by Jory Sherman
“You make it sound like a lark, Zak.”
“It’s not a lark, Jerry. It’s going to be damned bloody, but I think you can tack their hides to the barn door.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“I’ll be there, Colonel, scouting for you, like I once did for General Crook.”
“That gives me some comfort,” Loomis said wryly.
Zak whistled for Nox after he emerged from Loomis’s tent, and the horse came running up after a few minutes.
The camp was moving within an hour, following Zak up to the deserted mesa. Loomis had issued orders to his men: no talking, no smoking, no noise.
They made noise, of course, but were fairly quiet. The carts avoided going over large stones, and the men guiding the howitzers were careful to stay away from rocky stretches and to stop often to breathe the mules.
Vickers and Bullard caught up with Zak two hours into the march.
“I brung your hat, Zak,” Bullard said, handing the black hat over to him. “Case you need it.”
Zak put the hat on over his headband, squared it off at a jaunty tilt.
“Zak,” Vickers said, “you’ve got blood all over you. You get into a fight?”
“This is old blood,” Zak said. “Tomorrow I’ll get a fresh coat. And so will you and Randy.”
They rode across that empty land of bones and weapons, the moon spraying them with a ghostly light, their shadows rippling like wrinkles on an old man’s bare hide. The snowcapped mountains in the distance looked like the heads of bald eagles, wise and silent as the stars above them.
Chapter 27
The tent walls shivered in the wind. Candlelight threw skulking shadows on the ground and scrawled them on the white fabric. Men huddled around Zak, who, with his knife, was drawing a series of squares and circles into the dirt. The tent made a sound like a ship’s sail flapping in a stiff breeze. Colonel Loomis chewed on an unlit cigar. Captain Jubal Hazard, a dwarfish man with a craggy face and full beard, squatted like a gnome, his tiny blue eyes crackling like star sapphires as he breathed out sour whiskey fumes mixed with the scent from a cinnamon stick.
Vickers and Bullard watched the knife cut deep and score trails and lines that represented two sides of a valley.
“Captain Hazard,” Zak said, “you won’t be able to cover the field with your howitzers. You’ll place one here and the other, here. Mostly, they will be used to cause confusion and repel any Navajo brave enough to climb up after you.”
“You show me the spots, I’ll set ’em,” Hazard said.
“Jeff, you’ll take a dozen troops and ride down to this end of the valley. Colonel Loomis, you’ll split your remaining forces into two groups, one to lay down fire on this mesa, the other to rake that one with rifle fire. Then you’ll draw them together at this point and form into a circle. You’ll have targets at every point on that circle.”
“What are you going to do, Zak?” Loomis asked.
“Sergeant Bullard and I are going on a special mission. First, we’ll sneak up into Biederman’s camp and slay his fat ass, if we can, and anyone who gets in our way or crosses our sights.”
“Pretty risky.”
“Jerry, down in that flat, breathing is risky,” Zak said.
“And then what?” Vickers asked.
“I want to draw Narbona out. I think he’s on this other mesa. I figure he’ll stand out from the rest of the Navajos and might be with his man, Largos. If I can, I want to blow both their lamps out. Pop, pop.” Zak made a pistol with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Nobody laughed.
“Seems to me you’re taking the most risks,” Loomis said, cradling his chin in the palm of his left hand and working his cigar to the other side of his mouth.
“Sergeant Bullard is going to watch my back. I’m going up to the Biederman mesa decked out like a Navajo. But I’ll be a shadow. When you hear the first shot, Captain Hazard, you’ll start lobbing cannonballs onto the Narbona mesa. Colonel, I want some of your men on this shelf right above the Biederman mesa. When they see men running out of those adobe lodges, they should fire at will.”
Zak drew a large B in the center of one circle, and a large N in the other.
“I figure there are more Navajos up those canyons. When they come out into the valley, Colonel, your two groups will be able to drop them before they can do any damage. So, you’ll have plenty of shooting to do. Both mesas, the valley, and any who come riding out of those canyons.”
“Any idea of how many we’re facing?” Loomis asked, his forehead knitted into deep furrows of flesh.
“You’ll probably be outnumbered. But you’ll have the advantage. If I can cut off the heads of Narbona and Biederman, their men may run around like chickens with their heads cut off.”
“That’s a lot of cutting,” Vickers said, trying to be cheerful.
“It’s going to be a butcher shop down there,” Zak said. “You’ll all be lopping off heads, legs, arms, and maybe a few balls.”
Everyone laughed except Loomis.
Later, Zak erased his map and blew out the candle. He took Hazard to the edge of the flat mountain and showed him where to place his two cannon.
“Can’t see much in this dark,” Hazard said.
“You will when it gets light. I’ll show you your aiming points to start you off. You just have your men set and ready to load powder and ball.”
“Yes, sir,” Hazard said, and he waddled after Zak over the ground where he would set his howitzers as Zak blazed the small trees that marked boundaries and positions.
Zak showed Loomis the defile where he would send his troops, and just before dawn, he wished him luck.
He met with Vickers and Bullard near where all the horses were gathered. He took off his hat and gave it to Bullard.
“Tie this to my saddle, Randy,” he said. “And where’d you put my boots?”
“In one of your saddlebags, Zak.”
“And what did you do with that Henry I gave you?”
“I stored it with my kit. A souvenir, unless you want it.”
“No. You and Captain Vickers take your carbines. I’m just going to carry my pistol and my knife.”
“You sure you know what you’re doing, Zak?” Jeff asked.
“Right now, I’m going over my part in my mind. It’s like cards.”
“Like cards?”
“If you’re a good gambler, you play the game before you even get to the table. You deal every hand, play every ace, draw every hole card, place every bet.”
“What good does that do?” Randy asked, scratching his head.
“It helps to eliminate any surprises.”
Zak shook hands with Vickers and wished him luck.
Then, in the darkness before dawn, he and Bullard set off down the trail to the valley.
“Don’t talk to me, Randy,” Zak warned him as they started down the defile. “If you need to say something, tap me on the shoulder and use hand signals. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” Randy said, swallowing a lump of air.
“Let’s go.”
“One, thing, Zak. You goin’ to kill Biederman. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“What about his wife? Minnie.”
“You want to kill her?”
“Well, no, sir. I mean, she’s a woman and all.”
“She’s the enemy, Randy. Blood sister to Narbona.”
“You’d shoot a woman?”
“I would this one. Come on.”
The two men stole into the valley. Bullard matched Zak step for step and stopped when he stopped, listened when he listened. They got to the Biederman mesa without being detected. In the predawn darkness, Zak found the trail up to the top. He saw men walking guard duty, shadowy silhouettes with no definition, no personalities. They might as well have been scarecrows, as far as he was concerned. A stiff breeze blew down the wide canyon and chilled them to the bone.
“When we get up there, yo
u lay low. Just watch my back. Shoot anyone who comes up behind me. But I’m going to use my knife, so you probably won’t have to use your rifle. Once that first shot is fired, all hell’s going to break loose.”
There were only two men walking the camp’s perimeter. Zak motioned for Bullard to lie flat and wait.
It was still dark, but the stars told him that dawn was not far away.
Zak huddled next to the nearest adobe and waited for the guard on his side to walk past him.
The sky seemed to grow darker.
It’s true, then, he thought. It’s always darkest before the dawn.
And it was also the most dangerous time, he knew.
The guard walked past where Bullard was lying flat. Zak watched him. He didn’t see the sergeant.
He drew his knife to play his hand of cards before the guard came to his table. Zak knew just what to do and how to do it.
He heard a man snoring. Another hawked up a gob of phlegm in one of the adobes.
He listened to the men inside the adobe next to him. Their breathing was like a sighing wind, even and steady. Dead to the world, he thought. Wasn’t that what mothers said about their children when they were fast asleep?
He drew his knife.
Dead to the world.
Almost.
Chapter 28
Zak rose up and struck with the ferocity of a panther. He strapped one arm around the man’s head, clamping his mouth shut, then sliced across the neck just above the collarbone. The man struggled for just a moment, then slumped into Zak’s arms as blood spurted from his cut throat. Zak laid him gently down, put a moccasined foot on his chest and pressed hard. If the man had any breath left in his lungs, Zak squeezed it out, right then and there.
Zak dragged the dead man over next to the adobe. He took off the man’s hat and put it on. He picked up his rifle, a Sharps carbine and took up the guard’s walk where he had left off. He would meet the other one a hundred or so yards from where he was.
He heard noise above, up in the brush, and the faint sound of cartwheels buzzing on sandy soil and thumping occasionally on rocky ground. Over on the Narbona mesa, he saw flickers of cook fires and, on the breeze, he smelled the aroma of fried bread. The Navajos had been making it ever since Kit Carson had taken some to Bosque Redondo and the army had given them flour and salt for subsistence. The smell made his stomach roil with hunger, but he walked the walk, just the way the guard he’d killed had done it, and when he met the other man, he saw his face change. He could not see his expression, but he imagined that his eyebrows arched and his mouth dropped open.
Just for an instant.
Zak closed on him and stuck the barrel of the Sharps in the man’s gut.
“You keep your mouth shut,” Zak whispered, “and just point to the ’dobe where Leo and Minnie are sleeping.”
When the man raised his arm, Zak jerked his rifle from his shoulder. The man pointed to an adobe about thirty yards away.
“How many in there with Leo? Just hold up your fingers. If just Leo and Minnie are there, hold up two. If more, you give me the count.”
The man held up two fingers. Zak could feel him shaking against the muzzle of the rifle. He, like the others of Leo’s band, had a tied-down holster. Zak slipped the pistol from the scabbard and pointed to the shadows next to an adobe.
The man turned and walked toward the dark place where he would die.
Zak wasted no time. He shoved the pistol in his belt, laid the two rifles down, and throttled the man. Then he jabbed his knife straight into his throat, just below his Adam’s apple, twisting the blade to widen the wound. The man made a low gurgle in his throat, doubled over, and Zak eased him to the ground. The gushing blood sounded like running water for just a moment and left a shiny pool on the ground, its center filled with the reflections of a half dozen dazzling stars.
Zak looked up at the sky and to the east. The sky was paling beyond the Jemez, the stars fading like autumn flowers.
He crept into the adobe with its open, glassless windows. He hugged the wall inside and listened to the breathing of the two people. There was no hurry now. He shrank into the darkest corner, wiped the blade of his knife on his trousers and slipped it back into its sheath. It made a faint whisper. Zak held his breath.
Neither of the two sleepers stirred, and he let his breath ease out slowly through his nostrils.
Pale light began to seep through the open windows. Zak looked at the two lumps on the bedrolls, a single blanket covering man and wife.
He could smell the musk of Minnie, the sweat and whiskey on the breath of Leo. He listened for any outside sounds, and smelled the fried bread wafting on the breeze that still blew down from the high mountains.
Leo made a sound in his throat. He threw an arm over the blanket, held on to it for a moment, then let go. Zak wondered if Leo had a pistol lying next to him. He was pretty sure that Minnie had a knife either strapped to her leg or in her sash.
He could see them better now. Minnie slept with her mouth closed. Leo’s mouth was open.
They were dead to the world, he thought, and tried not to smile.
It was getting lighter outside. He did not have much time.
He walked to the other side of room, away from the doorway and the windows. He stood on the side where Leo slept, not four feet away.
“Biederman,” Zak said softly. “Leo.”
“Whuh?” Biederman looked around with sleepy eyes. He started to rise from his bedroll. “Who’s ’at?” he mumbled.
Minnie made a sound, but she was still asleep. She moaned. It was a kind of whining moan, Zak thought.
“I’m the drummer,” Zak said to Leo.
“What drummer? I didn’t order no goods.”
Leo rose up to a sitting position, suddenly wide awake. He squinted at Zak, trying to make out who he was.
“I’ve got your order right here, Mr. Biederman. Remember? You ordered it in Santa Fe.”
“I didn’t order nothin’ from no drummer.”
“Yes, you did. I have it for you.”
“God damn it, what the hell is it?”
“Death,” Zak said.
Biederman lunged for his pistol, which was still in its holster by his bedroll.
Zak filled his hand with blued iron and wood and thumbed the hammer back. Just as Leo’s fingers touched the grip of his pistol, Zak fired, aiming right at the center of Biederman’s forehead. The explosion boomed in the confines of the adobe and Minnie boiled out of her bedding like a flushed prairie chicken. She came up with a blade in her hand. Acrid smoke filled the room and she screamed as she whirled and came charging straight at Zak, her arm raised, the knife poised like the head of a striking cobra.
She cursed him in Navajo.
“I don’t understand your language,” Zak said, and shot her in the heart. He stepped aside as her momentum carried her straight to him. She crumpled into the wall, bleeding through the hole in her chest, her pumping heart in its last wild throes.
Zak didn’t wait to watch her die. He slipped out of the adobe and ran to where Bullard was waiting.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Bullard ran at breakneck speed down the trail to the top of the mesa, Zak right behind him.
A pale light glowed in the east. Most of the stars had vanished, and a color like the violet in a morning glory was spreading westward. The white peaks shone as each snow crystal caught the rising sun and threw up an aura that was like an alabaster mist.
Zak guided Bullard to cover and they squatted behind rocks as the top of the mesa rang with the shouts of men awakened suddenly from their sleep.
“God, those shots sounded so damned loud,” Bullard whispered.
“Just wait until Hazard opens up with those cannons.”
“Who’d you get, Zak? Biederman?”
“And Minnie.”
“Lord.”
“No, not him, Randy. He’s still with us.”
“How can you make a joke at a time l
ike this? We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“If you see anyone come down that trail, Randy, you shoot whoever it is.”
“It’s not light enough.”
Zak ejected the empty shells, stuffed two more cartridges into his Colt. “Any minute now,” he said.
“Any minute what?” Randy asked.
“Captain Hazard will start his music.”
A man came to the edge of the mesa and looked down at the valley. He saw nothing, so he ran back, and there was more shouting and angry yells as some of Biederman’s men discovered the dead bodies.
Then the golden rim of the sun cleared the distant horizon, lighting clouds shaped like long loaves of bread, turning them pink and lavender and spraying light through them until they radiated like the stained-glass windows in a church.
Thunder rocked the morning as the howitzers opened up, and Zak saw a ball strike the Narbona mesa, exploding in a cloud of smoke.
Then the second round hit, and men screamed as the explosion tore away their limbs and smashed their bodies to pulp.
“Time to go,” Zak said to Bullard.
“Where we goin’?”
“I want to see if I can kill a ghost warrior, Randy.”
“Huh?”
“Narbona,” Zak said and started running toward the base of the mesa.
Rifles crackled and there was the acrid smell of cordite in the air. Smoke drifted toward them, broke up into wisps above their heads.
Barebacked horses streamed into the valley from a nearby canyon, driven by mounted Navajos waving blankets. Men poured from the tops of both mesas, racing down the trails. The saddled horses emerged from another canyon, white men driving them as if on cue.
Zak raced on, looking at every Navajo brave, looking for one man among many.
Narbona.
Chapter 29
Cavalry troops surged into the valley. Rifle fire erupted like a string of Chinese firecrackers. Troops surrounded the two mesas. Some closed with the Navajo horsemen, engaging them in battle. Smoke streamed in every direction, sometimes blossoming into clouds. There was the acrid stench of exploded gunpowder.
