as they made their way back to camp. He produced a small knife from his pouch and skillfully skinned the little carcass before spitting it over the blaze. It provided little more than a nibble, but Holmes was able to fall asleep feeling reasonably content.

Shadow Wolf woke them at first light. He had visited the rest of his traps and had cooked another of the pouched rats, as well as a porcupine he had apparently killed with his small knife. He demonstrated to Holmes how he had removed the spines by burying the animal in the embers of the fire. They ate, then set off. As they climbed steadily, Shadow Wolf pointed out the smallest of clues that Holmes would not have noticed—a bee flying toward a nest in a dead paloverde stump, the tracks of a coyote stalking a jackrabbit. Holmes wished he had his notebook with him and tried to memorize everything the other man said.

They reached the crest and made their way down the other side of the mountains. At last, after many miles of traveling, they came upon a white man’s fence, then the first cattle, and by afternoon they saw the ranch house, low and sprawling and made of
adobe brick the color of the landscape. Shadow Wolf indicated that Holmes should go on.

“Will you not come with me?” he asked. “Let me at least provide you with a good meal, and I should like to reward you in some way, if I could.”

Shadow Wolf shook his head. “The white man sees the red man as his enemy. Sometimes this is true. Sometimes it is not. But the white man expects the worst. I have no wish to meet the white man’s bullet.” He held out his hand to Holmes. “Walk safely, my friend. Everywhere you go, may you have good luck.”

“And you too, my friend,” Holmes replied. There was a lump in his throat as the tall, bronzed figure moved swiftly away. Holmes walked toward the ranch. Soon he heard the barking of dogs and ranch hands came out to meet him. He was brought into the delightful cool of the ranch house and began spilling out his tale to the rancher and his wife over a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.

“So you see, I am at your mercy, sir,” Holmes said. “I have been robbed of all my possessions and my money. If you could somehow help me into the nearest town, then maybe I can persuade the local bank manager that I am a man of honor and that funds from my bank in London will be transferred with all speed.”

“You’re not going anywhere for a while, young man,” Mrs. Tucker, the rancher’s wife, said. “You looked as if you were about to expire when you staggered up to our door. You stay with us for a few days while I get some nourishing food into you, and then you can ride with Mr. Tucker when he goes into Tucson to collect the mail on Friday.”

“I’m much obliged to you, ma’am.”

“And as for money,” Mr. Tucker said, “I can see that you are a gentleman, and I was raised to believe that a gentleman’s word is his bond. I’ll advance you what you need to take you back to civilization.”

“I’m am truly grateful, sir,” Holmes replied,

“We have to make amends for those varmints who robbed the stage, don’t we?” Tucker chuckled. “Otherwise you’d believe nothing good about the Wild West. There are more hardworking and honest men out here than bandits, I can assure you.”

“Just as there are more kind and trustworthy Indians than hostile ones, I expect,” Holmes said, and noticed the instant coldness.

“I wouldn’t be about to say that,” Mrs. Tucker said. “We live in constant fear out here so far from town, and Mr. Tucker will tell you that the rogues are always trying to rustle our cattle.”

Holmes thought it wise not to pursue this topic. So he remained at the Tucker homestead, allowing himself to be spoiled by Mrs. Tucker’s ample meals and constant ministrations. He also showed considerable interest in the running of the ranch and begged Mr. Tucker to teach him as many western skills as possible. On his last day a steer was butchered. Mr. Tucker, wearing a large canvas apron, did most of the butchering himself while Holmes watched and made notes.

“Damned flies.” Mr. Tucker waved them away.

“I’m surprised at the number of flies,” Holmes said. “We’ve scarcely seen one or two before now.”

“Danged creatures can smell blood from a mile off,” Tucker said. “They make straight for it. Smallest drop of blood and they’ll find it out, mark my words.”

He went back to butchering.

That night there was an outdoor ox roast in Holmes’s honor, and next morning they left in the buckboard for Tucson. It was five hours bumping over a rutted and rocky track before the township appeared before them, lying in a green valley with a small stream meandering through it. They passed between wooden shacks and adobe buildings before coming to a halt in the one dusty main street. Shop fronts lurked in deep shadow behind deep porches. Wooden sidewalks kept dust and mud off boots and ladies’ hems. As Holmes and Mr. Tucker stepped down from the buckboard, a young man came out of one of the saloons. He had bright red hair and his forearms were covered with orange freckles. As he came out, he turned back to say something, then let out a loud “hee hee hee.”

Holmes froze. “That man,” he whispered to Mr. Tucker. “He was one of the ones who robbed me, I’m sure of it.”

Tucker frowned. “I thought you said they wore masks.”

“But I’d recognize his forearm and his laugh anywhere.”

“Then if I were you, I’d keep quiet about it, if you know what’s good for you,” Tucker replied. “That boy is Willard Jensen. His daddy owns half this town. His daddy hires the sheriff.”

Holmes thought he saw the young man stare for a second as he passed, but he hurried on to join a group of men standing outside the jail. A loud buzz of conversation was coming from the group and then a voice boomed loudly, “I say we string him up right now. Ain’t no sense in waiting around. He’s as guilty as sin.”

“Come on now, boys.” This speaker was an older man, portly and well dressed in western manner. A heavy gold chain was strung across his chest and he wore a large white hat. “Everything has to be done properly, according to the law. You know that. We
got us a representative of the federal government in town at the moment and you wouldn’t want him to go home and report that folks on the frontier act like savages, would you?”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Jensen. Okay, first we try him, then we string him up,” someone said and got a general laugh.

“What’s going on, Hank?” Mr. Tucker asked a storekeeper who had come out of his general store to observe.

“Why, they brought in an injun who killed Ronald Fletcher. You know, that Englishman who’s been working for Tyler Jensen. Educated type of fellah.”

“How do they know the Indian killed him?” Holmes asked.

Hank appraised the newcomer. “You a relative?” he asked. “He sounded like you.”

Holmes shook his head.

“Anyway, they caught this injun actually bending over the body. We got us a guy from Washington in town so it looks like there will have to be a trial.”

At that moment there was a commotion further down the street, the crowd parted, and a procession emerged from the jail. Gun-toting deputies walked ahead, clearing the throng of onlookers who had come out of nearby businesses. And in the middle, handcuffed and shoved roughly between two burly guards, was Holmes’s Indian companion, Shadow Wolf.

“String him up, the no-good rat. We don’t need no trial. Kill him.” The words echoed through the crowd.

Shadow Wolf raised his eyes for a second and Holmes saw the flash of recognition before he lowered them again.

“I know that man,” Holmes whispered excitedly to Mr. Tucker. “He saved my life. I should do something.”

“I’d stay well out of it if I were you, son,” Tucker said. “This isn’t justice like you’re used to, and folks around here have little love for Indians. Isn’t much you can do.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t stand by and do nothing. It may be futile, but I have to try.” Holmes stepped into the tide of people, allowed himself to be swept along into the courthouse, and took his place on one of the back benches. The room buzzed with excited anticipation. Tyler Jensen and a tall man in black took their places at the front.

The presiding judge was announced, a wiry little man with spiky white hair. He brought his hammer crashing down. “Court’s now in session,” he said. “We have before us the injun who killed Robert Fletcher—fine, upstanding man who managed the ranch for Tyler Jensen. Don’t think this should take too long. We’ve got witnesses who caught him in the act.”

Holmes took a deep breath and stepped forward. “May I ask who is representing the defendant?” he asked.

“Don’t need no attorney. Open-and-shut case,” the judge said. “The injun has pretty much pleaded guilty.”

“According to the law of this land, I believe that every person is entitled to a fair trial with representation, is that not correct?” Holmes asked.

The man in black rose to his feet. “I am Carter Cleveland, and I have been sent to observe our newest territory. Since Arizona is now officially part of the United States, then the law of the United States must be observed. Every man is entitled to representation.”

“Then I should like to volunteer to represent this man,” Holmes said.

“You a bona fide attorney, son?” the judge asked.

“In England, where I come from, I am considered an educated man,” Holmes said stiffly. “And I suspect you have no other volunteers to represent the Indian in the courthouse.”

The judge looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead. Can’t do no harm. Won’t do no good.”

“Then I should like to confer with my client,” Holmes said.

A titter of laughter, mixed with catcalls, echoed through the courthouse.

“Ten minutes, then,” the judge agreed.

Holmes went up to the Indian. “Don’t waste your breath, my friend,” Shadow Wolf said. “They have already prepared the gallows for me.”

“But you didn’t do it.”

“No. I did not kill that man.”

“Then tell me what happened, for God’s sake,” Holmes implored.

Shadow Wolf stared out beyond him. “I was walking alone in the darkness last night. I did not go near the bright lights of the streets because I did not wish to pass the saloons. Men full of liquor have been known to become violent when they see one of my people. I heard noise—raised voices, men shouting—in the alleyway ahead of me. I heard a voice say, “No more. This has gone on long enough.” Then a few more words. Then departing feet, and silence. I continued on my way until I saw something lying in shadow. It was a man. I bent over him to see if he was still alive. Suddenly hands grab me and they drag me away. They are shouting that I am the killer. I tell them I am innocent, but they don’t listen to me.”

“Do you have any idea who the men were you heard quarreling? Or what they were quarreling about?”

The Indian shook his head. “As to their words, I only heard the words I have told you. One has a deep voice, rumbles like mountain thunder.”

Another of the men who robbed me, Holmes thought. Clearly the whole gang is in town, and this could have been a falling-out among thieves. The man with the refined English voice wanted no more of it, so they killed him. But how to prove this?

“Where did this happen?” Holmes asked.

“Behind the tavern there are stables. Behind those stables there is a way through to the road out of town. I have been sleeping in safety away from the houses of the white men.”

“But why are you still here?” Holmes asked. “Surely your business must have been concluded long ago?”

The Indian shook his head. “The man who would buy my stones has been away. They told me he would return yesterday. So I waited. But he did not return.”

“And your stones?”

“Safely hidden.”

“Okay, you’ve had your confab,” came the judge’s voice. “Let’s get on with it.”

“One more thing,” Holmes said to the judge. “I should like to see the scene of the crime for myself.”

“Ain’t necessary. Nothing to see there.”

“All the same, it is only right that I view the site for myself,” Holmes said.

“Shut him up.” “Let’s get on with it.” “Let’s get on with the hanging.” The voices echoed from the dark stuffiness of the courtroom.

The tall man in black rose to his feet. “As an outsider I can only advise, but this does not seem an unreasonable request. The defending attorney needs to see the scene of the crime.”

“Oh, very well. Have it your way,” the judge snapped. “Court adjourned for fifteen minutes. Maybe if we hurry we’ll have time for a quick visit to the tavern to fortify ourselves.”

Holmes waited not a moment longer. He ran out of the courtroom, found the stables and then the little-used walkway between the back of the stables and the fence of a private dwelling. He stared at the ground. Think, he told himself. Remember what he taught you. The land tells a story. He looked down at the sandy soil. The first thing he noticed were some flies on a black tarry area that Holmes deduced was dried blood. He dropped to his knees and examined the ground for prints. Several sets of boot prints, and then he picked out one set of the soft-soled shoes that the Indian wore. He studied the ground carefully. The Indian had come that way, as he said. The prints did not proceed beyond the spot with the blood. He also noted that one pair of boots had an interesting, almost heart-shaped metal tip to the toe and the heel. It came down the alleyway before the Indian, as the latter’s print was over it, and then continued on. Could have been coincidence, or he could be looking at the boot print of one of the killers. From the width of the stride and the depth of the print, Holmes could deduce that the man was running.