Pontaro spoke out an Apache word each time a rifle was placed in the rustic conveyance. The last uttered was, “Ashdia’din— fifty.” One of the men grabbed the crate of bullets and carried it over to the vehicle.
Now a conversation was begun by the Prophet as Pontaro translated.
“You have kept your promise,” the Prophet said to Hezekiah and Leo.
“I told you we would,” Hezekiah said. “And we want to meet the messiah when he comes.”
“You must do more,” the Prophet commanded. “You must bring more bullets.”
Hezekiah displayed a wide, happy grin. “Why sure! We can do that.”
“Then you get us more rifles. The same as these. Many more.”
Both Hezekiah and Leo were stunned. Leo spoke up, “That ain’t gonna be easy. It takes a whole lot of money.”
The Prophet’s face was stern. “You must get us more rifles. The same as these.”
He and Pontaro abruptly turned their horses and disappeared into the darkness with the wagon following.
Leo moaned, “How’re we gonna get more Henry rifles, Hezekiah?”
The pastor hid his fear and frustration. “The Lord will provide, Leo.”
Leo smiled. “O’course, he will. All you got to do is talk to him. I just forgot that for a minute.” He paused, then hesitantly asked, “Hezekiah, why is God using these savage Apaches in the second coming? And why does he want us to give ‘em guns?”
“The ways of the Lord is mysterious,” Hezekiah intoned. “Maybe he’s gonna have ‘em kill off all the sinners and send ‘em to hell. But before all is said and did, he will make us the masters of them Injuns. And after the second coming, he’ll forgive their sins and lift ‘em up into his kingdom. He told me that hisself.”
“Yes, o’course!” Leo exclaimed. “And that’s when the world ends, right, Hezekiah?”
“You betcha, Leo!”
Chapter Seven
The train carrying the Kiowa-Comanche Scout Detachment arrived in Traverse, Texas, a small rail junction west of Houston. This was where they would switch from the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line to the Southern Pacific Railroad. The trip had taken a couple of more days than expected, and it appeared that the rail journey would amount to nine days instead of six before they reach their destination.
The horses were led off the train and taken to a corral next to the station house. The Indians went to the shade of a cypress grove while preparations for another boxcar were arranged with the stationmaster. Mack Hawkins and Ludlow Dooley settled down on a bench to one side of the corral. They watched young Michael Strongbow as he began exploring the area.
Hawkins lit a cigar and Ludlow gazed off in the distance for a few moments. Then he glanced over at the captain. “It was kind of unusual that Kristina didn’t invite us for supper, huh? She used to do that before we left on all the other deployments.”
“I sent Michael over to her house with a note that we didn’t have time for a visit.”
“Of course we did,” Ludlow countered. Kristina, Hawkins’ fiancé, made delicious Norwegian cookies called sukrakakers that he was particularly fond of.
Hawkins glared at his lieutenant. “Are you trying to pick an argument with me, Mr. Dooley?”
“No, sir. I just—” The younger man stopped in mid-sentence. He was well aware of the tension between the captain and the schoolteacher over her holding a teaching job that kept them from marrying due to army regulations. He cleared his throat, and quickly changed the subject. “I wonder how long it’ll be before they have a boxcar ready for us.”
“How the hell should I know?” Hawkins snarled.
Deputy United States Marshal Dennis O’Rourke, with his prisoner Horace Blevins, rode through the front gate of Fort Stryker, Arizona Territory. Blevins, the whiskey peddler who had been beaten up on the Guerras Reservation, sat in the saddle with his hands cuffed behind his back. The mount for Blevins had been rented by O’Rourke from the Hope Wells livery stable. The marshal would be reimbursed for the fee along with getting six cents a mile for the trip and seventy-five cents a day to feed the prisoner. Blevins’ sustenance amounted to a couple of slices of bread out of a small loaf that O’Rourke had purchased for two cents.
O’Rourke had prepared a charge sheet accusing Blevins of selling intoxicating liquor to Indians, hauling intoxicating liquor onto an Indian reservation, and picking a fight with Indians. None of the charges was factual except the one about carrying whiskey onto the reservation. The marshal had thrown the book at his prisoner, knowing the more the accusations, the easier the conviction.
Since O’Rourke was a Federal law officer and his prisoner had broken Federal laws, the marshal was required to turn him into the nearest Federal court for trial. That was the provost marshal’s office at Fort Stryker. That garrison was O’Rourke’s last posting in the Army before he retired.
When they arrived at the garrison in the late afternoon, he officially turned in his prisoner for confinement in the post guardhouse. After getting a receipt for delivery of a felon, O’Rourke walked over to post headquarters. He needed to have a word with Colonel Miles Crawford who had been his commanding officer during his military career. Crawford, with close to thirty-five years in the Army, still commanded the regiment.
O’Rourke’s entrance into the building elicited friendly greetings from old comrades-in-arms who were pleased to see him once again. He cut the conversations short, since he was anxious see Colonel Crawford. When he walked into the colonel’s office, he started to salute, then stopped himself.
Crawford laughed. “Old habits are hard to break, aren’t they, Dennis?”
“They sure are, sir.”
Crawford stood up and offered his hand. “It does my heart good to see you again.”
“Me too, sir.”
The two had “grown up” in the Army together from second lieutenant and trooper all the way to serving jointly as colonel and regimental sergeant major. They still enjoyed that proper friendship between a commissioned and a noncommissioned officer as was customary in the Army.
Colonel Crawford gave the marshal a cigar and invited him to take a seat. “So what brings you to Fort Stryker, Dennis?”
“I just turned in a pris’ner charged with bringing whiskey to an Injun reservation, sir. And it’s the circumstances of the event I’d like to talk to you about.”
The colonel was curious. “Sure. Sound off.”
“Well, this pris’ner Blevins was found all beat-up on the Guerras Reservation. A Mr. Wheatfall, who is a local rancher, discovered him after delivering a herd of cattle to the agent. He found Blevins with the whiskey he wanted to sell the Injuns poured all over him. The barrels was busted up and his wagon burned.”
Crawford shrugged. “It was probably a competitor wanting to scare him off.”
“That’s what I thought too, sir, but Blevins insisted it was Apaches that done it to him. I didn’t believe him at first ‘cause Injuns crave whiskey and would’ve stole it. And being Apaches, after setting his wagon on fire, they’d’ve throwed him into it.”
“That’s true.”
“But I started believing the son of a bitch,” O’Rourke stated, “and I went out to the reservation to talk to the agent. He’s a feller by the name of John Larimer. Well, Larimer told me about strange things going on with them Apaches. They’ve been real quiet lately and he’s seen fires burning at night in the arroyos and gulches out on the desert. It was obvious some kind of ceremonies was going on.”
“That’s real interesting,” Crawford acknowledged. “There was a horse ranch on the other side of Sherman that was raided. A Mexican who was watching over the herd was killed. That’s it. Just killed. He was shot and left whole.”
“Now that sounds like run-of-the-mill outlaws,” O’Rourke said. “White men.”
“Their horses weren’t shod.”
O’Rourke stared at the colonel for a moment. “Then it’d have to be Injuns, wouldn’t it?”
“It seems so,” Colonel Crawford agreed. “I sent a report to department headquarters at Fort Huachuca. I didn’t get any response until a few days ago. A U.S. Scout detachment is being sent here from Fort Sill to check things out. There’s a possibility an Indian uprising may be in the making.”
“Maybe it’s a war between the Tijones and the Guerras, huh?”
“Could be. Can you stick around here for a while, Dennis? I’d like you to take part in this. You’ve had your share of fighting Apaches.”
O’Rourke grinned. “I sure as hell have. I got to stay here for Blevins’ trial anyhow.” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. D’you still keep a bottle of bourbon in your bottom desk drawer?”
The colonel laughed and reached down for the liquor.
It was a little past eight p.m and five men sat in the Christian Worship Church in Hope Wells. The gathering was a regularly schedule Bible class presided over by Pastor Hezekiah Woodward. The part-time pastor never fooled himself about the rest of the males in his congregation. Most were hypocrites when it came to Christian conduct. They drank, played cards, lusted after women other than their wives, lied and committed numerous other sins. But they always showed up at Sunday worship even when badly hung-over. This was done mostly because of the insistent of their spouses. The women were angry enough about their husbands getting drunk. If they didn’t attend worship services, there would be no end to nagging and complaining in the households.
But on that particular night, the men Hezekiah accepted as genuine Christians were all present. They were Brothers Farley Dempsey, Ed Turnbull and Zeke Mason.
The first order of business was a prayer. They bowed their heads while Hezekiah, prayed, “Merciful God, I have called together the finest Christian fellers in all of Hope Wells. I am about to enlighten ‘em on what you want from me and Deacon Leo. We’ll need their help if this second coming is gonna run smooth. So please bless our efforts. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” the others recited in unison.
Brother Ed Turnbull asked, “What’s this about a second coming, Hezekiah?”
The pastor leaned toward him. “Jesus Christ our Savior is gonna be walking among us again, Brother Ed. And soon.”
“He sure is!” Leo exclaimed. “And God hisself told Hezekiah.”
Brother Ed showed a look of complete surprise. “God talks to you?”
“He sure does,” Hezekiah assured him. “He wakes me up in the middle of the night and in a voice as clear as a bell.”
The three church brothers were taken aback. None wanted to express any doubt as to what their beloved pastor had informed them. After a few moments of silence, Brother Zeke Mason, with tears in his eyes, declared, “We are truly blessed to have you as our shepherd, Hezekiah.”
Brothers Ed and Farley nodded their heads in agreement.
“Now,” Hezekiah said. “I am going to give you all the wonderful news about the second coming.”
They listened in awed reverence as he told them about Pontaro who acted as a translator when he preached to the Apaches on the reservation once a month. The pastor summed it up, saying, “But the last time I went out to enlighten the heathens, only Pontaro showed up. When I asked him where the others were, he said they was listening to another preacher.”
“Who could that be?” Brother Ed wondered.
“It was an Injun,” Hezekiah said. “Pontaro said he was called the Prophet and he told the tribe that a messiah was coming.”
The burly blacksmith Brother Farley Dempsey laughed. “Imagine a messiah showing up to see a bunch of pesky Redskins!”
Brother Zeke Mason, a husky man with muscles developed from handling luggage and baggage at the train station, was also amused. “Just what is this all about?”
Brother Ed almost shouted with laughter. “That is the craziest thing I ever heard.”
Pastor Hezekiah replied in a firm, solemn voice. “Pontaro said this would be the second coming of that messiah. He said the first time he showed up on the earth, the white folks killed him. And he said God was angry about that and was gonna punish all sinners through the Injuns.”
This sobered his audience. Brother Ed nervously cleared his throat. “That’s got a scary ring to it, Pastor.”
“I know. So I started praying, and I prayed as hard as I could. And then God let me know that it is the second coming of Jesus Christ our Savior and it’s being did through heathen Apaches.”
“Lord have mercy!” Brother Farley cried.
Leo interjected again. “God wants us to help the Apaches, fellers. So me and Hezekiah had a meeting with the Prophet and we’re gonna help with this second Coming. We already got fifty rifles for ‘em.”
“Is that part of God’s plan he told you about?” Brother Zeke inquired.
“God moves in mysterious ways,” Hezekiah said. “The Almighty told me the Injuns is gonna use them rifles to kill all the sinners. He’s doing it that way instead of having flames or a flood to do the job like he done in the Old Testament.”
“Can a single tribe of Injuns kill ever’ single sinner in the world?” Brother Farley asked.
Hezekiah raised his hands. “Hallelujah! It’ll be did by a holy miracle. Maybe all the Injuns gotta do is shoot once straight up in the air, and ever’ sinner on this earth will fall over dead. And after all the wicked is kilt, the Injuns are gonna be give a change to accept Jesus. Those that don’t will go to hell to burn for eternity.”
Brother Farley fell to his knees and clasped his hands together. “Lead us in prayer, Pastor Hezekiah. Help us learn what we gotta do!”
They all knelt down and Hezekiah stood up and bowed his head to begin speaking with his maker.
Chapter Eight
The Southern Pacific Railroad had an unaccountable delay in providing a boxcar for the detachment. The scouts had to spend the night at the rail junction, which was only an inconvenience of time. It was actually a comfortable place for a night’s rest out of doors. The only drawback was the rumbling and roaring of occasional trains speeding past throughout the night.
Breakfast the next morning was rather pleasant as well. Everyone enjoyed hot coffee and canned meat or fish purchased at the Fort Sill post trader’s store. The hay and oats that were destined to travel with them to Fort Stryker were available to give the horses a nutritious feed. A well and trough was also accessible that enabled the detachment to water the animals and refill canteens. With all that taken care of, everyone repacked what had been taken out of their gear, then settled down to wait for transportation.
Captain Hawkins had calmed down a bit, and Ludlow made a promise to himself not to bring up the subject of Kristina Halverson again. The young lieutenant kept his mouth shut and only spoke to his commanding officer to answer a question or make a reply to a comment.
At ten that morning, the stationmaster, a rather grumpy individual, appeared. He announced, “Your boxcar is ready. As soon you get aboard it’ll be hooked up to a train for the trip to Sherman, Arizona Territory.”
Sergeant Eagle Heart formed up the men and their horses, marching them to the boxcar. Hawkins and Ludlow followed behind with the stationmaster, then went up to the front of the formation when they reached the vehicle.
The captain yelled, “What the hell is that pile of rolling shit?”
It wasn’t a boxcar; it was a cattle car. The sides were wooden slats with a foot of space between them. The floor was covered with dung, and holes could be seen in the roof. Hawkins spun around and grabbed the stationmaster by his coat collar.
“We are not — I say again, not — gonna ride on that cattle car. You get a proper boxcar for this detachment pronto!”
The stationmaster angrily struggled against the strong grip on his clothing. “That’s all I got for you!”
Hawkins let him go, pointing to three boxcars on the side tracks. “What about them?”
“They’re scheduled for another train.”
Hawkins pulled his revolver. “You get one o
f them cars over here for us now!”
The man paled, and staggered back a few steps. “I’m gonna call the sheriff!” he cried, then turned and ran for the depot.
Ludlow took a deep breath. The captain’s hotheadedness was about to stir up a heavy load of trouble again. He grabbed Hawkins’ arm when he started after the stationmaster. “Let’s wait for the sheriff to show up, sir.”
“I’ll shoot him too, godamn it!”
“I can think of another approach to this problem,” Ludlow assured his captain.
Hawkins had learned to rely on his second-in-command’s clever mind. “Well, all right. You do what you think is best.” He paused. “Then I will shoot both of ‘em.”
Ludlow nodded his agreement, knowing that by the time the lawman showed up, Hawkins would be calmer and more reasonable.
Twenty minutes passed, then the stationmaster with the sheriff at his side approached the detachment. Ludlow had arranged for the scouts to make themselves clearly visible. When the sheriff saw the half-dozen Indians dressed in army uniforms, he hesitated, then regained his composure. “What’s going on here?”
Ludlow gestured toward the cattle car. “The stationmaster thinks he’s going to give us that vehicle to ride in. We’ll be traveling for several days and there’s no protection from inclement weather.”
The sheriff frowned. “What kind of weather?”
“Inclement,” Ludlow repeated. “That means bad weather. The sides are nothing but narrow boards with gaps between them. And there’s dung all over the floor.”
The stationmaster spoke up in a shrill voice. “It’s all I got, Sheriff.”
Ludlow pointed to the railyard. “There are three acceptable boxcars over there.”
The sheriff looked at the stationmaster. “Why don’t you give ‘em one of those?”
“I got ‘em slated for other trains.”
The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2) Page 5
