Kitt Peak

by Al Sarrantonio

  Thomas gave Murphy a level look.

  "I'm not real happy about it, but that's the way things are, Mr. Mullin. I've got my plate full with the President coming. I can't afford to have anything mar that. Call it a political thing, if you want."

  "In other words," Thomas said, beginning to feel his mouth say the words the way they were supposed to sound, "you were ordered by Washington to get rid of me."

  "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Mullin," Murphy said. "The truth is, I was told by the President's advance men to make sure there was no trouble in the area with the Papagos.

  They want a nice uneventful visit, something tidy and politically safe for the papers to talk about. And you've been stirring up too many hornets in the few days you've been here. Reeves told us about Bartow. We went out and got his body yesterday."

  Thomas's mouth hurt but he talked anyway. "Did you know, Marshal, that someone at the Ranger Mining Company has been illegally selling arsenic to the Papagos? That's what produced the toxic effect we saw on Bill Adams's face. Bartow's, too."

  Murphy got a pinched look. "I didn't know that."

  "There's a lot more you don't know, Marshal."

  "Such as?"

  "Nothing I can say for sure, yet. What you have to do is give me more time."

  Murphy sighed heavily. "I can't do that, Mr. Mullin. Like I said, when you're better, you'll have to leave." He wouldn't meet Thomas's eyes. "And I'm sorry, Mr. Mullin, I truly am."

  Thomas rested the remainder of the day. Joshua and his young friend, Nicky, came back to mildly taunt him, and he played their game, growling at them whenever their faces rose above the windowsill outside. The one time he tried to rise on his own, he became dizzy and weak.

  Mary Murphy came in at suppertime to feed him again. He hungrily ate what she offered. He could feel his body craving nourishment. After the meal, he fell back, exhausted, and slept.

  During the night, he awoke, watching the moon rise. It was weakening, a thinning crescent.

  Thomas lay back, letting bits of evidence wash over him. He had a lot of pieces, but they seemed to fit into different puzzles.

  What would Holmes do?

  Thomas knew what Holmes would do. He would conclude, logically, that there was only one puzzle, and one set of pieces. There were murders in the Boboquivari Mountains, specifically Kitt Peak. There was possibly Apache action. There was the illicit sale of arsenic to the Tohono O'otam. There was the mystery of Bill Adams, and his daughter. . . .

  Wincing with the pain of movement, Thomas sat up, reached into his jacket at the end of the bed, and removed the letter from Bill Adams, opened it, and looked at it. He had previously dismissed it as having given up all its secrets.

  She's all I have, Bill Adams had written, and I don't want a terrible thing to happen.

  Thomas stared at the letter.

  I don't want a terrible thing to happen.

  Sherlock Holmes had said, "When you have eliminated the impossible, all that remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

  Bill Adams had not said he didn't want a terrible thing to happen to his daughter.

  He'd said, simply, he didn't want a terrible thing to happen.

  "Damn," Thomas said, eliminating the impossible, and suddenly knowing where Adams's daughter was.

  Thomas rose painfully and dressed. His clothes had been folded neatly on a chair at the end of the bed, along with this sidearm.

  Bending to pull his boots on, Thomas nearly cried out at the pain but gritted his teeth and continued with the job. Then he stole out of the room, seeking the front door of the house.

  On the couch in the parlor, the long form of Lincoln Reeves lay stretched out. His bandaged and splinted leg was propped over the far arm of the sofa. The young man snored loudly, and Thomas shook his head as he passed.

  He eased open the front door and passed out into the night.

  His horse was tied on the side of the house, still packed with provisions. His rifle was missing, though. Thomas checked his sixgun in the moonlight, rifled through his saddlebags until he found a box of cartridges, and moved it up where it would be in reach.

  After two wincing attempts, he managed to climb up into the saddle and pull the reins around.

  In an hour of slow riding, he had left Tucson behind, heading for the mountains.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The eagle waited for the white man.

  Tomorrow night would be another night of sacrifice, as the moon dropped toward new. The eagle was ready for that. It knew that tomorrow night's would be the last sacrifice, because, soon, the eagle would have what it wanted. The Tohono O'otam would soon be strong and fly like the eagle, proud and brave. No one would call them Papagos — bean people — again.

  And now, the white man came. He knew the path well, and sauntered up it singing, alone. The white man could not see in the darkness, by the light of the moon, like the eagle could, and so carried a lantern to guide him.

  The eagle waited, prayed, looked at the sky.

  Soon the white man had arrived, tying his donkey off on a stunted cottonwood, and coming the rest of the way alone. He carried the long box under his arm. The eagle fluttered its wings, looked at the box.

  "So," the white man said, stopping a few feet away, below the rock shelf the eagle sat on. He put his lantern down and smiled, his face sickly yellow.

  The eagle said nothing.

  The white man shook his head and laughed. "You're really something, you know that? You want this, or not?"

  The eagle nodded.

  "Can't you speak? Hey, I'll tell you what. You say something, I'll let you have this for free. Deal?"

  The eagle said nothing, and the white man threw back his head and laughed.

  "Safe bet, heh?"

  Again the eagle was silent, and the white man laughed.

  "Well, time for business." The white man put down the box at his feet. He drew out a leather satchel tied to his waist, held it out. "Like I said, this is the last delivery you're going to get of this. That prying darkie somehow found out about it. Frawley at the mining camp don't want to mess with it anymore. He barely got out with this. From now on, whatever they have they keep for mining use, with strict records. Bastards don't want to go to jail."

  The white man looked at the eagle, laughed.

  "What's the matter, you sad?" He dropped the satchel on the ground, reached down, flipped open the lid on the box. "Don't be,look at this. It's what you wanted, right? Ordered it from New York myself. It's German. Best in the world."

  The white man closed the box, slid it toward the eagle with the toe of his boot.

  "Well? You got what I need?"

  The eagle fluttered its wings, remained where it was.

  The white man's face clouded.

  "Hey, you don't pay, you don't buy." He reached down to retrieve the box. The eagle rose on its wings, dropped down upon the white man.

  "Hey!" the white man shouted. The box fell to the side. The white man held his arms up to protect himself, then fell back. "What the hell you doing? You know who you're messing with?"

  The white man fumbled his gun out of his holster as the eagle's claw came down across his hand, cutting it.

  "Hey!"

  The white man dropped the gun, looked up as the claw came slashing down again. "You can't — !"

  The eagle finished its work, pulled the white man's body to the edge of the cliff on its promontory, and pushed it over.

  It watched the body plummet to the rocks below, then went back and retrieved the satchel and the box the white man had dropped.

  The eagle went back to its promontory perch, fluttered its wings, looked at the sky.

  "Soon," it said, and then dreamed as the night passed by.

  Chapter Twenty

  In Abilene, Texas, on the second leg of his trip west, President Theodore Roosevelt was ebullient. This was his country! God, how he loved it. The cowboys, the rodeo shows, the ranching exhibitions, it brought back nothi
ng but good memories of a period in his life that had started bleakly and ended in the White House. This was a marvelous part of the United States! And if only Jenkins and Mawdrey would leave him alone and let him enjoy it! But there the two Secret Service men were, constantly hounding him, trying to keep him away from crowds, separating him from his people!

  "I won't have it!" Teddy thundered again and again, and finally the two guard dogs would have to let him have his way. "This is a bully country, and I want to breathe it all in!"

  Not to mention, gather those votes. For next year's election would be a doozy, and Roosevelt knew that the West might very well hold the key to the Republicans holding on to power.

  "God, how I love it!" Roosevelt bellowed, turning to flash his smile at the crowd as he boarded the train west. The Texans were fine people, great people, and they had given him quite a show.

  "Where to next?" Roosevelt said as the observation car's door closed behind him, leaving the crowd to look at bunting as the train pulled away. "Where in God's name do we go next?"

  Roosevelt was like a little child, his eyes bright, unable to sit, bending to stare out the window and wave at the few who could see him.

  "Tucson, Arizona, sir," Mawdrey said, in his slow drawl. While Roosevelt looked perpetually charged-up, Mawdrey looked perpetually half-asleep, except his eyes, which were always moving, always alert.

  "Then up to Phoenix, over to California, then back through Wyoming," Jenkins finished. He was efficient, cool, and always awake, though seemingly without any enthusiasm at all, which drove Roosevelt to distraction.

  "Wyoming! Bully!" Roosevelt cried. "And we're visiting my old ranch out there, right?"

  Mawdrey looked to Jenkins, who checked down his list. "Exactly one week from now, sir. We've arranged for your old trail boss to be there, and some of the hands who worked at the ranch when you were there

  "Absolutely bully!" Roosevelt shouted. He looked as though he were going to explode. "But next we go to

  "Tucson, sir. Arizona."

  "Wonderful country! Fine landscape. Saguaro cactus and pinion pine. Didn't we do something last year about the saguaro, protect it, or something?"

  Jenkins said, "Yes, sir. You signed a law which will establish a national monument "

  "Can't wait to see it! Can't wait to see Tucson!" Roosevelt began to pace, as Mawdrey and Jenkins looked at each other and sighed.

  "Who's for a game of gin rummy?" Roosevelt said, grinning, returning from the far end of the observation coach to hold a deck of cards under Mawdrey's nose.

  "I suppose I am," the sleepy Secret Service man said, and Roosevelt looked over to Jenkins, smiling broadly, holding the cards out, until Jenkins threw up his hands and said, "Me, too, Mr. President."

  Chapter Twenty-one

  By morning, Thomas felt better. He had almost passed out twice during the night, once nearly tumbling from the saddle before pulling himself back up, wincing in pain, and taking a deep breath to focus his mind. But after finding and eating some of Bartow's jerky in his saddlebag, he had begun to feel some strength seep back into his limbs. Amazingly, after a second chew of the tough meat, he was nearly his old self.

  He had once done a study of the various range foods, jerky included, and had decided that the chewy, stringy meat had, in its own small way, helped to settle the American West. More cowboys, settlers, and scouts had been kept alive with this nutritious, preserved food than any other; without it, many of them would have been forced to eat unknown native plants while on long rides, and probably taken sick. In lean times, when game was scarce, and in winter, when vegetables and edible plants were nonexistent, and especially in situations where provisions had to be light, and canned goods too bulky to pack, jerky had provided one of the only solutions. It was a remarkable, if saddle-like, food.

  Thomas reached into his saddlebag, still cringing slightly at the pain in his limbs, and removed another chew. The sun was nearly up behind him. Ahead, the Baboquivari Mountains loomed closer, and one in particular, Kitt Peak, sat right in the middle of his path.

  We have a date, my friend, Thomas thought.

  In the purpling dawn, the approaching peak was balefully majestic. He could well see why the Tohono O'otam had come to consider it a sacred mountain. Though it barely towered over its neighboring crags, it dominated them in other ways. There was a brooding majesty to it, a solid perfection. Thomas had been in and around mountains for almost his entire Army career, but this peak commanded respect. Though he put little stock in what he basically considered superstition, he could understand why the Papagos had settled in the shadow of this monster, and considered it a holy place. He could understand why they feared it.

  None of this, of course, prevented him from beginning the long climb to its peak.

  The trails were well laid out. Yet, because of Kitt Peak's steepness, he made little progress in elevation. At midday he stopped to eat and rest, and found himself on a small promontory overlooking the Papagos reservation nestled at the base of the mountain below. He estimated he had climbed perhaps three thousand feet, though he might have covered five miles of trail.

  The reservation looked deserted.

  Thomas went to the edge of the promontory and studied the scene below. Not a sound was in the main street of the Papagos settlement; he could not make out a single figure or horse anywhere on the grounds. Wash was hung out to dry, but there were no cooking fires, nothing to indicate that anyone lived there.

  Thomas scanned the area surrounding the reservation. Again, nothing. It was as if the entire tribe of the Tohono O'otam had disappeared.

  Above and behind him, from the upper cliffs, Thomas heard a sound.

  He turned and looked up.

  A scatter of rocks had fallen from above, and was sliding down the face of the mountain. A wash of pebbles came to rest on his promontory, not far from where his horse stood tied.

  Thomas slitted his eyes against the sun, sought to trace the path up to its sources. The day, the mountain, were silent. Thomas went back to his horse, finished a chew of jerky, drank water from his canteen, and then proceeded.

  The mountain rose under him, the day wore on.

  Thomas began to hear flutterings above him, as if some bird were circling just above his head. But whenever he stopped to listen, the fluttering ceased. He studied the sky above the peak, but saw nothing.

  He rode on.

  Finally, as the sun was dropping toward the desert floor, the peak was in reach. The view below was majestic. Half of Arizona, it seemed, was spread out below him like a table setting, purple-hazed plains, and off to the north, some fifty miles off, the vague intimations of Tucson itself. Thomas stopped a moment to admire the view. None of the mountains in West Texas had quite approached this peak's height, or the magnificence of its 8,600-foot-high vista.

  Above him, just over the lip of the peak, he heard the fluttering of wings, very close. He turned as a winged thing dropped upon him, blotting out the sky. He was thrown from his horse, onto his back, and for a moment the pain of his beating screamed through his body, and he nearly blacked out. He felt something being forced into his mouth, and tried to spit it out, but his nostrils had been pinched, his mouth closed, and he swallowed the object.

  He lay back as the winged thing rose off of him, and, momentarily, his strength began to return.

  He rose up on his elbows, staring at the thing looking down at him; a painted figure wearing the feathered wings of a bird, a head-dress cowl of feathers, and a mask like a beak. Its leggings were covered with feathers, its feet sheathed in curving talons. Strapped to its side in a loop was a long curving blade like a sickle or claw.

  Thomas made to get up. He found that suddenly his strength was leaving him again, his head growing light.

  The feathered figure bent over him, slowly removed its cowled mask.

  For a moment it stared at him with its black eyes.

  "Thomas Mullin," it said finally, in clear, calm English. Thomas tried to wor
k his now unworkable mouth, tried to get up. But everything failed him, and he felt himself laying back on what now seemed the featherbed of the rocky mountain floor, as the figure above him bent even closer, and said in a not unkind, female voice, "My father told me so much about you."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lone Wolf was filled with pride. Before him, at the edge of the Papagos reservation, lay the naked wastes leading to Tucson. They had travelled unbothered, and now they stood on the verge of victory. Here, in the shadow of the mountain the white man called Kitt Peak, he could already feel triumph coursing through him. The great chiefs of old would be proud of him now; the great warriors would soon count him among their number. There was nothing now between himself and the city of Tucson, nothing that could stand in his way.

  "Old man," he said, turning in his saddle to summon Le-Cato. Part of him told him to temper his pride, to show some deference for the chief of the Tohono O'otam, especially here in his own reservation; but part of him was too angry with the weakness he saw before him to be deferential.

  Le-Cato, his face long, rode slowly up. Beside him was his granddaughter, the only member of the Tohono O'otam still in the reservation, who had ridden out to meet Le-Cato. "Your people," Lone Wolf said, in mock surprise, "why are they not here to greet us? Where," Lone Wolf said, letting his voice rise in anger, "is the great celebration I anticipated from the great and mighty Tohono O'otam?"

  "My granddaughter has brought the things you wanted," Le-Cato said, indicating the bundles tied to his granddaughter's horse.

  "Or is it," Lone Wolf continued in anger, "that your people are perhaps the Papagos, the bean people, after all?"

  He raised his hand as if to strike the old man, who flinched away from his feigned blow and hung his head.