The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Ludlow glanced over at O’Rourke in a silent plea for backup, but the ex-sergeant major only shrugged.

  The column plodded through the hot night under the pale light of a desert moon. Not one cloud was in the wide sky, and this gave every indication of the hellish heat that would greet them at dawn. Every man knew enough to personally ration the amount of water that was left in his canteen. When that precious liquid was gone, they would have to share the remnants in the water bags. There would be nothing for the horses, meaning the animals would last no more than four or five days. That would result in the men trudging on foot across the arid countryside to certain death.

  They licked dry lips in the night heat as the two Tijones scanned the ground to their front. Captain Hawkins ordered flankers out to provide security. The renegade Guerras could easily launch a sneak attack if they discovered they were being pursued.

  The rising sun in the east glowed pink and ominous. Although only barely above the horizon, the heat of the fiery orb was already being felt on bare faces. Ludlow Dooley rode up beside Hawkins. “Are we going to settle down during daylight hours, sir?”

  The captain shook his head. “We’re at a point where we can’t stop until we find water.” He grinned. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Remember how we thought it was rough going up there in the Rocky Mountains where there was plenty of water? We didn’t know how good we had it.”

  “How ironic,” Ludlow replied without humor.

  As the sun rose higher, the heat waves dancing in the distance increased until there were times when Kawa and Istee disappeared from view in the wavering apparitions. By now the last swallows of water from canteens had been taken. From that point on, everyone took the advice of the Tijones scouts and put small pebbles in their mouths to keep the saliva flowing. Ludlow did the same though he knew it was more for comfort than a cure. It wouldn’t be long before the natural fluids in their bodies decreased at a fast rate.

  “Dehydration,” he commented aloud to himself.

  Hawkins looked over at him. “Did you say something, Mr. Dooley?”

  “No, sir.”

  Hawkins called a halt at mid-day so that the last of the water in the bags could be poured into empty canteens. Everyone now had a third of a canteen to slake their thirst. The horses showed their growing distress when they snorted at the odor of the water.

  Corporal Tall Bear muttered, “Horses die then we die.”

  It was mid-afternoon when Michael Strongbow saw trees in the distance. “Water!” he yelled and rashly pulled out of the formation to gallop toward the oasis.

  Sergeant Eagle Heart stood in his stirrups and ordered him to halt in the Kiowa tongue, “Hanei, bou zeipga!”

  But the young man was too excited by the prospect of water to heed his sergeant.

  Eagle Heart, still speaking Kiowa, waved at Swift Horse. “Strong Bow is crazy. Chase him and bring him back here.”

  Michael’s eyes were on the trees as he urged his horse to a faster pace. Then the green colors wavered and suddenly disappeared. The only thing in sight was empty desert. The young man reined in and stared at the spot where he thought there was an oasis.

  Swift Horse rode up beside him. “What is the matter with you, Strong Bow? Are you trying to run away?”

  “No,” Michael replied. “I saw trees over there where water might be. But it all disappeared.”

  The two rode back to the column where a very angry sergeant was waiting. Eagle Heart scowled at the youngster. “What are you trying to do?”

  “Nothing, Uncle,” Michael replied using traditional formal Kiowa rather than army terms. “I swear to you I saw trees over there. Then they disappeared.”

  Ludlow Dooley joined them. “What’s going on?” When Michael explained himself, the lieutenant understood. “What you saw was a mirage, Scout Strongbow. It happens in places like this.”

  Michael was shocked. “Does some demon put them out there to laugh at us, sir?”

  “It may seem so,” Ludlow replied. “But it’s a natural phenomenon.”

  Michael, angry and embarrassed, rejoined the column.

  The Tijones scouts led them across a flat, particularly barren section of land, turning farther south when they reached a dusty and empty river bed. The patrol rode listlessly along the bank. Dennis O’Rourke eyed the terrain feature with a slow shaking of his head. “I’d hate like hell to be here during a winter thunderstorm. The water would be running through that channel like a flood out of hell. It’d crush and drown anybody down there.”

  “Yeah,” Hawkins agreed. “But it’d be a quicker death that dying of thirst. It’s just another crazy—” He abruptly stopped speaking.

  “What’s the matter, Mack?”

  “Look down there, Dennis! Along the bottom of the far bank.”

  O’Rourke swung his eyes in the indicated direction then let out a whoop! “Grass! There’s blades of grass down there!”

  Hawkins signaled a halt, then he and O’Rourke eased their horses down to the riverbed, riding over to the green growth. Both swung out of their saddles and kneeled down, feeling the dirt.

  “Good God Almighty!” O’Rourke bellowed. “It’s damp! There’s water under there.”

  Hawkins stood up and yelled at Ludlow. “Mr. Dooley, tell Scout Strongbow to come down here with that spade of his!”

  The order was quickly carried out and Hawkins took the tool from the young scout. He stabbed the blade into the grass and dug out a hole. The small excavation began to fill up with water.

  “Son of a bitch!” O’Rourke crowed. “I’ll be a godamn son of a bitch!”

  Hawkins signaled to Sergeant Eagle Heart. “Get the detachment down here, Sergeant. We’ve got work to do!”

  The spade was given back to Michael, who was ordered to dig out holes every five paces down the bank. Each one filled with water and the horses were finally given a first chance to drink. A short time later Kawa and Istee returned to discover the happy new circumstances.

  Eventually the water in the holes lowered perceptively, but slowly filled back up after a few minutes. It took the greater part of an hour for the horses’ collective thirst to be satiated, and when they’d taken their fill, attention was given to the empty water bags. With that done, the final intake went into personal canteens.

  It was still as hot as a tin roof in August, but this life-saving luck put everyone into a happy mood. Water was poured on hats and shirts so that the rapid evaporation from the sun would cool down head and body temperatures.

  Everyone was filled with an energetic enthusiasm as the column formed up to continue the patrol.

  The railroad tracks were discovered a couple of hours after the joyful intake of water. The column came to a halt as everyone rode up to take a look at the rails that came and went between the far horizons.

  O’Rourke chuckled. “Well, boys, d’you know what this is?”

  “Sure, Dennis,” Hawkins said. “It’s a godamn railroad. That’s what it is.”

  “But what railroad is it?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

  “Well, ol’ comrade-in-arms,” O’Rourke announced, “this here is the Arizona and New Mexico Railroad. If you look to the southwest, it’s heading for the Southern Pacific Railroad.”

  Ludlow spoke up. “That’s the one we took from Houston, Texas to Sherman.”

  “Exactly, Lieutenant,” O’Rourke continued. “And if you look to the northeast, where you think that’s coming from?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “From Hope Wells, Arizona Territory right close to the Guerras Apache Reservation.”

  Hawkins was silent for a moment, then loudly announced. “This mission is not over. We’re heading for Hope Wells to make another call on that reservation.” He looked across the tracks at Kawa and Istee. “You two fellahs might as well get back to your own reservation. Don’t forget to stop by Fort Stryker to pick up your pay.”

  “We do that, Cap’n,” Kawa said. “It good for to see you and O’
Rourke again.”

  “Same here,” Hawkins said.

  Istee showed a rare grin. “You come for us when you want next to fight godamn Guerras sumbitches.”

  “We’ll do that,” Hawkins promised.

  The two Tijones glanced over at the scouts, saying goodbye in Apache sign language. The scouts returned the farewell in the ways of the Kiowa and Comanche tribes.

  As the pair rode off, Sergeant Eagle Heart barked orders to form a column. With that done, Hawkins hollered, “For’d, at a walk, March!”

  Ludlow exhaled a sigh of relief. “Ah, civilization! What a lovely word.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The people on the main street of Hope Wells, Arizona Territory stared at the column of nine horsemen riding slowly into the business area. The strangers, except for one, wore sweat-encrusted army uniforms covered with the whitish dust of the desert. The ninth man was a civilian whose clothes were in the same condition. The gawkers quickly recognized him as Deputy United States Marshal Dennis O’Rourke. At about that same time they discovered there were six Indians wearing army uniforms.

  “They was here awhile back,” one wag announced.

  His pal remarked, “It looks like they’re the worse for wear, don’t it?”

  Sheriff Dan Martin, sitting in a chair on the boardwalk outside his office, got to his feet and gave the new arrivals a wave. O’Rourke brought his horse to a stop and looked down at the lawman. “Howdy, Sheriff.”

  Martin’s gaze at the group was one of pure puzzlement. “Where in the world have you fellers been? You look like you just came back from hell itself.”

  Captain Mack Hawkins grinned. “We’ve spent a few days out on the Tierra Brava.”

  “Same thing,” Martin said, grinning back. “And I’m glad to see you and Dennis. We’ve got a situation going on here that needs some looking into.”

  “Anything serious?” O’Rourke inquired.

  “It could end up that way mighty quick.”

  Hawkins asked, “Can it wait long enough for us to clean up and tend to our horses? This uniform of mine is begging to be changed.”

  “I suppose,” Martin said.

  “Fine. We’ll stable the mounts and set up a bivouac. See you in a couple of hours.”

  It was actually early evening before Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke were able to return to Sheriff Dan Martin’s office. The arrangements made for the horses at the livery stable and organizing a bivouac north of town took longer than expected. That included Sergeant Eagle Heart and his men having a swim in the creek running alongside the campsite.

  Meanwhile, the two officers and marshal sought their cleanliness in the back of Leo Horton’s barbershop. They relaxed and leisurely soaked away the desert dust and fatigue in his bathtubs. The only drawback was that the religious barber wouldn’t allow any liquor to enhance the comfort and relaxation.

  After the clean-up and a change of clothing, they headed down the street to the sheriff’s office. Martin and his deputy Arnie Schmidt were a bit edgy by the delay when the trio showed up. Chairs had been arranged around the office, and the visitors settled down while Martin sat in his usual place behind the desk. Arnie, preferring to stand, took a position at his boss’ side.

  Hawkins, figuring it was a community matter rather than something for the Army, let O’Rourke lead the conversation. “Well, Dan, what’s on your mind?”

  “It’s a crazy state of affairs involving the local church,” Martin said. “Particularly the preacher.” He glanced at Hawkins. “And this is prob’ly gonna involve you too, Cap’n.”

  “I’m all ears,” Hawkins remarked in surprise.

  Martin divulged the strange sermon of Pastor Hezekiah Woodward the Sunday before. The fact that he had announced the imminent second coming of Jesus Christ caught the three visitors’ collective attention. But the information that the Guerras Apaches were part of the religious event made the expressions of surprise change to ones of concern.

  Dennis O’Rourke was astounded. “What could those hellions have to do with Jesus Christ coming back on earth?”

  Martin shrugged. “Hezekiah said they would be the instrument to kill all the sinners in the world and send ‘em to hell.”

  Hawkins snorted, “Then they can start by killing off themselves!”

  “I think it’s a lot of hooey,” Martin admitted. “But plenty of people here in Hope Wells are upset. The believers and the non-believers are yelling at each other. Some of the church members have marched into the saloon and started trouble. Husbands and wives ain’t speaking, and the kids are scared to death.”

  “You got some big trouble all right,” Hawkins commented.

  Sheriff Martin continued, “But what’s got me worried is that Hezekiah said that God hisself is talking to him and telling him what to do about this whole rigmarole. And that includes giving spiritual and material help to the Injuns so they can do what’s expected of ‘em.”

  Ludlow, who had been reared in the Episcopal Church, stated, “Spiritual aid isn’t very disturbing. But what material help are they giving them?”

  “I tried to find that out from Leo Horton,” Martin replied. “But he was perty much close-mouthed about it.”

  “The barber?” Hawkins asked. “What’s he got to do with an appearance on earth of Jesus Christ?”

  “He’s the deacon of the church,” Martin explained. “In a manner of speaking, he’s Hezekiah’s right-hand man.”

  O’Rourke turned to Hawkins. “Maybe we should go have a talk with Hezekiah. He’ll know more than Leo since he says God is talking to him. He owns the dry goods store down the street.”

  Hawkins rolled his eyes. “So are we to understand that the end of the world is being overseen by a shopkeeper and a barber?”

  Ludlow stated, “It’s plausible where the Christian religion is concerned. Remember that Christ’s disciples included fishermen and even a tax collector.”

  “I’ll take your word for that, Mr. Dooley. I haven’t been to a church more’n four or five times in my whole life. And those were in military chapels at weddings and funerals.”

  O’Rourke pulled a freshly-purchased cigar out of his shirt pocket. “Well, I think me and Mack and Ludlow had better have a word with Hezekiah and lean on him a little bit.”

  Martin interjected, “I think you’d better start with Leo Horton. I could tell he was nervous when I talked to him. He’s more of a follower than a leader.”

  “That’s what we’ll do then,” Hawkins announced. “His shop’s undoubtedly closed right now. We can give him a howdy-do first thing in the morning.”

  O’Rourke stood up. “Right now I hear a bottle of rye calling me from the Dessert Saloon. Anybody inter’sted in joining me?”

  The invitation was answered with an immediate and unanimous acceptance.

  The canyon where the ghost dances had been held was crowded with armed warriors and horses of the Cuadrilla. Young Muchino was also there as a newly inducted member of the war society. He and every man were armed with a Henry repeating rifle and also carried knives and hatchets stolen from the reservation trading post.

  An hour before, at sunset, that building had been looted then set ablaze. Now it was no more than a smoking pile of lumber, collapsed onto the charred corpse of John Larimer the agent. He had been thrown into the flames, escaping several times only to be thrust back. Eventually, collapsing from the exposure to heat and smoke, he crumpled to his knees, fell forward and was burned to death.

  With that done, Halkon sent several warriors out to find the Prophet. He wanted to hack the man to pieces with a hatchet in front of the tribe to demonstrate that the outsider had made a serious miscalculation regarding the ghost warriors. But the old medicine man Pasimo had anticipated the threat, and hid him under blankets in his wickiup.

  During the attack on the trading post, the tribal women keened encouragement to the warriors. The females were hysterical with happiness at the realization that their beggary and poverty were co
ming to an end. Halkon, Kuchiyo, Pontaro and others who had been locked away in the prison back east would soon lead them to a magnificent victory.

  Now, at the Ghost Dance canyon, Halkon began the preparations to once more wage war against the whites. Pontaro and a small group of men were tasked with raiding the train depot and destroying the telegraph equipment. That would cut off any chance of the townspeople being able to summon help.

  While that was being done, Arlo Wheatfall’s ranch would be attacked to get more horses and keep his crew of cowboys from aiding the people of Hope Wells when it was raided.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Captain Mack Hawkins and Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley ate their breakfasts at the detachment bivouac north of town. They sat in the dirt while dining on hardtack and salt pork the same as the scouts. As soon as possible, the officers would go on a shopping trip to purchase some decent canned and packaged food for the detachment.

  Dennis O’Rourke appeared at the bivouac after a restful night in his bed at Widow Benson’s boardinghouse. He had enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast of eggs, biscuits, bacon, pastry and plenty of hot coffee. He felt like a new man as he dismounted.

  “Well, are you fellers ready to make a call on Leo Horton?”

  “Just as soon as we saddle our horses,” Hawkins replied.

  O’Rourke chuckled. “If you two officers was in a reg’lar outfit, you’d have enlisted soldiers to take care of chores like that.”

  “True,” Ludlow agreed. “But we wouldn’t trade a single one of our scouts for a dozen troopers.”

  “I can go along with you on that,” the marshal said. “You got yourselves a mighty fine set of fighting men.”

  “You godamn right,” Hawkins agreed, slurping down a last swallow of coffee. He got to his feet and shouted over to Sergeant Eagle Heart. “Sergeant! I’ll be gone for a spell. Take charge.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the trio cantered out of the bivouac and turned down the main street of town. When they reached Leo’s barbershop, they entered to find him shaving a customer.