The old man stiffened, then embraced Lone Wolf.
"The eagle has told us to make it so," he said, with sadness, and suddenly the embrace was a genuine one.
Chapter Twelve
Lincoln woke up groggy the next morning. For a moment he didn't know where he was, and called out to Matty to make breakfast, because he couldn't smell her coffee as he usually did. He wondered if little Washington was outside playing, because his son usually came to wake him up if he overslept. There were chores to be done, seed to plant
"Get up, Trooper," Thomas Mullin's voice said. Now Lincoln knew where he was. He groaned. A large part of him wished he was back in Birmingham, getting ready for a normal day with his family.
Lincoln rose up on his elbows. Lieutenant Mullin was bent over a small fire near the body of Bartow. For a moment, Lincoln thought the old man was building a funeral pyre for the half-breed, but Thomas was actually ignoring the body, and had a leather kit bag open, tiny instruments spread carefully on the flap. The Lieutenant was holding a glass tube, examining it carefully, swirling the yellowish contents around as he held it out over the small flame.
"Wha— "
"Be quiet, please, Trooper," Lieutenant Mullin said patiently. The man's eyes were glued to the glass tube. The liquid within was growing clearer, losing its yellowish tint.
"Hmm," Thomas said, and suddenly he lost all interest in the glass tube, dumped its contents out into the fire, cleaned the tube, and stored it away with its instruments.
"What was that, sir?" Lincoln asked.
"A reagent kit," Thomas replied, tucking the leather kit into his saddlebag. "I was doing something I should have done two days ago, after we examined Bill Adams's body. A crude Marsh test. It was foolish of me to take that doctor's word, though I'm sure it wasn't his fault."
"What wasn't his fault?"
"Hmm?" Thomas looked as though he had been thinking. "Nothing, Trooper. Nothing we can do anything about now, at least." He pulled his mess kit from his saddlebag, drew out coffee and biscuits. "Hungry?"
"Yes," Reeves said. "But can't you tell me — "
"Later, Trooper," Thomas said.
They ate, packed, then buried Bartow's body. Thomas marked the shallow grave, so that Marshal Murphy would be able to find it, then tied Bartow's horse behind his own. Bartow's saddlebags were filled with beef jerky and little else. Thomas held a piece out to Lincoln. "Care for a chew?"
Lincoln made a face. "No."
Thomas shrugged, pulled a strip for himself, and mounted his horse.
"Where to, Lieutenant?" Lincoln asked.
Thomas looked at the young man, as if surprised he had asked the question. "We have to visit a mining company," he said, staving off any further questions by reining his horse around and setting off at a fast pace.
Chapter Thirteen
Half Moon.
Again, the eagle awaited. Below, the long trek up to the eagle's promontory had begun, and already the eagle could hear the wails and moans of those coming. The eagle could not yet make out the girl to be sacrificed, but had no doubt that the sacrifice had been brought. The Tohono O'otam would not dare to ignore the eagle's demands.
The night was dark, deep, and high. A good night for flying. The eagle imagined soaring above the clouds on this night, touching the stars, brushing the robes of the god of heaven. The wind against the eagle's face would be cold and bracing, and the power in the eagle's wings would course throughout its body, making it quiver with strength —
"God of the sky and clouds, we have come."
The voice was different; in the near darkness, the eagle could not make out the face, but this was not the Keeper of the Smoke.
The eagle raised its wings, let them flutter down.
"Le-Cato, the Keeper of the Smoke, is not here," the voice said. "He has gone to the Council of the Tribes, as you commanded." The voice trembled. "He has gone to make the war bond you wished."
So! This was what the eagle had wanted, and it had come true.
"We hope you are pleased," the trembling voice continued. The eagle could now make out the bowed head of Leaping Deer, one of the council members of the Tohono O'otam.
The eagle waited silently.
Leaping Deer turned to the group of wailing women behind him and drew a slight figure out. It was a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen. She stood shaking, eyes wide, staring at the eagle.
"Great bird," Leaping Deer said, "I pray to you. This is my daughter, who has been chosen to be with you." The man's trembling voice broke. "I beseech you! Do not take her. Your wishes have been granted. Have you not promised that the sacrifices will end when you have what you want? Soon you will have it!"
When the eagle was silent, Leaping Deer shouted, "She is all I have! Do not take her from me, I will do your bidding for a thousand days and a thousand more!"
The eagle fluttered its wings, let them fall. The wailing women wailed louder, moved back, leaving Leaping Deer and his daughter alone.
"No!" Leaping Deer shouted, as the eagle raised its wings to strike. The council member drew his shaking daughter to him, turned, and began to make his way hurriedly down the mountain path after the old women.
The eagle rose over Leaping Deer and his daughter, and dropped upon them.
"No!" Leaping Deer said again.
But already the eagle's claws were upon the two of them, and the night was filled with their cries.
Chapter Fourteen
As Thomas had expected, he and Lincoln were met with animosity at the Ranger Copper Mine. The company was a veritable little town, with more provisions than the Tohono O'otam reservation they had visited. There was a sea of tents, made of tall strong canvas, staked in precise rows. A larger tent looked like a portable mess hall. There were semi-permanent structures, wooden buildings on stilts that looked as though they had been brought in, then set down. Horse-drawn wagons were everywhere; there was a railroad track down the center of the encampment with a small steamer engine pulling ore cars toward the mouth of the mine, at the foot of the mountain in the near distance. Thomas heard other mechanical sounds, and was surprised to see a horseless carriage chug by, its loudly tapping engine amazingly pulling a light cart.
Lincoln stared at the horseless carriage in amazement, then shook his head. "I've read about those, Lieutenant, but I've got to say, after seeing one, I don't think it'll come to much."
"Oh? Why not, Trooper?"
Reeves pointed. "Just look at it! Can hardly pull its own weight!"
"You couldn't be more wrong," Thomas said. "In a few years, that horse under your hind end will be used for nothing but recreation. What you're seeing is just the start of a new age."
"Well, I don't know" Reeves began. "You boys want something?" a harsh voice said behind them.
They stopped their horse, reined around to face a large, hard-looking man with a clipboard in one hand, and a hat pushed back on his head.
"We're looking for the foreman," Thomas said.
"You can talk to me."
"Are you the foreman?" Thomas asked mildly.
The man's face reddened, and he took a step forward. "I'm not used to being talked to that way by a nig— "
"That's enough, Frawley," another voice said. The new man approached, smiling. Like Frawley, he was cleanly dressed and had a hat pushed back on his head. But he was small, thin, with wire-rimmed glasses.
He looked up at Thomas and Lincoln, studying them. The smile stayed, but looked as though it might dissolve at any time. "I'm Mates. You come about a job?"
"No," Thomas said. He handed down his letter of introduction from Marshal Murphy.
The thin foreman studied the note for a moment, then frowned. He handed the piece of paper back up to Thomas.
"So?" he said. His smile had evaporated, leaving a bland look behind.
"Like to ask you about a man who worked for you, named Tahini."
"Tahini's dead," Frawley growled.
Thomas continued to lo
ok and speak mildly. "I know that." He addressed Mates. "What I'd like to know is if Tahini had access to any chemicals here."
Mates looked perplexed, and turned to Frawley for an answer. "Did he, Joe?"
Frawley snapped, "No."
"Did — " Thomas said, but Frawley turned and stalked away.
"You use arsenic here, don't you?" Thomas asked Mates.
Mates nodded, looking after Frawley. "Yes, we do. It's used to refine the lead that comes out of the reverberatory furnace as a waste product, after the copper is purified."
"Would Tahini have access to it?"
Mates turned his attention to Thomas, giving him a long look. "I don't think so. We don't let our" he paused, smiled "let's just say very few people have access to those chemicals. They're kept in locked drums in one of the trailer houses. Only myself and Frawley here can get at them."
"No one else?"
Mates gave Thomas another long look. "I don't think I'll discuss this anymore with you, Mr. Mullin. If Marshal Murphy wants to come out here himself, I'd be happy to talk with him. I know he's got his hands full with President Roosevelt coming on out to Tucson, so unless he can get away, I'm afraid that's all I have to say."
"Mr. Mates," Thomas said.
Mates turned to Frawley. "Get rid of them."
Frawley smiled. "Be a pleasure, Mr. Mates."
But Thomas and Lincoln had already reined their horses around, and were heading out of the encampment.
They were at the fringes of the encampment when a familiar voice rang out behind them.
"Glory in hell! If it ain't the darkie brothers!"
Thomas turned in his saddle.
"That's right," Samuel Forsen said. "It's me." He glared up at Thomas, his white, craggy face older, more crevassed. "Your old army friend. Remember that beating you gave me back at Fort Davis years ago?"
"When you were Captain Seavers' toady?" Thomas said.
Forsen said angrily, "That's right, darkie. You know they drummed me out after Seavers got booted back to Washington?"
"That wasn't my doing," Thomas said.
"Might as well have been," Forsen continued angrily. "Grierson knew about the fight, and did nothing about it."
"You had it coming."
Anger flared on Forsen's face, then he brought it under control with a malicious smile. "Hear your friend Adams went over the falls. Hear his daughter went Injun, too."
Thomas was silent.
"Too bad about Adams," Forsen continued. "Though I bet you wouldn't have thought as highly of him if you'd known what he was involved in. Not such a saint after all, eh?"
"What do you mean by that?" Thomas asked.
Forsen shrugged, his wicked smile widening. "Guess there's a lot you don't know, darkie. And I'd watch your back while you're around here. Could get something sharp planted in it. Can't say I'd cry at your funeral."
Forsen laughed, turned, walked away.
"Lieutenant, he can't talk to you like that," Lincoln said, starting to get down off his horse. Thomas reached over, restraining him.
"Let him go," he said.
But as Forsen sauntered away, Thomas stared after him, a pensive look on his face.
Thomas made their camp a mile away from the Ranger Copper Mine, just over a short range of hills out of sight of the company encampment. After tying the horses out of the sun, he set himself up in a hollow of rocks overlooking the mine and sat looking.
"What are you waiting for, sir?" Lincoln asked.
"Patience, Trooper," Thomas said. "I'm waiting for a reaction."
"Sir?"
"Patience," Thomas repeated.
Thomas lay down with his head in the shade of a rock overhang, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes.
"Patience and sleep are the same things to me, sir," he said.
Thomas didn't look at him, but continued to study the mining camp.
What seemed like a long time later, Lincoln was being roused from sleep. When he opened his eyes, he saw that indeed it was night. He could barely see Lieutenant Mullin's face hanging over his own.
"Get up," Thomas whispered urgently, "and be quiet."
Lincoln rose.
Their horses were ready to ride, and Lincoln followed Thomas's lead, and climbed into his saddle. They made their way soundlessly down the path to the plain below.
Lincoln was awake now. Straining his eyes, he saw nothing in the half-moon lit landscape below them. The Ranger Copper Mine was behind them, to their left.
They rode slowly, unspeaking, for two hours, passing between two low peaks. Still, Lincoln saw nothing ahead.
Then, an hour later, as they broke out onto a flat plain heading up between two more peaks, Lincoln spotted a lone figure riding in front of them. It was about a mile ahead, dressed in dark clothing, slouched down in the saddle.
Lincoln whispered, "Is that?" Thomas motioned urgently for him to be quiet.
They rode on.
A half hour later found them within a half-mile of the riding man.
Suddenly the figure sat up alertly in the saddle, looked back, and kicked his horse into a gallop. They heard a shout of "Go, dammit!" Thomas sat up and shouted, "Come on, Trooper!"
Lincoln kicked into his own horse and whooped, "Aren't you going to say, `The game's afoot, sir?' "
"Ha!" Thomas shouted, as they bore down on the riding figure.
What followed was a wild midnight chase. The rider knew the low peaks and valleys, and tore through them with abandon, riding close to rock walls and stands of brush. They could hear the rider shouting, "Come on! Come on!" to his mount, which responded with speed in the darkness.
Thomas and Lincoln kept up as best they could. Lincoln began to be frightened by Thomas's headlong flight. The Lieutenant's eyes were wild with the chase, his attention riveted on the riding figure in front of them.
They broke out onto a flat plain, and Thomas and Lincoln began to gain. They could hear the horse in front of them straining, its rider exhorting it, slapping it. But the horse was tired and began to lose speed.
"We've got him!" Thomas cried, exultantly.
But suddenly they brushed a low hill, and the rider in front veered left around its curve. Thomas and Lincoln blindly followed.
Before they knew it, they found themselves in a field of saguaro cactus, the massive tall arms reaching out at them in the dark. . . .
As Thomas ducked under a curving arm, he heard Lincoln cry out just behind him and turned to see the Trooper go down, his horse rearing as Reeves was knocked off.
In front of him, the rider wove back and forth, and now broke out of the field, climbed a short rise, and was gone.
"Damn!" Thomas cried.
In the lengthening distance he heard the escaping rider whoop a laugh.
Thomas turned his mount and went back to Lincoln, who lay moaning on the ground, holding his leg.
The young man looked up sheepishly, restraining a groan.
"Sorry, sir."
Thomas dismounted. Lincoln was momentarily frightened by the anger on the older man's face, fearing it was directed at him.
"Sir, I'm sor— "
"Be quiet, Trooper," Thomas snapped. "He would have gotten away, anyway. I'm mad at myself for following him in here." He stared angrily in the direction the rider had gone. Turning back to help Lincoln up, he balled his fists. The anger hadn't left his face.
"That man, whoever he is, knows everything."
Chapter Fifteen
Barty Smith was doing what he liked to do best. He was in his favorite part of Arizona, with a pack full of traded goods from Mexico, a fully belly, a moon overhead to read his paper by, and all the alone he wanted.
The paper was nearly new, only three weeks old. The wily old Mexican, Romulez, had thrown it into the deal at the last minute, hoping to sweeten the pot. Barty had nearly snapped at the bait, but his dealer's instinct had held him back, making him yawn.
"Papers from th' East don't do much for me no more, Romulez," h
e'd said.
Romulez had pretended to look crestfallen. "But my friend, I brought it back just for you from Kansas City. It has all the news of Washington in it. Haven't you always bragged about how you were born in Washington, the cradle of democracy, as you call it? Haven't you always been hungry for news of this town? Look," Romulez said, holding the newspaper under Barty's nose. "It is the New York Times!"
Barty yawned again. "Maybe you can use it to wallpaper your hacienda, Romulez...."
They had played their game for another ten minutes, until Barty had finally closed the deal at a few pennies more, which was all Romulez was after. They both went away happy. And now Barty, born Bartholomew Carson Smith, to a rich banker in Washington, D.C., indeed could indulge in his favorite thing, which was to read up on the news of his long-lost and little-lamented first home, the nation's capital.
He saw that Theodore Roosevelt himself was on his campaign swing west and would stop in Arizona, Tucson, of all places, to make a speech.
A night noise, louder than it should be, startled Barty out of lowering his newspaper away from the firelight.
"What the hell —
There, sitting tall above him, was something that must be an illusion, an Apache in the saddle, bare-breasted, rifle in hand.
"Hey, chief," Barty laughed, "anyone tell you the Indian Wars ended years ago?"
Behind the solemn rider were five more Apaches, similarly painted.
The brave asked curtly, "Are you an Army scout?"
Barty, not liking the Indian's tone, said abruptly, "Ain't no Army for three hundred miles of here. Now, chief," Barty said, starting to get up. "I don't know what your game is, but the reservation is that-a-way —
As he rose, holding the paper in front of him, the Apache brave fired his rifle, blowing a hole in the front page of The New York Times and through Barty.
Barty shouted, disbelieving.
Another rifle shot sounded, and a third, and Barty lay silent on his back, mouth open in dying incomprehension.
The Apache brave held his rifle up in salute to his companions.
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