by Chuck Tyrell
After the pie, the men carried their coffee mugs out to the dog run. Wilder dug out a short pipe and thumbed tobacco into it from a leather pouch. He held the pouch out to Stryker, who refused. Then to Sparrow, who took it. He too had a small pipe in his notions pouch, which he filled with Wilder’s tobacco. Stryker sipped at Blessing’s special acorn-flavored coffee while Sparrow and Wilder puffed.
“You can bunk in there with Sparrow,” Wilder said, gesturing toward the west wing of the little ranch house.
“Hope you don’t snore,” Sparrow said. “Good way to get dead out in the desert.”
Stryker said nothing, but he gave Sparrow a small grimace and a shake of his head. He didn’t snore.
Later, as they lay in their bunks, Sparrow said, “This Alberto, is he a good warrior?”
“The stories say he is very good.”
“Stories?”
“When a man does something unusual, like Wolf Wilder holding off Masai’s warriors and saving his lieutenant’s life, people tell stories. Sometimes they make songs about it, too.”
“Hmmm.”
Stryker turned toward the wall and shut his eyes.
“Stryker?”
“What?”
“I should not ask,” Sparrow said, “but I would know how your face got so scarred.”
Stryker said nothing. He heard Sparrow shift on his bunk, then shift again. “Some men attacked Saif, my stallion,” he said. “And when I went to help him, they roped me like a calf and dragged me to a saloon called Old Glory. There, they held me, four of them, while a man called Jake Cahill smashed up my face with fists full of lead.”
“Fists full of lead?”
“A man’s fist is not hard enough for some. So they make hunks of lead that fit into their hands and use them when hitting another man. Knuckles with lead inside made the scars.”
“Jake Cahill?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
Sparrow lay silent for some time. Stryker was almost asleep when he heard Sparrow say, “Good.”
Stryker woke before sunrise, but Sparrow was already gone. He dressed and quietly went to the washstand behind the house to dash the sleep from his eyes and the remaining cobwebs from his brain.
“Breakfast,” Blessing called. The dawn now outlined the Mogollon Rim, and dew wet the grass in front of the ranch house. The milk cow lowed for her calf. Blessing came out with a wooden bucket. “Eggs and bacon on the table, Matt Stryker,” she said. “Please help yourself. Sparrow has eaten, but Wolfman and Darry are in there. Marcia the milk cow calls me.”
“Thank you, Blessing,” Stryker said. The smell of fried bacon and hot biscuits taunted from the doorway, so he went to have the last home-cooked meal he’d get for many days to come.
Stryker mopped the last of the bacon grease from his plate with half a saleratus biscuit and took a big bite. Wilder and the boy had already gone outside, so he took his time chewing and reflecting on the pleasures of home life. Stryker never had a home life to speak of. He’d served in the Union Cavalry along with the boy general George Custer, but not finding soldiering to his liking, Stryker took to wearing a badge. Marshal, mostly, as he wasn’t a politician, but sometimes he’d hunted men for the price on their heads.
Sparrow stuck his head in the door. “When you planning on leaving here?” he asked.
“The sooner the quicker,” Stryker said. He popped the last bit of biscuit into his mouth, shoved his chair back, and stood. “Better get my stuff together,” he said.
Sparrow held out his gun rig. “The rest is on the zebra,” he said.
“Zebra?”
“The horse Wilder said for you to take.”
“Oh.” He held his hand out for the gun belt.
Sparrow hung it on his hand.
He buckled the belt around his hips and positioned the Remington and the Bowie in comfortable places. Without a word to Sparrow, he strode outside toward the ketch pen behind Wilder’s barn. Saif’s head came up when Stryker rounded the corner of the barn. Wilder stood at the pole fence, one foot up on the lowest rail.
“Don’t think I‘ve seen a better horse than your Saif,” Wilder said. “Too bad he’s black.
“I never said I’d ride your zebra,” Stryker said.
“Know that, but I’m sending Sparrow with you. He’s my wife’s brother and he came here to learn from me how to live in a white man’s country. ‘Course that’s not saying I do too well at it.”
Stryker said nothing.
“So I can’t let you go into desert country with that big black. And that’s where you’ll be going, mark my words. Ride the zebra. He’s good horseflesh.” Wilder waited a moment, and then said, “Please.”
Stryker whacked a corral pole with his leather gloves. “I hear you, Wolf. One thing. You probably noticed, but Saif’s been half castrated. I don’t know if he’s got enough juice to get any of your mares in a family way.”
“Let me worry about that,” Wilder said.
“He’s pretty much a one-man horse, but he’ll let you hang around once he’s used to you. Wouldn’t try to ride him, though.”
“Matt, I’ve been handling horses since I lived with Black Kettle and the Cheyenne.” Wilder’s face showed the pain of his memories. The corners of his mouth bowed downward and the lines from his nostrils to his mouth deepened. His eyes seemed to smolder. “Matt. I know horses. Trust me with yours as I trust my brother with you.”
Stryker scuffed a boot toe in the dust at the base of the ketch pen fence. “Wolf, Saif got cut because I didn’t take him with me to Fletch Comstock’s office. I was too far away when I heard him scream. I just don’t want to let him down again.”
Wilder laid a hand on Stryker’s arm. “A good horse is a lot more than some men deserve. You’ve got a good one. You deserve him. I’ll keep him fat and sassy, so you make sure to come back.”
“I hear you, Wolf,” Stryker said again. “I’ll ride the zebra. Me and Sparrow’d better start making tracks if we want to get to Globe City.”
The trail to Globe City followed Lone Pine Canyon to Cherry Creek, then across Black Mesa to Salt River. Stryker and Sparrow camped below the falls northwest of McMillanville and the Stonewall Mine. They turned west to follow Salt River to Pinal Creek, then moved south toward Globe City. Stryker rode the zebra dun and Sparrow a black-stockinged lineback buckskin. Neither horse stood out in the dry broken country they moved through.
Globe City mined copper and silver. Its buildings along Broad Street were of stone, but down Pinal Creek and up along Santee Street, a village of Mexicans provided cheap mescal and fiery chili con carne y frijoles. Stryker rode the zebra all the way to Herado’s, part eatery, part rooming house. “We’ll stay here tonight,” he said as if Sparrow didn’t know why they stopped. “You can put the lineback in Ortega’s at the bend in the road. I’ll go check the telegraph office and maybe stop by Sheriff Bozworth’s office.” He went silent for a long moment. Then he said, “You’re welcome to come with me. Two sets of ears hear better than one.”
“I’ll go,” Sparrow said. “We better stay together.”
“You’re right, Sparrow. Hang on.” He dismounted and went into Herado’s. Moments later, he returned. “We got a room,” he said. He mounted and reined the zebra onto Santee Street, heading back toward Broad. They dismounted at the Western Union on Broad and Hill streets, and went into the tiny office. “I’m Matthew Stryker. Anything waiting for me?”
The clerk finished clicking out the message he held in his hand before answering Stryker. “Matthew Stryker you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t remember anything for you, but let me have a quick look.” He clutched a handful of yellow flimsies and flipped through them. “Nope.”
“OK.” Stryker and Sparrow left Western Union.
“Sheriff’s office?” Sparrow said.
Stryker pulled out his bandana to swipe the tears from his face. “Ye
ah,” he said.
The courthouse stood on the corner of Broad and Ash, a massive four-story structure of native red sandstone. Sheriff Bozworth’s office was inside, and the jail was out back. “Chances are the sheriff will be in,” Stryker said, “If the Grahams and the Tewksburys haven’t taken to fighting up to Pleasant Valley.”
They looped the reins over the hitching post and climbed the steps to the big front door.
“I’ll take your hardware,” said a burly guard as they entered the building. Stryker unbuckled his without complaint. Sparrow did likewise, but didn’t like it. “Don’t look sour at me, boy,” the guard said. “’T’weren’t me what made the rules, ‘t’was Sheriff Bozworth. No guns inside the courthouse.”
“Where can we find the sheriff?” Stryker asked.
“I reckon in his office. I ain’t seen him slip out yet today.” The guard grinned at his own lame joke.
“Obliged.” Stryker motioned to Sparrow and they made their way around the corner and down the hall to the Sheriff’s Office. Stryker rapped on the door.
“Come.”
“Sorry to bother you, Franklin,” Stryker said as he opened the door.
“Matt! Long time no see.” Bozworth stood, holding out a hand about the size of a bushel basket.
Stryker stepped into the office and shook Bozworth’s hand. “Don’t want to take up a lot of time, Frank. Just needed to touch bases on our way through.”
“Is that young Jaime Sparrow I see?”
Sparrow, too, stepped into the room. “Thank you, Sheriff, for helping my family. You know that Wolf and Blessing have a son. His name is Darragh.”
“I’ll be damned. Darragh. That’s good. Damn good.” Bozworth sat back down. “Now. Did you have something specific you wanted to talk to me about, Matt?”
“Ness Havelock’s got me looking for Alfredo McLaws,” Stryker said. “Have you heard anything about him lately?”
“You know, there was a shave tail lieutenant here in Globe with a squad of 9th Cavalry buffaloes. They were talking about Alfredo. Seems scouts out of Cibeque ran into him over in the badlands just across into New Mexico. He had a chance to kill a scout called Norrosso, but didn’t. Called him brother, the looie said. Claimed Alfredo was headed southwest into the Mojave.”
Stryker glanced at Sparrow. “Looks like we got our work cut out for us. We’d better get on the road.”
Sparrow nodded, and led the way out of the sheriff’s office.
Chapter Five
Alfredo McLaws holed up in the shade of an overhanging bank in a wash that had seen no water in a very long time. Where graythorn would grow along most washes in most deserts, none grew in this godforsaken place. The strawberry’s blood he’d drunk was long sweated out, and the tinaja with the dead horse in it lay many miles to the east. Still, he only walked at night. During the day, he stayed out of the sun, sometimes moving as the sun moved to stay within his bit of shade. His canteen was empty, but he did not throw it away. The Ballard .50 was heavy, but he kept it slung across his shoulders.
The sun began to sink into the craggy mountains to the west. The Chiricahuas. The river east of the mountains was mostly dry, but Alfredo knew of two water holes on the mountain slopes. Sulphur Springs and Muddy Hole. Twenty miles. Not an impossible distance. Usually.
Alfredo slept by day. The dry air sucked moisture from his body, turning him into a living mummy. His cheeks caved in. His sinews turned into strings that held other strings of muscle together. His chapped lips cracked and showed dark splotches where blood rose to the surface, only to dry on the spot.
Twenty miles.
Alfredo paid no attention to the glorious sunset that painted the cotton ball clouds above the Chiricahuas with reds and oranges and pinks and gold. He would walk on when the light was gone. Be nice to have a horse, but he could do without.
At dark, he set out. He stepped with care and anyone following him would have thought he zigzagged from lack of strength. In truth, he zigzagged to take the easiest path, to avoid cholla, to get ever nearer the upheavals of stone called Chiricahua by their Apache residents.
The moon rose and the desert seemed light as day. Alfredo could now see a dark line across the horizon beneath the blue shadows of the Chiricahuas. He searched his memory for a name but found none. Yet green trees, ironwood and velvet mesquite, most likely, signaled water. Alfredo trudged on, his eyes always returning to the promising green line after sweeping his surrounds for signs of danger.
When the moon was directly overhead, Alfredo found a patch of prickly pear. Most of the pears were too small and green to eat, but several, enough for the moment, were starting to turn purple. Alfredo plucked them and used his Bowie to shave the tiny spines from their skins. When he finished, he found he had eleven pears. They’d taste better roasted, but who could be choosy? He bit a pear in half, chewed a couple of times, and swallowed.
The bits of pear didn’t want to slide down his parched throat. He chewed longer on the second half, and when it swallowed, it took the first half with it into his stomach.
Eleven prickly pear fruits, masticated and carefully swallowed, did not quench his thirst. But they did give his body liquid that helped lubricate its workings. He shouldered the Ballard .50 and trudged onward.
By the time he reached the trees that lined the banks of a broad dry creek bed, he’d found and devoured three more stands of prickly pear. His body had not felt so fluid for some hours. Now, to find water. He turned south and followed the streambed.
A mile or so downstream, the creek bed jagged sharply around a rocky ridge. If there was water, it would be where the stream curved. Alfredo chopped a wrist-thick branch from an ironwood tree. His Bowie trimmed and sharpened the stave as if it were cutting through a thick steak. The prickly pears awakened hunger in Alfredo for something more substantial; something red and meaty. He shook his head, leaned the Ballard .50 against the ironwood tree, and started digging.
Sand had built up in the sharp curve of the waterway, so Alfredo’s sharpened ironwood stave gouged out a reasonable hole without much effort. The moon waned but he could still see the light-colored sand. Down about two feet, the sand went dark. Alfredo knelt and dug out a handful. It was wet.
Another six inches and the sand was wet enough to drip. Six inches after that and water accumulated in the hole. Alfredo sat back and let the sand and dirt settle out of the water. As the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, he lay his canteen carefully into the puddle of water. He pushed it down gently, and waited while the water trickled in the mouth. So far, he’d not tasted the water, but its smell told him it was not alkali. When the water again reached its natural level, he tipped the canteen up. Three quarters full. He pulled the bandana from his head, wet it thoroughly, then squeezed the water into his canteen. Before the sun was hot, he had a full canteen and was holed up in a fissure on the other side of the ridge. Time to wait out another day. He drank from the canteen. Then drank again. He could top it off after sundown.
Sparrow sent a smoke up from the mountain the Army called Pickett Post. At dusk, a barred owl hooted outside Stryker and Sparrow’s camp. “Friends,” Sparrow said and hooted back.
Six Apaches came into the firelight from six directions. “Glad they’re friends,” Stryker said.
“They will help find Alfredo McLaws,” Sparrow said.
“Why?”
“Because I asked.”
Stryker nodded as if he understood, which he did not.”
The Apaches squatted around the fire. Sparrow poured coffee into his cup and added what looked like half a cup of sugar. He handed the coffee to the nearest Apache, who drank and nodded, then passed the cup to the next man.
“These come from my father’s rancheria. Soon they will have to move to San Carlos to live with the Mescaleros. Right now, they are free.”
Stryker cut bacon into his small frying pan and set it on the coals. It would stretch their supplies to feed eight men. Sparrow talked to the Apaches in low ton
es, and as he spoke Apache, Stryker had no idea what he said. Wolf Wilder trusted Sparrow, so Stryker trusted him. After eating half the bacon Stryker bought in Globe City, the Apaches left as silently as they had come.
“We will soon know if Alfredo McLaws moves in Apache land,” Sparrow said.
“How?”
“The Jicarilla and the Mescalero and the Chiricahua and the White Mountain and the Warm Springs tribes will watch.”
“Better than trying to find him all alone,” Stryker said.
“We must take him. They only help find.”
“That’s our job.”
From Pickett Post, they followed the San Pedro past the rocky Santa Catalinas. The lights of Tombstone showed long before they arrived. County seat of Cochise County, Tombstone boomed like any town that sat on top of rich deposits of silver or gold. While thousands labored in mines more than five hundred feet deep, the rest of Tombstone’s citizens labored to find ways to relieve miners of their earnings and mine owners of their profits.
U.S. Marshal Bill Meade worked out of Tombstone, and Stryker knew him from Silver City years. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to talk to the marshal.
Stryker and Sparrow camped near the San Pedro and took turns watching the night away. “You’re welcome to ride into town with me,” Stryker said, “but I suggest you stay on the far side of Allen Street for any entertainment you might want. Folks in a town get funny ideas about what makes a man righteous.”
“Never saw so many men in one place,” Sparrow said.
“Other places got more. San Francisco. New Orleans. St. Louis. Lots of folks can be good, and it can be real bad.”
Tarpaper shacks and plank-and-batten cabins clustered in clumps on the outskirts of Tombstone, but after Safford Street, it was all tidy buildings with painted false fronts and tidy, if dusty, streets.
“Matthew Stryker!”
The shout rang out like a challenge.
Sparrow pulled the lineback off to one side where it would not look like he was with Stryker. Under his serape, he pulled his 4-inch Colt Frontier.
