He shook his head. “Captain, thing is, we didn’t get the guy. I mean, we got him, but we didn’t bring him back. He was shot at least twice, an’ maybe as many as four times, plus he fell that far an’ went into the river.”
Stanton said, “An’ plus, it’s floodin’ right now, so there’s prob’ly water moccasins everywhere. That’s what my dad used to say. Fast water where it’s usually calm is where there’s usually water mocs.”
Court said, “An’ what we were doin’ there, up at the Johnson Ford I mean, we were comin’ on a pretty straight course from Fort Perry. Wanted to make it back in two days. There’s a little place on the Canadian near some desert willows on one side and a big ol’ cottonwood on the other. It’s usually about belly deep an’ not very wide. Pretty good ford. So that’s where we crossed on the way up.
“But when we got to the same place on the way back, it was floodin’ bad. So that’s why we were goin’ down to the wider ford at Mr. Johnson’s place. Even there the water was belly deep to a horse an’ it usually ain’t deeper than a foot or so. An’ then we—”
The captain held up his hand. “Hold on. So where’s Ranger Philby now?”
“Oh, sorry, Captain. We buried him up there on Mr. Johnson’s place. He, uh—” Court looked away for a moment. “Ranger Philby told me more than once he’d like to be buried right there along the Canadian.” Then he smiled at the rest of the memory. “Only he always added that he wasn’t in no particular hurry.”
The captain just nodded. “Well.” He nodded again. “I’m just damn sorry to hear that, Court. I know you were close.”
“Yes sir.”
“Listen, tomorrow’s soon enough for the debrief on the rest. Unless you can think of anything else I need to know right now, you men go get some rest. Get some sleep and be in the office at say 10 tomorrow morning. I’ll have the others there then too.” He stood and clapped Court on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He glanced at Stanton. “Blake, you get some rest.”
Stanton nodded. “Yes sir.”
Court said, “See you in the mornin’, Captain.”
He opened the door, and he and Stanton went out into the hallway.
Stanton clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’ll go tend to the horses. I’ll see you all in the mornin’, Court.”
Court looked at him and nodded. “Thanks, Blake.”
Stanton nodded and went downstairs.
*
Corporal Edwards went straight to his room when he and Stanton left the captain, but as he had expected, he was unable to sleep. He waited a half-hour to give Stanton time to get back from the livery and head up to his own room to get some sleep.
A few minutes after he heard Stanton pass in the hallway, Edwards went downstairs. It was half past one a.m.
When Court reached the bottom of the stairs, he angled to the right past the front desk and walked into the saloon. It was deserted except for the night bartender, who seemed to be busy closing up the place.
As Court approached the bar, the barkeeper put down a glass he was wiping. “Get you somethin’, Court?”
“Beer, please.” He glanced around, then back to the bartender. “Big crowd, huh?”
Something in the Ranger’s tone was different, subdued maybe. The bartender nodded. “Been like this since about ten. Guess the natives just aren’t all that restless tonight.” He tried a grin, but it didn’t quite develop. He put Court’s beer on the bar in front of him, then said, “Stay as long as you like, Court. I’ll be here.” He hesitated. “An’ look... you need to talk or anything....”
Court nodded. “Thanks, John.” He turned away and crossed the room.
He took a table near the base of the door to the lobby of the hotel. He sipped his beer and looked around. Amazing how much he could see without Mason sitting across from him. He sipped his beer again. Or was it Morgan? What had he said? Morgan Powell?
Had he been serving with a bank robber? And he hadn’t even known his real name?
But no, that wasn’t quite right. Mason had come on the Rangers not quite a year after Edwards had, and they’d been fast friends ever since. They were practically inseparable. If anything, Mason was the real Mason Philby and Morgan Powell was the fake. Mason had never shirked his duty, and he’d always made a hand.
But he hadn’t fired at Talbot.
He must have recognized him, but he didn’t fire at him.
Still, that would only speak to his loyalty, wouldn’t it? Being hesitant to shoot down a bad memory from his past to protect himself?
Yes, that was the Mason Philby Court knew. If they’d captured Talbot and Mason had lived, Mason probably would have risked his own career with the Rangers to come to Talbot’s defense. Court shook his head.
That’s who Mason Philby was, the kind of man he was. He didn’t know Morgan Powell at all, or even know of him. He’d never met the man, or even seen any evidence of him. He suspected his friend Mason had arrested Powell and locked him away years ago. That’s what must have happened.
So no reason to bring up Powell again, ever.
He looked around again. It definitely looked different without Mason sitting across the table. Much more open, for one thing. Court wasn’t sure he’d ever known what the bar looked like, not really.
When the bartender noticed the level of beer in Court’s glass getting low, he brought him another.
Court raised the new glass slightly. “Thanks, John. I ‘preciate it.”
John nodded and carried the empty back to the bar. For the next couple of hours he tried to time the delivery of the next beer so it coincided with Court draining the previous one.
That was Court’s regular table, but he was never alone there. Mason Philby was always with him. They laughed and joked mostly, only occasionally engaging each other in quieter, more serious discussions.
Then it dawned on John. Mason wasn’t there. For the first time since Mason had joined the Rangers and the two of them had come in here for a celebratory beer, he wasn’t there.
John carried another glass of beer to Court’s table. “Just so you know,” he said as he set it down, “these are on the house tonight. Mason’s memory.”
Court glanced up at him and raised his glass slightly, then drained it and nodded. He handed the empty to John.
John quietly said, “Well.” He nodded, then turned away.
Court sipped the new beer. Mason would never be back. He was in that damn cold ground up there along the Canadian. And on the north bank at that. Court mumbled, “Should’a put him on the south side. Safer there.” He took another drink of his beer, then naturally looked across the table.
Mason wasn’t there, but that was all right. For a moment he seemed to focus on the emptiness where his friend should be. He’d always thought it was impossible to focus on nothing, but there it was. Not impossible at all. At the moment it was easy.
For a second he saw Mason, saw a hole in his forehead, but it was a white hole.
Court frowned and looked away. It didn’t make sense. It was a white hole, plus Mason wasn’t shot in the forehead. He looked where his friend used to be again, looked for the hole again, the white hole, because by damned Mason wasn’t—
But it wasn’t a hole at all. It was white and round, but it was far on the other side of the space his friend used to occupy. It was on the wall above the bar.
It was a clock.
Just an old clock with an old round face. He was sure he’d seen it before in passing. If he remembered right, it kept good time when the bartender remembered to wind it, which he did about every third day, again, if Court was remembering right. Then again, Court had never paid much attention to any clock. He’d never paid much attention to the specific time. It never seemed to matter.
But maybe it did. Maybe time did matter, or the passing of it, or something.
He looked again. The clock was about thirty feet away. He squinted a bit, and read three-fifteen. Three-fif
teen. That was late. If he’d gotten into bed by his normal time of ten p.m. it wouldn’t be late. It would be early.
He held up his glass and raised his voice. “Hey, John,” and he gestured with his glass toward the clock. “You wind that thing today?”
The bartender looked up, then looked over his shoulder. He looked at Court and nodded. “The clock? I did.” He glanced over his shoulder again, then back to Court. “It says it’s three-seventeen.”
Court nodded. “It’s Monday too, ain’t it?”
John said, “Yep, unfortunately all day long.”
Court looked at the table. Quietly he said, “Three-seventeen in the mornin’ on a Monday. Well I’ll be.” He thought back about the past week.
He shook his head. Only eight days earlier, he’d ridden into Watson with Jim Connolly and five other Rangers on their way to a showdown with Iron Bear.
Only eight days earlier they’d erased one of the worst renegade war chiefs and his whole band, save one skinny young brave. What was his name?
There was a rumbling outside, then high pitched yells punctuated by gunfire. A pane in one of the front windows shattered inward under the force of a flaming arrow.
It hit a table, then slid off and skittered along the floor in front of the bar.
John doused it with the glass of beer he was about to carry to Court’s table, then ducked behind the bar and came up with a double barreled shotgun.
Court sprang up from his chair and ran into the lobby, his Colt drawn and leveled.
The clerk was frozen behind the front desk, his skin paling to white.
Court looked at him and pointed. “Get down behind the desk and stay there!” He turned toward the front door.
Wes was coming down the stairs in a hurry, Mac right behind him. Both were dressed in pants, boots and hats. Both were wearing their Colts. Wes was wearing a stained undershirt. “What in the hell is goin’ on?”
Court said, “I don’t know yet. Indians.” He moved toward the front door, then flung it open. He brought his Colt to bear and fired at a Comanche who was racing past on his horse.
The horse reared and the Comanche was slammed to the ground. He arched his back for a long moment, then settled and lay still.
Court fired at another passing shadow but missed, the bullet splintering a porch upright across the street at the Ranger headquarters.
Wes and Mac joined him in the doorway, both firing at Comanches whenever they saw one.
The captain came rushing up behind them. “Corporal Connolly and Stanton and Stilson went out the back way. Looks like an all-out raid. Mac, you’re with me to the right. Wes, you’re with Corporal Edwards to the left. Let’s move out. Be careful.”
Comanches were everywhere, screaming war cries and shooting arrows or guns. In an instant Amarillo was transformed from a silent, sleeping community to a noisy, hectic hell.
The night was a cacophony. Comanche war cries mixed with the voices of yelling men and gunfire. All of that filtered through the roiling sound of horses’ hooves on the hard-packed streets. The whole thing was punctuated with the crackling pop and hiss of fires consuming dry wooden buildings.
The air was filled with all that noise as well as dust from the churning hooves of the horses and smoke from the fires. Several buildings on the west end of Main Street were ablaze, and there was an eerie glow to the north where buildings were ablaze along the major north-south cross road, Second Avenue.
At first few people were on the street other than the Comanches and the Rangers, but soon civilians were running among the Comanche horses, organizing bucket brigades or trying to protect their property.
Behind the Inn, Jim Connolly had just hit the bottom of the stairs, followed closely by Blake Stanton and Jack Stilson, both with their Colts drawn. Connolly had gestured, indicating Stanton should join him. They would work their way down the street to the east to Second Avenue.
He looked at Stilson. “Jack, you head around the side and up to the front. If I know the captain, he has some watching their rear on Main while he heads toward Second. Go help the rear guard. Probably those two new guys.
He nodded, turned and raced around the corner.
Connolly and Stanton moved down the street to the east. As they crossed Texas Avenue they looked left just in time to see the captain and Ranger McFadden moving onto the boardwalk on the east side of the street.
Connolly frowned, surprised to see one of the rookies with the captain. Then again, he had a rookie with him as well. He looked at Stanton. “We’d better hurry.”
Stanton nodded, his eyes wide.
They moved along at a good clip. As they stepped off the boardwalk into First Avenue, Connolly was in the lead. An arrow flashed past his face.
He yelled, “Look out!” then crouched and spun to the left, bringing his Colt to bear.
Stanton stepped out behind him and brought his Colt up.
The lead Comanche was just lowering his bow and leaning forward over his horse’s head to attack.
Connolly adjusted his stance and fired just as the second Comanche pointed and fired a revolver.
As the first Comanche reared backward and fell off his horse, Stanton grunted and was spun hard to the left by the second Comanche’s bullet.
Connolly cocked his Colt again and fired just as the second Comanche was pulling the trigger to the rear on his Remington.
The Comanche bucked straight up off his horse and seemed suspended for a moment, then crashed off his horse to the left.
Connolly looked behind him.
Stanton was sitting on the street.
“You okay?”
“I’m hit, but it ain’t too bad. I think.” When the second brave had fallen, he had holstered his Colt. He was holding his left chest just inside his shoulder with his right hand. Blood was seeping from beneath his hand. “Hurts like hell though.”
Court straightened from his crouch. “All right.” He holstered his Colt and moved to Stanton. “Here, take my hand.” He reached down.
Stanton reached up with his right hand. His left hung at his side.
Connolly grabbed his wrist. “I’m gonna set you over here on the boardwalk. You stay put and I’ll be back, all right?”
Stanton nodded as Connolly lowered him to the boardwalk, his back against a building.
“Keep that Colt drawn. You see anymore of ‘em, give ‘em hell.” Court moved off down the street.
On Main Street, Wes and Corporal Edwards were walking west just as Stilson came up from behind the Inn. Quietly so as not to startle them, he said, “Hey guys.”
They both jerked their heads to the left.
Stilson held up his hands, his Colt in the right one. “It’s okay. I’m with you on rear guard. Jim and Blake are headed up to help the captain. He took Mac with him, eh?”
Edwards nodded. “Yeah. Let’s head up toward those fires, but move slow and watch the damn cross streets. I don’t want anything to come in behind the captain.”
As they continued up the street, Edwards was thinking about the attack. Something wasn’t right. There were fires, but they weren’t at buildings that were important to the community. They hadn’t hit the general store, for example, or the livery or even the saloon. He could already see, on Main Street, one fire was at a small private home and the other was at an old barn across the street. It wasn’t even still in use.
Still there were civilians with buckets scurrying all over the place, even around the old barn.
Without knowing for sure, Edwards would almost bet it was the same situation up at the north end of Second Street. It was almost as if the Comanches had set the fires only to create a diversion.
And that’s something else. There were Comanche braves on horseback all over the place, and civilian men with buckets running among them, yet the Comanches were paying them hardly any attention.
So again, it all seemed a diversion.
But to divert the attention of whom? And from w
hat?
Again he thought about the last week. The only really unusual event was still the escape of that skinny runt of an Injun from what everyone was calling The Battle of Boquillas Draw.
But it had been only a week. Probably thirty or forty Comanches had come screaming and whooping into Amarillo tonight. That Injun couldn’t possibly have rallied that many Indians to follow him that quickly.
Still, somehow he was sure that diminutive Indian was behind all of this.
But even if he was, what would be the purpose of the raid? If the Comanches were here to burn Amarillo to the ground in retribution, that would make sense. But then Amarillo would be on fire. It wasn’t. So why were they—
Wait. Retribution. Why would that Indian feel a need for retribution? Only Boquillas Draw had anything to do with him, and he’d escaped that. So why would he want retribution? For what?
Then it hit him. For his chief. He was following Iron Bear. Iron Bear was his chief.
How do you take retribution when someone kills your chief? You kill their chief. The captain!
“Jack, you’re the more experienced. Set up in a dark corner somewhere and provide rear guard. But honestly, I don’t think you’re gonna see anything to shoot at.” He looked at the rookie. “Wes, you’re with me. Hurry.” He turned and they both ran back up the street.
The captain and Mac had almost reached the corner of Main Street and Second Avenue when four Indians raced past to the south.
Mac cocked his Colt, aimed, and turned with the passing braves. He squeezed the trigger, the big Colt bucked in his hand and the fourth Comanche in the group was slammed off the left side of his horse.
The captain squeezed the trigger on his revolver and—nothing. He looked down. “This damned thing!”
The other Indians reined in and pulled their horses hard around to the right just as an explosion sounded to Mac’s right.
Corporal Connolly had fired, and another of the Comanches fell.
The captain had the cylinder out of his revolver and was reloading it with fresh ammunition. An arrow came whistling in from the dark across the street, then another and another.
The captain looked up in surprise, then looked down. He frowned, then backed up three steps. He sighed, then sat down hard, his back against the wall.
There was a heavy sigh to Mac’s right rear but he was focused on the two remaining Indians. He cocked his Colt just as Connolly’s revolver sounded again. Then there was another explosion to Mac’s left as he squeezed the trigger. His shot missed the final Comanche in the group, who turned his horse and rode south as hard as he could go.
The Rise of a Warrior Page 18
