The Fire of Greed (9 page)

Chapter 14

POP.

Somewhere in the roughly quarter-mile distance, there was a gunshot.

Pop. Pop.

More gunshots.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

A fusillade.

Bladen Cole reined the roan to a stop and listened carefully. There had been an explosion of woodpeckers from the tops of the trees, startled by the first sounds of the shots, but they had glided away. The only nearby sounds were the occasional creak of a branch in the wind.

It sounded like there had been an ambush somewhere in the woods up ahead, and Cole was anxious not to be the victim of another one in his location.

Pop.

Another single shot up ahead was followed by the
pop, pop
of a different gun.

The four men whom he was following had been ambushed, probably by vengeful Mescalero, out to repay the man who had lifted the scalps of their comrades.

Should he just let it play out, or should he intervene?

More gunshots.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

His curiosity got the best of him, so he grabbed his Winchester, tied the roan do a downed snag, and moved forward.

He walked uphill from the sounds of the gunfire, knowing that the attackers would have ambushed from above, and not wanting to sacrifice any high ground only to wind up in the middle of the shootout.

At last, he was close enough to smell burnt powder drifting through the trees, and finally he was close enough to see the bluish puffs that betrayed the positions of the shooters.

Crouching practically on his hands and knees, he crept through the thick stand of ponderosa until he could see what was happening. Around to his left were four men, carefully positioned behind fallen logs. Cole could not tell whether they were Chiricahua or Mescalero. Before them, they had a perfect field of fire on the slope below.

Cole could barely make out the targets of their ambush, and he saw only two rifle positions, identifiable by the gunsmoke. Whoever was down there was also well hidden and well protected.

The situation had all the appearances of a standoff.

It was unlikely that the course of the stalemate would be altered until the attackers withdrew, or someone did something especially heroic or especially foolish.

Whether what happened next was especially heroic or especially foolish would be open to interpretation.

Suddenly there was a shriek from down below, and a man ran out of hiding, trying to advance uphill through that perfect field of fire.

K'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow!

The rifle fire from the attackers was much louder now that he was closer, but as Cole saw, no shot from this burst had been effective.

Now safe behind a tree, the man shouted in defiance.

He looked Apache, but Cole could not tell whether he was Chiricahua or Mescalero.

As the Dutchman had pointed out, the Mescalero liked to show their flag in Chiricahua country, and Chiricahua insisted on dissuading them from this endeavor. The two bands had been rivals, and on occasion deadly antagonists, since anyone could remember. Cole had stumbled into one of those occasions.

Luckily for them, the foursome of white men that he was following had been spared the dilemma of a particularly well-executed ambush that had snared rival Apache. So too, Cole realized, had he—at least so far.

Buoyed by his success in getting twenty feet up the hill without being hit, the man behind the tree decided to try for more.

He ducked out from hiding and ran at top speed.

K'pow! K'pow! K'pow!

His friend covered him as best he could from his hiding place below.

K'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow!

The opposing force answered with the bark of four Winchesters.

“Aiio-ooh!”

This time the man had not been so lucky. He was hit in the arm. It was only a flesh wound, but it was obviously quite painful.

K'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow!

Sensing that they had drawn blood, and hoping to finish him off, the four men above resumed firing again, but the man was now safe behind a downed tree.

Deciding that he had seen enough of someone else's fight, Cole started to back away.

However, his foot slipped and a small dribble of gravel spilled down the slope.

Hearing this, the four Apache turned abruptly in his direction.

K'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow. . . k'pow!

The splintering of wood just inches from his head told Bladen Cole that this was
no longer
someone else's fight.

Unlike the two Apache who were downslope, Cole had an advantage in that he was slightly uphill from the four shooters.

They may have heard him, but for the moment, he had the advantage of their having not yet seen him.

K'pow!

That shot was tentative, a probing shot, like a man poking the brush, looking for a hiding possum that he knows is in there somewhere, though he is not sure exactly where.

K'pow!

That shot was like a dare, trying to get the unseen ambusher of ambushers to show himself.

Cole held his fire, but mainly because he was not really in firing position and he wanted to wriggle himself around to where he could aim.

At last, he was ready.

K'pow!

Another probing shot came his way, missing him by two feet.

K'pow!

He answered and did not miss.

The man who had fired the previous shot toppled over clumsily.

K'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow!

Cole's shot was answered by an angry, well-directed wall of lead.

He heard a shout, and watched the surviving trio turn away.

The wounded man from below had resumed his uphill dash when he saw the shooters redirect their attention toward Cole.

K'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow-k'pow!

“Aiiah-aaaaagh!”

It was the scream of death.

This time, the fellow had not made it to uphill cover.

Cole, meanwhile, used this distraction to rise up and take aim.

K'pow!

He was not sure that he had hit the shooter nearest to him, but he aimed at the next man anyhow.

K'pow!

Cole dropped for cover after the second, carefully aimed shot.

K'pow. K'pow.

Two shots came from the other ambushed man, who was still far down below.

Cole peeked through the brush.

Only two ambushers remained, and one of them was wounded.

At this point it was dawning on them that they had lost half of their attacking force, and that they were taking fire from two directions. In the space of about two minutes, they had gone from being a commanding presence on the battlefield to being one that verged on the untenable.

This was the point when they realized that they should probably withdraw to fight another day, but also that this move was rendered nearly impossible by their being in a crossfire.

K'pow! K'pow! K'pow!

Three shots, no longer probing, but furious in their statement that the shooters planned to execute their only acceptable option—they were going to try to shoot their way out of a situation turned sour.

K'pow!

Cole fired and missed, and thumbed more cartridges into the Winchester as they returned fire.

K'pow! K'pow!

He could see them weaving and dodging, getting ready to make their dash.

K'pow. K'pow.

Two shots from below.

K'pow. K'pow.

Two more.

K'pow!

One of the men had stood, aimed, and fired at Cole.

It was a near miss, too close for comfort.

K'pow! K'pow!

He had aimed carefully, fired, levered, and fired again, as fast as he could. One or the other of his shots found its mark. It did not matter which.

K'pow!

K'pow!

The last surviving ambusher decided to shoot on the run, taking his chances that Bladen Cole was not so good against a moving target.

K'pow!

He had wagered wrong.

Cole took a deep breath, and then another.

He stood up, holding his rifle away from his body with his left hand, with his right hand high, signifying to the man below that he was not a threat.

He had wandered into this shootout allied with no one, only to wind up as
this
man's ally—and possibly his savior.

He saw the last surviving Apache lower his gun.

Cole indicated by sign that his intentions were friendly, and the man responded in kind.

He was young, barely out of his teens, if that, and he was visibly shaken by the experience.

“Speak English?” Cole asked.

The man just shrugged.

“Español?”

This time, he thought for a moment, as though he knew some words of Spanish, but then he just shrugged hesitantly. Up north around the pueblos near the Rio Grande, the people had been speaking some Spanish for centuries, and a little English for decades, but the Apache kept their distance, preferring to have as little to do with the outsiders as possible.

Cole knew almost no Apache words, and those only if reminded. He had come to this place as a man who had never wanted to be in New Mexico again in his life, so he had come unprepared.

The man's gaze flicked upward, and Cole turned. Above, on the hill where the ambushers had been, there were six mounted Apache.

He glanced to the side and saw five more approaching from below. One of them was leading his roan.

He was surrounded.

They approached cautiously and deliberately, carefully eyeing Cole and the young Apache man.

An older man sitting astride a large gray stallion began to berate the ambush survivor as a father would a son.

The young man protested and pointed up the hill.

“
Dii'i
,” he said, holding up four fingers and pointing up the hill. “
Ndee
.”

Cole heard him use the word
ndee
, which he recognized as the Chiricahua word for people. The Mescalero word was the distinctly different
haasti'
. Cole now realized that he had stumbled in among a heavily armed group from Geronimo's own Apache group.

He swallowed hard, expecting not to see another moonrise.

After considerable talking and bickering, the man on the gray, who seemed to be in charge, gestured to the man who was leading Cole's roan.

In turn, this man tossed the halter rope to Cole.

The man on the gray stallion turned and stared at Cole as he mounted up.

“
Ha'do'aal
,” he said firmly, pointing to the north, in the direction that Cole had been headed before all of this had started.

“Much obliged,” Cole said, touching the brim of his hat as he rode away.

Chapter 15

“FULL OF VEXATION COME I, WITH COMPLAINT AGAINST MY
child, my daughter,” the man portraying Egeus, the father of Hermia, explained to the actor cast as Theseus, the Duke of Athens.

“Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, this man hath my consent to marry her. Stand forth, Lysander: and my gracious duke, this man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child . . . And stolen the impression of her fantasy.”

The complaints of Egeus about Lysander were the same complaints as expressed by Therese de la Gravière about the mysterious cowboy who had “bewitch'd the bosom” of
her
child,
her
daughter.

In deference to her mother, Nicolette
had
agreed to speak with Ezra Waldron. She had even admitted to herself a certain excitement at his asking her to the theater. Though she knew in advance that he would, the fact of its happening did bring a smile to her lips, her lips the color of chilies.

In deference to the season, the theater company was performing
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, and Nicolette made a point of pulling that book off the shelf and reading it in advance of the performance. To her surprise, the words of the Bard had served to bewitch Nicolette in a way that was unexpected. She had thought herself finished with thoughts of the unnamed cowboy, until her mother brought him back into her mind.

She had intended to scoot him out at the first opportunity, but with every line of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, this knave Shakespeare effectively reinstated him.

Now, escorted to the theater on the arm of Mr. Waldron, she found herself watching the play as though she was part of it. She was Hermia, of course, and her mother was Egeus, insistent that she be at the side of someone else, when the “impression of her fantasy” had been stolen by the cowboy, whose name, in the fantasy which she had contrived within her mind, was Lysander.

“I do entreat your grace to pardon me,” the actress portraying both Hermia and Nicolette asked the duke. “In such a presence here to plead my thoughts; But I beseech your grace that I may know the worst that may befall me in this case, if I refuse to wed Demetrius.”

Of course, in the Athens of Shakespeare's imagination, such a refusal was a capital crime, but Hermia, dramatically, and unrealistically, could not abide being untrue to her heart.

“So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,” the actress into whose persona Nicolette had projected herself said with a shrug. “Ere I will my virgin patent up unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke my soul consents
not
to give sovereignty.”

Nicolette was so absorbed that she forgot to blush at the suggestive phrasing.

When Demetrius looked down at Lysander and told him that he, Demetrius, and Egeus were on common ground with respect to the upcoming nuptials, Nicolette scowled visibly.

However, when Lysander told Demetrius that he should, in that case, marry Egeus rather than Hermia, Nicolette burst out laughing. A startled Ezra Waldron glanced askance at his companion, but decided it was a good thing that she liked the play.

When the woodland sprites of the Bard's fantasy got involved, Nicolette knew that both Lysander and Demetrius would fall in love with Helena, instead of Hermia. She waited patiently—and she applauded when Oberon sorted this out and matched Demetrius with anyone
but
Hermia.

When at last Egeus admitted defeat, Nicolette was on the edge of her seat.

“Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough,” the routed parent conceded to Lysander. “They would have stolen away; they would, Demetrius, thereby to have defeated you and me, you of your wife and me of my consent, of my consent that she should be your wife.”

* * *

“YOU SEEMED TO HAVE ENJOYED THE PERFORMANCE,” WALDRON
observed with the suggestion of understatement in his tone, as he pulled out a chair for Nicolette in the lounge next to the theater where the patrons gathered to socialize.

“I did, Mr. Waldron.” She smiled. “I really did. Thank you
so
much.”

“I'm delighted, Miss de la Gravière.” He smiled in return. “Brandy?”

“Umm . . .” she replied. It had been so long since she had been to a high-class social event with a gentleman that she was unsure of whether a lady was supposed to drink with him under the circumstances. Glancing around, though, she saw other ladies having brandy, and brandy was, unlike whiskey, an approved beverage for ladies.

“Yes, please.”

“Had you seen this play before, Miss de la Gravière?” Waldron asked, removing his gloves.

“No, although I
have
read it.” She continued to smile. “I read part of it yesterday in fact. I wanted to get in the mood.”

“It unquestionably kept your attention,” he said. That was an understatement, and he phrased it as such.

“It is an agreeable escape from day-to-day reality,” she said, still smiling.

“That it is.”

“Had
you
seen it before, Mr. Waldron?”

“Yes, one time . . . in New York. One has frequent opportunities for the theater in New York.”

“I've never been,” Nicolette admitted. “Perhaps one day. I have not been far from Santa Fe since I was a little girl.”

“You are not from this territory, then?”

“No, I was born in France, but I have few memories of it. I grew up in Mexico during the Empire. My father was in the government.”

“Did he . . . ?”

“He lost his life.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We miss him . . . but it has been a long time,” Nicolette said, looking down into her brandy snifter and trying to move her mind along to something else. “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Waldron. What is it like to run a railroad?”

“Well, I don't exactly
run
the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe,” he said modestly. “I am in finance.”

“Does that mean you pay for the railroad?”

“Not exactly,” he explained. “The shareholders are the ones who
pay
for the road. My role is in the
arranging
of the financing. I help to make sure that there is money in place to meet the obligations of the road.”

“Making sure that you are taking in enough money to pay for your workers and railroad ties?” Nicolette asked.

“Yes, that's right,” Waldron replied. “Those things are mainly cash-and-carry, but we are also managing for obligations that we pay on long-term contract, like water and coal.”

“I suppose that you have income that is on contract, as well?”

“Certain freight customers are like that,” he said. Most women just smiled and nodded, or yawned, when he talked about these things. “We also have to manage our obligations to shareholders, which are long-term, and they require dividends as a reward for providing the ongoing capital for things, such as line extensions, that do not generate short-term revenue . . . Am I boring you with this talk?”

“Why?”

“Most women find finance a rather tedious topic.”

“Perhaps most women do not manage businesses,” Nicolette said with a smile, taking a sip of her brandy. “The Refugio del Viajero is a much smaller enterprise than the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe, Mr. Waldron, but we
do
have two important shareholders and we are very anxious to keep
them
happy.”

“Yes, I see,” Waldron said.

“As you can imagine, our income is all cash-and-carry, but our outlay is mainly on contract, so we spend a great deal of our time planning ahead. Our reputation depends on fresh ingredients, fresh meat, fresh produce, fresh every day. If what we bring in this morning is not sold today, it is gone forever, and it earns our two shareholders, Mama and myself, no revenue. Some things we are able to stock ahead of time, such as dried beans, corn flour for the tortillas, onions, wine, and the dried chilies . . . but we have to plan very carefully when we buy our meat on contract. I hope that I am not boring
you
, Mr. Waldron.”

“Not at all,” he replied. “You seem to being doing very well with your management of supplies versus sales.”

“Mama is very good with planning,” Nicolette said proudly. “And we have built a good reputation for Refugio del Viajero.”

“You don't seem to have any real competition.”

“Mama keeps her eyes open,” Nicolette nodded. “There is Delmonico's, but they serve a much different fare . . . We have loyal customers who also dine there as well. The main thing is maintaining our reputation with customers old and new. I would say that your railroad is lucky not to have any competition in this territory.”

“Colorado is a different story, of course,” Waldron replied. “And the Denver & Rio Grande is desirous of operations here in New Mexico.”

“Your success, I imagine, will hinge upon your reputation, and your service to your customers,” Nicolette suggested. “We expect to see big changes here in Santa Fe now that the railroad is coming.”

“Santa Fe is only part of it,” Waldron explained. “It is very complicated. While service is certainly important, the success of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe is ultimately dependant upon our continuing to build, quickly and efficiently, across New Mexico and Arizona to the Pacific shore in California. The road must have a transcontinental line linking Chicago with the Pacific . . . and to do so
before . . .
and
instead of . . .
the Denver & Rio Grande.”

“Why is that a
must
, Mr. Waldron?” Nicolette asked.

“Because this is what the shareholders expect,” he said. “This is the basis on which the financiers who
do
pay for the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe have put up substantial sums.”

“Will there be a railroad war in New Mexico, as we have seen in Colorado?” she asked.

“It is my job to make sure that this does not happen,” Waldron said, his brow furrowing. “But if it does come, it may be fought here, but it will
not
be won or lost in New
Mexico
, but in New
York
.”