The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Pontaro gazed at the white men. “What you want?”

  Hezekiah stood up in the vehicle. “We are here to tell you that you don’t understand the real purpose about the second coming of the messiah.”

  Pontaro exchanged some short remarks with the Prophet, then turned back to Hezekiah. “The Prophet say the messiah is no concern for whites.”

  Hezekiah frowned. “The Prophet is wrong about why the messiah is coming. It is to cast the sinners into hell and take the righteous up to heaven.”

  Pontaro frowned back. “The messiah is give strength to Injuns to kill all the whites and give the land back to the Injuns. He will bring back all Injun warriors killed from fighting whites. Them no can die again.”

  This was the first time Hezekiah and Leo had heard about the Indians’ perception of the second coming. Hezekiah yelled, You are ignorant savages!”

  Pontaro’s eyes opened wide in outraged surprise. He translated for the Prophet, who stood up and hollered back in the Apache language. Pontaro interpreted the words. “You will be the first whites to die!”

  The two Apaches turned their horses and rode off.

  Hezekiah watched them disappear into the gloom. “I fear our Injun brethren are all going to end up in hell, Leo.”

  Istee had been as happy as Kawa to see Mack Hawkins and Dennis O’Rourke again. He was much shorter than Kawa, but like his fellow warrior, was very muscular.

  That evening the pair of Apaches packed the gear they would need and bade farewells to their wives. When news of their employment as scouts got around to the other wickiups, several men who had served with the Army in the past begged to go with them. Kawa and Istee had to turn down the offers since the agent had forbade anymore men in the tribe to participate.

  When ready for the adventure, the pair rode over to the bivouac to join the Kiowa-Comanche Scout Detachment. Besides the usual apparel of breech cloths and high moccasins, they wore wide-brimmed military campaign hats and blue army flannel shirts. These were left over from their days of scouting for the U.S. Cavalry. Their cartridge belts holding .45 caliber bullets were also acquired from the Army as were the haversacks with the letters U.S. stenciled on the sides.

  Like all reservation Indians their long guns were single-shot Springfields, but instead of carbines they carried rifles. This privilege was the result of their agent Oscar Timmons making a special request. He pointed out to the Bureau of Indian Affairs that those firearms were better for bringing down the small, tough wild javelina pigs that were the Tijones’ favorite meat.

  After the arrival of Kawa and Istee, Captain Hawkins introduced them to the Kiowa and Comanche scouts. A friendly rapport was quickly established between the desert and prairie Indians. It was the beginning of a session of English and hand gestures among different clans of fighting men. Their impromptu pow-wow ended when Sergeant Eagle Heart posted the night guard. The Apaches were familiar with army routine, and settled into their blankets for a good night’s rest.

  The next morning, after a quick breakfast, the group broke camp and began their eastward trek. They rode along a route north of the Tierra Brava to avoid the badlands. Because of their campaigning in the area, Mack Dawkins and Dennis O’Rourke knew it would take two days of travel to reach their destination.

  O’Rourke, riding next to Hawkins, lit the day’s first stogie after offering one to captain. “My headquarters is in the town of Hope Wells,” O’Rourke said. “It’s right close to the Guerras Reservation.”

  “You got your own headquarters, huh?”

  The deputy marshal chuckled. “Actually, it’s only a desk in a corner of the post office.”

  “Where d’you lock up your prisoners?”

  “I got authorization to use the local jail,” O’Rourke replied. “The Fed’ral government pays seventy-five cents a day for each pris’ner to be fed, but the sheriff only needs twenty-five. That’s fifty cents of extry pay for me.”

  Hawkins thought a moment. “If you could keep some fellah locked up for six months, you’d make …” He started to work out the arithmetic in his head.

  “— ninety dollars,” Ludlow Dooley interjected.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dooley, even if I didn’t ask for any help.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Ludlow replied ignoring the sarcasm. He stood in his stirrups and gazed southward. “I can see where the vegetation gives way to the desert. Beyond that is nothing but a dancing haze in the distance.”

  “Many a man has went in there, but never came out,” O’Rourke commented.

  “D’you remember that Mexican we run across during the last Apache campaign?” Hawkins asked. “He must’ve laid dead out there for two or three years. The poor fellah was dried out and wrinkled like a prune.”

  “He was undoubtedly mummified,” Ludlow remarked. “The heat and dryness drew all his body fluids out. It’s a natural preservation that’s better than embalming.”

  “Well,” O’Rourke said, “whatever kept him from rotting made him look like he’d been dragged face-first through a briar patch. He wouldn’t have been pretty in a coffin.”

  Kawa rode up close to Hawkins. “Tomorrow we reach place to camp. Good place for to rest and get water. You can figger out what we do when we ride into desert where to look for stealed horses. Then we have a fight I think.”

  “I think so too, Kawa,” Hawkins replied. “But it prob’ly won’t be with the whole tribe.”

  “That good. There too many Guerras sumbitch for us to fight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kawa and Istee led the detachment on an eastward track throughout that first morning. Mack Hawkins and Dennis O’Rourke recognized some of the areas they rode through, prompting them into happy nostalgic anecdotes of their youthful adventures. They shared these exaggerated remembrances with a thoroughly bored Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley.

  At mid-day they reached a series of rolling hills, and Hawkins called a halt for chow. It was a pleasant site with a small brook running through it, and everyone was looking forward to a leisurely meal. But Hawkins, impatient and determined, kept the break short, and after only a half hour, everyone was back in the saddles and on the march once more.

  Ludlow rode up to the head of the column to escape the tedious yarns of the captain and deputy marshal. Kawa and Istee didn’t seem to mind the lieutenant’s presence, and the young officer decided to stay with them. The pair cheerfully replied to his questions about the sparse flora and barren terrain of the nearby Tierra Brava. When they reached a sandy portion of the desert that protruded into the greenery, they spotted a rattlesnake twisting its way up to the top of a small dune.

  Ludlow shuddered at the sight of the deadly reptile. “Now I see why they’re called sidewinders.”

  “Good to eat,” Istee pronounced.

  Ludlow grimaced at the thought of swallowing snake.

  In the early evening, the Apache scouts guided them into an arroyo with a small pond in the far back. Hawkins looked around the area. “Hey! I remember this place.”

  Ludlow grimaced. “Tell me about it later, please.”

  Hawkins ignored him. “This is where we pulled in after that ambush back in ‘88. At that time our troop commander was—”

  Ludlow quickly interrupted. “This looks like a good place to set up a bivouac.”

  Thick brush surrounded the oasis, offering cover and protection. The cool water would serve them well for making coffee and filling the canteens and water bags for the next day’s trek.

  The group laid out their blanket rolls, then saw to watering the mounts. Afterward, with the horses grazing on the grass, everyone settled down to enjoy their purchased foodstuffs. The two Apache scouts had no use for canned food or packaged sweets. Their dining would be on tortillas, hot peppers and javelina jerky.

  After all appetites were appeased, Captain Hawkins called a meeting with Ludlow Dooley and O’Rourke along with the two Apaches. He also included Sergeant Eagle Heart. While the senior members of the expedition tend
ed to the operational discussion, the rest of the scout detachment sat together off to the side of the campsite, sipping coffee. The six kept their eyes on the confab, impatient to see what lay ahead in the coming days.

  When they uttered a few remarks now and then, it was in the Kiowa-Comanche patois while Michael conversed in English. After a few moments, the older men made it known that any further conversation would be in the language of their people. It was a subtle demand that Michael respectfully obeyed, remembering his companions couldn’t fully express themselves in the white man’s tongue.

  Meanwhile, Hawkins and O’Rourke discussed the situation with input from both Kawa and Istee. Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley’s idea was to go to the reservation agency directly and speak with the agent about the crime. “One would think that he could obtain what he needed to know from informants,” Ludlow surmised.

  Hawkins quickly nixed the suggestion, pointing out that revealing their presence too soon would alert the Guerras that the Army was now searching for the animals and the thieves who stole them. “Anyhow,” he said, “no self-respecting Apache is going to reveal horse rustling by his fellow tribesmen to soldiers.”

  “Good point,” O’Rourke agreed. “We’ve got to scout this godamn desert and try to find the horses. I figger there’s prob’ly a half dozen or so Guerras who actually stole ‘em. We can make quick arrests and take ‘em away before the others can do anything about it.”

  Hawkins glanced at the two Apaches. “You two know the best places to look.”

  “Yes,” Kawa agreed. “We go at night. More cool so nobody need drink much water, eh? We make look around. When sun come up we not move. Rest and hide for dark again to look around some more.”

  “That’s our best bet,” O’Rourke told Hawkins.

  Istee said, “Maybe not take long time. Two maybe three day.”

  “Okay,” Hawkins said. “That’s what we’ll do. We can relax through the daylight hours tomorrow, then move out as soon as the sun begins to set.”

  “One more thing, Mack,” O’Rourke said. “We’re gonna have to drink sparingly of what water we carry. Remember there ain’t a lot of ponds or creeks out there.”

  “The thieves will be in some hidden oasis,” Hawkins remarked. “Once we find the spot, there’ll be plenty of water.”

  When everything was settled, Eagle Heart joined the lower ranking men. The sergeant poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Tomorrow we go into that burning desert to begin a search for the stolen horses. Kawa and Istee know some places where the Guerras probably have hidden them. There will be two or three guards keeping an eye on the animals, so we must quietly and quickly take them down.” He rummaged through his saddlebags for some crackers and jam. “I learned that the Guerras tribe are old enemies of the Tijones. So Kawa and Istee must be extra careful where they go.”

  “I wonder if they hate each other as much as we Kiowas and Comanches hate the Osages,” Red Moon remarked.

  “I think so,” Eagle Heart replied. “Also, Kawa and Istee said it is most important that our canteens and water bags are filled. There are long distances between sources of water.”

  “Yes,” Michael agreed. “The words ‘Tierra Brava’ are ka-dei ph-gyh in the Kiowa language. Captain Hawkins says the name is what the Mexicans call it.”

  Dark shadows crept into the arroyo as the hours passed. Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke shared a campfire, passing around a pint of rye whiskey that the marshal produced from his saddlebags. The young lieutenant was glad the pair had finally stopped their incessant reminiscing.

  Hawkins tossed the remnant of a well-smoked stogie into the flames. “When we move in on the horse thieves, we’ll have to leave Kawa and Istee behind. Their presence could rile the Guerras so much the whole tribe would turn on us.”

  “That makes me wonder about something,” Ludlow said. “If you used Tijones against the Guerras and the Guerras against the Tijones, why don’t both tribes hate you?”

  O’Rourke shrugged. “It has something to do with their natural attitudes, I guess. The fact that we fought both with and against them sort of even things out in their minds.”

  Ludlow was thoughtful as he took his turn drinking the whiskey. He passed the bottle to Hawkins. “I’m going to start keeping a diary. These adventures I’m having out here on the frontier would make a good book.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Hawkins said. “Be sure and spell my name right.”

  “What makes you think you’ll be in it, sir?”

  “Y’know something, Mr. Dooley,” Hawkins said. “I’ll be spelling your name correctly the next time I write it down on your annual efficiency report.”

  Ludlow immediately replied, “H. A. W. K. I. N. S!”

  “That’s better,” Hawkins remarked with a wink.

  Ludlow continued, “And I’ll put your picture on the cover.”

  O’Rourke laughed loudly. “I never seen anything funnier than the way you two banter at each other.”

  Ludlow grinned. “It helps us cope with certain attitudes toward our methods of running the detachment. A laugh or two smoothes over the frustrations.”

  “Amen,” Hawkins agreed.

  Further conversation was interrupted when Sergeant Eagle Heart called out the first guard relief to take their posts.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A single candle lit the area around the front pews of the Church of Christian Worship in Hope Wells. It was late in the evening, and Pastor Hezekiah Woodward had called a special meeting of Deacon Leo Horton and the three lay brothers Farley Dempsey, Ed Turnbull and Zeke Mason. The pastor had just revealed the purchase of fifty rifles with church funds.

  Ed was confused. “Why’d you do that, Pastor?”

  Hezekiah knew his answer would be difficult to explain to the brothers. “They was bought for the Apaches on the reservation.”

  The blacksmith Farley Dempsey was shaken. “You gave rifles to them Apache Injuns? For the love of God why?”

  “The weapons were requested by the Prophet, Brother Farley,” Hezekiah calmly replied.

  “That’s the Injun that’s a kind of preacher, ain’t it?” Zeke inquired.

  Leo, as calm as the pastor, smiled serenely and answered, “That’s right.”

  “But he ain’t a Christian, is he?” Zeke asked.

  “Nope,” Leo replied. “He’s a savage heathen.”

  Zeke’s dismay was obviously increasing. “Well, I sure don’t like the idea of giving them guns to Apaches. It wasn’t much more’n five or six years ago they was raising hell around here.” He paused in thought for a brief moment. “What kind of rifles are they?”

  Hezekiah answered, “They’re Henry repeaters.”

  Zeke yelled, “You gave Henry repeating rifles to them Apaches?”

  “That’s right,” Hezekiah stated. “And the prophet said they’re gonna be used to kill whites!”

  Ed Turnbull leaped to his feet. “Hezekiah! You just started an Injun war!”

  Farley Dempsey struggled to calm down. “I know you must’ve had a good reason for what you done, Hezekiah. Will you tell us why you think it was a good idea? Will you do that? Please!”

  “I want ever’body to relax,” Hezekiah stated. “Ever’thing I do, is a commandment from the Good Lord. He said that if I kept the faith and go on with the grand plan of the second coming just like I’m told to do, the Injuns won’t even think about killing whites. Instead, at the right time when a roar of thunder and lightning split the sky, they’ll point them guns in the air and shoot just once. The blasts of them rifles will kill all the sinners all over the world. And the righteous will be brought up to heaven.”

  Now the three brothers stared in awe at their spiritual shepherd. Farley exclaimed, “God bless you, Pastor Hezekiah!”

  “This is surely a miracle,” Zeke declared.

  Ed sobbed, “I am so happy to be a part of the second coming. When I think I’ll be able to look into my Savior’s face, I—” He began weeping so h
ard that he couldn’t say another word.

  Hezekiah was also overcome. “Bow your heads, deacon and brothers. Let’s give thanks to the Almighty for this miracle in the great plan he has laid out for his people.”

  The sun had traveled west off the Tierra Brava and was fast sinking into the horizon. The Kiowa-Comanche Detachment along with Dennis O’Rourke, Kawa and Istee were mounted and ready to begin their nocturnal march.

  Mack Hawkins had already explained to the detachment there were numerous arroyos, canyons and gulches throughout the desert. Most had no water, but some had small springs where the precious liquid oozed up through the soil. He ended the short briefing, saying, “So don’t guzzle the water in your canteens. There’s a good chance we might go two or three days without being able to refill ‘em.”

  The desert sky was cloudless as it usually was, allowing the moon to cast a weak illumination over the landscape. Everyone had been careful to arrange their saddles and equipment so that there would be no bumping or rattling of gear as the horses plodded through the sandy soil. Night patrols in Indian country had to be done as quietly as possible. If the native people didn’t hear you, their dogs sure as hell would.

  Hawkins with the two Apaches rode at the head of the column. Ludlow Dooley, accompanied by Red Moon and Michael, brought up the rear. After an hour, Kawa and Istee called a halt. They knew of some ravines that lay ahead that were good places to stash stolen horses. The others waited while the pair dismounted and walked slowly ahead, leading their mounts. They disappeared into the gloom for nearly a half hour before returning.

  “No find nothing,” Kawa announced.

  The column resumed the search, stopping and waiting several times while their escorts moved silently forward into the night. At one halt, Hawkins, Ludlow and Dennis O’Rourke stood close together whispering.