Fletcher rejoined the others at the bar, and Jim Mulligan, a big-bellied, red-faced man with pomaded hair parted in the middle and arranged in kiss curls on either side of his forehead, wiped off the rough pine plank in front of them.
“What will it be, gents?” he asked.
“Whatever you got that passes for rye and three o’ them eight cent cigars,” Moore said. He nodded to Fletcher. “He’s buying.”
Fletcher shot a quick glance around the store. It wasn’t much, as sutler stores went.
Dry goods and burlap sacks littered the rough counter beyond the bar, and rough-cut shelves divided their length between canned goods—mostly beans, beef, and peaches—and empty space. There were stacked boxes of ammunition and a rack with rifles for sale that could shoot them. On a shelf at the base of the rack lay an assortment of revolvers, mostly army Colts, and a single nickelplated .40-caliber derringer. Plug tobacco, as strong-smelling and black as Jamaica rum, lay on the counter in open cardboard boxes, along with a jar of pink-and-white peppermint candy canes. Newly ground coffee, as black and just about as pungent as the tobacco, was lined up in a dozen paper sacks, and a small basket of brown eggs, speckled with straw, lay nearby, bearing a hand-lettered sign that read, Fresh.
When the rye came it was surprisingly good for soldiers’ whiskey, and Fletcher gratefully decided it hit the spot against the raw cold of the evening.
Fletcher drained his glass, refilled it from the bottle in front of him, and bit the end off his cigar. “Who were those three who left as we came in?” he asked the sutler, his eyes searching the man’s face.
Mulligan shrugged. “They’ve been in here drinking all day with Scarlet Hays. I guess you heard he killed another man this morning.” The sutler nodded toward the Franklin stove against the wall. “Right over there. Long Tom poured the last cup of coffee from the pot and Hays took exception to that.”
“I heard,” Fletcher said, lighting his cigar. “Hard thing, to die for a cup of coffee.”
“Mulligan, I didn’t recognize any of those boys,” Sieber said. “Did they just get in?”
“A couple of days ago. They drifted into the fort with Hays, and General Crook signed up all four of them as muleskinners.” Displaying the bartender’s easy way with gossip, Mulligan continued: “The older of the three, the big fellow with the yellow hair, is Asa Clevinger. The small man in the sheepskin vest is Milt Gittings, and the youngest goes by the name of the Topeka Kid, I guess because he hails from up Topeka way. The Kid fancies himself as a fast gun, and he’s said to have killed his share. Clevinger and Gittings are no bargain either, come to that.”
Fletcher sipped his whiskey, enjoying the rough, warm taste. “Odd thing for Hays to do, signing up as a muleskinner, I mean. It isn’t his line of work, not that I’ve ever known him to work.”
Mulligan shrugged. “Maybe he needs whiskey and women money. I know he visits the laundresses down on suds row from time to time. The general don’t hold with smoking, drinking, and cussing, but he turns a blind eye to loose women. Or at least, he has until now.”
It was possible that Scarlet Hays, absent gun work, might turn to honest labor for money and travel to where the army was hiring. But that wasn’t like the man. It was a deal to think about and a worrisome thing.
Fletcher felt a tug at his pants leg and glanced down. A little girl about four years old with long dark hair and a pair of wide, earnest hazel eyes was looking at him. She held a doll in both hands, holding it up to him.
“Baby,” the child said.
Fletcher smiled. “She’s a real pretty baby,” he said. The doll was probably from a traveling peddler and would be expensive, no small thing to buy for a child.
He had noticed the girl earlier with a woman who was arranging bolts of calico cloth and work boots at the back of the store and he guessed she was Mulligan’s wife.
“Up,” the little girl said, extending her arms even higher.
Without embarrassment, Fletcher picked up the child and held her in the crook of his left arm. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The girl smiled, showing not a trace of shyness, being well used to men of all kinds. “Amy,” she said. “Amy Mulligan.” She held up the doll again. “And this is Rose.”
“Pleased to meet you, Amy.” Fletcher smiled. He shook the doll’s tiny hand. “And you too, Rose.”
“Seems like you made a friend there, Fletcher,” Moore said. “Two of them, come to that.”
Fletcher nodded. “I don’t know why, but little kids just naturally cotton to me. And stray dogs and sick animals.”
“That’s on account of how younkers and animals don’t pay much attention to how mean and downright homely a man looks on the outside,” Moore said, a gleam of growing respect in his eyes. “They can see right through a man and know what lies beneath.”
“Had an orphaned wolf cub follow me one time,” Fletcher said, Moore’s laconic and double-edged praise making him feel uneasy. “Finally gave him to a prospector who swore to me he’d treat him right.”
Mrs. Mulligan, a thin, careworn woman with hands red and rough from broom, washboard, and lye soap, bustled up to Fletcher and said, “I’m so sorry. I’ve told Amy not to annoy gentlemen when they’re at their whiskey and cigars.”
Fletcher grinned. “She’s not annoying me in the least. Been a long time since I held a child.”
Mrs. Mulligan gave Fletcher a quick, appreciative smile, then took Amy from his arms and said to the girl, “Amy, we’ve still got a lot of work to do, so you’d best come and help.”
The child waved good-bye, not with her whole hand as adults do, but only with her fingers, and Fletcher, feeling more than a little foolish, grinned wide and did the same.
He glanced at Sieber and Moore, but both men were studiously ignoring him, suddenly finding the amber whiskey in their glasses a thing of intense interest, though both were smiling.
“Like I said,” Fletcher told them, “kids just naturally cotton to me.”
“It’s got to be your kind, generous, and downright peaceable nature, Buck,” Sieber said, and Moore laughed.
Fletcher was saved from further embarrassment when the orderly corporal stuck his head through the door and told Sieber and Fletcher the general would see them now.
Six
The corporal conferred with Crook behind a closed door for several minutes, then reappeared, his eyes guarded, and ushered Sieber and Fletcher into the office.
Gen. George Crook was somewhere in his middle forties, a couple of inches over six feet, spare, athletic, and sinewy. His eyes were blue-gray and he wore his fair hair cropped close to his skull, his only vanity a full beard parted into two forks at the point of his chin.
He sat behind a rough-hewn desk made by a carpenter at the post and wore battered canvas pants, the suspenders pulled up over a faded red undershirt.
Crook showed no badges of rank and looked more like one of his own muleskinners than a brigadier general in the United States Army.
He didn’t drink or smoke and preferred Apache, his big, rawboned Missouri mule, to any horse.
Unlike his contemporaries, this skilled Indian fighter respected the Apaches and other tribes as valiant enemies who deserved to be treated fairly and humanely in defeat.
The Lakota chief Red Cloud once said of him, “Crook never lied to us. His words gave the People hope.”
But now Crook’s words to Al Sieber were short, terse, and to the point. He ordered the scout to pull out at first light and join a column of the Fifth Cavalry at the Verde River east of Turret Peak at the very western edge of the Mogollon Rim.
“Guide them well, Al,” Crook told him before waving a dismissing hand. “The sooner this miserable campaign is finished the sooner the Apache can be left in peace to grow his crops and sanity returned to this land.”
As Sieber turned to leave the office, Crook indicated to Fletcher that he should stay behind and waved him into a chair in front of his desk.
“Now, young man, what can I do for you?” he asked. “I take it you want something from me and that’s why you asked my corporal if you could come in here with Sieber.”
Fletcher nodded. “General, I’m looking for someone, a girl.”
Crook frowned his annoyance and his voice was curt. “Why come to me with that? I’m not in the habit of procuring girls, for you or anyone else.”
“No, it’s not that at all,” Fletcher said quickly. “The girl’s name is Estelle Stark, the daughter of Senator Falcon Stark, and he wants me to bring her home.” Fletcher moved in his chair, and added above its protesting squeak, “She ran away from Washington with a man who calls himself the Chosen One. He’s some kind of crazed prophet who told her he’s on a mission from God to convert the Apaches to Christianity before the world ends. Estelle fell for it—and him.”
Fletcher leaned forward in his chair. “Al Sieber told me you might know of Estelle’s whereabouts.”
Crook studied the gunfighter over steepled fingers. “Falcon Stark, eh? Young man, you move in exalted circles. I’m told that distinguished gentleman harbors dreams of the presidency.”
“He does, after Grant ends his term. That’s why he so badly wants Estelle returned. The slightest breath of scandal, even a runaway daughter with the best intentions, could adversely affect his campaign.”
“And what’s in all this for you, Mr., ah . . .”
“Fletcher, Buck Fletcher.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Fletcher. As I said, what’s in it for you? Are you a private detective?”
“You could say that,” Fletcher replied, unwilling to tell Crook the whole story lest the soldier be too quick to judge him.
“You don’t look like a private detective, Mr. Fletcher.” Crook spread his hands wide. “Detectives are gray men who melt into the background. You don’t. In fact, I’d say with your guns and your considerable physical presence, almost arrogance, you very much stand out from the crowd.”
That touched a nerve in Fletcher. Crook was being deliberately insulting—but why?
Crook leaned over in his chair and opened a drawer on his desk. He came up with a long-barreled Colt and a cream-colored envelope. Crook laid the gun on his desktop, close to hand, and passed the envelope to Fletcher.
“I wanted to hear your story from your own lips, and I believe, thanks to my little charade, I’ve given you more than a fair hearing. Now, Mr. Fletcher, you’d better read this letter.”
Fletcher opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of thick, expensive notepaper. As he read, Crook’s big hand closed around the handle of the Colt.
December 23, 1872
United States Senate
Washington, D.C.
General Crook,
Sir, I have reason to believe a dangerous escaped convict named Buck Fletcher could be heading into the Arizona territory for the express purpose of murdering my daughter, Estelle, who is currently in the area to study the flora and fauna of the Tonto Basin. She is a willful child and has done this contrary to my wishes, especially now that the savages are intent on making war on our government.
Fletcher plans to carry out this terrible deed because of the hatred he harbors toward me. As you may already know, I plan to run for president after Grant’s term is completed. I will campaign on a law and order platform, and it was through my direct involvement in the case that Fletcher was sentenced to twenty years’ hard labor for the vicious murder of a sheriff in Wyoming.
Please do all in your power to protect my daughter and apprehend Fletcher at the first available opportunity.
General Crook, take no chances with this man. He killed a prison guard during his breakout and is ruthless and deadly. Take him alive if you can, dead if you must. But take him.
If he is taken alive, I will arrange an escort to return Fletcher to Wyoming, where he will again stand trial for murder, and this time I guarantee he will not escape the hangman’s noose.
I remain, sir,
Your obedient servant,
Falcon Stark (Senator)
Fletcher laid the letter carefully on Crook’s desk, aware that the general had almost casually pointed the Colt at his chest.
“General, this is a pack of lies,” Fletcher protested. “Look at the date on the letter; it was written a day before Stark asked me to find his daughter.”
“Were you sentenced to twenty years in prison for killing a sheriff?” Crook asked, his eyes cold.
“Yes, but I was set up. I didn’t kill that man.”
“Did you kill a prison guard during your escape?”
“General, I didn’t escape. Believe me, nobody escapes from the Wyoming Territorial Prison. I was taken to Lexington by the army, an escort of an infantry lieutenant and eight men. Find that young officer—his name was Simpson—or any of his men and they’ll confirm that I didn’t escape. Hell, General, get in touch with the warden.”
Crook shook his head. “Fletcher, I’m in the middle of a campaign here. I have no time to carry out a murder investigation.”
The general held the Colt less negligently now, and it was clear by the way he handled the gun that he knew how to use it. “I’ll keep you here until your escort arrives to take you back to Wyoming.” Crook made a weak attempt at a smile. “Chin up, Fletcher; I’m sure Senator Stark will seek out the testimony of the warden and your alleged soldiers and see you get a fair trial.”
“That’s not going to happen, General. For some reason that I can’t even guess at, Falcon Stark will never let me reach Wyoming alive.” Fletcher’s face was bleak and drawn as he struggled to make some sense of what was happening to him.
Why had the senator asked him to urgently find his daughter—only to stab him in the back before the job was done?
Fletcher desperately turned the thing over in his mind, trying to find the handle to the mystery. But there was none to be found, and his shoulders slumped, defeat tasting bitter in his mouth.
“Corporal!” Crook yelled, no longer quiet-spoken, using the authoritative bellow of the parade ground.
The door crashed open and the corporal, a grizzled sergeant, and six troopers in tow barged inside, rifles hammer-back and ready.
Fletcher stood slowly, warily moving his hands away from his guns so there would be no misunderstandings.
The sergeant removed the Colts from their holsters and said, “Buck Fletcher, you are under arrest for murder.”
Fletcher felt a rifle muzzle in his back, and when he looked at General Crook the soldier’s eyes held only contempt and anger.
“Fletcher,” he said, “I don’t hold with killing women. In my opinion, any man who would plan such a thing as an act of revenge is low-down, lower than a snake’s belly in an army wagon track.” He turned to the sergeant. “Take this man out of my sight.”
Seven
The log cabin was about twelve feet long by six wide, lit by a single oil lamp that hung from a hook on a beam supporting the shingle roof. There was an iron army cot with a thin mattress and a folded blanket pushed against the wall and nothing else.
The door was of heavy oak and barred from the outside, and set high on the wall opposite was a tiny window with thick wooden bars. The floor was tamped-down earth, frozen hard as iron, so hard only a powder charge could blast a hole in it.
Inside the cabin it was insufferably cold, and Fletcher sat on the edge of the cot and pulled his mackinaw close around his ears, his breath smoking in the damp chill.
A few flakes of snow drifted through the unglazed window and fell, unmelted, on his shoulders, and Fletcher let them stay.
Outside he heard one of the two soldiers who guarded the cabin cough, and the other trooper stamped his feet and cursed softly and with great dedication. “Hey, Bill, why didn’t ol’ George string this killer up instead of holding him here?” this soldier asked of his companion after a while.
After a fit of coughing, the other man replied, “Hell if I know. But I do know this: If officers had to stand guard duty he�
�d have been hung right quick.”
“Damn right,” the first soldier agreed. “Damn officers.”
The oil lamp, flickering in a draft from a chink between the logs, cast a dancing circle of yellow light around the cabin, and Fletcher smelled the smoke of burning cedar in the cold air that blew through the tiny window.
Fletcher’s numb fingers fumbled in his shirt pocket and found tobacco and papers. He tried to roll a cigarette, failed, spilled tobacco over his coat, and tried again. This time he managed to build a crooked approximation of a cigarette and he thumbed a match into flame and lit it gratefully.
“Fletcher, that smoking habit of yours is going to stunt your growth, you know.”
It was Charlie Moore’s voice, just a low whisper, and it came from the window.
Fletcher stepped away from the cot, back toward the front wall of the cabin, where he could look up and see the window.
Because of his great height, the top of Moore’s hat was just visible, and Fletcher stepped closer again.
“Nice of you to visit, Charlie,” he said.
“Visit, hell, I’m getting you out of here.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Fletcher said. “There’s no need to stick your neck out like this.”
“You’re a friend of Al Sieber’s, and any friend of Al’s is a friend of mine,” Charlie said. He chuckled softly. “Besides, it would be mighty quiet around here with you locked up . . . and there’s one thing else.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t like to see any man railroaded and, gunfighter, I think you was railroaded.”
“Charlie, don’t—” Fletcher began, but the big mountain man was gone.
A few moments later Fletcher heard a dull thud, then very quickly another, and then the bar slid open on the door. Moore pushed his way inside and said urgently, “Let’s go. I got your hoss outside.”
“The soldiers?”
“Sleeping like two little babies.” Moore read Fletcher’s face and added, “Aw, don’t worry; they’ll be all right. I just banged their heads together a couple of times, and not too hard at that.”
Ralph Compton Doomsday Rider Page 6
