Ghost Warrior

by Jory Sherman

“You still going back to the hills, Zak?” Walsh asked. “There’s only three of us and that’s dangerous country over there.”

  “Three will be enough,” Zak said. Then he added, “I hope.”

  “May I ask what your intentions are?” Walsh said.

  “I’m going to try and head off Captain Vickers and his men before they ride right into a trap,” Zak said.

  “What trap?”

  The sound of the galloping horses faded away in the evening air. Spools of dust fanned out and turned to a fine scrim that looked like a golden mist in the sunlight.

  Zak didn’t answer right away. He rode over to Sergeant Bullard and took the cigarette out of his hand, then gave it back to him.

  “Piedmont?” Zak said.

  “Yes, sir. Fine smokes. Want one?”

  “No. Where do you buy those? On the post?”

  Bullard laughed.

  “No, sir. I get those at Biederman’s Saloon and General Store. Only place in Santa Fe you can buy ’em.”

  “You’ll have to take me there, one of these days,” Zak said.

  “Be glad to, sir.”

  “No more ‘sirs,’ Sergeant. Just call me Zak. As far as you’re concerned, unless I give you a military order, I’m a civilian.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean…”

  “Good enough,” Zak said, then turned to Walsh. “What was your question, Harvey?”

  “You mentioned a trap. What trap?”

  “I don’t know,” Zak said. “How are you and Bullard fixed for provisions?”

  “We’re just about out of hardtack and jerky. We were heading back to the Presidio when we caught up with you.”

  “We might have to live off the land for a few days. You up to it?”

  “I don’t know. You mean rabbits and squirrels?”

  “Maybe lizards and rattlesnakes.”

  Walsh’s face drained of color and he swallowed another gulp of New Mexican air.

  Bullard suppressed a chuckle.

  “Let’s get to it,” Zak said, turning his horse. The two soldiers flanked him and they rode back toward the river and the ford where Zak had crossed.

  Zak held the flat of his hand up to the western horizon again. One finger.

  Fifteen minutes of daylight left.

  But he knew the trail, and the moon would be almost full. He’d find Vickers if he could, if not that night, then early in the morning.

  He hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

  Chapter 6

  The setting sun gilded the far clouds to a burnished sheen, set the skies aglow with soft fire, painted the river a metallic array of colors that looked like hammered silver, gold, and magenta. Blue-winged teal flew upriver on whistling wings and turned to shadow in the gathering dusk. By the time Zak and the two troopers reached the river, the clouds were ashes in the sky and frogs bellowed and grunted along the banks like grumpy old men standing in a grub line.

  Zak led the way, traversing the ford by dead reckoning as the sky turned dark as pitch and Venus rose high and shining in the paling afterglow of sunset. The stars emerged on a black velvet tapestry while the ground ahead of them turned into a tar pit with no definition, and all landmarks receded into mysteries, of strange shapes carved out of ebony or black coal.

  The going was slow—treacherous—over rough ground. Zak deliberately kept Nox to a slow walk and the horse was not averse to this, for his eyesight was no better than the humans’ in such a black morass. Zak used the stars to guide him, in particular the pole star of the Big Dipper, but he also was steering Nox by dead reckoning. He had fixed on a point where he had abandoned the ten sheep while it was still light and knew they would not drift far. He listened for the first calls of coyotes or wolves, because he knew these predators would be heading for the same destination. He kept on, waiting for the first complaint from Lieutenant Walsh, which he knew would come.

  “Begging your pardon, Zak,” Walsh said, after an hour of riding blind under Zak’s leadership, “but how do you expect to locate Captain Vickers in the dark? I can’t make out any trails or roads, nor do I have any idea where we are.”

  “My guess is,” Zak said, “that Captain Vickers will encounter the same difficulty. I believe he left his observation post to find some stray sheep I left up there. He will probably want to check ear brands and find out which ranch they were stolen from. I gather he has a brand book with him.”

  “He does,” Walsh said. “He has a little book with some cow and sheep brands, who they’re registered to, and a map of ranches and farms all up and down the Rio Grande. But, how in hell is he going to find anything out here? The mountains make it so black you can’t find your face with both hands.”

  “Right. So, I have another guess that I hope pans out.”

  “And what is that, pray tell?”

  “Captain Vickers, whether he finds the sheep or not, will make another camp, somewhere closer to where we are now.”

  “Yes?”

  “He will most likely build a fire and post pickets. He’ll boil some coffee, maybe make some bannock or fry some meat for supper.”

  “What makes you think that?” Walsh asked.

  “When a man is not used to the wilderness, he builds a fire at night. There will be wolves and coyotes slinking around, especially if he camps near those sheep.”

  “Are you saying Captain Vickers is afraid of the dark?”

  “Maybe not afraid of the dark, Harvey, but maybe a little uncomfortable in it. He’s probably civilized and is used to oil lamps and four walls. Out here, he has only darkness and the stars.”

  Walsh was silent for a few minutes. The only sounds were the ring of iron horseshoes on stone and the scuff of hooves on gravelly soil.

  Zak heard a rustling sound from Bullard’s direction.

  “Don’t light a cigarette, Sergeant,” Zak said.

  “No? Why not, sir? I mean Zak.”

  “You might attract a Navajo brave, Bullard.”

  “Out here? Hell, what are they, owls?”

  “This is Navajo country, or was, and they can grow out of the ground,” Zak said.

  “Huh?”

  “A band of them attacked a sheep rancher yesterday. Killed a herder, and another man and his wife. Couple of sheepdogs, too.”

  “You think they’re still out here?” Walsh asked.

  “It might be good for you to think that they’re all around us.”

  “You’re trying to scare us, Zak,” Walsh said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Are you scared, Harvey?”

  The lieutenant did not answer right away. As if he was mulling the question over in his mind.

  “I’m somewhat apprehensive,” Walsh said.

  “Good. Stay that way. You’ll live longer, maybe.”

  “Christ,” Bullard cursed, and put away the pack of cigarettes.

  An hour later the moon began to rise through a dove-gray cloudbank. Its feeble light cast a pewter haze over the broken land, making the going even more difficult. Rocks and plants twisted into grotesque shapes, seemed to shift position from one glance to another, as if the country were playing tricks on any who passed over it. Zak, who was used to such distortions at night, did not look directly at any minor landmarks, but gazed above or below them, and thus was able to guide the two men onward, where others might have stumbled and become discouraged.

  They traversed the plain and rode onto gradually rising land. The moon drifted ever higher and shed the cloud bank, leaving behind a clump of long dark clouds that resembled ashen loaves of bread.

  On the edge of the foothills, perhaps a mile or so away, Zak saw a flickering orange flame. It was barely visible, as if there was a fire in a pit or a depression. He reined up Nox and turned to Walsh, putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Zak pointed up the slope until Walsh nodded. Bullard nodded, too.

  Zak leaned close to Walsh.

  “If there are pickets, is there a password?”

  “Not that I know of,” Walsh said.
>
  “Then we must be careful. If that’s Vickers up there, we don’t want his men shooting at us.”

  “Right.”

  “Just follow me. Real slow and real quiet.”

  Both the lieutenant and the sergeant nodded.

  Zak did not ride straight to where the campfire was burning. Instead, he angled off to the left in order to make a wide circle and come up above the camp. It would take extra time, but if Vickers was camped there, he would have guards posted and they might be trigger happy.

  The moon sailed free of the clouds and cast a hazy light over the land. The shapes of rocks and cactus and ocotillo did not shift so much. The landscape was in sharp relief, in fact, glazed with a wash of light. In the distance, a coyote yapped, then others answered with high-pitched ribbons of melodic howls that ascended the scale. They were far away, up one of the canyons, but Zak knew they had scented or spotted game.

  They reached a point above the campfire and started riding toward it. Zak motioned for Walsh and Bullard to spread out and ride a little behind him. He forced Nox into a very slow walk, let the horse pick its way over the noisy rocks and find soft sand and gravel where he could step without clanking his iron horseshoes on hard stone.

  Then Zak held up his hand, signaling the soldiers to stop. They both reined up and Zak stared down at a bare spot on the ground right next to his horse. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a fresh moccasin track. He closed his eyes and opened them again. The track was still there, oddly distinct in the moonlight. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen and a slight shiver run up his spine.

  Something was not right. If that was a fresh track, then who had built the fire: friend or foe?

  He turned to Walsh and Bullard and signaled for them to stay put. He dismounted, handed Nox’s reins to Walsh. Again, he held a finger to his lips.

  Zak began to walk toward the firelight, stepping carefully, letting his forward foot settle on bare ground before putting his weight on it. He crept, hunched over, for some twenty yards, then froze. He saw a dark shape on the ground. A shape that was not a rock or a bush. Again, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  Now Zak heard voices, low-pitched, coming from the area of the campfire. He listened for several seconds and determined that he was listening to the English tongue. He let out a breath and continued toward the hulking shape. It took him only a moment to see what was—the body of a soldier. The soldier wasn’t asleep. He was dead.

  Zak felt for the pulse in the man’s neck. There was none. He put a hand on his back and it came away sticky with blood. He turned the soldier over and saw the deep slash in his throat. He ran his hands all over the body. There was no pistol, no ammunition case. No rifle. Whoever had killed the soldier had stripped him clean of weapons and ammunition. Even his campaign hat was missing, along with his yellow scarf.

  Zak stood up.

  He walked toward the fire, still in a crouch. When he got close enough to hear the conversations, he stood up. He counted four men, all soldiers, sitting around the fire, smoking and talking.

  “Hello, the campfire,” Zak called, loud enough for all the soldiers there to hear him.

  The soldiers stiffened and moved. One grabbed up a rifle, another drew his pistol. They all stared into the darkness, their eyes blinded by the bright firelight.

  “Who—Who goes there?” called the man with the rifle.

  “Lieutenant Walsh and Sergeant Bullard,” Zak said.

  “Show yourselves.”

  Zak turned and whistled, beckoned to Walsh and Bullard to ride to him.

  “We’re coming,” Zak said. “Just hold on.”

  “I don’t recognize that voice,” one of the men said.

  “Me, neither,” said another.

  “Mister, you better walk up here, where’s we can see you,” the man with the rifle said.

  “Just keep your pants on,” Zak said. “Hear the horses? That’s Walsh and Bullard.”

  “I hear ’em,” said one.

  Zak didn’t see any officer in the group of men. They were all plainly visible. Easy targets. The fire had been built next to a large, flat rock that jutted from the ground. The rock reflected the heat onto a sizeable area, where bedrolls lay spread out for the night.

  Walsh and Bullard rode up. Zak took Nox’s reins from Walsh and signaled for him and Bullard to ride up to the camp. He followed, leading Nox, walking with a long stride until he was on the edge of the firelight.

  “Lieutenant. What you doin’ here this time of night?” a corporal asked.

  “Where’s Captain Vickers?” Walsh asked.

  “Why, he and Sarge drove some sheep up the ways to a ranch. He found the brand. Wanted to question the owner. He said he’d be back soon’s he delivered them sheep.”

  Zak stood there, just outside the edge of the firelight. “Corporal, how many men did you have on picket?”

  The corporal turned toward him, shading his eyes to block out the light. “I can’t see you, mister. Who you be?”

  “Never mind that,” Zak said. “Answer my question.”

  “Why, Private Kelso’s over on our left flank and y’all should have seen Private Deming over yonder where y’all come from.”

  “Deming’s dead,” Zak said. “One of you better check on Kelso.”

  “Dead?” the corporal said.

  “That’s right. His throat’s cut and he got a knife in his back. He was stripped clean of his rifle, pistol, and cartridges. If he carried a knife, that’s gone, too.”

  “Shit,” the corporal, named Fender, said. “Ol’ Willie’s dead?”

  “Dead as you’re going to be, Corporal,” Zak said, “unless you put out that fire.”

  Corporal Fender looked up at Walsh. “Sir?” he said.

  “Do what he says, Fender,” Walsh said. “Jacobs, you check on Kelso. On the double.”

  A private picked up his rifle and ran off into the darkness. Fender and another man, Private Lewis Carlisle, started kicking dirt on the fire. The fire went out and the darkness surged over the camp, drowning all the men in shadow.

  Zak walked up behind the flat rock and tied Nox to a bush. The other horses were further away, hobbled some fifty yards from the camp.

  They all heard a curse coming from Private Leo Jacobs.

  “Private Kelso’s dead,” he called, in a disembodied voice that didn’t seem real to the men assembled there.

  The silence welled up around them all as the last of the fire flickered out, leaving only the smell of wood smoke and death in the air.

  Chapter 7

  Private Jacobs stumbled back into camp, out of breath.

  “His throat was cut plumb to his backbone,” he blurted out. “Poor Kelso. He never had a chance. Stabbed in the back, too.”

  “They take his weapons?” Zak asked.

  “Yes, sir, they sure did. Even his kerchief was gone.”

  “Men, I suggest you all pick up your rifles, cock them, and just start listening,” Zak said. “Lieutenant, you and Sergeant Bullard put your horses where mine is, but don’t unsaddle them.”

  “What’re we lookin’ for?” Jacobs asked.

  “Maybe nothing,” Zak said. “Or maybe an Indian you’ll never see.”

  “Huh?” Jacobs said.

  “He means,” Bullard said, “that they’s Navajos skulkin’ about and they might sneak up on you like they did Deming and Kelso.”

  “Shit,” Jacobs said, and they could all detect the fear in his voice.

  The soldiers all sat down in a semicircle. Zak stayed at the center, his back to all the men. He had a commanding view of the terrain below the camp as well as to both north and south. Under the glint of the moon, the Rio Grande was a silvery metal band that undulated in and out of shadow. He wanted to be the one to spot Captain Vickers when he and his sergeant returned. Since the two were on horseback, he knew they would come back sometime during the night.

  “Did Captain Vickers know who owned those sheep?” Za
k asked Corporal Fender.

  “He read the markings in their ears: a D and a cross. He looked up the brand and then found the ranch on his map.”

  “Vickers have a compass with him?” Zak asked the corporal.

  “Yes, sir, he sure did. He marked where we was on his map and said he’d be back sometime later.”

  “He tell you how far you were from that sheep ranch?”

  “No, sir, he didn’t.”

  It was quiet for a while, and then Zak heard the corporal whisper to Walsh.

  “Who is that man, sir? He ain’t army.”

  Zak could not hear Walsh’s answer, but it seemed to satisfy Fender, because he shut up after that.

  One of the privates spoke up after they all had been standing watch for more than an hour.

  “If they’s Injuns out there, how come they don’t try and steal our horses?”

  “That’s a good question,” Walsh said. “You got an answer, Zak?”

  “I think those Navajos are trying to goad the army into going after them,” Zak said.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Walsh said.

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?” Zak said.

  He had been thinking about just that very question for a long while. Why did the Navajos kill those two soldiers and none of the others? Narbona had enough men to shoot every one of them while they sat by the fire. The soldiers were easy targets. Instead, he or his braves had sneaked up on the two guards, cut their throats, and taken their weapons and ammunition. If he was just trying to get arms, he could have had four more rifles and as many pistols.

  No, it didn’t make sense, unless Narbona wanted to draw the army out, make soldiers take to the field and come after him. And, no doubt, the Navajo had a plan to wipe out an entire company. But why? What would he gain by such tactics? He’d bring more soldiers down on him, seasoned men who, like Kit Carson, would hunt them down and either kill or capture every one of them.

  No, there had to be a deeper reason for Narbona’s actions. And why were two white men involved? They might be the key to why Narbona was attacking ranchers yet not stealing much. They might be the go-betweens for someone else, someone who wanted the army either to look bad or to fail in its pursuit of Navajo raiders.