Now Hawkins, his expression one of palpable fury, stepped forward. “These are properly enlisted soldiers of the United States Army. They aren’t gonna ride in that cow shit.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “Well … now if that’s … if that’s the only—”
Ludlow perceived the lawman’s hesitancy and nervousness. The man needed a face-saving way out. “Say, Sheriff, I know you’re an experienced lawman. And this situation involves Federal law. That’s out of your jurisdiction and authority. The United States Army is sending this detachment on a mission of great importance. That cattle car is unhealthy for human beings. It would surely mean these United States Army Scouts might be too sick to perform their duties upon their arrival at our destination. My commanding officer has every right — indeed, he is required by Federal law — not to permit his soldiers to risk their physical well-being in such unhygienic surroundings. So what we have here is a violation of Federal law by the stationmaster.”
The sheriff was now more relaxed with his self-assurance intact. “I was just about to bring that up.” He glared at the stationmaster. “My advice to you is to get ‘em a proper boxcar.”
“I told you I got the others already scheduled.”
“This ain’t in my jurisdiction,” the sheriff declared. He pointed to Hawkins. “It’s in his! Fact is; he’s got the right to arrest you if you don’t do what he says.”
The stationmaster protested, “He threatened to shoot me.”
The sheriff shrugged. “I’m afraid I cain’t get involved in this. It involves the Fed’ral government of the U.S. of America!”
Now Ludlow played his final card, giving the stationmaster the sternest look he could muster. “The sheriff is absolutely correct. This captain has the right to arrest you if you put the health of United States soldiers at risk.”
The stationmaster started to speak, then changed his mind. He headed for the railyard to order a boxcar brought up. Hawkins ran after the man and grabbed his arm, whirling him around. “Those good boxcars aren’t for other trains, are they?”
“A cattle car is all Redskins deserve,” the stationmaster snarled.
Hawkins shot a straight right punch into the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. “That’s for insulting men who’re better’n you are, you bangley-eyed son of a bitch!”
The stationmaster shrieked, “I’ll have the law on you for this.”
Hawkins sneered. “I’ll tell ‘em you were resisting arrest.”
Ludlow grinned at the sight, then hollered, “All aboard!”
Deacon Leo Horton, sitting on the buckboard seat in the moonlight, muttered, “This is getting to be a habit, Hezekiah.”
Pastor Hezekiah Woodward, seated beside him took a deep breath. “Indeed it is, Leo. And I’m as nervous as you are, but we got to remember we’re doing the Almighty’s bidding.”
“I know that well enough and I’m proud to be of service for the second coming,” Leo allowed. “But we’ve took half the building fund for the new church out of the bank without an okay from the congregation. We didn’t even say nothing to the brothers.”
“Deacon Leo! We ain’t gonna have to build a new church after Jesus is back on earth. All us righteous folks is going up to heaven, understand? And that includes the brothers. We can tell ‘em about the funds when we’re all up there sitting on the right hand of the Lord.”
“We oughta at least let ‘em know what we done.”
“I got my instructions from above, Leo,” Hezekiah pronounced, falling back on his insistence he was in direct communication with God. “That holy commandment is gonna be followed. If you start arguing about this and that, you might find yourself dodging Satan’s pitchfork in hell after all this is over and did with.”
“I’m sorry, Hezekiah. I won’t protest no more.”
“See that you don’t.”
They fell into silence with Leo feeling properly chastised. The moon was a crescent that night, and the oasis was shrouded in darkness. The sudden appearance of the mule and wagon startled the two white men. Pontaro and three other Apaches were on the vehicle.
Hezekiah jumped down from the buckboard. “We got you twenty more Henry rifles like the ones we already give you. And a hundred bullets.”
Pontaro barked some words in Apache, and his companions immediately gathered up the weapons and ammunition, transferring the load to their wagon. The Apache walked over to Hezekiah. “Prophet want more rifles. Same kind. Same bullets.”
Leo’s indignation flared. “Then tell the Prophet to give us some money! We ain’t rich, y’know.”
Pontaro’s temper sparked as well. “You do what Prophet tell you.” He walked back to the wagon.
Leo grumbled, “I ain’t sure about this whole set-up, Hezekiah. We ain’t got much left in the church’s account.”
“Deacon Leo, you got to keep the faith,” Hezekiah pleaded. “You’re the one person I’m really depending on to help me.”
“I won’t falter,” Leo promised. “But I’ll sure be glad to see the day Jesus takes us up to heaven to our eternal reward.”
Chapter Nine
It took the detachment four days to go from Traverse, Texas to Sherman, Arizona Territory. The trip was routine, which made for plenty of boredom for the intrepid travelers. Even Scout Michael Strongbow’s enthusiasm began to wane during the last day of the journey.
Captain Mack Hawkins stood at the boxcar door, gazing out at the desert vista where he had served more than a decade as an enlisted soldier. Now the veteran experienced a combination of nostalgia and anxiety as memories floated through his mind. The reverie was broken when he noticed they were drawing close to their destination. He stepped back from the car opening and ordered the horses to be saddled.
When the train pulled into the town of Sherman, everyone in the detachment was surprised to see a good number of townspeople gathered at the depot. Hawkins chuckled, “I guess the word of our arrival spread from Fort Stryker to the town. This will be the first time these folks get to see U.S. Indian Scouts.”
Ludlow Dooley was surprised. “Don’t they have a detachment in the Arizona Territory, sir?”
“There’s one at Fort Huachuca, but they’re kept busy watching the Mexican border. That’s why they had to send for us.”
Sergeant Eagle Heart slid the door open, then he and Red Moon hopped to the station platform to pull the loading ramp down. Ludlow was the first out and he turned to watch the disembarkation begin.
A local resident standing behind the lieutenant, tapped him on the shoulder. “So them Injuns is in the Army, huh?”
“That’s right,” Ludlow answered. “They’ve been enlisted just like whites and coloreds.”
“That’s mighty inter’sting,” the man remarked. “What kind of Injuns is they?”
“Kiowas and Comanches.”
“Oh! They’re from the prairie, ain’t they?”
“Yep,” Ludlow replied. “The Indian Territory north of Texas.”
“Well, young feller, right now you’re in the Arizona Territory south of the Utah Territory.”
“That’s good to know, thank you,” Ludlow stated, grinning to himself.
Hawkins came down leading his horse, followed by Michael Strongbow with his and Eagle Heart’s mounts. Swift Horse led his and Ludlow’s down the ramp. The final scouts out were Corporals Running Cougar and Tall Bear with their own horses along with Red Moon’s.
The crowd was murmuring among themselves as the detachment formed up. With everybody in the saddles, Hawkins led the way out of the depot area to the main street of town. He knew the way to Fort Stryker, having gone there from Sherman countless times. This was after he, as a young trooper, had spent evenings of drinking, gambling and whoring.
The smells in the arid air were further reminders to the captain of patrols, battles and the garrison life on the Tierra Brava Desert. It was here he had worked his way up to sergeant until eventually receiving a commission in the rank of second lieutenant. Now, as an olde
r but perhaps not wiser captain, he truly felt he had returned to his roots of soldiering.
They went through Fort Stryker’s front gate, and continued on until stopping in front of post headquarters. Protocol demanded that he and Ludlow call on the commanding officer to announce their arrival. The man would also have instructions for them. The two officers dismounted, and walked up the steps to the porch.
A large individual, sitting on a chair leaning against the building’s wall, spoke out. “Well! I’ll be godamned and then some. Hello there, Mack!”
It took Hawkins a moment to recognize the greeter. “Dennis O’Rourke!”
O’Rourke got up and they shook hands. The marshal glanced at Ludlow and the Indians. “So this is the scout detachment that’s come to sort out what’s going on around here. I never knew you were part of that program.”
“Yep,” Hawkins acknowledged. “Now Dennis, you tell me what the hell you’re doing here in civilian clothes with a badge on your vest.”
“I’m retired from the Army, Mack. The first thing I done as a civilian was to sign up to be a United States deputy marshal.”
Hawkins introduced O’Rourke to Ludlow. “Mr. Dooley, this fellah and I had a lot of adventures around here when we were younger.”
“We sure as hell did,” O’Rourke agreed. “We fought Injuns, Mezkin bandidos, Comancheros and a lot of other bad fellers in our day.” He nodded to Hawkins. “Colonel Crawford is the commanding officer here.”
“I remember him as a major,” Hawkins said.
“He got promoted o’course. And so did I. I retired as regimental sergeant major.”
“Well, then, Sergeant Major O’Rourke, you just lead us in to see Colonel Crawford,” Hawkins stated.
“You and the lieutenant foller me,” O’Rourke invited. “After we see the colonel you’ll be able to know how you’re gonna handle your deployment here at Fort Stryker.”
The three men entered the building, going straight to the door marked COMMANDING OFFICER. O’Rourke knocked hard. “Colonel Crawford! I just got my hands on the worstest desperado that ever rode on the Tierra Brava Desert. I need your official permission to shoot him like a mad dawg!”
The door was jerked open and the surprise on the colonel’s face was obvious. “For God’s sake! It’s Lieutenant Mack Hawkins. But you’re a captain now! C’mon in.”
The trio of visitors walked into the office and Ludlow went through another introduction. Colonel Crawford shook his hand. “Mr. Dooley, I think you’re about learn a thing or two about your commanding officer. Did you know how he got his commission from sergeant to second lieutenant?”
“No, sir. But I’d be interested in finding out.”
“Well, General Phil Sheridan himself made the appointment,” Crawford explained. “He did it on the recommendation of General George Crook who commanded during the Apache wars around here. Sergeant Mack Hawkins did some incredibly brave things in battles against the Apaches on several occasions. General Crook admired his leadership under those difficult and dangerous circumstances.”
O’Rourke laughed. “I was with him each and ever’ time. I thought he was prob’ly gonna get court-martialed, but he ended up getting a commission.”
“That’s true,” Colonel Crawford agreed. “Sometimes there’s a thin line between a medal and a court-martial.”
Ludlow wasn’t surprised to learn that his detachment commander had probably bent and broke every single army regulation back in those days. He cleared his throat, “He hasn’t changed a bit, sir.”
“I was afraid of that,” Crawford admitted, gesturing for his visitors to sit down. “Well, let’s discuss this present situation.”
The colonel explained the facts of the raid on the horse ranch, the unshod horses of the thieves, and the worry about the possibility of an Indian war in the making.
“That makes sense,” Hawkins said. “Why else would Indians steal horses? Is it true they killed a Mexican cowboy, but didn’t mutilate the body?”
Crawford nodded. “Most unusual, hey?”
“It sure as hell is,” O’Rourke interjected.
Hawkins was thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “Has there been any signs of unrest on the Tijones reservation?”
“We haven’t heard of anything from the agent out there,” the colonel replied. “But that should be your first point of investigation.”
“I think I’ll go to the scene of the horse theft before doing anything else. I’d like to speak to the rancher and get his version of the situation.”
“Okay,” Crawford said. “His name is J.K. Denton. Go northwest out of Sherman until you reach the Cuerdando River. Follow it west and you’ll ride onto the ranch proper.”
O’Rourke spoke up. “I know this is army business, but I’d like to go along on the patrol. That pris’ner I turned in here was involved in a strange situation on the Guerras reservation near Hope Wells. I’ve been wondering if there’s some connection to that horse rustling.”
“It’ll be like old times, Dennis,” Hawkins remarked. “The Tijones and Guerras are both pals of ours aren’t they?”
“It depends on who we needed as scouts,” O’Rourke reminded him.
“I just had a disturbing thought,” Colonel Crawford stated. “What if the Tijones and Guerras decided to join up together for a war against the whites.”
“Damn!” O’Rourke said. “That notion scares the hell out of me!”
Hawkins nodded. “It ain’t exactly gonna help me sleep at night either.”
Chapter Ten
The final thumps of the beater-heads against the frame drums had sounded a quarter of an hour before. Now, in an isolated canyon on the Tierra Brava Desert, the Ghost Dance of the Guerras Apaches had come to an end after a grueling twelve hours. The participants — both men and women — were already leaving the site to get back to their wickiups.
In the back of the ravine, the new dawn had yet to emerge over the horizon as the Prophet, Pasimo the medicine man, Pontaro and Halkon sat on the ground with legs crossed. The Prophet’s voice was hoarse after hours of singing the ghost dance chant throughout the night.
“Two of the men were drunk yesterday,” he said angrily. “They made fools of themselves.”
Halkon said, “They are staked out by the Crazy Coyote Oasis. I am sure the nearness of the shade and water is unpleasant while the sun beats down on them.” As Apaches, the miscreants would be able to deal with the pain. It would be the disgrace of their punishment that tormented them.
The Prophet nodded. “Do not release them until past mid-day.”
“Their women sit by the men and wail at their humiliation,” Halkon said.
“That is good,” the Prophet replied. “The second coming of the Messiah can be delayed by the misconduct of such wrongdoers. The Great Life Giver expects all warriors to be pure and clean in all things.” He turned to Pontaro. “We need more rifles. How soon can those two white fools obtain some for us?”
“It is difficult for them,” Pontaro said. “They must pay money for rifles and bullets.”
Halkon spoke up. “Will not the ghost warriors come to life with weapons?”
“Their weapons will be old,” the Prophet replied. “The new rifles hold many bullets.”
“I do not understand,” Halkon said. “If the ghost warriors cannot be killed, what difference does that make?”
The Prophet, who had noticed a streak of stubbornness in the former warrior, scowled. “Do not argue with me nor ask me to explain things. I know what is best. The Great Life Giver lets me know what to do. When you squabble with me, you anger him. He wants rifles for us. He wants more horses for us.”
Pasimo the medicine man was in agreement. “If it is easy for us to help the messiah, then the Great Life Giver will think we are lazy and indolent, thus he will consider us unworthy.”
The Prophet appreciated the support, but he was also worried. He had deduced early that Pasimo had a little influence on the Guerras warriors.
Pontaro declared, “I will make the two white fools get us more rifles and ammunition.” He added, “Perhaps if I killed one of them it would hurry the other to obey us.”
The Prophet shook his head. “Not now. But later we will give them a slow death in front of the tribe.”
Pontaro asked, “After we kill all the whites, will we kill the Mexicans too?”
“They are ancient foes of all Apaches,” the Prophet said. “The Great Life Giver wants to save them for last.”
“What about our other enemies the Tijones?”
“The Tijones did not fight hard enough against the whites. They surrendered and are doomed to die for their cowardice.” He took a deep breath. “That is all we will discuss now.”
The exhaustion of the night-long ceremony began to settle on them, and they wearily got to their feet to return to the village.
Before leaving Fort Stryker, Captain Matt Hawkins had instructed Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley to draw tarpaulins and folding tent poles from the post quartermaster. This equipment was to be used to shelter men and horses from the sun in desert bivouacs.
Now Hawkins, Ludlow and Deputy United States Marshal Dennis O’Rourke led the small column of scouts along the Cuerdando River. The waterway bordered the edge of the Tierra Brava Desert, its coolness holding back any encroachment from the arid land. Green grass and brush grew out a half mile before slowly succumbing to the fury of the sun and bone-dry atmosphere where it endeavored to spread.
Hawkins spoke to O’Rourke. “Did you see any Apaches you knew when you went to the Guerras reservation?”
O’Rourke shook head. “I expected to, but there wasn’t hardly any of ‘em nearby. The agent — a feller by the name of John Larimer — said they’d been keeping to theirselves lately. But I know for sure I’d recognize ol’ Pontaro if I was to see him.”
“I remember him,” Hawkins said. “A pretty good scout, if I remember right.”
“That he was,” O’Rourke agreed. “I suppose when we make a call on the Tijones we’ll see a couple of old pals.” He pointed toward the southwest. “I think I can make out some buildings. They’re kind of blurry from the sun reflecting off the ground.”
The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2) Page 6
