Ghost Warrior

by Jory Sherman

  Vickers looked at Loomis.

  “Oh, go on, Captain. Both of you, all three of you, get the hell out of here. Three days, Colonel Cody. Three days.”

  Loomis didn’t shout, but he wanted to. Now his hands did ball up into fists, and sweat streamed over his face like the squeezings from a sour lemon.

  Bullard saluted as Zak and Vickers left the room, their boots drumming on the thin hardwood floor.

  “Sergeant,” Loomis said. “Dismissed. Get a shave and take a bath before the stableman sweeps you out with the other horseshit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bullard said. He saluted and marched out of the room, leaving Colonel Loomis to ponder his own sanity and think fondly of a desk job back in Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 14

  The transformation of Captain Jeffrey Vickers from soldier to civilian took less than an hour. That hour must have seemed like a month to Vickers, who wound up with a set of ill-fitting clothes, a battered hat, and a converted Remington New Model Army .44 that replaced his army-issue sidearm. The sutler found him a horse without a U.S. brand on its hip, a six-year-old motheaten gelding with its ribs showing like barrel slats.

  Zak suppressed the urge to laugh as the two rode out of Fort Marcy and past the Presidio. Vickers was plainly uncomfortable, but he no longer looked like a soldier. Instead, he looked like a derelict from some hellhole of a prison. Zak had seen to that, forcing Vickers to stand still while he threw parade ground dirt on his hat, shirt, trousers, and boots to complete the image he was looking for. As for Zak himself, he had neither shaved nor bathed, and the dust on his own person was legitimate and equally unbecoming.

  “Just what is the purpose of us looking like a pair of outcasts?” Vickers said as they rode down a back street with very little traffic.

  A pair of chickens waddled across the street in front of them. Vendors sat in front of adobe buildings displaying their wares: blankets, beads, clay pots, ollas, sombreros, serapes, leather sandals, saddles, knives, trinkets, and silver jewelry. This was Calle Once, several blocks from the town square, with its cantinas and cafés, its higher-class vendors and traders.

  “You ever spend much time in a saloon, Vickers?”

  “Not much. Why?”

  “Do you know where Biederman’s is?”

  “The mercantile or the saloon?”

  “Both,” Zak said.

  “Leo Biederman owns that whole block. I’ve never been in either of his establishments. But I understand he owns several businesses in Santa Fe. He’s quite well respected, from what I hear.”

  “Do you know the man?”

  “No, can’t say as I do. I’ve seen him at the palace, in the Presidio a few times. From a distance.”

  “Think he’d recognize you?” Zak asked.

  Vickers laughed.

  “Not in this outfit, he wouldn’t. I have had no dealings with the man. I doubt he knows that I exist.”

  “Good.”

  “Is that where we’re going? To see Biederman?”

  “Captain, what’s the first thing you do when you’re ordered into strange territory? You have no map, no guide, no knowledge whatsoever of who or where the enemy might be.”

  Vickers thought about the question for a couple of seconds.

  “Reconnoiter would be the first order of the day.”

  Zak smiled.

  “Well, that’s what you and I are going to do. Reconnoiter. We’re actors on a stage. We don’t have anything to do with the army. We’re civilians. We’re men looking for a job and we don’t care if the job is legal or not. We’re just about flat broke and we’ll do anything for gold or silver. Got that?”

  “Got that, Zak.”

  “Now, you lead us to that saloon of Biederman’s, Jeff. And keep your ears open for a couple of names we might hear.”

  “So, you do know something about the territory.”

  “Just the two names. One’s Pete. The other’s Ralph. Ever hear tell of anybody connected to Biederman with those two names?”

  “First I’ve ever heard of those two. No last names?”

  “No,” Zak said.

  Vickers turned down a street and headed toward the river and the mountains. Santa Fe was a collection of adobe huts, small buildings that seemed to have been constructed at different times. The clay bricks were dark or light, and there were even variations within single buildings. Some were houses, others little tiendas. There was a mixture of Mexicans, Americans, and Indians on every street. Some pushed small carts laden with woven blankets dyed in brilliant colors—red, green, yellow, blue, and brown. There were burros pulling carretas and children selling tobacco and homemade liquor, both amber and colorless. And there were dogs and cats and goats on tethers, all streaming through the little dirt streets.

  “Any hotels near that cantina?” Zak asked as they headed down Calle Esperanza, a street where the vendors sold flowers, seeds, squash, corn, tomatoes, beans, chilies, and other fruits and vegetables. The aromas were a change from the other streets they’d passed through, a mixture of earthy scents and aromatic herbs, tangy perfumes, and heady blossoms.

  “Seems to me there are a couple of hotels on that same street, Calle Rodrigo. Can’t remember their names.”

  “We’ll reconnoiter,” Zak said, and Vickers chuckled at the wry statement.

  Calle Rodrigo was a short street wedged in between longer and wider ones, not far from the west edge of town. Beyond was the road north to Taos and south to Albuquerque. Zak caught a glimpse of it just before they turned the corner. Some of the adobes were two and three stories, and all looked sturdy and solid. The street had more shade than the others because of the taller buildings. In the middle of the street stood Biederman’s Mercado, the mercantile store. Two doors down, with saddled horses tied to the hitchrings buried in the dirt, was La Copa Plata, with its English translation, “The Silver Cup,” just below the sign on the false front. Both names were the same size. At the far end of the street, there were two hotels opposite each other, El Emporio and La Hacienda. Both looked equally seedy, and both posted equal prices for day, week, and month. $2.00 a night, $8.00 a week, $30.00 a month.

  There was also a gun and saddle shop, an assay and land office, and a two-story house with flowers in pots on the porch, in planters hanging from the porch beams, and in beds.

  “Biederman owns everything on this street, as far as I know,” Vickers said.

  “An ambitious man.”

  “Some say greedy, out at the fort.”

  “Maybe we can find out just what Mr. Biederman covets,” Zak said as he pulled up at the hitchrail. He looked at all the brands on the horses, but didn’t recognize any of them. Nor did Vickers.

  “They’re just horses to me,” Jeff said. “Brands don’t mean much in Santa Fe.”

  “Meaning?” Zak said.

  Vickers laughed. “A running iron in this country is as common as a toothpick at Delmonico’s in New York.”

  Zak dismounted, wrapped his reins around the hitchrail. He pulled his rifle from its boot and waited for Vickers. He and Jeff walked into the saloon and were met by a burly man wearing a linsey-woolsey shirt and denim pants, and with a hogleg strapped low on his right leg.

  “Take your rifles, gents,” the man said. “You won’t need ’em in here. We got a gun case right over there. You can pick ’em up when you leave.”

  The talking stopped when the two men entered the saloon, rose up again as they strode to the bar without their rifles. Men sat at tables playing cards and dominoes, while others stood or sat at the long bar. There was a small stage and a slightly larger dance floor at one end of the long room. A Mexican with a guitar sat in a chair on the stage, but he was eating enchiladas and beans on a pewter plate. A bottle of soda pop sat on the floor next to the guitar, which was leaning on a large velvet cushion.

  The bartender was a Mexican with high cheekbones and small, porcine eyes buried in the hollows behind them. He wore a bright bandanna around his neck and a shirt with the top
buttons missing.

  Zak and Jeff sat on stools at the end of the bar nearest the batwing doors. They put their boots on the rail, and Zak moved a spittoon aside to plant his other foot on the floor. The bartender moved toward them.

  “A su servicio,” he said. “What is your pleasure, gentlemen?” He had a thick Mexican accent and a bright smile.

  “Dos cervezas,” Zak said, holding up two fingers separated so that they formed a V.

  “Are they cold?” Jeff asked.

  “They are cool,” the barkeep said.

  The men at the other end of the bar pretended not to look at the two strangers, but it was plain to Zak that he and Jeff were being sized up by every one of them. And they did not look like merchants or ranchers, but hardcases. He turned and gazed idly at the men sitting at tables. He noticed there were two or three Mexican ladies sitting with some of the men, and one of them smiled at him. She had beautiful black hair, combed up in the back to form a graceful beehive, with ringlets dangling on both sides of her face, framing her startling beauty in a most becoming way. The barrettes in her hair sparkled with stones that might have been diamonds or cut glass. She wore a black velvet choker tight against her neck, and a pendant hung from it, just above her cleavage.

  The bartender brought two earthen mugs of beer and set them in front of Jeff and Zak.

  “If this is your first time at La Copa Plata, it is only five cents for the first beer,” he said. “My name is Jorge Dominguez. Bienvenidos a la Copa.”

  Zak looked at Jorge closely, then quickly took his gaze away. He wondered if Jorge was related to Renaldo Dominguez. Sergeant Dominguez. The traitor who had murdered Walsh and the other two soldiers. He wasn’t going to ask. Not here. Not now. He glanced at Vickers to see if the name had made any impression on him. Apparently not, for Jeff was tasting the beer.

  “It is a little cool,” he said. “Not bad.”

  “They keep it in ollas. The clay sweats like a human and keeps the beer cool.”

  “You know more about it than I do. I haven’t had a beer in two months, and the last one was hotter than a two-dollar pistol.”

  “Take it slow, Jeff. We want to keep our wits about us.”

  “I thought you’d be a whiskey man, Zak.”

  “Anything wet,” Zak said with a wry smile.

  “Well, if this is reconnoitering, it’s better than a dusty ride out in the field.”

  “If anybody asks,” Zak said, “we came in from Lordsburg. Ever been there?”

  “Yes. Not much there.”

  “That’s why we come from there. And before that, it’s nobody’s business.”

  “I understand,” Jeff said.

  One of the men, who had been watching them from behind another man at the far end of the bar, got up from his stool and walked toward them. He was carrying a whiskey glass in his hand.

  “Buy you boys a drink?” the man said, leaning over the corner of the bar where it made its rounded turn.

  “We’re fine,” Zak said.

  “Just get in town?”

  “Yes,” Zak said.

  The man looked at Vickers.

  “He do all the talkin’ for you, mister?”

  “When he can get away with it,” Vickers said, and the man smiled at the humor.

  “Name’s Pete Carmody,” he said. “Where you boys from?”

  “We rode in from Lordsburg, with a couple of stops in between,” Zak said.

  “Lordsburg, eh? Don’t know a breathing soul there.”

  “Neither do we,” Zak said. “It was just a place to throw down a bedroll, have a couple of whiskeys, and a plate of beans.”

  Pete beckoned to Dominguez, who came over and stood there.

  “You give these boys anything they want, Jorge. It’s on me.”

  “Thank you, Pete,” Jeff said. Zak could have kicked him. He was almost too polite.

  “Much obliged, Pete,” Zak said.

  “You lookin’ for work, or just passin’ through?” Pete said as Jorge walked to the other end of the bar, past all the bottles lined up against the large mirror and the painting of a half-naked lady.

  “Maybe,” Zak said. “We just about run out our string. Thought maybe we might find somethin’ up Taos way.”

  “Taos, no. Nothin’ but Injuns up thataway. Santa Fe’s the place to be. There’s opportunity here. You know which end to use of those rifles you brung in?”

  “We’ve been known to bring down a rabbit or two,” Zak said. “Sometimes a big old squirrel.”

  Pete laughed.

  “You be here awhile, gents?”

  “Awhile,” Zak said. “Why?”

  “I want to introduce you to Leo Biederman after the sun goes down. This place gets lively then, and he’ll want to talk to you. If you’re lookin’ for honest work, that is.”

  “It doesn’t have to be too honest,” Zak said. “Or too much work.”

  Pete laughed again, and Zak knew he’d thrown out a line and the fish had taken the bait.

  He lifted his glass in a salute to Pete Carmody, and Pete beamed.

  Zak took a swig of beer and wiped foam from his mouth. So far, so good, he thought, and they hadn’t even finished with the introductions yet.

  Chapter 15

  Carmody had more questions for his newfound friends. He tipped his hat back in a friendly gesture, put a leg up on the brass rail. His hair was a mop of rust-red yarn that skewed in all directions as if it had escaped from a weaver’s loom.

  “Where’bouts in town you stayin’?” he asked Vickers.

  “No place, yet.”

  “We saw a couple of hotels down the block,” Zak said. “Thought we’d wet our whistles first then mosey on down the street and see where we can put up our horses and get a clean bed.”

  Carmody raised his hand and gestured to Jorge, who quickstepped his way back down to the end of the bar.

  “Jorge, dig out a couple of chits for my friends here. The Hacienda ought to suit ’em.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Carmody.”

  “I don’t believe you told me your names,” Carmody said. “I know it ain’t real polite to ask, but if we’re going to do business together…”

  “I’m Jeff Vickers.”

  “Zak Cody.”

  Carmody shook hands with both men. Dominguez returned with two slips of paper. He handed them to Carmody, along with a pencil stub. Carmody wrote something on each slip and initialed it. Then he handed the chits to Vickers, who was sitting nearest to him.

  “You just give these to the desk clerk at the Hacienda, Jeff. Rooms are clean. Good beds.”

  “Thanks, Pete,” Zak said as Jeff slipped the chits into his shirt pocket.

  “There’s a stable behind the hotel. When you’re ready to mosey on down there, I’ll send someone to show you where you can board your horses.”

  “We’re just going to have this one beer, Pete,” Zak said. “We’re plumb tuckered. We’ll get our rooms and be back tonight to meet Mr. Biederman.”

  “That’s just fine. Hold on.”

  Carmody spoke to Dominguez. “Tell Ralph to come on down here, will you, Jorge?”

  Jorge nodded and walked to the other end of the bar. He leaned over the bar and whispered to one of the men seated there. He cocked a thumb in Carmody’s direction. A moment later a shorter man walked over to join Carmody. He had a square jaw, thick neck, Teutonic features, pale, lifeless blue eyes.

  “This here’s Ralph Zigler,” Carmody said. “Ralph, shake hands with Jeff Vickers and Zak Cody.”

  Zigler offered a chubby hand to both Zak and Jeff. He squeezed the blood out of both hands, but his face never changed expression.

  Zak looked him over without making a point of it. It took only a glance to see that Zigler knew how to carry himself. He had straight hair the color of barn straw that spiked downward from under his hat. There was a scar on the bridge of his nose and another under one cheek.

  “It is good to meet you,” Ralph said in a thick Germanic
accent. “I buy you a beer, eh?”

  “No, Ralph,” Carmody said. “I want you to take them down to the Hacienda when they’re ready and show them where the stables are.”

  “That is good,” Ralph said. “I will do that.”

  The man had no expression on his face. He spoke as if he were reading a document or reciting from memory. Perhaps he was. English was not his native language.

  The pretty Mexican woman stood up from her table and caught Zak’s eye. She unfolded a small colored fan in front of her face. Her eyes danced with light. She let the fan drop and flashed Zak a warm smile. He nodded to her. He knew the language of the Spanish fan, a little, and knew the woman was flirting with him. She sat back down and continued her conversation with the men at her table.

  Zak wondered if all the men in the saloon worked for Biederman. There was no way to tell, but none had the look of ranchers or farmers, whose faces often reflected the serenity of the land they worked, or their feel for cattle, sheep, and horses. These men looked like road agents, with their sullen, half-lidded, shifty eyes and drawn features. He didn’t sense friendliness from any of those who glanced his way.

  As for Pete Carmody, he sounded like an organized man, a leader, just the kind of man who could mount a campaign against men like Gregorio Delacruz and put the fear of death square in their hearts.

  Ralph Zigler was more difficult to read. He gave no sign of what he was thinking or how he felt. He was as cold as a chunk of pig iron, and those flat, blue-gray eyes of his were icier than a frozen river, a pane of glass covered with snow. Zigler could see out, but nobody could see in; that was the impression that Zak got from looking at him. He had seen men like Zigler before. He had seen Lakota braves and Pawnee scouts, Crow and Blackfoot warriors with that same empty look, the look of a stone killer, as merciless as wind and rain, or fire.

  Zak and Jeff finished their beers, shoved their mugs away, got up from their stools.

  “Thanks for the beer, Pete,” Zak said.