Ghost Warrior

by Jory Sherman

  He sat there, pondering what he had accomplished, what the results showed him. Not much. There were few rifles on that particular hill. Where were Biederman, Minnie, and Pete? Where were Narbona and Largos, the main body of whites and Navajos? They were not on the hill where he sat. And they were probably not gathered in any numbers on the next hill.

  Narbona probably figured the soldiers would bivouac and stay put in one place. Easy pickings. But now the soldiers were on the move and protected, for the time being, from another attack. It was difficult to fight a battle in the darkness. And the Navajos believed in spirits and did not like to hunt or do battle at night. If they did make another strike, it would be just at dawn, or shortly thereafter.

  He was getting nowhere, picking off a man at a time. He wanted to get close to either Narbona or Biederman, or both.

  Cut the heads off two snakes, if he could.

  The night was his ally, but he was as blind as anyone else. The moon had not yet cleared the high mountains and there was only the Milky Way and billions of stars shedding a faint light on the earth. And the mountains, the hills, were perfect hiding places for animals and humans. Every clump of brush, every cactus, every rock, and every tree robbed the senses. Everything with a shape looked like something else. Unless something moved, all shadows were the enemy, each shape potentially dangerous.

  He could wander the night and get nowhere, or he could continue on toward the Navajo camp he and Bullard had spotted. If people were moving around, he would see them. If all were sleeping, he could get close and perhaps learn the enemy’s plans when daylight came. He had the advantage at the moment. He knew where the soldiers were heading. He knew where one of the Navajo camps was, and he knew there were enemy sentries here and there, in singles, twos, and maybe threes.

  That was enough for now, Zak decided. He drew in a long breath and began his stalk up the adjacent hill, varying his route so that he did not ascend in a straight line.

  To his surprise, he did not encounter any sentinels during his ascent. He would have expected Biederman or Narbona to have sentries posted all along that exposed area. He thought they must be pretty confident that no soldiers would attempt to climb those hills during the night.

  One or both of them were pretty arrogant, Zak thought, and when he reached the crest, he realized that he was alone on top of that hill. But when he began his descent on the other side, he heard human voices and froze in his tracks.

  He could not understand the words, but knew they were in English, spoken by Americans. Curious, he crept closer. Again, he was hunched over so that he was no higher than any of the trees or plants. He stopped every few steps to listen. The conversation died and then rose up again. It was not really a conversation as such, but more like two people standing together making comments every so often.

  “Hell of a place to spend the night,” one of the men said, and Zak could hear him without strain.

  “You ask me, Biederman’s a little touched. Maybe not plumb loco, but touched.”

  “Ain’t him, so much. It’s that Injun squaw of his. The Minie ball.”

  The other man laughed.

  Zak did not recognize the voices, but he suspected they were two of Biederman’s henchmen, part of his “army.”

  “Yair, she’s a strange one. Them eyes, like a pair of gun barrels.”

  “You seen her brother?”

  “That Narbona?”

  “Umm, that one. He’s got mean writ all over him.”

  “I seen him talkin’ to Leo. They looked like a couple of pollyticians jabberin’ away.”

  “Yep, that’s what they look like and what they are. Old Narbona thinks he’s goin’ to get back all his Navvyho land, and Leo means to keep it for hisself.”

  “You better not let Leo hear you say that, Red.”

  Red laughed.

  “Or Narbonny neither, I reckon.”

  The men were silent for a few moments and Zak crept closer.

  Maybe, he thought, these two were some kind of rear guard. If so, then neither Narbona nor Leo expected any threat from this particular direction.

  The two men stood near the bottom of a small hill. He could see their cigarettes glowing in the dark.

  They were close, but they were in a bad spot for Zak to stalk them. They might not hear him descend to their level, but they would surely see him when he stood up to brace them.

  Zak waited. He was concealed behind some juniper bushes and a small pile of stones. He watched the cigarettes float in the darkness, trailing sparks, scrawling arcs and geometric lines as the men moved their hands. He could not see their faces, only their dark silhouettes, their hats and, when they puffed, a faint light on their lips.

  Then he heard rocks falling. The two men turned around, dropped their cigarettes to the ground.

  “Pete, that you?” one of the men called out.

  “Yeah, Farris. Red still with you?”

  “Naw, he run off,” Farris said, with a sarcastic twang to his voice.

  “Don’t get smart, Farris. Red, you see anything?”

  “Nope, Pete. Nary.”

  “Well, you two boys go on up to the camp, get yourselves some grub.”

  Pete hove into view, a lanky stick figure scrambling down the slope of a little hill, a sliver of light glinting off his rifle. He joined the two men. One of them offered him a cigarette. He took it, and the other man, Red or Farris, struck a match and lit it for him. Zak saw their faces in the blaze of the match for only a second or two. But he recognized Pete.

  “You goin’ to stay here, Pete?”

  “For a little while. I think them soldier boys have gone beddy-bye for the night.”

  “Yeah, it’s real quiet.”

  “They’re probably suckin’ on their sugar tits,” Red said. Zak knew which one he was because he had seen a lock of his hair when he lit the match.

  All three men laughed.

  “Go on, get your asses up the hill and keep goin’ another mile. You’ll see a campfire.”

  “What’s Leo doin’?” Farris asked.

  “Humpin’ his squaw,” Pete said.

  Red and Farris laughed. The laughter was bawdy.

  “Any Injun squaws in our camp?” Red asked.

  “No,” Pete said, “but Frenchy’s always willin’.”

  “Damn you, Pete,” Red said, “you know I don’t go for that.”

  “Well, Frenchy sure does,” Farris said. “You get in a tight, Red…”

  Red uttered an obscenity and the two men walked up the little hill and disappeared over the top. Pete stood there, smoking. He lay his rifle down and stood there, looking up at the stars.

  So now Zak knew where Leo’s men were. A mile away. Evidently the Navajos were in their own camp. It could be right next to Leo’s, in fact. But he knew where Leo was, and that gave him hope that he might take out one field commander, perhaps.

  The night was turning chill. Cool air blew down from the high peaks and Zak felt it on his face.

  Pete would not stay where he was for long, he was sure. He was already stepping up and down in place. Perhaps the cold was seeping up through his boots.

  There was no sound from the two men who had left.

  Pete finished his cigarette. He threw it down and crushed the butt with the heel of his boot.

  Zak held his breath. He would wait a few more minutes.

  No, Pete would not stay long.

  It was time for him to go.

  It was time for him to die.

  Zak laid the Henry down. He let the barrel rest in a fork on one of the bushes.

  He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. One of them became sticky with blood. He wiped the blood off on a different spot.

  Pete heard the slight sound.

  He reached down and picked up his rifle.

  Yes, Pete, Zak thought. Time for you to go.

  Time to die.

  Chapter 26

  The stars seemed fixed in place, pinholes in a giant swatch of bl
ack velvet curtain. Pete Carmody stood like an obsidian obelisk below that backdrop, rifle in hand, his senses as much in the dark as his body.

  “Who’s there?” he said. Then, in Spanish, “Quien es?”

  Zak thought that Pete probably thought one of his own sentries had made the sound, and the sentries were mostly Navajo.

  “Jorge,” Zak answered.

  Pete would not be expecting Jorge, but he did not know that he was dead, either.

  “Jorge,” Pete said. “Ralph with you?”

  Zak stood up. His pistol was still in its holster, but his hand floated just above the grip.

  “Uh-uh,” Zak said.

  “Did you rub out Cody?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. You sound funny. Been sippin’ on that mescal, amigo?”

  Zak measured the distance between himself and Carmody. Less than fifteen yards. Maybe twelve. Close enough.

  Pete relaxed and lowered his rifle.

  When Zak didn’t answer, Pete spoke again. “Hell, come on, Jorge. I want to hear all about it. You get Vickers, too? And what about Carlita?”

  Zak took a step toward Pete. “Pete,” he said, “you see that curtain hanging over your head?”

  “What the hell? You ain’t Jorge.”

  “No, Pete. And that rifle better stay where it is. I asked you about the curtain.”

  “What curtain?”

  “Just think of me as a stagehand, Pete.” Zak spoke in a low voice. He was very calm.

  “What in hell are you talkin’ about? That you, Cody?”

  “That curtain,” Zak said.

  “You ain’t makin’ no sense, Cody.”

  “Take your last breath, Pete. I’m going to drop the curtain on you.”

  Pete started to bring his rifle up to his shoulder.

  Zak went into a crouch. His hand dove for his pistol like a plummeting bird of prey. The Colt jumped from its holster, smooth and steady like a striking snake. He thumbed the hammer back. The gun came level at his hip, its snout aimed just below Pete’s breastbone.

  Zak squeezed the trigger and the pistol barked, spat lead and smoke and fire, littering the air with orange lightning bugs. The bullet struck Pete square in his chest. A crimson flower blossomed on his chest and there was the ugly sound of bone cracking and splintering as the soft lead mashed into a fist-shaped mushroom and ripped through flesh and veins before it blew a hole in his back and sent a rosy mist onto the hillside, spattering the rocks with red freckles.

  “Ahhh,” Pete gasped as the air flew out of his lungs. He staggered backward and looked up at the curtain of sky, saw it come down on him, with all those little pinholes of silver. He fell against the side of the hill, lay splayed there like some ravished mannequin, his rifle still gripped tightly in one hand.

  A small plume of smoke curled out of Zak’s pistol barrel. He walked over and stood looking down at what was left of Pete.

  He could see little stars in Pete’s eyes. Blood bubbled up into his mouth and spilled over his lower lip and onto his chin.

  “Arrrgh,” Pete gasped, unable to form the single curse word that had leaked from his dying mind.

  Zak opened the gate to the Colt’s cylinder, worked the ejection lever. The empty hull spanged against a rock on the ground. Zak worked a fresh cartridge from his belt and replaced the empty shell, closed the gate, spun the cylinder and eased the hammer down to half cock. He slipped the pistol back in its holster.

  A last rasp of air escaped from Pete’s throat and his eyes closed as he shuddered one last time.

  Zak retrieved the Henry and climbed the little hill. Biederman’s camp lay a mile away. The sound of the shot would carry far in the night air. But that far? It depended upon how many hills and rocky outcroppings lay between. He could still feel its reverberations in his ear, then only the rush of air like the sound of the ocean in a seashell.

  Zak moved quickly up the hill and into another world, a world that reeked of its ancient past. There, just beyond the hill, lay a long, wide valley. The moon rose above the rimrock and shone down on the ruins of old adobes. There were canyons formed by towering cliffs, small buttes and mesas. He crossed an old riverbed and trekked through crumbling adobe dwellings, their corners white with thick cobwebs, their roofs washed away by some long-ago flood. He saw shards of old pottery and the bones and skulls of animals—sheep and squirrel and deer. There was a mesa ahead, and he heard horses whickering and smelled their dung. He saw shadowy figures walking guard posts atop the mesa, and below, more adobe dwellings, which seemed to surround it.

  In the soft glow of the moon, the mesa looked like an ancient fortress. Zak did not walk close to it, but skirted it at a distance of three hundred yards, skulking through empty adobes, climbing small rock piles. He kept his bearings, reflecting on where Loomis had gone and what he must do to attack such a stronghold.

  Zak traveled beyond the low mesa and saw others, and when he climbed to higher ground, he knew where many of the Navajos were, for he saw their small campfires and smelled sheep and horses and mules, saw them on grassy swards in between the mesas and some atop them.

  He took one of the canyons that veered off from the valley and strode into silence and deep shadows. He followed its winding track, reduced to miniature by the size of the walls on both sides, and the sheer immensity of a land full of secret hiding places and secret legends long lost to time.

  By dead reckoning, Zak figured where Loomis was camped and found a fissure in the rock wall, a game trail behind it, leading up to the rimrock. He marked the position of the stars, figuring by the pole star where he had to go. He was still cautious and made little sound. He walked on sandy and rocky soil mixed in with lava dust and finally reached the rim and took his bearings.

  He built a small stone cairn at the top to mark the trail he had taken. He headed east, away from the Navajo camp and the mesa, where, surely, Biederman and his men were occupying the old adobe huts. He could see hazy outlines of white men atop one hill and the forms of Indians on another, and knew there might be more men farther up the valley. Perhaps many more. Any army marching up the valley would face a storm of bullets shot from high ground right on top of them. A deadly place, a place soaked in blood from past conflicts, he was sure, and a place sacred to the Navajos, who remembered the stories the old wise men told and perhaps remembered from their childhood that place of safety and ritual.

  He walked back to the cairn and then headed west, taking his guidance from the North Star, the pole star. He drifted across lumpy ground flocked with wind-gnarled scrub pines, ocotillo, prickly pear, cholla, juniper, and deadwood turned gray and twisted by the wind and rain and time. It was like walking through a graveyard, for skulls—animal and human—littered the ground here and there, and he came across broken arrows and arrowheads and the stones of war clubs and broken bows, cracked war shields and lances reduced to splinters, jutting from between rocks or lying in sandy swales. There were tattered pieces of tanned leather, some bearing skewed beadwork, others dried up like dead leaves or turned to parchment by the elements.

  It took Zak less than an hour to reach the mountain where Loomis had made camp. He passed the place where he and Bullard had looked down upon the Navajo encampment, taking only a quick glance to reassure himself of its location and verifying that Navajos still occupied that place. He was sure that some of those canyons in the big valley were avenues connecting that camp to the others.

  All the time he was walking over that desolate moonscape, Zak was figuring strategy. No place was impregnable. Formidable, yes, but the very complexity of the area offered an attacking army concealment and enough places to mount rifle-men and cannon that would at least give Loomis a chance to attack and perhaps conquer.

  He descended to the big hill and was challenged by an army sentry.

  “Who goes there?” a voice called from the shadow of some trees.

  “Colonel Zak Cody,” he said.

  “You come this way real slow, mister.”<
br />
  “I’m not in uniform.”

  “I know who you are, sir. I got to see your face.”

  Zak approached, the rifle over his left shoulder.

  “Stop right there,” the voice commanded.

  Zak halted and stood there.

  “Corporal of the guard,” the man sounded out, and Zak heard running boots on hard ground.

  “What is it, Private?”

  “Man says he’s Colonel Zak Cody. That him there?”

  A corporal with a rifle approached. The muzzle was aimed straight at Cody.

  “You Colonel Cody?”

  “I am.”

  “Colonel Loomis said you might come from anywheres. Or out of nowhere. I guess it’s you.”

  “Take me to him immediately,” Zak said.

  The corporal started to salute, but brought his hand down.

  Zak smiled.

  Moments later he was sitting in a tent with Jerry Loomis. The flap was open to let in the moonlight.

  “Not safe to light a lamp,” Loomis said apologetically.

  “I don’t need to see you, Jerry. And you sure as hell don’t want to see me.”

  “I understand. You reek of death.”

  “You’re in a good spot here,” Zak said. “But you’re going to have to move. Tonight.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. And it’s going to be rough.”

  “Are you going to give me a report? I need to know what we’re facing.”

  Zak told him where Biederman was camped with his men and where many of the Navajos were. He left out details of his encounters with both white men and Indians.

  “In the morning, I’ll draw you a map and show you where you can deploy men and the howitzers on high ground. And I’ll show you where you can run cavalry in on those who desert the mesas. If you make it hot enough for them, they’ll come down into that valley and you’ll find excellent hunting.”