The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “I remember all those ravines,” Hawkins said. “Sometimes you couldn’t see ‘em until you almost fell into one.”

  “Yeah,” O’Rourke remarked. “And most of ‘em didn’t have as much as a single drop of water.”

  “That’s what’s so strange about this godamn desert,” Hawkins complained. “I always wondered where the water came from.”

  Ludlow was quick to explain. “The sources are underground artesian aquifers where pressure pushes the water to the surface.”

  Hawkins frowned. “Just what the hell is an aquifer, Mr. Dooley?”

  “Its porous rock under the ground holding water,” Ludlow replied. “The pressure comes from subterranean streams flowing into it.”

  “By God!” O’Rourke exclaimed. “That explains all that water around Hope Wells. It’s been said there’s a river underground that flows beneath the town.” He laughed. “Folks there told me if you stepped down too hard, you’d find yourself standing knee deep in fresh water.” He grinned. “I actually tried that once but nothing happened. There’s one thing for sure though; plenty of water flows along under that dirt.”

  Ludlow nodded. “That’s what causes the formation of oases.”

  “The Mexicans call ‘em ciénegas,” Hawkins said. “I know a thing or two myself, Mr. Dooley.”

  Further conversation was interrupted when Kawa and Istee returned. “We don’t see nothing.”

  The sun was beginning to pink the far eastern horizon. “Okay,” Hawkins announced. “Let’s start looking for a good place to keep out of sight through the coming day.” He turned and gestured to Sergeant Eagle Heart.

  The scout reported with a snappy salute. “We look for bivouac, Cap’n?”

  “We’ve got to find a depression to hide in. We’ll use the tarpaulins and shelter halves for shade. Remind everyone to go easy on the water.”

  “Yes, Cap’n,” Eagle Heart replied. “Kawa and Istee tell us if water run out, we put pebble in mouths. Make spit come to mouth.”

  “I hope things don’t get that bad,” Hawkins remarked.

  The Apaches left the column again, then came back quickly after finding a deep incline that cut through some fifty yards of the desert terrain. They led the way back to the location, and no time was wasted in occupying the site.

  Within an hour, the night’s relatively cooler temperatures were overwhelmed by the encroaching heat of the Tierra Brava. Tarpaulins were arrange to be supported by tent poles to provide shelter for the horses. Everyone appreciated the protection afforded them by cotton duck shelter halves as the sun’s waves of heat bore down on the makeshift bivouac.

  The next evening, the column formed up again. When all was ready to leave the natural concealment, the same routine of the night before was begun. Kawa and Istee would forge ahead, then return with their reports. Unfortunately, they were all negative.

  Later, at a bit past midnight, sounds of human voices and drums could be discerned in the far distance. It was so faint that a wisp of breeze or a horse’s snort would drown it out. Hawkins immediately signaled for everyone to be quiet.

  Kawa’s keen hearing told him everything. “Guerras!’

  “Mmm,” Istee said. “Far out from reservation.” He looked at Kawa. “We better take look-see.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Hawkins said.

  “Me too,” O’Rourke announced.

  Hawkins put Ludlow in charge of the detachment, and the young lieutenant ordered Sergeant Eagle Heart to organize a perimeter guard to keep watch on all sides of the position. Meanwhile, Hawkins, O’Rourke and the two Apaches set out in the direction of the sounds.

  The four men arranged themselves in a diamond formation for all around security as they led their horses across the course terrain. Their movements were slow and deliberate as they continued on toward what could be a deadly encounter with Guerras warriors.

  After a quarter of an hour it was obvious they were heading toward some sort of ceremony. The reverberations were made up of conspicuous chanting being done in time to drum beats. Both Hawkins and O’Rourke, being familiar with the Apache culture, recognized it wasn’t a preparation for battle.

  Another few minutes of trekking brought the sight of firelight coming from a deep arroyo. When they reached a good viewing point, Istee took the reins of the horses while the two white men and Kawa crawled up to some boulders that offered good cover. The trio gazed down to see a circle of Apache men and women with hands clasped, shuffling sideways in short steps to the rhythm of the drums.

  Now Kawa could make out the meaning of the chants. He leaned close to Hawkins and O’Rourke. “They pray to the Great Life Giver to raise ghost warriors.”

  O’Rourke was totally confused. “What the hell are they doing that for?”

  Hawkins explained, “It’s a Ghost Dance, Dennis. In 1890 the Kiowas and Comanches held one at the agency near Fort Sill. The Indians believed that a messiah would bring back to life all the warriors killed in battles with the whites. They’d reclaim the land and buffalos that were taken from ‘em. And that’s about all I know about it.”

  O’Rourke grinned. “I reckon things didn’t work out that way for ‘em, did it?”

  “Nope. But it scared hell out of some of the whites. They weren’t sure if it was an Indian messiah or Jesus Christ. Also lot of white people were illiterate and superstitious, and they really believed the dead Indians would come back to life.”

  “What happened?” O’Rourke asked. “Did it just peter out?”

  “Yep,” Hawkins acknowledged. “But I’m not sure that’s gonna happen here. We might be facing an Indian war.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Why d’you think they stole those horses?” Hawkins asked. “When they realize the Ghost Dance is useless, they’ll prob’ly get riled up and go on the warpath anyhow. It’ll be short and brutal, and the Guerras will lose. No doubt of that.”

  “Damn!” O’Rourke exclaimed. “They only got one place to attack. And that’s the town of Hope Wells. We better get back to Fort Stryker and tell Colonel Crawford what’s developing out here.”

  Hawkins shook his head. “We’ve got to find those horses. Without those, the Guerras won’t be able to do much raiding.”

  “And if we don’t find ‘em, there will definitely be a war, Mack.”

  “If there is, the scout detachment can handle it. The Guerras don’t have anything but single-shot out-of-date carbines. It was all the treaty allowed ‘em. We’ve got Winchester 73 repeaters. That’s fifteen-to-one gunwise.”

  “Well, Mack ol’ pal, I’ll put my own carbine into the mix.”

  Kawa grinned. “Me and Istee fight too. You damn betcha.”

  “We still have to find those damn horses,” Hawkins reminded them.

  The four men edged back toward the open desert to return to the detachment.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ghost dance ended at dawn. As the exhausted participants headed back toward the reservation, the Prophet and the medicine man Pasimo sat down at a small campfire. Within a few minutes the warriors Halkon and Kuchiyo joined them. All four were weary from partaking in the ceremony — especially old Pasimo — and they fed their faded energy by munching on pinto beans rolled in corn tortillas.

  Halkon, however, was not eating. He gazed into the flames for a few moments, then raised his eyes to the Prophet. “Where is the messiah?”

  The Prophet was taken aback by the impatient tone of Halkon’s voice. “The messiah is wherever the Great Life Giver wants him to be.”

  Kuchiyo was also edgy. “When do the ghost warriors join us?”

  The Prophet frowned. “They will appear when the Great Life Giver desires. Only he knows the exact time to send the messiah to summon them.”

  “We have had many ghost dances,” Halkon complained. “Two or three every seven days. How much longer must we have these ceremonies? Many of our people are growing weary. It is becoming monotonous and interferes with everyday activ
ities.”

  Pasimo was upset with his younger tribal brothers. “You must be respectful! You will know the messiah is back on this earth when you see him.”

  Halkon was not satisfied with the remarks. “We have repeating rifles and horses. We can begin the war now!”

  The Prophet glared at the warrior. “Beware! The Great Life Giver can also take life away! All he must do is wave a hand at an impudent man to kill him.”

  Halkon resented the implied threat. “If we begin our holy war early, perhaps we will suffer losses at first. But as soon as the messiah arrives with the ghost warriors the latest Guerras dead will also be resurrected!”

  Now the Prophet’s temper snapped. “You are an ignorant man! How dare you question the wisdom of the Great Life Giver. He made this world you live in. And now he will save it for you. And he commands to do nothing until he sends the messiah.”

  Halkon stood up. “I am going back to my wickiup.”

  “I too,” Kuchiyo remarked.

  The pair strode to the canyon exit and turned toward the reservation where their wives waited for them. The Prophet took a last bite of his beans and tortilla and chewed thoughtfully. “I sense difficulties where those two are concerned. Do you think they might gather some eager young men and take the horses and the rifles and go to war before all is ready?”

  Pasimo slowly nodded his head. “They are Guerras warriors, wise Prophet. That is my reply to your question.”

  The Prophet showed a fierce scowl. “May the Great Life Giver strike them dead forever if they begin fighting too soon.”

  The first dull light of the day was drifting onto the desert country when Kawa and Istee came to an abrupt halt in their scouting patrol. They smelled horses. They immediately informed Captain Matt Hawkins, and he sent them forward to check out the odor. When they returned, the two Apaches reported the scent was coming from a canyon not far away.

  Hawkins said, “We’d better get over there and see what’s what.”

  Sergeant Eagle Heart was ordered to prepare the detachment for a fight. Michael Strongbow, at the rear of the formation, looked forward to a battle.

  The small expedition carefully approached the site. They snuck up to the edge of the canyon and looked down. There was dried horse dung scattered across the sandy floor. A small stream flowed down the length the far wall before disappearing into a stand of boulders. The ashes of many cook fires were visible behind the windbreak of prickly brush and palo verde trees. It was easy to discern that it hadn’t been very long since the place was abandoned.

  Hawkins led the way to the bottom, and the Indians quickly spread out, searching for clues of who had been there and how long ago.

  Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke stood in the center of the large ravine. “Well,” the captain said. “The sons of bitches have moved the stolen horses to another location.” He took a deep breath. “That’s a bad sign.”

  “It sure as hell is,” O’Rourke agreed.

  Istee came walking up with a shard of clay that was part of a broken jug. “See this! It has Guerras medicine pictures painted on it.”

  Hawkins took the hunk of kiln-cured clay. “Yeah. It’s Guerras all right. There’s our proof they were the ones who stole the horses.”

  O’Rourke was pleased. “On the other hand, this will save us a hell of a lot of trouble. We won’t have to hunt for the animals now. We can go to the reservation and demand that the thieves be turned over to us.”

  Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley was confused. “Why don’t we follow the trail to where the horses have been moved? We can take prisoners and drive the animals back to Fort Stryker.”

  “Protocol,” Hawkins replied. “We aren’t allowed to make arrests or take possession of any animals or goods without the cooperation and permission of the reservation agent.”

  “Right,” O’Rourke stated. “And since I’m a deputy United States marshal I have the authority to demand help from the agent when it comes to arresting lawless Injuns.”

  “What about Kawa and Istee?” Ludlow asked. “They’re deadly enemies of the Guerras. Surely they shouldn’t reveal their presence to their worst adversaries.”

  The pair of Tijones Apaches took notice of their names being mentioned.

  “Kawa and Istee can fill their canteens here and go back where we bivouacked yesterday,” Hawkins answered. He turned and looked for Sergeant Eagle Heart who was getting the horses watered. “Sergeant! Ready the men to resume the march.”

  Kawa and Istee led their horses over to the stream and let the animals drink while they filled their water containers. Both were relieved they wouldn’t be required to go with the detachment. Their present companions didn’t number enough to stop the Guerras killing them slowly over fires.

  Hawkins took a direct route to the Guerras Indian Reservation. They arrived in the afternoon, riding directly to the agency store. The scouts remained in their saddles while the two officers and marshal dismounted.

  The Apaches loitering in the vicinity came over to inspect the strange sight of uniformed Indians. The reception was the same it had been at the Tijones Reservation. The local inhabitants recognized the similarity in race, but noted there was something very different about these fellow aborigines.

  “Hawkins! O’Rourke!” someone yelled out.

  The two turned to see Pontaro walking up to them. O’Rourke grinned. “Hello, old friend. I’ve been wanting to find you.”

  Pontaro gave him a quizzical look. “You not soljer no more?”

  “Nope. I’m a marshal and live in Hope Wells.”

  The Apache turned his attention to Hawkins, noting the shoulder straps on his uniform. “You no more sergeant?”

  “That’s right,” Hawkins replied. He wasted no time in saying, “We’re looking for horse thieves here. We know they’re Guerras.”

  Pontaro shook his head. “No horse thieves here.”

  “What about the ghost dance?”

  It took the Apache a great effort to hide his angry surprise at the query. “No Ghost Dance here!”

  Hawkins knew he would get no cooperation from the former scout. “Maybe I’ll come see you later.”

  Hawkins led the way into the store with Ludlow and O’Rourke behind him. A man stocking some shelves with cooking utensils, turned at their entrance. He nodded to them. “Hello, Marshal O’Rourke.”

  “Hello, Mr. Larimer. These here fellers are Captain Hawkins and Lieutenant Dooley of the U.S. Army.”

  “So I see,” John Larimer said, offering his hand. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  O’Rourke continued. “I’m here to place some horse thieves under arrest for rustling herds near Fort Stryker. We have solid evidence they’re Injuns living here on the reservation.”

  Larimer was surprised. “I haven’t seen any evidence of horses other than those legally possessed by the tribe.”

  Hawkins stepped forward. “They have recently moved the stolen animals from the first place they hid them out on the Tierra Brava. Now we know for sure it was Guerras warriors who committed the crime. We want them turned over to us.”

  “I don’t know if I can help you or not, Captain. If I make an investigation, I’ll find no culprits. The robbers certainly are not going to step forward and admit their guilt and their fellow tribesmen will not reveal who they are.”

  Hawkins was not deterred. “Over in Fort Sill and Fort Lone Wolf in the Indian Territory, we handled situations like this by denying rations and other goods. It was a cruel thing to do, but eventually, the culprits stepped forward to keep their families and friends from unnecessary suffering.”

  “I don’t think that will work with Apaches, Captain.”

  “It might take longer, but the results will be the same,” Hawkins argued. “Frankly, I don’t think Apaches are as intelligent as Kiowas and Comanches.”

  “They’ve survived for eons in the worst environment on this continent,” Larimer said. “Believe me, that takes intelligence.”

  “I fou
ght Apaches for a few years,” Hawkins replied. “I’m not saying they’re dumb; just stubborn and brave as wolves. Death doesn’t frighten them.”

  “I perceive them much differently than you,” Larimer insisted. “However, by Federal law, I am required to honor your request. I shall make a sincere attempt to seek out any horse thieves among the tribe.”

  “I appreciate that,” Hawkins said. “By the way; are you aware your Apaches have been practicing the Ghost Dance Religion?”

  “Oh…so that’s why the people have been acting so strange lately.”

  “I’d say so,” Hawkins stated. “We had one such event at Fort Sill in ‘90. Even some over-religious whites thought it meant the return of Jesus Christ and the less educated ones feared the Ghost Dance would achieve its aims of all whites being killed. Sitting Bull himself was the leader of that movement. But he ended up being accused as a charlatan. That pretty much brought the event to a close.”

  Ludlow Dooley couldn’t remain silent any longer. “Have you seen a leader around here?”

  “Not a leader,” Hawkins corrected. “A prophet. Have you discovered one preaching to the people?”

  “If one of the tribe is acting as a priest or something, I’m not aware of it,” Larimer replied. “And if a stranger has come onto the reservation, he’s avoiding making contact with me.”

  O’Rourke considered the interview over. “All right, Mr. Larimer. Do your best. We’ll be back to check things out with you. Me and the officers are going over to Hope Wells for a spell.”

  Hawkins said, “I’d like for my detachment of Indian Scouts to bivouac near here. With your permission, of course.”

  Larimer walked over to a window and looked out at the uniformed Kiowas and Comanches. “I’ve heard of the U.S. Scouts but this my first chance to see any. Mmm! Mighty imposing fellows, I must say.” He returned to the shelves. “They are welcome to stay here, of course.”

  “Thanks,” Hawkins said. “They’ll go with us to get a good feed for their horses. Then I’ll bring ‘em back here.

  “Well, boys,” O’Rourke said to Hawkins and Ludlow, “I’ll take you into the great metropolis of Hope Wells, Arizona Territory.” He paused. “It’s got a pretty damn good saloon.”