“How did you find me?” Holmes asked.
“I see vultures circling. They know when a creature is about to die.”
Holmes glanced up in horror.
“How did white man come to be so far from his brothers? Where is his horse?’
Holmes explained the stage coach and the robbery. “I’ve been trying to walk to the settlement in Tucson. Do you know it? Am I far away?”
The Indian pointed toward what looked like the North. “Beyond those hills. Two days march for a man in good health.”
“So far? I don’t understand.”
“You are to the south of the white man’s houses. You have almost crossed the boundary to the land they call Mexico.”
“How did I get here? I tried to walk due west. I should have followed the track.”
“It is easy to go astray in the desert,” the Indian said. “You are thirsty. You need to drink.”
“Do you have any water?” Holmes asked, wondering where on his person it could be stored, seeing that he wore little more than a loin cloth.
The Indian had already turned away and approached a giant cactus. He studied it then produced a hatchet and lopped off a branch, nodding in satisfaction. “Watch for spines,” he warned, then demonstrated, reaching into the cactus and scooping out liquid. Holmes drank greedily, then washed his face.
“I’m much obliged to you,” he said. “You’ve undoubtedly saved my life. May name is Holmes. May I know yours?’
“You can call me Shadow Wolf,” the man said.
“Do you people live nearby?” Holmes asked, studying the desert scenery.
“Not near. Now they are camped a day away, on the other side of the white man’s border. I have been sent to the town to trade.”
“What do you trade?” Again Holmes looked at the almost naked man.
“I bring precious stones and animal skins. I will return with tobacco and cloth and wool for weaving blankets.” He opened a little pouch he carried tied to his waist and Holmes saw the glint of unpolished stones. “The skins are over there. By that bush.”
He went to retrieve the tightly wrapped bundle. “Can you walk? I do not think you can walk all the way to the white man’s town. I will take you to the nearest of their ranches. Come.”
He motioned for Holmes to follow him and set off mercifully slowly.
“How do you know your way?” Holmes asked. “I see no kind of trail.”
Shadow Wolf smiled. “I read the signs. My people call it ‘cutting for sign.’ To me the desert is like a story, waiting to be read.” He paused. “See here?” He bent down and pointed to a low shrub. “A rabbit passed this way.” Holmes noticed a tiny shred of white fur caught on a spine. “And here, where the sand is soft, we can see his trail. The footmarks are fresh. Yesterday the wind blew the sand, so I know that he passed this way since last night. But his trail does not continue here, so what happened? A drama. I will show you. Specks of blood on the rock, here. But no other animal tracks. How can that be? I will tell you. A great bird came down and took him. An eagle maybe. See here where the wing tip brushed the sand?”
He nodded at Holmes with satisfaction. “Even the smallest of signs tells me a story. I can tell you who walked here and how long ago, whether they were carrying burdens or walking lightly.”
“Fascinating.” Holmes was still staring at the tiny specks of blood on the rock. “Can you teach me to read the signs?”
Shadow Wolf smiled again. “It takes a lifetime of practice. Maybe a man has to be born to it. But I can show you how I cut for sign.“
”And how you find your way in this featureless place?”
“In this place there is no problem. We must cross those mountains. The water takes the easiest path downward after rain, so we will follow the path of the river.” He indicated the dry wash and motioned Holmes to follow. Holmes struggled after him. All afternoon they climbed steadily. At last the sun sank behind the hills, speckling the vast sky with pink, like an archipelago of islands in a blue ocean.
“We make camp,” Shadow Wolf said. “You must eat and rest.”
He found an area of soft sand. Holmes sank down gratefully. His head no longer throbbed dangerously but his feet were blistered and his tongue felt so swollen that his lips wouldn’t close around it.
“Do we have any food?”
“I will find food for us.” He moved off. Holmes was disappointed to see him returning empty handed. “I have found the road of the pouched rat,” he said. “I have set traps. We will wait. But until then…” He climbed effortlessly up to where a spreading cactus bush spilled over a rock, and lopped off some green tips. “Your people call this Prickly pear,” he said. “When I have taken off the spikes, it is good to eat.”
With his hatchet he skilfully removed the outer layer and handed the segment to Holmes who crunched on it greedily. It was full of moisture, almost like a fruit. The Indian then set about building a fire, taking two pieces of flint from a small leather pouch and striking them together. Sparks fell upon a small heap of dried moss, which he carefully blew on, and he soon had a blaze going.
“There are wolves in these mountains,” he said, “and coyotes and even puma. They will not harm us unless they are very hungry. But they may be very hungry. We must be prepared.”
They sat on opposite sides of the fire. The red man’s face glowed in the firelight. Slowly a young moon rose over the horizon. The Indian stood up. “We will see if the traps have brought us dinner yet.”
Holmes followed him, trying to walk as silently as the Indian but somehow managing to step on dry twigs and kick loose pebbles, much to his embarrassment. Shadow Wolf did not look back at him, but proceeded at a steady pace, staring down at an invisible trail with interest. At last he held up his hand for Holmes to stop. Holmes could see that some kind of trap had been rigged between two rocks—a thin sapling bent back, bait beneath, and a rock poised to drop at the right moment.
It had not yet been triggered. The Indian shook his head and motioned for Holmes to step around the trap. They went on and then the Indian trotted forward to another trap. This one had been sprung. A small mammal lay beneath a rock, quite dead. It was hardly enough to feed two men but the Indian seemed satisfied as they made their way back to camp. He produced a small knife from his pouch and skilfully skinned the little carcass before spitting it over the blaze. It provided little more than a nibble but Holmes was able to fall asleep feeling reasonably content.
Shadow Wolf woke them at first light. He had visited the rest of his traps and had cooked another of the pouched rats, as well as a porcupine he had apparently killed with his small knife. He demonstrated to Holmes how he had thrown it and how he had removed the spines by burying the animal in the embers of the fire. They ate then set off.
As they climbed steadily, Shadow Wolf pointed out the smallest of clues that Holmes would not have noticed—a bee flying toward a nest in a dead Palo Verde stump, the tracks of a coyote stalking a jack rabbit. Holmes wished he had his note book with him and tried to memorize everything the other man said.
They reached the crest and made their way down the other side of the mountains. At last, after many miles of travelling, they came upon a fence, then the first cattle, and by afternoon they saw the ranch house, low and sprawling and made of adobe brick the colour of the landscape. Shadow Wolf indicated that Holmes should go on.
“Will you not come with me?” He asked. “Let me at least provide you with a good meal, and I should like to reward you in some way, if I could.”
Shadow Wolf shook his head. “The white man sees the red man as his enemy. Sometimes this is true. Sometimes it is not. But the white man expects the worst. I have no wish to meet the white man’s bullet.” He held out his hand to Holmes. “Walk safely, my friend. Everywhere you go, may you have good luck.”
“And you too, my friend,” Holmes replied. There was a lump in his throat as the tall, bronzed figure moved swiftly away. Holmes walked toward the ranch. Soon he h
eard the barking of dogs and ranch hands came out to meet him. He was brought into the delightful cool of the ranch house and was spilling out his tale to the rancher and his wife over a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.
“So you see, I am at your mercy, sir,” Holmes said. “I have been robbed of all my possessions and my money. If you could somehow help me into the nearest town, then maybe I can persuade the local bank manager that I am a man of honour and that funds from my bank in London will be transferred with all speed.”
“You’re not going anywhere for a while, young man,” Mrs Tucker, the rancher’s wife said. “You looked as if you were about to expire when you staggered up to our door. You stay with us for a few days while I get some nourishing food into you, and then you can ride with Mr Tucker when he goes into Tucson to collect the mail on Friday.”
“I’m much obliged to you, ma’am.”
“And as for money,” Mr Tucker said, “I can see that you are a gentleman, and I was raised to believe that a gentleman’s word is his bond. I’ll advance you want you need to take you back to civilization.”
“I’m am truly grateful, sir,” Holmes replied,
“We have to make amends for those varmints who robbed the stage, don’t we?” Tucker chuckled. “Otherwise you’d believe nothing good about the Western Territories. There are more hard-working and honest men out here than bandits, I can assure you.”
“Just as there are more kind and trustworthy Indians than hostile ones, I expect,” Holmes said and noticed the instant coldness.
“I wouldn’t be about to say that,” Mrs Tucker said. “We live in constant fear out here so far from town, and Mr Tucker will tell you that the rogues are always trying to rustle our cattle.”
Holmes thought it wise not to pursue this topic. So he remained at the Tucker homestead, allowing himself to be spoiled by Mrs Tucker’s ample meals and constant ministrations. He also showed considerable interest in the running of the ranch and begged Mr Tucker to teach him as many Western skills as possible. On his last day, a steer was butchered. Mr Tucker, wearing a large canvas apron, did most of the butchering himself while Holmes watched and made notes.
“Damned flies.” Mr Tucker waved them away.
“I’m surprised at the number of flies,” Holmes said. “We’ve scarcely seen one or two before now.”
“Danged creatures can smell blood from a mile off,” Tucker said. “They make straight for it. Smallest drop of blood and they’ll find it out, mark my words.”
He went back to butchering.
That night there was an outdoor ox roast in Holmes’s honour, and next morning they left in the buckboard for Tucson. It was five hours bumping over a rutted and rocky track before the township appeared before them, lying in a green valley with a small stream meandering through it. They passed between wooden shacks and adobe buildings before coming to a halt in the one dusty main street. Shop fronts lurked in deep shadow behind deep porches. Wooden sidewalks kept dust and mud off boots and ladies’ hems. As Holmes and Mr Tucker stepped down from the buckboard, a young man came out of one of the saloons. He had bright red hair and his forearms were freckled with orange dots. As he came out, he turned back to say something, then let out a loud, “Hee hee hee.”
Holmes froze. “That man,” he whispered to Mr Tucker. “He was one of the ones who robbed me, I’m sure of it.”
Tucker frowned. “I thought you said they wore masks.”
“But I’d recognize his forearm and his laugh anywhere.”
“Then if I were you, I’d keep quiet about it, if you know what’s good for you,” Tucker replied. “That boy is Willard Jensen. His daddy owns half this town. His daddy hires the sheriff.”
Holmes thought he saw the young man stare for a second as he passed, but he hurried on to join a group of men standing outside the jail. A loud buzz of conversation was coming from the group and then a voice boomed loudly, “I say we string him up right now. Ain’t no sense in waiting around. He’s as guilty as sin.”
“Come on, now boys.” This speaker was an older man, portly and well dressed in Western manner. A heavy gold chain was strung across his chest and he wore a large white hat. “Everything has to be done properly, according to the law. You know that. We got us a representative of the Federal government in town at the moment and you wouldn’t want him to go home and report that folks on the frontier act like savages, would you?”
“Whatever you say, Mr Jensen. Okay, first we try him, then we string him up,” someone said and got a general laugh.
“What’s going on, Hank?” Mr Tucker asked a storekeeper who had come out of his general store to observe.
“Why they brought in an Injun who killed Ronald Fletcher. You know, that Englishman whose been working for Mr Jensen. Educated type of fellah.”
“How do they know the Indian killed him?” Holmes asked.
Hank appraised the newcomer. “You a relative?” he asked. “He sounded like you.”
Holmes shook his head.
“Anyway, they caught this Injun actually bending over the body. We got us a guy from Washington in town so it looks like there will have to be a trial.”
At that moment there was a commotion further down the street, the crowd parted and a procession emerged from the jail. Gun-toting deputies walked ahead, clearing the throng of onlookers who had come out of nearby businesses. And in the middle, handcuffed and shoved roughly between two burly guards, was Holmes’s Indian companion, Shadow Wolf.
“String him up, the no-good rat. We don’t need no trial. Kill him.” The words echoed through the crowd.
Shadow Wolf raised his eyes for a second and Holmes saw the flash of recognition before he lowered them again.
“I know that man,” Holmes whispered excitedly to Mr Tucker. “He saved my life. I should do something.”
“I’d stay well out of it if I were you, son,” Tucker said. “This isn’t justice like you’re used to and folks around here have little love for Indians. Not much you can do.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stand by and do nothing. It may be futile but I have to try.” Holmes stepped into the tide of people, allowed himself to be swept along into the court house, and took his place in one of the back benches. The room buzzed with excited anticipation. Mr Jensen and a tall man in black took their places at the front.
The presiding judge was announced, a wiry little man with spiky white hair. He brought his hammer crashing down. “Court’s now in session,” he said. “We have before us the Injun who killed Robert Fletcher—fine upstanding man who managed the ranch for Mr Jensen. Don’t think this should take too long. We’ve got witnesses who caught him in the act.”
Holmes took a deep breath and stepped forward. “May I ask who is representing the defendant?” he asked.
“Don’t need no attorney. Open and shut case,” the judge said. “The Injun has pretty much pleaded guilty.”
“According to the law of this land, I believe that every person is entitled to a fair trial with representation, is that not correct?” Holmes asked.
The man in black rose to his feet. “I am Carter Cleveland, and I have been sent to observe our newest territory. Since Arizona is now officially part of the United States, then the law of the United States must be observed. Every man is entitled to representation.”
“Then I should like to volunteer to represent this man.” Holmes said.
“You a bona fide attorney, son?” the judge asked.
“In England where I come from I am considered an educated man,” Holmes said stiffly. “And I suspect you have no other volunteers to represent the Indian in the courthouse.”
The judge looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead. Can’t do no harm. Won’t do no good.”
“Then I should like to confer with my client,” Holmes said.
A titter of laughter, mixed with cat-calls, echoed through the courthouse.
“Ten minutes, then,” the judge agreed.
Holmes went up to th
e Indian. “Don’t waste your breath, my friend,” Shadow Wolf said. “They have already prepared the gallows for me.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“No. I did not kill that man.”
“Then tell me what happened, for God’s sake,” Holmes implored.
Shadow Wolf stared out beyond him. “I was walking alone in the darkness last night. I did not go near the bright lights of the streets because I did not wish to pass the saloons. Men full of liquor have been known to become violent when they see one of my people. I heard a noise—raised voices, men shouting, in the alleyway ahead of me. I heard a voice say, ‘No more. This has gone on long enough.’ Then a few more words. Then departing feet, and silence. I continued on my way until I saw something lying in shadow. It was a man. I bent over him to see if he was still alive. Suddenly hands grab me and they drag me away. They are shouting that I am the killer. I tell them I am innocent, but they don’t listen to me.”
“Do you have any idea who the men were you heard quarrelling? Or what they were quarrelling about?”
The Indian shook his head. “As to their words, I only heard the words I have told you. One has deep voice, rumbles like mountain thunder.”
Another of the men who robbed me, Holmes thought. Clearly the whole gang is in town, and this could have been a falling out among thieves. The man with the refined English voice wanted no more of it, so they killed him. But how to prove this?
“Where did this happen?” Holmes asked.
“Behind the tavern there are stables. Behind those stables there is a way through to the road out of town. I have been sleeping in safely away from the houses of the white men.”
“But why are you still here?” Holmes asked. “Surely your business must have been concluded long ago?”
The Indian shook his head. “The man who would buy my stones has been away. They told me he would return yesterday. So I waited. But he did not return.”
“And your stones?”
“Safely hidden.”
“Okay, you’ve had your conflab,” came the judge’s voice. “Let’s get on with it.”
“One more thing,” Holmes said. “I should like to see the scene of the crime for myself.”
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 40
