There was nothing for a moment.
Then, to wild applause, Roosevelt emerged, smiling widely, striding to the podium with little Josh on his shoulders.
Lone Wolf pressed his eye painfully to the Walthers gun sight. There was much movement on the platform at the back of the train, white men and one black man moving into his view. Then, suddenly, the white man's President appeared, with a child on his shoulders.
To Lone Wolf, it made no difference. His finger poised hard on the trigger, and he moved the rifle smoothly to follow them the few steps to the podium, and stop there, the crosshairs centered on the President's head, and the white child's belly behind it.
The band, at a motion from Jenkins, ceased playing. "American friends!" Roosevelt boomed. "In this great wide country, in this, the greatest of countries, I am proud to be with you today!"
The band played a few bars, and the crowd cheered wildly. Roosevelt laughed, looking up at Josh as the boy clapped, balancing himself on the President's shoulders.
Roosevelt waited for the cheers to subside. "Proud, and happy as all getdown! And though my home is that big white one in the East, I want to tell you that my heart will always be in the West! Because here is where America really made itself. The East, if you think about it, was created by Englishmen and Spaniards. But the West was created by Americans!"
Again the band played a few notes, to wild cheering. Roosevelt, laughing like a child, bounced Josh up and down on his shoulders.
Suddenly the President reached out sideways and pulled Lincoln, who stood a little dazed by what was happening, toward him. Lincoln almost got caught up in his crutches, but moved to stand next to Roosevelt. He felt a strong, thick arm encircle his waist, hold him tight as a cobra.
"How are ya!" Roosevelt whispered, but before Lincoln could answer, the President was already addressing the crowd again, his voice booming out over the street.
"Yes, America is the greatest country God ever put on this earth! And I'd like to introduce to you one of the men who helped create the West, who forged his way through the dangers and hardships, so that wonderful people like you could live and prosper here!"
More blaring music from the band, more cheering. Lincoln found himself smiling, and holding up his hand to wave, as Roosevelt's rock hard grip, behind his back, was urging him to do.
With a sinking feeling Thomas Mullin heard the strains of band music waft over the desert to him. He was still a mile out of Tucson, and feared he was too late. The only chance he had was the fact that Roosevelt might talk for a while. From what Morning Rain had told him, Lone Wolf would seek the dramatic in his act.
Every step of the horse sent pain through Thomas, which he ignored. The ride back toward Tucson had been one of the hardest, fastest, of his life. And the effects of the drug Bill Adams's daughter had given him had not completely worn off. He found himself constantly shaking his head to clear it, his mind wandering off toward dreams. At times he thought the earth was opening up before him, ready to swallow his horse; twice he pulled back on the reins, sure he was at the edge of a precipice. But still he rode on.
When he heard the band stop playing, then heard a cheer from a distant crowd, he shook his head vigorously, spurred his horse on, and, ignoring the pain that shot through him, rode faster.
"Friends!" Roosevelt shouted, gripping Lincoln by the shoulder. "This man is a hero, and all of you are heroes, too! For together you have forged the greatest nation on earth! And before I leave you today, I want to pledge to you that all of us, together, will continue to build this nation, and add even more greatness, more strength, more courage, to what we already have! The world envies America — and rightly so — God bless you all!"
Lone Wolfs finger drew tightly on the Walthers's trigger. The crowd in front of the train station was cheering wildly, beginning to surge forward. The American President was holding the black man closely with one hand, waving high overhead with his other, smiling broadly. The white child on his shoulders waved, too. This was the moment Lone Wolf had waited for, the President in his glory, his head above his smiling foolish mouth centered in the crosshairs as Lone Wolf pulled his finger back on the trigger —
There was only time for Thomas to react. He tore into the edge of Tucson, spotting the hotel Morning Rain had told him about. Circled around it in the street, trying to look casual, were four Apaches. There was no time to think. The crowd in the near distance was cheering wildly, the band playing loud.
Thomas rode hard into the middle of the street in front of the hotel, jumped from his horse. A momentary shock greeted him — it seemed the ground below him had opened up again, showing a depth of blue sky and clouds, an eagle circling below him. He shook his head as he struck the dust. Time seemed to slow. He drew his gun from its holster, rolled, looked up at the windows on the top floor of the hotel, locating the one that was open. The long slim barrel of a rifle protruded from it. He saw the crouching figure of Lone Wolf behind its gun sight. In his drugged state, Thomas imagined he could hear the rifle go off. But it was his own gun firing, and a moment later he saw a puff of smoke from the rifle barrel.
Then the world exploded around him. He saw one of the Apaches running toward him, knife out; saw another coming from the opposite direction. There was pandemonium behind him. The noises got very loud. His eyes began to cloud. The final vision he had was of an old Apache leaping toward him, long knife in hand -
"Down!" Mawdrey shouted. For a moment Roosevelt thought he was shot, and thought immediately of the young boy on his shoulders. He felt himself pushed to the floor of the platform, felt warm blood on his face.
"The boy!" he shouted. But Mawdrey was already covering him. Roosevelt put his hand to his face and drew it away. It was covered in blood. But when he looked up he saw the black man, Lincoln, still standing, dazed, holding his crutches, a spread of blood rising through his shirt at the shoulder.
"Attend to that man!" Roosevelt shouted, thrusting Mawdrey off him, turning to see the boy's mother holding the lad, pulling him close to her.
"He's all right," the woman said. "He's all right."
Roosevelt stood, caught Lincoln as he collapsed, his crutches sliding away from him.
"Sorry, Mr. President . . ." Lincoln said.
"Nonsense!" Roosevelt shouted. "My God, a hero again!"
Lincoln nodded weakly, and then fell to un-consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Thomas awoke, after what seemed a very long sleep, in the same bed in Marshal Murphy's house he'd had before. For a moment he thought he had never left, and that everything that came rushing back at him that had happened on Kitt Peak and in Tucson had been merely a dream. But when he tried to sit up, and felt the bolt of hot pain shoot through the bandaged wound in his right shoulder, he knew he had not been dreaming.
Mary Murphy appeared with her habitual tray of food.
"You should be hungry, Lieutenant," she said, matter-of-factly. "You've been asleep for two days."
"Two days!"
He slid back down in the bed, finding a spot to accommodate his sore shoulder and aching head.
"That's right," Marshal Murphy said. "Your friend, Lincoln, only slept twenty-four hours. Doctor Hazeltine said you were under the influence of some drug, and might not come awake for days."
"Lincoln — "
"He's fine," Marshal Murphy said. "Wounded in the shoulder, like you. The bullet missed Roosevelt by eight inches. You killed Lone Wolf, you know. You also saved the President's life and my son's, who was on Roosevelt's shoulders at the time."
Thomas grunted.
"Don't you want to know what happened to you?"
"I take it the Apache who attacked me was not accurate with his knife thrust."
"My God, man, you fought him off! There were two Secret Service men a half block away, along with one of my men, but they didn't get there until it was nearly over. Two of the Apaches were captured, the other two killed. You were raving about falling through the sky, an
eagle — "
"The peyote," Thomas said. "It was unpleasant, and powerful."
"I take it you have some story to tell me, when you're up to it," Marshal Murphy went on. "We went up to the Papagos reservation yesterday, found a couple of bodies at the base of Kitt Peak. One of them was Cates, the other Bill Adams's daughter."
Thomas said, "Le-Cato, the Tohono O'otam chief, was killed, also. He was something of a hero, in the end."
"He was being buried when we got to the reservation. When you're up to it…"
"Yes, we'll talk later, Marshal."
"Good."
Josh appeared, bearing a book. He went to Thomas, and laid it on the bed, then ran out.
"A present," Marshal Murphy said, "from the President. He wanted badly to meet you, but had to move on. Had a campaign schedule to meet. They're trying to downplay the incident. In fact, they control the press, and they're going to make believe it didn't happen. There's an election coming up, and they don't want anything to mar Roosevelt's western trip. But the President wanted you to have that."
Grunting with the pain it caused him, Thomas turned the book over. It was a leather-bound edition of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Inside the flyleaf was written, "To a bully fellow, a real man, from one Holmes admirer to another." It was signed, "Theodore Roosevelt."
"It was his own copy, which he'd brought along on the trip," Marshal Murphy said. "You'll also be happy to learn we captured your friend, Forsen, and his buddies. Frawley's in custody, too, though we're pretty sure he knew nothing about the plot against
Roosevelt. I can guarantee he'll spend time in jail, though. There are Army contingents already rounding up the rest of Lone Wolfs braves."
Thomas nodded, put the book aside. "I must thank the President...."
His eyes were heavy, and when he forced them open a few moments later, before falling back to sleep, Marshal Murphy and his wife were leaving the room.
Later, he awoke, and felt wide awake. The sun was still up, and he heard sounds outside the house. Moving slowly from the bed, he saw outside the curtains the marshal in the back, chopping wood, little Joshua running around as his mother hung wash.
With slow steps, Thomas made his way to the front room. The shades were drawn, but Lincoln was in the spot Thomas had left him in the last time, leg in a cast up on the end of the sofa. A new bandage covered his right shoulder. He turned and grinned at Thomas as he entered the room.
"Hello, Lieutenant."
"Seems we can form a shoulder wound club, Trooper."
"Yes, sir."
"You feeling fit?"
"Will in a week or so. Mrs. Murphy was kind enough to wire Matty. I'm afraid she made me sound like a hero for taking a bullet I didn't know was coming. Matty's heading out here herself to fetch me back home." He grinned. "I don't think she trusts you at all, Lieutenant."
"I don't blame her, Trooper."
"What are you going to do now, Lieutenant? When it's time to move on, I mean?"
Thomas frowned. "I don't quite know, but I think I'll be staying out in this part of the country. There's too much of it in me, I'm afraid."
Lincoln sighed. "I know what you mean, sir."
Thomas raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me you're thinking of giving up sharecropping?"
"I'll have to talk it over with Matty, first, but. . ."
Thomas laughed. "Perhaps we'll be neighbors, Trooper. Maybe we'll even work together again."
Lincoln winced. "That much I'll have to see about, sir. Somehow I don't think I should include that possibility when I talk to my wife."
Thomas patted the young man on the shoulder. "You do what you have to, Trooper. But I can tell you now; you make one hell of a good Watson. Keep that in mind."
"I will, sir."
"Rest now, Trooper Reeves." Thomas stood up stiffly, trying not to wince at his own pain. He turned back toward the bedroom. "At least for a little while, that's what I'm going to do."
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