by Tony Masero
“Got yourself a little paradise here then?”
“Reckon I do, mister. There’s not much of civilization that I miss, though I do yearn for a good cup of coffee now and then and that’s a fact.”
“It’s your lucky day then, old timer. Got a sack in my saddlebags. Here, I’ll get us some, you rustle up a pan and some water and we’ll have us a brew.”
“Mighty nice of you, stranger. Guess I’ll take you up on that.” He rose quickly and scurried into his dome-shaped skin-and-sapling home and returned with a battered saucepan and two mugs and set about making a small fire.
“How’d you get to be here?” Guardeen sat back down with the coffee sack in hand.
“Started out prospecting. Looking for that lost Spaniard gold they all talk about so much. Darned hocus, that was. All I got was a Mescalero squaw and bit by a snake. She died, I didn’t.”
“The Indians leave you alone?”
“Oh, they come and go. For the water, mostly. Sometimes they stop by and sit a spell, just for a visit.” He shrugged. “They don’t bother me none an’ I don’t bother them.”
“You know of a gang of white men down here. Military types. Up in the Montañas de las Lagrimas?”
The old man glanced up from where he crouched over the fire, a fistful of coffee grounds in his hand. He sighed sadly. “I gave up lying when I settled here, son. Swore before my Maker I was leaving behind pernicious ways. All that sin and shame found out there amongst civilized society. So I must tell you true, though I’d rather not speak of it. Yes, I know of them.” There was a bitterness in his voice and the old man dropped his head so Guardeen couldn’t see his eyes.
“You don’t like them, I guess?”
“What’s your call on this, stranger. Why you want to know about them?”
“Might be, I’d like to pay them a visit.”
The old fellow looked into the bubbling water in the saucepan. “I can see by your cut that you’ve probably been a military man in that great waste of human effort called the War Between the States. You a Confederate supporter or a man of the Union.”
“I wore the blue not the gray.”
“Then you should avoid the Montañas de las Lagrimas. You won’t be welcome there.”
“That I know already.”
The old man sighed again and took the pan of boiling coffee and poured it into the two mugs. “I got some sweetness here, if you want?” He held up a grubby gourd full of dark liquid.
“I could sure do with some sweetness in my life an’ that’s the truth. But what is it that you have there?”
“Honey. Got a hive up yonder.”
Guardeen chuckled. “Man, it surely is paradise here.”
“S’right. Don’t need nobody, don’t want nobody.” He slurped the coffee. “Oh my! That sure is good. It’s been a while since I tasted real coffee.”
“I’ll leave you some.”
“Kind of you, fella. Appreciate it.”
They sat silently for a while, enjoying the coffee. The heat of the day built up and flies attracted by the sweet honey gradually became an annoyance.
“So tell me about these Confederates in the mountains yonder.”
The old man sniffed. “They’re mean folk. Like most of their kind who can’t leave killing alone, they’re not given to generosity or understanding. They abuse the Indians, who hate them as a result. They take them as slaves to built the monstrosity they’ve created up there. A great tower of Babel constructed out of blood and adobe. They march and shout, fire guns and taint the pure mountains with their presence. I’ve got no time for them.”
“So if I was to approach this place of theirs, how would I be greeted?”
“With fire and brimstone, brother. They rule with cruelty. Whippings and such. There is a wooden crosspiece set standing in their square where they practice their tortures on the unfortunate. That being the Indians or any poor white soul who wanders by and they suspect of spying on their irreverence.”
“But you got up there and back safely.”
“So I did. But I’m old in the ways of wild places. I know how to come and go with the silence. Not everybody can do that, you know.”
Guardeen smiled. “I know that and I guess you’ve got the way of it. So, will you show me the place you saw all this from?”
“’Tis a high place. It stands above them. A mountain ledge that looks down on their arrogance from on high... Shall I show you? And why should I do that now?”
Guardeen gave him a winning smile. “Because I asked you real nice.”
The old man chuckled rustily. “Because you gave me coffee is a better reason. I’ll take you there, friend, but after that, you’re on your own. I want no part of what you’re about, for I smell it’s made of blood and death and my life road lies in a different direction now.”
“I’m grateful to you. We’ll do as you say but just maybe what I’m about is saving lives in the long run.”
“Tah!” The old man spat in the dying fire. “The biggest bullshit justification for slaughter I ever heard. The greater good! There is no damned greater good, only God in heaven is great and good and the last time He was down here He didn’t fare too well, did He? So right now, I guess we’re mighty far removed from any real resolution such as the ‘greater good’.”
Guardeen waited patiently until the old man had finished his tirade. He said nothing only stared down into the embers.
“I’m getting tetchy.” The old man calmed. “Guess I seen too much and lived too long. My patience has worn real thin.”
“Don’t concern yourself. I guess we’ve all got our reasons for what we do or don’t do.”
“Tomorrow suit you?”
“Sure. What do they call this place in the mountains?”
“Fort Phoenix is their name of choice; guess they means to rise from the ashes of their defeat.”
“Or replace another of the same name.”
The old man’s eyes widened and he sighed sadly. “That a fact. My, my. What men will do for a mite of power.”
“I’m Nick Guardeen, by the way.”
“Sure. Benjamin Wade. Least that’s my given name. Was a time when I couldn’t dare say it aloud.”
“Ben Wade! Yes, I’ve heard of you. Long time back, wasn’t it? Over in Yuma.”
“Uhuh.” Wade nodded. “But that’s the past Mr. Guardeen. I’m not like that any more. No more outlawing for me. The years in between have seen to that.”
They left before dawn. It was a long and uneventful dusty ride in the heat of the day. And by the next evening, they’d reached the approaches to the mountain range. Montañas de las Lagrimas, its gray peaks appearing as sad as their name implied. The Mountains of Tears. A cold granite range that rose abruptly and gloomily in strange contrast to the hot red ochre dust of the plain. It was almost as if the two men approached a shift in time and place delineated by the sudden alteration in color and texture. An atmosphere pervaded the place as if a darker entity made from ancient gods ruled the shadowed rock that rose above them.
“They say,” said Wade in a hushed tone, “that when the old Indians, the Nahua, came through here on their way south, a branch of the tribe broke off and settled in the mountains. Some kind of religious differences. Don’t know what their rites and rituals involved but they do tell there were dark deeds done here. The local Apache avoid it when they can, say it’s alive with the dead, if you can believe that.”
Guardeen looked up at the bleak peaks. “Sure doesn’t appear very welcoming.”
As he spoke, five buzzards broke from their high roost and flew away from the rockface and glided in slow lazy circles over the precipice. Guardeen frowned at the unfortunate coincidence. “Hope that’s not some kind of omen.”
Wade shrugged. “Give that sort of nonsense credit and you might as well stay abed come morning. Birds got to fly, like we got to walk. That’s all there is to it. Now, look here. We have to circle around along to that cut.” Wade indicated a darker crack
ending in a cavernous hole carved from one side of the sheer range; it ran like a trickling tear down the face of the pale granite cliff face. “They’ve got watchers out all around except in that cavern. Then we’ve got a climb in front of us. Through the cave to a chimney in back, then up aways. It’s as narrow as a cupboard in there, so its back to the wall and feet on the other side then work your way up. Without a sound, mind, so best lose those spurs. We hobble the horses and leave them here.”
As the evening shadows lengthened and purple darkness crept across the foothills, they set out, lariats looped over their shoulders and weapons strapped to their backs. The rough ground was heavy going and yet Wade moved over it as a ghost gliding on silk, while Guardeen even with his training as a skirmisher still stumbled over shrubs and rocks.
“Hush up,” hissed Wade. “You’re making more noise than a whole troop of cavalry.”
Guardeen took the reprimand silently and, in the deepening gloom, concentrated on following in Wade’s footsteps. A wind rose as the desert temperature dropped and a breeze of cool air dragged them towards the sun warmed cliffs rising high above them. Guardeen shivered as the chill struck his sweating back.
“In here,” Wade whispered, grasping his arm and pulling him quickly into a narrow crevice.
Guardeen was about to speak when the old man’s rough hand clamped over his mouth. He watched as two shadows darker than the night outside silently passed the opening of their hiding place.
“They’re your men,” Wade said, lips close to Guardeen’s ear. “Johnny Reb guards set on their patrol.”
Guardeen was impressed: the two men had made no sound and moved on as silently as they came. If it had not been for Wade’s sharp senses, he would have walked right into their arms.
“It’s safe now, come on,” whispered Wade, setting off like a shadow along the rising wall of the precipice.
They reached the cavern and slid inside. Guardeen slumped down on a rocky seat. “How the hell’d you know they were coming?”
But silence was his only answer. Wade had vanished into the deeper shadows within the gloomy cavern. “Wade? Where you at?” he called softly.
A shape suddenly loomed out of the darkness. “I’m not Wade. Who are you? Y’all new around here?” Then, suspiciously: “Wait a minute, no one’s allowed out after Final Orders. Who the Sam Hill are you?”
A rifle barrel gleamed in the darkness as the muzzle rose to point at Guardeen’s chest. Guardeen swallowed, his mind racing. “Messenger,” he said quickly. “Down from Phoenix. Got orders here.”
“Is that so? Who sent you with them? Give me a name.”
Guardeen’s mind ran through the likely options. “Er ... it was Clitus Leatheridge with a message pouch for Mr. Wyatt.”
The shadow shook its head. “Leatheridge? Don’t know the man. And we call him Commander Wyatt around here, there’s no ‘mister’ about it. Turn about fella and unload your hardware. We’re heading back up to the fort. You got some questions to answer.”
He prodded Guardeen threateningly with his rifle barrel. A quick, sharp warning jab. Not close enough for Guardeen to grasp the weapon, just enough to let him know the man meant business. “Guess it’s lucky I came in here for a call of nature,” the man went on. “Never would have spotted you otherwise. Now do as I told you, shed those weapons, before I nail you right where you stand.”
There was a brief swish of movement in the darkness. A pressure of air and a liquid gleam of silver rippling in the dim light. The guard stumbled and made a gurgling noise, dropping his rifle to the dusty cavern floor. He fell to his knees and tumbled face down in a crumpled heap.
“Damn you, stranger!” Wade’s voice spilled out of the darkness. “I’ve given up all these murderous ways and kept to the straight and narrow for nigh on ten years now. Along you come and I got to slice me a man right away. Now look what you did. I have to go find his partner afore he comes looking, so you get along and find that chimney at the back of this cavern. Can you do that without causing me more grief?”
With that, he was gone. Guardeen never saw Wade amongst the shadows, only felt the air movement as he passed. Despite his irritability, he was relieved the old man was with him and not against him; with night skills like he possessed, no man stood a chance.
Hands outstretched, Guardeen felt his way along the dry stone walls into the darkness, searching for the chimney at the rear of the cave. The cavern narrowed as he moved deeper inside, the darkness creating a sensation of compression, as if the walls were closing in on him. Finally, he squeezed through a gap barely wide enough to take his body. It was then he felt the quickening of air, the strong cold uprush that blew chill behind him as it rushed through the narrow funnel to find its release above. The strong draft plucked at his clothes with renewed force and he grasped his hat brim to prevent it blowing off. He stopped and peered up; far above was a crack of darkness lighter than the rest. He was at the base of the chimney.
“I see you found it.”
Guardeen jumped in surprise at the old man’s voice next to his ear. He’d neither heard nor felt the man’s approach. “Hell! Where’d you come from? You sure you’re not a dead man walking, you get around so danged quietly I believe you just left your grave.”
“Told you.” Wade chuckled. “I know the ways.”
“You get that other guard?”
Wade answered with a warning. “We have until they change the guard before they know there’s something amiss. Probably be at the midnight hour; that gives us plenty of time to get aloft. So start climbing.”
With his back to one wall, his feet on the other and his blanket and weaponry in his lap, Guardeen began stepping up the narrow crack. The walls were worn smooth by millennia of wind-driven sand and it made the going somewhat easier as he slid his way upwards step by step. After fifteen minutes though, his thigh muscles were trembling and his legs shaking with in spasm with the effort.
“Rest up a while,” whispered the old man. “I’m going round you. It’s not far ahead now. I’ll get on up there and fasten a rope. Make it easier for you getting up. You know,” he grumbled as he worked his way around Guardeen. “For a young fella, you’re mighty unfit.”
“Hey, I’m not used to this,” Guardeen complained in an offended tone. “I usually let a horse do the legwork,”
“Yep, I know. You young folks, these days. Why use the pins God gave you when you can monopolize four long legs from some dumb animal who doesn’t know any better.”
Guardeen decided not to argue and kept an irritated silence as Wade made his way into the blackness above. “Old coot!” he muttered to himself when the old man was gone.
A few minutes later, a lariat snaked down and struck him across his upturned face. “I heard that,” Wade whispered. “Grab a hold and get up here.”
Guardeen came up like a cork from a bottle. He fell over the edge of the crack onto flat rock and instantly felt his surroundings expanding into a wide-open space with the night sky above.
“Here you are,” Wade said, coiling his lariat. “You’re on a plateau overlooking the Fort Phoenix now. Come the day, you’ll see everything plain. Keep your head down and make no noise and they’ll not know you’re here. Set yourself up quick descent route with the rope, so its ready if you need it.”
“Where are you going?”
“I told you, I want no part of this. I’ve already broken my resolve when I killed those men. I’ll be going before they miss those two sentries. You’d best watch your step when they do. It’ll be like you’ve turned over an ant heap.”
“Okay, Mr. Wade, I’m obliged for all your help.” He reached out a hand into the darkness and the old man shook it warmly.
“Luck to you, Mr. Guardeen. I’ll take your horse, can’t leave him out in the open. ’Sides, I’ll need to get one hell of a lot of space between me and here before morning, so I’ll need both of ’em. It’ll help you anyway, look like two men lit out away from here. They’ll be less likely to th
ink one of us is still sitting around. You can pick the pony up back at my place when you’re done.”
“As you say, Mr. Wade.” But he spoke to himself, as the old man was already gone.
Lit torches and loud cries from below brought Guardeen out of an exhausted sleep. The sentries! They’ve found the sentries, he guessed. Over the edge of the plateau pinpoints of light hurried here and there. The haloos of searching men, the jingle of harness and squeals of horses rose up in an echoing cacophony of troubled noise. He hoped Wade had made good his escape. He thought it unlikely that anyone could catch the wily old goat. He gave one final look at the chaos below then rolled over and fell asleep again.
The sun climbing around the peaks finally woke him again. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, checked that his Sharps was to hand and crawled to the plateau edge for his first look at the renegade complex, Fort Phoenix.
A flat valley bed lay below him. An area scraped out between the mountains by huge glacial movement millions of years ago. Surrounded by mountains on three sides, the valley gave way to a broad opening at one end. A road ran through this gap. It was a busy road, overlooked by guard towers and a chain of gibbets, hanging trees that displayed the grisly remnants of a few human forms dangling in the windless air. The straight and wide road ran directly in through protective walls and an open gateway to what had once been an early Indian ziggurat, a giant four-sided pyramid of hand-cut stone steps that rose to a high flat platform. On the platform had been built a large, newer rectangular structure, part lookout and part redoubt, and from its roof fluttered the crossed bars and thirteen stars of the Confederacy.
High walls encircled the pyramid at ground level with a wide shooting step inside the rim. Around the inner wall at ground level were located a series of buildings in various sizes. A cookhouse was obvious from its smoking chimneys as too were the stables with their wide-doors. Other structures appeared to be a number of long barracks and some administration buildings. There were a collection of storerooms, a blacksmiths and even a small jailhouse with barred windows. All were built with the bleak military simplicity that called for nothing more than efficiency. They faced inwards from the walls and encompassed a large flat area that encircled the base of the ziggurat. At one end of this parade ground and standing in front of the main entrance gateway was a large X-shaped structure made from crossed timber beams.