by Chuck Tyrell
“That’s when Autie Custer got his.”
“I was in the Ninth, sir.”
Canby nodded. “Good. As of now, you are Captain Roberts of Company A, Nogales Guard.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Canby nodded again. “Choose yourself a master sergeant, Mr. Roberts.”
“Yes, sir,” Roberts did an about face toward the recruits. “Hal Raven,” he called.
A large dusky man near the rear of the recruits replied, “Hal Raven here.”
“Front and center, Raven,” Roberts barked.
The big man slouched his way to front of the men.
“You’re master sergeant of Company A,” Roberts said.
Canby inspected the big man. “You look half-breed to me,” he said. “Roberts, you want to put a goldam breed up in front of your troops?”
“By your leave, sir. He’s the best man I know. I want someone I can depend on. If we’re going to be doing any fighting anyway.”
“Harrumph. Very well. It’s your company. Pick fifteen men, Mr. Roberts. They’ll be the core of Company A. I’ll fill up your roster when more recruits arrive.”
“Sir!” Roberts replied. He took Raven aside and they held a heated if quiet conversation. Then Raven went through the ranks and picked fifteen recruits for Company A.
Company A had five tents for the men, two for the sergeants, and one for the company commander, Clifton Roberts. Nighttime found Roberts and Raven in the officer’s tent, drinking from a bottle of Old Potrero and discussing the Nogales Guards.
Raven belched.
“She-it, Raven. You’re a master sergeant now.” Roberts’s voice slurred and he sounded churlish.
Raven’s reply came hard and succinct. “What I wanna know, Cliff, is where the gold is and when we’re gonna go for it.”
Just past midnight by the stars, a javelina crashed away from Stryker and Sparrow, snorting and grunting its indignation at being disturbed. And in the half-light of the false dawn, a cougar coughed, then coughed again from an outcropping near their trail.
“The puma thought we might be something good to eat,” Sparrow said, speaking for the first time since the outskirts of Tombstone.
They crossed the Mexican border sometime before daybreak. They took no special precautions and the animals of the desert knew to avoid their path.
Stryker and Sparrow both let their horses pick the southbound trail. The horses weaved in and out of the cholla, avoided the giant saguaros, skirted clumps of mesquite and palo verde. With their mounts in charge of finding a way through the desert jungle, neither man had to pick cholla spines from his legs.
Dawn spread a line of light across the eastern horizon. “When will we see smokes,” Stryker asked.
Sparrow shrugged. “When there is something to say,” he said.
The first smoke appeared when the sun was a finger’s breadth above the horizon and the day’s heat had started to make itself felt.
“Alfredo has holed up for the day,” Sparrow said.
Another smoke went up, far to the south.
They pushed their reluctant horses on into the heat of the day, but stopped hours before the sun reached its zenith, and took cover beneath an overhang in one of the arroyos that lay across the land. Sparrow went to the high ground to check for smokes.
Stryker dozed.
“He’s not far away,” Sparrow said when he returned.
Stryker started. Better not sleep that way. I’ll be dead. He dabbed at the tears. Damn. Even the desert don’t dry up my tears. “What d’ya think, Sparrow?”
Sparrow said nothing. He went back to his high spot, and soon Stryker saw a thin smoke rising.
“Sparrow,” Stryker said when the young man returned. “Can we split up for a day or two?”
Sparrow nodded.
“You find Alfredo. Talk to him if you can. Tail him if you can’t. I’m going into Nogales to get a look at the little army Bills and Canby are putting together. OK?”
“I don’t like it, but OK.”
“Why don’t you like it?”
“Who’s going to protect you if I’m not there?”
Stryker grimaced a smile and swiped at a tear. “I’ve spent most of my life with no one to wipe up after me,” he said. “That’s what we’ll do then. Let’s get a little sleep. I’ll leave at sundown.”
“Watch for smokes, Stryker. Follow them when you leave Nogales.”
“I will.” Stryker turned his face to the rock wall, pillowed his head on his arm, and seemed to go to sleep. Sparrow shook his head, then slipped from the overhang to send another smoke. “Son of Puma comes,” it said. “Would talk with Yaqui.”
Chapter Eight
Jason Bills considered his investment in outfitting a military unit. It cost him a significant amount. But with a deep-water port, with all the land between Nogales, Yuma, and Puerto Peñasco ready for purchase, with all the mineral wealth hidden in the forbidding Sonora Desert, and with all the right of way the Southern Pacific railway would require for its spur line, the return on the investment should return many times, no, many hundreds of times the original outlay. At times like this, Bills could not resist rubbing his hands together and chuckling with glee.
He sat in the lounge room at Harry’s. A large fireplace of sandstone dominated the back wall. Navajo rugs acted as tapestry and covered the floor in front of sofas and easy chairs. Doors at either side led to the saloons, and a large door opened on the main thoroughfare from Mexico, a skinny two-cart excuse for a camino real. The jug on the low table in front of Bills held lemonade, with no alcohol in sight.
One of the side doors opened and Miguel entered at his habitual half-trot. “Perdon, jefe, perdon.” When he reached Bills in the easy chair farthest from the door, his breath came faster than normal.
“Yes, Miguel, what is it?”
“Un hombre, jefe. Un hombre muy malo.” Miguel’s eyes showed their whites all around, so frightened was he of the “very bad man” in the saloon.
“What might that have to do with me?”
“This hombre asks for you, jefe. He asks for Senor Jason Bills. He wants you, jefe. No one but you.”
Bills lifted his large head and looked down his long nose at Miguel. “Then show him in, Miguel. Show him in.
Miguel stood completely still for a long moment. “Si, jefe. Si. I will show him in,” he said in a tone that meant no man such as the one who wished to speak to Jason Bills should ever be allowed into the lounge at Harry’s place. He backed to the door, turned and re-entered the saloon.
No sooner did the door close than it opened again.
“Come in, Mr. Lyle,” Bills said, when he saw who had entered.
Sid Lyle strode across the room, straight and tall, dressed completely in black.
“If you want a drink, there are several kinds of rat poison in the cabinet,” Bills said.
“What’re you drinking?”
“Lemonade. I find alcohol tends to make hot hotter.”
“I’ll have some of that, then.” Sid Lyle took an empty glass from the sideboard and helped himself to Bills’s lemonade. He downed the drink in gulps, then refilled the glass. “A little sweet, but OK,” he said. “Now. Tell me what you’re cooking up that would make me want to be an officer in your house guard.”
“Oh my. Not my house guard. Not by any means.”
Sid Lyle’s gray eyes bored into Bills as he sipped his second glass of lemonade. “You’re footing the bill, right? And knowing what I know about you, I don’t reckon you’d put out all them greenbacks without a lot better than even chance on getting a lot more out than you put in. Ain’t that so?”
Bills said nothing. There was no easy answer that he was willing to divulge. “A monthly wage of two hundred and fifty dollars is not enough, then?”
Lyle merely looked at Bills, deadpan. “Some’ll do anything for loot,” he said. “They’re usually not thinking of more than the next shot of whiskey and poking some handy dove. Not me. What’s going down? What
do you figure on doing that’ll take a hundred men?”
“Protect Nogales, of course.”
Bills’s comment didn’t rate a reaction from Sid Lyle. He swallowed more lemonade.
“Have you heard of the 19th parallel movement?” Bills asked.
Lyle shook his head.
“Some feel the Gadsden Purchase sold Arizona short. By rights our southern border should extend along the 19th parallel all the way to the Sea of Cortez.”
“And you’re gonna make it happen?”
Bills fixed his eyes on the glass of lemonade in his hand. “Someone must,” he said.
“By what right?”
“By Manifest Destiny. It is our birthright.”
“No shit. You think God wants Arizona and Jason Bills to own all that desert land out there? You serious?”
Bills drew himself up. “What God wants is moot. God doesn’t get mixed up with little things like that. God sets the overall scene. Men make it happen. And you could be one of those men, Mr. Lyle. You could.”
Sid Lyle gulped down the rest of his lemonade. “You’re crazy,” he said. “Thanks for the drink. And if you ever ride the stage again, I’ll be there to make sure it’s a safe run.” He stood. Touched his hat brim with a forefinger. “Luck,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.” He chose neither of the saloon doors but took the main door out of the lounge and into the street.
Bills wondered if he’d said too much.
“Alfredo. Alfredo!”
The sun neared the western horizon and the rocks in the arroyo where Alfredo McLaws shaded up had lost some of their heat. The voice calling his name was undoubtedly Apache. Alfredo said nothing.
The voice spoke in Spanish. “We come, Alfredo. As you did not kill Norrosso, so we have no desire or intent to kill you. The Sparrow, son of Chief Puma of the Vulture Valley Jicarilla, wishes to speak with you.”
Alfredo made no reply, but he didn’t slink away through the cholla, the swallow wort, and the yucca. He sat under a sandstone overhang where the only way to attack was from the front.
He heard two men approaching long before they appeared. He could only assume they were men, as no woman would walk through the desert at this time in this place. He could only assume they took no care to hide the sound of their approach. He could not assume they had no desire to harm him.
They stopped when they were still out of sight. “Alfredo. My name is Gondalay of the White Mountain Apaches. Norrosso is my cousin, but I do not work as a scout for the horse soldiers.”
Alfredo said nothing, but he left his rifle leaning against a rock close at hand. And he always had his Bowie on his belt.
The sound of footsteps came again. Then two men stepped into the sandy bottom of the wash where Alfredo shaded up.
“Alfredo. Buenos tardes. Me llamo Gondalay. El es Sparrow, el gorrión.”
“¿Qué desea hablar?”
Sparrow spoke. Gondalay translated.
“I am known as Jaime Sparrow among white men,” he said. “I live and work with the man Apaches call Yudathir. His mother was Cheyenne and his father was white. Many white men call him ‘breed,” but he is stronger than they are. I learn from him.”
After listening to Gondalay’s translation, Alfredo nodded. “Bien,” he said, but somehow it looked like he understood what Sparrow said before the translation.
“Something strange is happening,” Sparrow said, “and my friend would talk to you about it.”
“¿Quién es él y dónde está?”
“His name is Matt Stryker. I hear Mexicans call him Caracortada because his face is scarred. Perhaps you have heard of him, as he is a great manhunter.”
Alfredo shook his head.
“Someone stopped a Hale & Hodges stage at Mule Pass. They say it was a robbery. But every person—driver, shotgun rider, people inside—all were killed. Someone says it was you, Alfredo McLaws, and they put a very large bounty on your scalp.”
“No lo robe,” Alfredo said.
“We know that you did not,” Sparrow said, “but we must have you accompany us back to Arizona to meet with Havelock.”
“No.” Alfredo scowled. He killed no one. He had nothing from any stagecoach. Just a letter of promise to his chief.
“Then we will wait here until Stryker comes. He would speak with you, regardless.”
One of the Apaches spoke to Sparrow. He listened, then said, “Alfredo. My companion, who is also related to Norrosso, whose life you did not take, he says there is a more comfortable place to camp nearby. Will you join us?”
Alfredo considered his options. He knew not how many Apaches surrounded him, but certainly more than he could see. The young Mexican-looking man who called himself Sparrow but could not speak the Nakaye language, impressed Alfredo as a man speaking with one tongue. If they led him to a good campsite, there would be water. He could refresh himself and prepare for whatever action he must take.
“Bien,” Alfredo said. “Vamanos.”
Sparrow turned on his heel, exposing his back to Alfredo, and walked away. Obviously he expected Alfredo to follow, which he did. In fact, he followed Sparrow for two hours, angling slightly toward where the sun would set.
In the foothills of a rocky range called Ameriquilla, an Apache stepped from his cover behind a large flowering yucca. He said something to Sparrow, who said, “Not far now. A little north.” Gondalay translated.
“Bien,” Alfredo said for the fourth time.
They ended up in a small blind canyon with a spring that bubbled up at the junction of two rock walls, then disappeared into the thirsty desert sand within a hundred paces. The walls offered protection on three sides, and the profusion of Fremont cottonwoods, red willows, paloverde screened them to the south. Further away, the ever-present cholla, yucca, and prickly pear, made approach even more hazardous.
“Aqui,” Sparrow said. He motioned Alfredo into a cut in the north wall. The cut widened into a cavern with a sandy bottom and a fireplace that had often been used by those who knew how to find this hiding place.
Stryker rode through the night, keeping to a westerly direction by the stars and letting the zebra dun choose the way. A dozen kinds of cactus dotted the land, but it was no jungle. The zebra stepped confidently through the cacti. None brushed the horse or his rider.
In the gray of the dawn, Stryker hit the stage road that ran north and south from Tucson to Nogales. He reined the zebra onto the road and headed him south as the sun pushed its way over the horizon. Cactus wrens began their chatter, and zopilote buzzards rode the thermals off the desert in search of carrion. Sunlight hit the western edges of a cut the stage road went through, and Stryker searched the heights for movement. No one knew he was coming, but that didn’t keep him from staying alert.
Halfway through the cut, he could hear the sounds of encampment. Breakfast would soon be on, he surmised, and the men were shaking off a night’s sleep.
Stryker emerged from the cut to find the Nogales Guards spread across at least twenty acres to the east. He slowed the zebra to a leisurely walk and watched the morning begin. With the usual bandana, he wiped the tears from his cheek.
The bandana went back into its customary pocket. In a comparatively open space, Stryker reined the zebra to a halt. He dismounted, stretched, and began to inspect his horse’s hoofs. Twice he took out his Barlow knife to dig at a rock or trim some frog, and he casually glanced at the encampment from time to time as he worked.
Someone had spent a good sum. The tents were new and lined up with military precision. Wagons stood off to one side. Some were empty, others had yet to be unloaded. A mess tent stood uphill of the encampment, and cooks bustled at fixing the morning meal. A bugler called reveille, and men poured from their tents. By the time the last notes of the bugle call drifted away, the men were in formation. Stryker quickly counted them. Sixty four in formation with sergeants in front. Three apparent officers strode to position in front of the formations. None of the Guards were in uniform, but one gro
up stood out. The men lined up as if they’d been in the army before, and the big man who shaped them up seemed to know what a sergeant was supposed to do. They were dressed right and ready before the others, and the noncom braced and saluted his officer. “A Troop present and accounted for, sir.” Stryker could hear his words well in the clear morning air.
One man strode to the center of the formations. No doubt he was Arthemus Canby. He alone stood in uniform, a tan affair with black stripes on the legs and black-and-gold epaulets on the shoulders. The sleeves had black braid just above the cuffs as well.
Stryker loosened the saddle cinch and took the bit from the zebra’s mouth so he could crop at the sparse grass along the roadside. With a handful of the grass, Stryker began rubbing down the zebra, as any conscientious rider would after a long night’s ride.
“Men!” Canby’s voice carried well and there was no doubt the men heard him. “This is your first day as Nogales Guards. You have volunteered for service that will surely write your names upon the annals of Arizona history and that of the nation as well.”
Canby began to pace back and forth in front of the men. “Today, you will first take your morning meal. The mess tent is up and the cooks have prepared your breakfast.”
A small cheer went up.
Canby stopped. “Men! Save your enthusiasm for something more courageous that eating army mess.”
He started pacing again. “After mess, you will draw arms. Those of you who have sidearms, draw ammunition. The quartermaster will tell you how much. If you think your saddle gun is better than the Henry rifles we would issue you, again, draw ammunition.
The rising sun heated the day and Canby stopped to mop at his face with a bandana. “Your uniforms will be here today, so I’ll expect you to form up tomorrow in proper dress.”
Canby stood directly in front of the middle troop. He addressed the officers. “Gentlemen. Send your troopers to mess. Then drill them on the parade ground until they learn how to look like soldiers.”
“Sir!” the officers shouted, then repeated Canby’s orders to the sergeants, who lined up the men and marched them to the mess tent. Stryker tossed away what was left of his handful of grass, pulled the zebra’s head up, waited until he stopped chewing, then put the bit back in. After tightening the cinch, he nonchalantly mounted and rode into Nogales slack shouldered and swaying with the zebra’s gait.
