"Lieutenant Summerhayes," Barlow told her. "He and I served together."
"My pleasure, ma'am," said Summerhayes. "I've long wanted to meet the young lady for whom Joshua gave up the army."
"As I recall," said Barlow, curiosity getting the better of him, "there was a young lady in your life too, Charles."
"There was."
Something in the way he said it warned Barlow that this was a subject best left alone. At Fort Union, Summerhayes had spent much of his time pining for a woman he'd left back east. Barlow recalled that his parting words of advice to Charles had been to give up his commission so that he could go home and make the woman he loved his bride. Apparently, Summerhayes hadn't taken that advice.
"My men and horses need water," he said, changing the subject. "Mind if we use your well?"
"It's a spring, back behind the house," said Barlow. "Help yourself."
Summerhayes summoned a sergeant, gave instructions that the men should give their mounts some water and fill their canteens from the spring. Then he turned back to Barlow, and there was a grim look on his face.
"I had no idea the Coyoteros were on the warpath," he said. "Looks like it's all going to hell now. Beg your pardon, ma'am."
"What's happening?"
"I've been at Camp Grant for the past year. A couple months ago a band of Aravaipa settled down near us. They were friendly—as they always have been. Though nobody came right out and said so, I think all they wanted was protection. You know about the bounty Mexico is offering for Apache scalps?" Barlow nodded. "Living down near the border got too hot for them. Guess they thought they were safer." Summerhayes looked away, and his tone was bitter. "They were wrong. Three weeks ago some white men attacked the Aravaipa village. They killed men, women, and children. And they took a good many scalps. Five of the whites were killed. A few got away. We captured two of them. Those two talked. Said their leaders were a pair of professional scalphunters. One Mexican, one white man named Coughlin."
Barlow felt a chill run down his back. "This white scalphunter. What did he look like?"
"Big man, with a beard. Wore a Confederate shirt. At least that's how he was described to me." Summerhayes cocked his head to one side as he read Barlow's expression. "You know this man?"
"I'm afraid so."
He'd never known the scalphunter's name, but Barlow was certain that the man Summerhayes had described was the same one he'd captured and turned over to Cronin at Fort Union.
"Unfortunately, Coughlin and his Mexican friend got away clean," said Summerhayes, shaking his head. "You should have seen what they did to those Apaches, Joshua. I've never seen anything more horrible in my life."
"Wasn't your fault," said Barlow, sensing the guilt that burdened his friend. "There's nothing you could have done."
"How do you know Coughlin?"
Barlow had been dreading the question. "He and his associates killed four Coyoteros, then swung by here looking for fresh horses. Valerio and some of his men were hot on their trail. I took Coughlin and the Mexican into custody—the third scalphunter was killed—and turned them over to Major Cronin."
"Cronin!" Summerhayes was surprised. "Cronin had them? Then how . . . ?"
"I'd like to know how, myself," said Barlow. He had a pretty good idea, already. But he wasn't ready to give voice to his suspicions. Not until he knew more.
"I'm here on the major's orders," said Summerhayes. "Received a dispatch from Fort Union nine days ago, ordering me to proceed there at once, and on the way to swing by here and bring you along."
"What does Cronin want with me?"
"Not him. General Howard."
"Who?"
"General Oliver Howard. You've heard of him."
Barlow nodded. He knew a little about Howard—a man who had graduated from West Point several years before him, and who had fought with distinction during the war, serving as one of the better corps commanders in the Army of the Potomac.
"What's Howard doing out here?"
"He's in command of this district now."
Barlow wondered what the head of the military district could want with him. Had the issue of his unorthodox departure—some would call it desertion—from the United States Army come up again? He'd hoped that was all behind him now. Whatever Howard's reason for wanting to see him, Barlow had a hunch he wasn't going to like it.
"I know what you're thinking," said Summerhayes. "But you might as well come with me. General Howard is not a man to cross swords with. If you don't come along, he'll just send another detail—and the next time they'll probably have orders to bring you back in irons."
Barlow grimaced. He knew Summerhayes was right. Ignoring the general's summons was not an option.
"All right," he said. "I'll go. On one condition. You leave some of your men here to help my vaqueros in case those Coyoteros decide to come back for seconds."
"I can do that."
"And I sent a wagon out to bring in some wounded men. I won't leave until I find out how they're faring."
Summerhayes shrugged. "Suits me."
"Fine. Come on in. Get some coffee and some grub."
"Thanks. My men . . ."
"Your men will be fed," said Oulay. "Come in, Lieutenant."
She preceded them into the adobe. Summerhayes hung back a moment, taking a long look around, and when his gaze came to rest on Barlow, there was a wistful smile on his face.
"You've got a nice set up here, Joshua."
"I just hope I can hold on to it," said Barlow, and led the way inside.
Chapter 11
Oliver Otis Howard tried to start every day with a few minutes of Scripture reading—a habit he had learned from his mother, a sternly pious woman who had instilled in her son the importance of faith and morality in life. This was a lesson Howard had tried to put into practice in all of his endeavors. Educated at Bowdoin College, he'd seriously considered becoming a minister. But following his graduation from West Point, he'd served for several years at the military academy as a mathematics professor. Shortly before the outbreak of war, he'd been intent on leaving the army and devoting the rest of his life to the service of the Lord. His devotion to country, however, had forced him to postpone this move. He'd commanded troops at First Manassas, and then at Fair Oaks during the Peninsular Campaign—where a severe wound had resulted in the amputation of his right arm. Despite this, he was right back in the fray at Second Manassas and Fredericksburg. At Chancellorsville, his XI Corps was routed by Stonewall Jackson. At Gettysburg, his command was driven back, with heavy losses, at Cemetery Ridge. These reverses, however, could not detract from his obvious talents as a warrior and leader of men. In the last months of the war he was transferred to the West, where he commanded the Army of the Tennessee in the Atlanta campaign, and he became one of William Tecumseh Sherman's most trusted and reliable lieutenants during the March to the Sea.
Through four years of the horrors of war, Howard's faith had sustained him—and he expected the men under his command to be sustained by it as well; he insisted that his troops regularly attend prayer meetings. When the war was over, he seemed the best possible choice for a task that would require a man of unshakeable moral convictions—he was President Andrew Johnson's first choice to head the new Freedman's Bureau, which was supposed to assist the South's freed slaves. In hindsight, Howard wasn't sure he'd been the best man for the job; although he had fought with an evangelist's fervor and fearlessness to help the former slaves to survive in a new South that was every bit as hostile to them as the old, he sorely lacked the diplomatic skills necessary to deal with Southern whites. In short order he'd become one of the most despised representatives of Yankee Reconstruction. He had no respect for or mercy on slaveholders and ex-Confederates, and his outspoken advocacy of black suffrage and his support of the notion that land should be confiscated and redistributed among the freedmen made him few friends—and a whole host of enemies.
The federal government had shied away from the idea of lan
d redistribution, but a Constitutional amendment guaranteeing the rights of black men to vote had, finally, been approved by Congress. In Howard's opinion, though, he hadn't done enough. And so he had helped found an all-black college in the District of Columbia—and even though he knew that hubris was a sin, he was secretly quite proud of the fact that the institution had been named Howard University in his honor.
In spite of all the trouble he'd had with white Southerners, they had at least been Christians—even though, in his mind, they didn't always act in a Christian manner. Now the army had sent him to the frontier to deal with the Apaches, and many of his friends back east, God-fearing and decent people all, thought of the Apaches as barbaric heathens of the worst sort. Worth exterminating, but hardly worth saving. Howard wasn't so sure about that. His mother had believed that no human beings were so far gone that they couldn't be saved. Still, he had to remind himself that he was still a soldier, not a missionary; his job wasn't to save the souls of the Apaches, but rather to keep the peace in the territory. He'd been given monumentally difficult tasks before. He had a sense that this one would be the most difficult of all.
He sighed, and closed the book, and sat there for a moment, ramrod straight in a chair, looking out the window of the quarters that Major Cronin had given over to him. From this vantage point he could see the Fort Union parade ground. It was early, and in the gray light of dawn, he could see that the garrison was beginning to stir. Howard absently touched the empty right sleeve of his tunic. When he was troubled, he had the odd sensation of aching in an arm that he had lost years ago. He thought it possible that this sensation was God's way of reminding him that, though he'd faced much adversity in his life, his faith was strong enough to see him through.
Putting the Bible aside, Howard stood, blew out the candle that had provided him with the illumination he had needed for reading, and stepped through a door into a wide hallway. A single sentry snapped to attention.
"Send someone for Major Cronin," said Howard. "I want to see him as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldier went to the outer door of the headquarters building, opened it, and spoke to someone outside. Howard crossed the hall to the commandant's office.
A quarter of an hour later, when Cronin arrived, Howard was standing behind the desk, gazing up at the territorial map.
"Good morning, sir," said Cronin. "I trust you slept well."
"Yes." Howard was completely indifferent to creature comforts, and wasted no time on the subject. "Has this fellow Barlow arrived yet?"
"Yes, sir. He rode in with Lieutenant Summerhayes several hours ago."
There was something Howard detected in the major's voice—something he couldn't quite identify. But he felt confident that it signified strong feelings on Cronin's part about the civilian named Barlow.
"What do you think of him?" asked the general.
"I don't have an opinion, to be honest, General."
Howard smiled. When people told him they were being honest, it was a pretty safe bet that they were lying about something.
"But I can tell you what other people say about him," continued Cronin.
"That would be hearsay."
"Yes, sir. But out here rumors and reputations count for a lot."
"I see. The Orientals give as much credence to myth as they do to facts, and their civilizations are well advanced, while they consider us Yankees, who are loath to believe anything that we can't confirm with our own eyes, to be barbarians."
Cronin was perplexed; he had no idea what the general was trying to say—if anything.
"What do they say about him?" asked Howard, turning again to the map, which put his back to Cronin.
"That he's an Apache lover, sir. He's got an Apache woman, and that alone will make you plenty of enemies. Some say he deserted the army to warn Cochise of danger, and to be with this woman—who, by the way, is Cochise's daughter, I believe. I'm not prepared to say he's a deserter. My predecessor didn't seem to think so. He did say, however, that there was bad blood between Barlow and his predecessor, Colonel Lyman, who died in a campaign against the Apaches. On that campaign, Barlow served as chief of scouts and then was put in charge of a detachment that was assigned the task of preventing Cochise and his Chiricahuas from escaping across the border into Mexico. Barlow failed to accomplish that. After which he resigned his commission and took up raising cattle."
Howard was silent for a moment, and Cronin assumed he was pondering this information. Finally, the general said, "It doesn't really matter, at present, what the whites around here think of him. The important question is, what does Cochise think of him?"
"By all accounts, they are friends."
"If so, then he will serve my purposes nicely. Be good enough to bring him to see me at once, Major."
"Yes, sir." Cronin was about to leave when he thought of something and turned back. "General, I trust you'll see fit to confide in me about the purpose of your visit. In a situation such as this—one that is so potentially dangerous—it would help if I . . . if everyone was fully informed."
Howard faced the major, and a perfunctory smile moved the thick mahogany brown beard that covered the lower half of his face. "We know each other well, Major. We fought together on several battlefields. So I think you know that I keep my subordinates as informed as they need to be to carry out their duties."
"Yes, sir." Cronin left the office, simmering. Yes, he had served with Howard, and he remembered him well. Howard was a stickler in matters of protocol, but wasn't always orthodox when it came to methods. And there was always that air of superiority about him—the same air that Cronin associated with other Bible-thumpers. It was as though such people expected others to respect—and certainly not to question—them, since they were always in the right.
There had been more than a few generals in the Union Army who had frowned upon Cronin and his methods. Their disapproval went beyond the usual competition between the various arms—it wasn't just criticism that a cavalry officer might expect from an infantryman. He knew that some had questioned his apparent disregard for the lives of his men; they had pointed to the fact that his command suffered a very high casualty rate. A few had gone so far as to suggest that Geoffrey Cronin was quite willing to sacrifice his men if it meant more glory for him. That he often achieved spectacular success on the battlefield was probably the only thing that had saved him.
Cronin didn't know if General Howard had been one of his critics during the war. But he had a feeling their approach to the Apache problem would be very different. And that didn't bode well.
Neither did the presence of Joshua Barlow. As he trudged across the parade ground, Cronin fretted over what Barlow might say to the general about the scalphunters. He'd let Coughlin and the Mexican go—and they'd proceeded to do exactly what he'd hoped they would. The attack on the Aravaipa village was just the sort of thing that would get all the bands of the Apaches worked up and shouting for war. But the arrival of General Howard was a complication—a potentially dangerous one for him.
Chapter 12
He found Barlow with Lieutenant Summerhayes outside the mess hall; they were about to go inside and have breakfast. He told Barlow that Howard wanted to see him at once. Barlow reluctantly accompanied him back across the parade ground. They walked together in silence—until they'd reached the foot of the steps leading up to the porch of the headquarters building. There Cronin stopped, while Barlow continued on. The major grabbed his arm.
"I want to talk to you about those two scalphunters you brought in," said Cronin.
Barlow looked at the hand on his arm. "Let go."
Cronin let go. "I let them go."
"That explains how they showed up at the Aravaipa village," said Barlow dryly.
"There wasn't enough evidence to hold them."
"Evidence. What do you call the scalps they had on them?"
"Those scalps disappeared."
"That's convenient."
"I don't think I like your tone, mister."
"I don't think I like you, Major."
"If I were you, I'd be careful making any accusations."
Barlow met Cronin's hooded gaze with a steely one of his own for a moment. Then, without another word, he turned his back on the major, crossed the porch, and entered the headquarters building. Cronin followed him. An orderly ushered Barlow into the office where General Howard was waiting. As Cronin was crossing the threshold into the office, however, Howard told him to wait outside. With a grimace, Cronin complied. For a few moments he nervously paced the wide hallway. But when he became aware of the looks being given him by the orderly and the sentry at the door, he left the building.
"Good morning, Mr. Barlow," said Howard. "Please be seated. Would you like some coffee? I'll have the orderly bring you some."
"No, thanks." Barlow slacked in a chair facing the desk, behind which the general remained standing. "I just want to get this over with, General, so that I can go home."
"I hear you've had some trouble with Apaches."
Barlow nodded. "We were attacked. A couple of my vaqueros were killed, a couple more wounded."
"I'm sorry to hear that. We've had reports of outbreaks in various parts of the territory in recent weeks."
"I'm not surprised. News travels fast out here. And bad news travels faster. You'll have a war on your hands now, after the massacre of the Aravaipa."
"I hope not," said Howard solemnly. "I've seen more than enough of the suffering and strife that war can cause."
Barlow was silent for a moment, studying the general. Howard seemed sincere. All good soldiers knew the full value of peace.
"Well," said Barlow, "I think maybe they should have sent you out here sooner, General."
"Perhaps." Howard finally sat down behind the desk. "I'm told you're an Indian lover, Mr. Barlow. Is that true?"
"I've killed too many Apaches to qualify. If there's any difference between me and some others in these parts, it's that I see Apaches as humans. Some are better than others. That applies to all races."
Apache Shadow Page 7
