And then he saw Barlow, sitting on his heels not more than a dozen feet away, on the other side of the campfire. Coughlin's reaction was violent. He threw aside his blankets, groped for the .50 caliber rifle that usually lay right beside him. The rifle was gone. He grabbed for the pistol in the gun belt that was rolled up under his saddle, which had served as his pillow the night before. The pistol was still there—his fingers brushed it—but he didn't draw the gun, because in that instant he realized that Barlow was holding a Navy Colt, aimed, almost nonchalantly, in his general direction. Gathering his wits about him, Coughlin jumped to a few conclusions. Barlow had to have ridden through the night to catch up with him and his associates. The only reason he would do that, as far as Coughlin could figure, was to make trouble. And the Navy Colt seemed to vouch for that.
"What the hell is this about?" asked Coughlin.
"Sit up slow," advised Barlow. "Don't make any sudden moves."
"Why?" sneered the scalphunter. "You gonna plug me with that smoke maker of yours?"
"I might. Or maybe my friend will."
Coughlin looked around. The night shadows were still heavy on the ground in the sandy draw where he and Skaggs and the Mexican had made camp. He didn't see anyone else.
"Your friend?"
"That's right. He carries a rifle like this one." Barlow nodded at Coughlin's .50 caliber leadslinger, which now lay at his feet. "And he's a damned good shot. In fact, he's a better shot at long range than he is close up. With me, it's just the reverse."
"I think you're bluffing," said Coughlin. "I think you come all by yourself. Question is, why? I'm thinkin' it's on account of your wife being an Apache. Guess that makes you an Apache lover. And you know what's in that pouch?"
Barlow didn't look at the scalp pouch, hanging by its strap from the pommel of Coughlin's saddle. "Yeah, I know what's in there," he said coldly. "You murdered four Coyoteros. A whole family. And I suspect you'll hang for it too."
"Hang?" Coughlin snorted. "Hang for killin' Apache vermin? It'll be a cold day in hell."
"Well, we'll see. I'm taking you into Fort Union, turning you over to the army. I don't think they'll take kindly to what you've done."
"You're not taking me anywhere," snarled Coughlin.
"Don't try anything," warned Barlow, tightening his grip on the Navy Colt.
"Go to hell."
The scalphunter reached for the pistol under his saddle, trying to roll away from Barlow at the same time. The Navy Colt boomed once, and Coughlin felt a searing pain in his arm. The gunshot roused Skaggs and the Mexican—the former coming up out of his blankets like a scalded cat. Skaggs barely got to his feet before another shot rang out. He didn't hear this one, because a .50 caliber slug had already punched a hole in his forehead and blown away the back of his skull in a fine pink mist. Dead on his feet, his corpse pitched forward and landed facedown in the fire. Barlow was on his feet too, swinging the Navy Colt in the direction of the Mexican, who was reaching for his own weapons. The Mexican saw that Barlow had the drop on him, and froze. Keeping the Mexican covered, Barlow stepped around the fire and kicked the pistol out of Coughlin's hand. Coughlin was writhing, gripping his bullet-shattered shoulder with the other hand.
"You son of a bitch," he snarled.
Barlow let loose a shrill whistle.
"You best kill me now, you bastard," rasped Coughlin, " 'cause I'm gonna kill you. Then I'm gonna kill that Apache squaw of yours, and take her scalp. But not before I—"
Barlow bent down and planted the Navy Colt's barrel right between Coughlin's eyes. "You want to die here and now? That's fine by me. You just keep talking."
Coughlin saw the look in Barlow's eyes—and shut up.
"Holy Mother of God," murmured the Mexican.
Coughlin looked at him, then followed his gaze—and Barlow had the satisfaction of seeing all the color drain from the scalphunter's face as he spotted the Coyotero Apaches, mounted on their ponies, encircling the camp. Short Britches was with them. The old scout dismounted, joined Barlow, and gazed dispassionately at his handiwork—the corpse that lay half in the fire. The stench of burned flesh made Barlow's stomach roll. Short Britches didn't even seem to notice. He went around the fire and grabbed Skaggs by the ankles and pulled him out of the fire. Then he rolled the body over. Skaggs' hair was still on fire. Indifferent to the grotesque condition of the corpse, Short Britches checked the dead man's pockets. He looked quite pleased as he fished a half twist of tobacco out of a pocket. He pulled a piece off with his teeth and, satisfied, stood up. Coughlin watched all this with mounting horror, and by the end of it, he was staring at Short Britches as though he were staring at the devil himself. He'd seen atrocities during the war—plenty of examples of man's capacity for barbarous conduct. But he'd never seen anything quite as cold-blooded. Of course, he didn't consider his own cruel and grisly conduct as a scalphunter in the same category: Apaches, after all, were more like animals than humans, and he didn't see much difference in taking an Apache scalp and cutting off a wolf's ears for bounty.
And on the subject of Apaches—Coughlin looked warily at the grim faces of the bronchos.
"They're Coyoteros," said Barlow. "They've come to avenge the deaths of four of their own. They want to kill you. I'll let you make the choice. I either haul you to Fort Union, or I'll leave you in their care."
Coughlin realized then that he was done for. But he was a survivor, and even if, as he deemed likely, he would die at the hands of the United States Army just as surely as he would die at the hands of these Coyoteros, at least he would live a few days, weeks, and maybe even months longer if his fate rested in the hands of the yellow-legs. It would rankle to be killed by Yankee soldiers, but that was preferable to being put to death by Apaches. He knew what Apaches could do to an enemy. He'd heard stories of the way they liked to torture their captives. The longer an enemy survived their cruel attentions, the more honor the Apaches derived from his death. Coughlin thought dangling from the end of a Yankee rope was better than being skinned alive or being staked out over an anthill, or having his private parts . . . He shuddered involuntarily.
"Take me to Fort Union then," he said bleakly.
Barlow turned to the Apaches. He half expected some of the young Coyotero bronchos to fall on the scalphunters and kill them on the spot. It all depended on Valerio, and the degree of respect the Apache warriors had for him. By the looks on some of the bronchos' faces, they wanted to avenge the Coyotero dead here and now. Valerio, as usual, was unreadable.
"I will take them to Fort Union," he told the jefe, speaking in the Apache tongue, "and turn them over to the army. You have my word on it."
Valerio pointed to the scalp pouch. "And those—we will have them."
"I need to keep them for a while. As evidence to prove the accusations I'll make against these men."
Valerio nodded. "We will ride with you to the fort."
Barlow didn't want their company, but saw the futility of arguing the point. He and Short Britches bound Coughlin and the Mexican—and then Barlow wrapped Coughlin's shoulder with a rough dressing to stem the bleeding. As he and Short Britches got their prisoners mounted, the old scout took the opportunity to make an observation.
"Some people won't be happy to see you riding with Apache bronchos."
The thought had already occurred to Barlow. Like his predecessor, John Ward, he had a contract to provide the United States Army, which maintained several posts in the area, with beef. Without that contract, the ranch would not long survive as a going concern. He was already faced with a certain amount of animosity from his own kind because he lived under the same roof with an Apache woman. His father, long a friend of the Cherokees, had been branded an Indian lover when he'd spoken out against the removal of that tribe from its Georgia homeland to the Indian Territory, and now Barlow was the object of the same sort of contempt. Barlow's view was that there wasn't much he could do about it. He had fallen in love with an Apache maiden. He could no mor
e have prevented that than he could prevent Valerio and the Coyotero bronchos from accompanying him to Fort Union. He didn't blame them—they wanted to make certain that the scalphunters would be punished for their crimes. Only then would they go home. Only then would another war be averted.
They left the body of Skaggs to the desert scavengers, and were on their way south by west as the sun finally climbed above the edge of the world. Barlow led the way, with the prisoners behind him, guarded by the ever watchful Short Britches, and the Coyoteros trailed along behind.
Chapter 5
Major Geoffrey Cronin, U.S. Army, was sitting behind his desk in the Fort Union headquarters, brooding as he stared at the territorial map that was hanging on the wall. He remembered those grand old days when, as one of the most dashing cavalry officers in the Union Army, he'd studied other maps—those of countryside over which monumental battles against Confederate forces would be waged. The vast majority of his peers were grateful for the fact that the war was over. They were inclined to view war as something terrible. Cronin did not entirely share that view. He had graduated from West Point just months before the first battle at Manassas, but his marks had not been high enough to warrant a good posting. He'd been an indifferent student at the military academy, at least where book learning was concerned, excelling instead in horsemanship and swordsmanship—attributes not highly prized in the peacetime army. But when war broke out, Cronin had been given an opportunity to shine. And like fellow West Pointer George Armstrong Custer, he'd quickly earned for himself a reputation as a gallant, dashing cavalryman, courageous and daring in battle, beloved by the men who followed him. He rose swiftly through the ranks as his battle honors grew—Second Manassas, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg.
But then the conflict had ended and the War Department, as it had with Custer, decided that the best place for Cronin was the frontier. Cronin had thought so too. Now that the Southern rebellion had been crushed, the republic would once again look westward, expanding and growing in that direction as it fulfilled its manifest destiny, which meant potential conflict with the natives and more opportunities for a man like Geoffrey Cronin to shine. And so it had been with great expectations that he had accepted the posting as commander officer at Fort Union.
Now, though, after several months at Union, he felt differently about his prospects. The ''Apache problem" that people had been talking about back east didn't seem to be much of a problem, after all. The renegades were in hiding down in Mexico, and so far had not seen fit to launch raids into the United States. The peaceful Indians were residing on their reservations. Cronin's job was to keep the peace—to make sure the peaceful Apaches stayed on their reservations, and that they were left alone by whites. He felt more like a warden than a warrior. And he wasn't happy about it. Not happy at all. He'd been shuffled off into this dusty hellhole and promptly forgotten. At the age of twenty-nine, he faced the likelihood that his career was over, and he was seriously considering giving up his commission. There was a war going on south of the border. Conservatives in Mexico had negotiated with Napoléon III to create a Mexican empire, and Napoléon had persuaded an Austrian archduke named Ferdinand Maximilian to accept the crown. Maximilian and his wife, Carlota, had arrived in Mexico in 1864, only to find most of the population up in arms and supportive of Benito Juárez. Maximilian's reign depended almost entirely on French arms, and for a time, Napoléon III had sunk men and material into Maximilian's effort to hold on to his empire. Now, though, it seemed that Napoléon III had lost his enthusiasm for the endeavor, and Maximilian had issued a call for mercenaries to replace the French troops, who were being withdrawn gradually. Some veterans of the Civil War—both Union and Confederate—had answered that summons. Cronin was considering doing likewise, though he didn't particularly care whether Maximilian or Juárez ruled Mexico. But the emperor was offering more than glory—he had plenty of gold, which he had taken from the Mexican people, and was now offering to men who would fight for him. While he figured that Maximilian was doomed, Cronin thought it possible that he might be given the chance to participate in a battle or two, and take some of that gold off the emperor's hands, before the inevitable happened. Compared to rotting away in this outpost, the plan had a lot to recommend it.
He heard the tattoo of bootheels in the wide hallway beyond the door, then the rapping of knuckles on the door itself, just before the door creaked open on its hinges and Sergeant Yard poked his head into the room.
"Major?"
"What is it, Sergeant?"
"I think you better come see this, Major."
Cronin glanced out the window. Through the grimy panes of glass, he could see men running across the parade ground. There was some sort of commotion out there, and probably had been for a while, but he'd been wrapped up in his reverie about Mexico and hadn't noticed. Until now.
He stood up. "What is it, Yard?"
"Lookout reports a group of Indians coming in, sir."
"Apaches?"
"Most likely sir. Only . . . only there are some white men with 'em, sir."
"Not a war party, then," said Cronin, disappointed.
"I don't know, sir. I don't think so."
Annoyed, Cronin grabbed his hat and gauntlets off the corner of the desk and with long strides crossed the room. Brushing past the sergeant, he said, "Next time you knock on my door, Yard, try to know more than you did this time."
Yard watched the major stride down the long hallway, and since Cronin's back was to him, he indulged himself with a look of pure hatred. "Yes, sir," he said, and followed, making sure his face was devoid of emotion as he followed Cronin outside.
The sun was high in the sky, and its heat was like a hammer, but Cronin was impervious to heat, or any of the elements, for that matter. Physical discomfort was of little consequence to him. He threw a quick look around. Many of the men of the garrison were hastening toward the gate, and there was a congregation of blue uniforms on the east wall. He bent his steps in that direction, but there was no urgency in his stride; he assumed there was nothing to this alarm. The worst enemy of the troops at Fort Union these days was boredom, so any arrival, no matter how innocuous, might be greeted like the Second Coming. As he climbed up to the east wall, he noticed that Lieutenant Symonds, the officer of the day, was looking through field glasses. Cronin looked out across the desert plain and saw the group of riders; they were close enough now so that field glasses were superfluous—he could tell that most of the horsemen were riders, and by their garb, he took them for Apaches. But in front of the Indians were several white men. He couldn't tell for sure about the one wearing the battered stovepipe hat, though . . . .
Belatedly aware of the commanding officer's arrival, Symonds lowered the field glasses. "What are your orders, sir?"
"Well, Lieutenant," sighed Cronin, "what say we take a chance and open the gate? There are only about a dozen of them, so if they mean to do us harm we ought to be able to hold our own, don't you think?"
The men who heard this exchanged glances. They were well aware that Major Cronin had nothing but contempt—usually ill-concealed—for them. He spoke often of the brave men who had served with him in the war, and though he hadn't come right out and said it, he obviously thought the soldiers who were posted at Fort Union were of an inferior stripe. Like most officers from back east, Cronin no doubt believed that troops who served on the frontier were the flotsam and jetsam of the United States Army, the undesirables who were shuffled off into the middle of this godforsaken country and good riddance.
"Yes, sir," said Symonds, a chill in his voice. The major's contempt extended also to officers who had not had the good fortune to fight in the war too—and he fell into that category.
He called down to the sentries to open the gate. Cronin left the wall, and Symonds followed. The major placed himself in the middle of the gateway, as though (thought Symonds) he was a modern Hector on the bridge, perfectly capable of holding the breach against any and all comers, most of all a dozen wel
l-armed Apache bronchos.
The rider in the lead—a white man—turned to speak to his companions, who checked their horses, and then proceeded alone to approach the gate. He stopped his horse a few feet away from Cronin, and did not dismount.
"Who are you?" asked Cronin.
"The name's Barlow. Joshua Barlow. I'm here to see Major Trotter."
"Trotter has been reassigned. I'm in command here now. Major Geoffrey Cronin—at your service, Mr. Barlow." Cronin leaned his head a bit to one side so that he could see past the mounted man. "Who are your friends?"
"One of 'em's Valerio, chief of the Coyoteros."
Cronin raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? And to what do we owe the honor?"
"We're delivering some prisoners to you, Major." Barlow twisted in the saddle, made a motion, and the rider wearing the stovepipe hat escorted Coughlin and the Mexican closer, while the Coyoteros remained where they were, warily watching the soldiers arrayed on the wall above the gate.
"Prisoners? Whose prisoners?"
"Mine," said Barlow. "These two"—he gestured at Coughlin and the Mexican—"are scalphunters." He took the scalp pouch that was hanging from his saddle horn and let it drop into the dust at Cronin's feet. "And here's the evidence. A few days ago they murdered four Coyoteros on the reservation."
Cronin looked at the bloodstained pouch a moment, then lifted his gaze to Barlow. "Now I remember. Barlow. I've heard about you. What's your involvement in all this?"
"Just trying to . . . avoid more problems, Major."
Apache Shadow Page 3
