Ghost Warrior

by Jory Sherman

  Each question Zak asked himself dredged up more questions.

  And no answer to any of them.

  It began to turn cold, and Zak could hear the men shivering, their teeth chattering. The horses whickered and pawed the ground with their front hooves. A pack of coyotes started singing; the direction of the chorus shifted and faded, then died out. Zak couldn’t see his breath yet, but he knew he would before morning.

  Another hour went by and the silence was broken only by men clearing their throats, moving their feet to induce circulation in their legs. Zak put his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. If he had to draw his pistol he didn’t want to grab the butt with a bunch of chilled bananas.

  The moon sailed high in the sky, an alabaster globe that shed its light over a land of desolation and emptiness, rocks and plants all looking like the huddled figures of Navajo warriors just waiting to pounce.

  “Where in hell is Cap’n Vickers?” one of the soldiers said.

  “Shut up,” whispered Walsh.

  “Hell, sir, they ain’t nobody out here but us,” Corporal Fender said.

  “I told you to shut up, Corporal.” Zak could hear the irritation in Walsh’s voice. But there was frustration, too.

  Then he heard the faintest far-off sound. A scrape, a muffled clank of a horseshoe against a rock.

  “Sergeant Bullard,” Zak said. “You can light a cigarette now. Don’t shield the flame. Anybody else who wants a smoke can light up.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bullard replied. A moment later there was the scratch of a match head on a rock, and a small flame flared in the darkness.

  A couple of the other men lit up.

  “What’s going on, Zak?” Walsh asked.

  “I think Vickers is looking for his camp.”

  “Cap’n Vickers?” Mead said. “Where?”

  “Just hold your horses, Corporal,” Walsh said, as all the matches fluttered out.

  The men shuffled around, each trying to locate Captain Vickers to the north. Even with the moonlight glaring down on them, none could see anything.

  Zak heard the scuff of a hoof now and then, and he had a general idea where Vickers and his sergeant were. They were moving slowly. A few minutes later he heard muffled voices and saw the dim shapes of two horses.

  “They must have found the dead trooper,” Zak said.

  “I see ’em,” Private Carlisle said.

  “Me, too,” Jacobs said.

  “We all see ’em, boys,” Bullard said, and then the men stopped talking as they stared off in the distance.

  “Light another match, Bullard,” Zak said.

  “Looks like they’re loading up Kelso,” Walsh said.

  Several minutes later Captain Vickers rode up, followed by Sergeant Renaldo Dominguez.

  “Go help Sergeant Dominguez, Mitch,” Bullard said to Corporal Fender. “Leave your rifle here.”

  Jeff Vickers was a short, wiry man with a cavalry moustache, neatly trimmed sideburns, square shoulders, and a ramrod for a backbone. Spit and polish, all the way, Zak thought. He sat there as the captain dismounted, looked at all the men.

  “Who’re you?” he said to Zak.

  “Captain,” Walsh broke in, “that’s Zak Cody.”

  “What the hell’s a civilian doing up here? Corporal Davis, take my horse. And what are you doing here, Harv?”

  “Didn’t you get my last message, sir?” Walsh said.

  “No, I sure as hell didn’t. Now, somebody better answer my question about this civilian and tell me why we had to stumble up here in the dark. I told you, Mead, to keep that fire going. And who the hell killed Kelso?”

  Zak stood up.

  “You know, Captain,” he said, “you’re not going to learn much by asking so many questions all at once.”

  “Stand down, mister,” Vickers said. “When I want some of your mouth, I’ll ask for it. I’m in charge here and as far as I’m concerned, you’re as out of place as a turd in a punchbowl.”

  “Now, hold on, Captain,” Walsh said, stepping up close to Vickers. “Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

  “Lieutenant, you’re just on the edge of being insubordinate. I want some answers here, and I want ’em real quick.”

  Zak towered over Vickers as he took another step, which put him toe to toe with the captain.

  “Captain, I think I can answer all your questions,” Zak said. “And I have every right to be here, so back off.”

  “Why you…” Vickers drew a gauntlet from his belt and raised his hand as if to strike Zak. Walsh lashed out his arm and grabbed the captain’s wrist.

  “I wouldn’t do that, sir, if I were you.”

  “Walsh, you’re—” Zak snatched the glove from Vickers’ hand and slapped the captain hard across the mouth with it. Vickers’ eyes went wide and his head snapped back, more in surprise than from the blow.

  Walsh gasped.

  Sergeant Dominguez and Mitch Fender came up. The body of Private Kelso was draped over the saddle on the sergeant’s horse.

  “Lieutenant,” Zak said, “tell the captain about General Crook and President Grant.” There was urgency in his voice.

  Zak tucked Vickers’ gauntlet back in his belt as Walsh leaned close to the captain and whispered into his ear.

  “Is this true, Cody?” Vickers said when Walsh was finished talking to him.

  “Is what true, Vickers?”

  “That you’re in the—”

  “Vickers, whatever Harvey told you about me, keep it to yourself.”

  “I want to know if it’s true.”

  Zak blew air out through his nostrils. Everyone there, except Vickers, knew that Zak was running out of patience.

  “You can assume what Harvey told you is true, Captain,” Zak said. “Now, you take a little walk with me and I’ll answer all your questions. Bullard, send someone to bring in Deming. The captain might as well know the worst, right off.”

  “I’ll go get Paul,” Jacobs said. “Lew, you can help me. I know right where he is.” Carlisle and Jacobs set their rifles down on the ground and stole off into the darkness. Zak took Vickers by the arm and led him off away from the other men. Bullard helped Fender lift Kelso’s body off the horse. They did it gently, and laid the dead soldier out a couple of feet from the flat rock.

  “Are you in the army, or aren’t you, Cody?” Vickers said when they were out of earshot of the others.

  “Still asking questions, are you, Vickers?”

  “I have a right to know. I’m in command here. This is an army operation.”

  “It’s an operation, all right,” Zak said. “And you’re lying on the table with a scalpel about to rip your belly open.”

  “See here, Cody—”

  “No, you see here, Vickers. If you say one more word about your rank and your authority, you’ll wonder if I’m the rug.”

  “The rug?”

  “The rug that’s going to be pulled out from under you, dumping you on your pompous little ass.”

  “Sir, I….”

  Zak didn’t lift a hand. He stood there glaring at Vickers, blowing air out of his nostrils like a bull when it’s about to charge and gore a man to death with both horns.

  Zak let Vickers’ anger subside. “Are you listening, Vickers?” Zak said. “Don’t open your mouth. Just nod or shake your head. You’re in church now, mister. And I’m the preacher.”

  Vickers nodded, but he couldn’t help himself. He asked the question.

  “Ch–Church?”

  “Yes, church,” Zak said. “My church. And I’m going to read you chapter and verse.”

  Vickers swallowed a hard lump of nothing in his throat and clamped his mouth shut. He looked, Zak thought, like a snapping turtle, complete with a face that was turning menopause green.

  Chapter 8

  It is during those post-midnight hours of the nocturnal cycle that the earth cools and gives up its scents along with its heat. There was the smell of burnt cedar and piñon from the campfire, t
he cloying fragrance of man-sweat and blood, the sandy scent of scorched earth and another that was almost indefinable, the aroma of fear mingled with the passing spoor of red men who made no sound, like the skulking wolf or the padding cougar up on the rimrock.

  “You West Point?” Zak asked Vickers, his voice pitched low but with a timbre that struck the eardrums and made a man listen with all his might.

  “VMI.”

  “Virginia Military Institute. William T. Sherman. Cumpy.”

  “Yes, he was one of my instructors before the war,” Vickers said.

  “Good man,” Zak said. “He knew how to stop a war in its tracks. That’s what I’m hoping to do.”

  “Stop a war?”

  “If I can.”

  “What war?”

  “The war that’s just over the horizon, a war that will bring back all the old hates, all the old enemies and soak this fair land with blood and bleach the bones of many a promising young man.”

  “You—You’re the one that the Mexican sheep rancher talked about, aren’t you?” There was an undertone of awe and sudden revelation in Vickers’ voice. “You’re the one who found those sheep that belonged to Delacruz.”

  “Did Gregorio tell you what happened to his brother and his sister-in-law, his dogs, and one of his herders?”

  “He did,” Vickers said. “He spoke in Spanish, which is a tongue I’m trying to master. He called you something like ‘horseman of the shadow.’ And now I’m remembering some stories I heard since I came out West. Stories I never really listened to real hard.”

  Vickers paused, his gaze searching Zak’s face, his lips quivering slightly as if trying to form words, as if, for once, he was trying to summon reason to frame a question. “Walsh said you work for Crook. And President Grant. Is that true?”

  “It is. And that must remain something unspoken between us.”

  “You saved Crook’s life, I heard.”

  “Stories have a way of growing larger with time and the telling of them.”

  “You—You’re the one. They call you the Shadow Rider. What Delacruz was trying to tell me. The horseman of the shadow, that’s who you are. Zak Cody.”

  “What’s in a name?” Zak said. “We have more important things to discuss, Vickers.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that. Sir.”

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Vickers. And I’m not going to pull rank on you. Unless you force me to. You lost two sentries tonight. If the Navajos had wanted to, they could have killed the other soldiers you left behind. With that fire, they made perfect targets.”

  “Yes, I know. Now. I can’t figure that out.”

  “Have you ever heard of a Navajo named Narbona?”

  “No, can’t say as I have.”

  “Well, no matter. That’s the leader of the bunch that stole those sheep from Gregorio Delacruz. And he made sure that Gregorio knew his name.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out,” Zak said.

  “Is there a point to this, then?”

  “Be patient, Vickers. I think Narbona was killed, or died, some years ago. The man who calls himself Narbona is too young to be the original.”

  “So, maybe his mother named him after the original Narbona.”

  Zak shook his head.

  “The Navajos never say the name of one who has died. They never rename their children after a dead person.”

  “But—”

  “But now we have another Narbona. The one who lived before gave Kearney and Kit Carson a great deal of trouble. He was revered by the entire Navajo nation. So now he’s alive again. Or his namesake is. He amounts to something bigger than what we might expect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that this Narbona is a kind of ghost warrior, a man risen from the dead. I think this one is bent on reclaiming all the Navajo lands. And I think he has a plan to do just that.”

  Vickers was silent for a change. Zak could see that wheels and gears were turning in the man’s mind. He hoped the impact of his statement, his assessment of Narbona, was sinking in deeply. He wanted Vickers to comprehend the gravity of the situation. He knew he was going to need an ally in this shadowy prelude to what might become a full-blown war. New Mexico had seen its share of troubles with the Navajo, and nobody in Washington or the territory wanted to see a return to those blood-soaked days when the Navajos raided, pillaged, and murdered many a settler.

  Finally, Vickers broke his silence.

  “I’ve got to warn Colonel Loomis. He’ll want to go after this Narbona, nip his plan in the bud.”

  “I think that’s exactly what Narbona hopes you will do, Vickers.”

  “Huh?”

  “Can’t you see it yet?” Zak asked.

  “See what?”

  “Narbona told Gregorio to tell the soldiers about what he did to his family and one of his sheepherders. Narbona wants the army to take to the field and come after him.”

  “Why?”

  “So he can lead them into the Jemez and destroy the entire force stationed at the Presidio.”

  “Hell, Cody, Colonel Loomis would bring field artillery and blow him to kingdom come.”

  “Loomis would never get a howitzer anywhere near Narbona. Not in that country.”

  “Well, there has to be a way. Loomis is more than competent. He’s a fighter.”

  “Right now, Vickers, I don’t want Colonel Loomis to know about any of this.”

  “Sir, I’m bound to report all this to my commanding officer.”

  Zak sucked in a breath. They could hear the men talking in low tones. Some were grumbling about the late hour and the lack of sleep. Others were mourning the deaths of the two sentries, Kelso and Deming.

  “Vickers, I ought to shoot you here where you now stand,” Zak said.

  “What did you say?” Vickers had his hackles up, Zak knew.

  “You heard me, Vickers. I’m asking you to hold off on that report for a while. There are some things I want to check. I want to find out more about Narbona, track him, find out how much strength he has. That will take time and patience. You’ve heard of patience, haven’t you?”

  “Sir, I think I’ve had quite enough of your slanderous and demeaning remarks.”

  “Then, listen to me real careful, Vickers. If you report to Loomis what has happened this day and what I’ve told you about Narbona, you’ll be responsible for the deaths of many men. Can you understand that?”

  “I believe in the United States Army, not in some renegade redskin with a dead man’s name.”

  “I think it’s a lot more than that, Vickers. Narbona probably has a sufficient number of men who know the country, who can hide in plain sight, and who can ambush any soldiers sent against him and defeat them. I also know that Narbona is getting help from people in Santa Fe. White men.”

  “Do you have any proof of that?”

  “Not yet. That’s why I need some time.”

  “I can’t sit on this information forever, you know.”

  A small cloud passed under the moon and a brief shadow blotted out Vickers’ face, but Zak knew the captain was right on that score.

  “I need one man to go with me in the morning. One of your men, Vickers. I need someone who can live off the land, who can endure heat and hunger and thirst. Any suggestions?”

  “You want me to volunteer?”

  The cloud passed on and there was a pasty sheen to Vickers’ face.

  “No, you need to command and lead your men while I’m gone. Do not go back to Santa Fe until I return. Can you do that?”

  “We’re low on provisions ourselves.”

  “Don’t try my patience too much, Vickers.”

  “Yes, I can do that. The only man I know who might be of help to you is Sergeant Bullard.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He has a good record. He’s fought Indians before. He’s tough as an army boot and loyal as a bird dog.”

&n
bsp; “I’ll take Bullard with me, then.”

  “How long do you expect to be gone?”

  “Two days. Maybe three.”

  “Three days is a long time.”

  “Not when you weigh it against a war that could last years.”

  “I wish I could honor your prediction with credence,” Vickers said.

  “I’ll put it to you this way, Captain. If I’m not back on the third day, you can ride to Santa Fe and tell Colonel Loomis anything you want. You can give him your report and your opinion and tell him that Zak Cody is a bag of wind. Fair enough?”

  Vickers looked down at his feet. He dug a small furrow in the dirt with the toe of his boot, then looked up at Zak.

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  Zak smiled.

  “If you run out of meat, Vickers,” he said, “you can buy a sheep or two from Gregorio.”

  “I—I…” Vickers was at a loss for words.

  “I’ll pay for the vittles,” Zak said. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out several folded bills. He slapped them into Vickers’ hand, turned, and walked back to where the soldiers were starting to lie down on their bedrolls.

  Vickers stood there, shaking his head. He looked down at the bills in his hand and then tucked them into his pocket.

  “What manner of man is this?” he whispered to himself.

  Chapter 9

  The seam along the eastern horizon parted, and gray light spilled through and spread across the sky. Zak and Sergeant Randy Bullard were already up, pouring hot coffee down their throats. By the time the sky was aflame with the dawn, the two were riding up the small canyon, their rifle butts resting on their pommels, the barrels pointing straight up like iron stakes. Zak pointed to the tracks from the day before, which were still evident, although filled with sand and grit.

  The two men did not speak. Zak had briefed Bullard the night before and Randy seemed eager to follow Zak into the wilderness. They both carried full canteens and enough grub to last three days, if they didn’t eat much.