“No sir, I didn’t actual see it, but I heered it.”
“What do you mean you heard it?” Williams asked.
“I heered Mr. Malcolm’s shotgun go off—then I heered a lot more shots after that.”
Sheriff Williams stroked his chin and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d say that’s a pretty good sign he was killed all right.” Williams walked over to take his hat off a hook. He also took down the ring of keys, then came back to open the door to Keith’s cell.
“You aren’t supposed to be let out till after lunch,” the sheriff said. “But I may not be back by then, so I’m lettin’ you out now. And next time you have to take a pee, for heaven’s sake, Keith, go out into the alley or some such place.”
“I always do—when I’m sober,” Keith said. “And I thank you for your kindness in letting me out half an hour early.”
“Yeah, well, it also saves the county the money for buyin’ your lunch,” Sheriff Williams said. “Dewey, come with me, we’ll go find Marshal Gilmore. This is more his jurisdiction than it is mine.”
“Could I get me a drink of water first?” Dewey asked. “I drunk up all the canteen while I was walkin’ here.”
“Sure you can, boy,” Sheriff Williams said. “There’s a bucket and dipper back there against the wall.”
Dewey hurried back to the water bucket and scooped out a dipper full. Turning it up to his lips, he drank deeply, letting the water run down both sides of his lips as he did so.
“Easy, boy, easy,” Keith said as he stepped out of the jail cell. “You drink that too fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Dewey said. “But I’m powerful thirsty.”
Sheriff Williams found U.S. Marshal Gilmore having his lunch in Miller’s Café.
“Marshal, this here is Dewey Calhoun. He came into the office a while ago tellin’ a story about being attacked by Injuns. And seeing as dealing with Indians is more a federal thing than county, I figured we should, more than likely, bring you in on it.”
“Where did this happen?” Marshal Gilmore asked.
“Out on the Picket Post Road,” Dewey said.
“He was on a wagon, Marshal, and get this. The wagon was carryin’ saltpeter. You know what that’s used for, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s used for makin’ gunpowder,” Williams said, not to be denied showing his knowledge.
“Have you had your lunch, boy?” Marshal Gilmore asked.
“No, sir, it got left back on the wagon,” Dewey said.
“Faye,” the marshal called. “Bring the boy your blue plate lunch special.”
“Sure thing, Marshal,” a middle-aged woman answered.
“Now, boy, tell me all about it,” Marshal Gilmore said.
On the trail with Bixby and Cynthia
The rig Bixby rented had been on the trail for the better part of the morning. The day had started out warm, and was now hot. As the steel-rimmed wheels rolled across the hard-packed earth, they picked up dirt, causing a rooster tail of dust to stream out behind them. The wood of the buckboard was bleached white, and under the sun it gave off a rather pungent smell. As Bixby drove the team, Cynthia sat in the sun on the dried seat of the wagon, looking at the map Bixby had given her.
“Do you see anything familiar?” Bixby asked.
“That obelisk over there has to be Weaver’s Needle,” Cynthia said, pointing to the tall rock column. “And if it is, then we are right here.”
“Why this—this is nothing more than desert,” Bixby said. “I was led to believe I would be buying land that could easily be made into a ranch. How can one make a ranch of desert land? Are you certain of where we are?”
“You can look at the map,” Cynthia said, handing it to him. “Perhaps you will read it differently.”
Bixby studied the map for a moment, then sighed. “No,” he said. “You are right. This is the property I was to buy. But no more. I will not be bamboozled. As soon as we return to Phoenix, I will stop the sale and we will return to New York.”
Suddenly there was a creaking, snapping sound, and the buckboard lurched so badly that Cynthia was very nearly tossed out. She looked up from the map.
“Oh!” she gasped in a startled tone of voice. “What was that?”
“Whoa, horses,” Bixby called, pulling back on the reins. The team stopped and the buckboard sat there, listing sharply to the right.
“Jay, what is it?” Cynthia asked. “What is wrong?”
“Oh, this is just too much,” Bixby said. “I believe we have broken an axle.”
“Can you fix it?” Cynthia asked.
“Now how can I fix it?” Bixby replied. “What do you take me for? A common tradesman? Oh, to provide customers with a conveyance that breaks down on you the first time you take it out is unconscionable.”
Cynthia climbed down from the listing buckboard.
“Don’t tell me you think you can fix it,” Bixby said.
“No, I can’t fix it. But we can’t just stay here.”
“What do you propose that we do?”
“I think we should start walking back.”
“Walking? Walking where? All the way back to Phoenix?”
“If necessary, yes, all the way to Phoenix,” Cynthia said. “But I believe Mr. Hendel will notice the lateness of our return, and will arrange for someone to come and collect us.”
“You have more confidence in him than I do,” Bixby said. “I doubt seriously that he will have the presence of mind to notice that we are late.”
“You underestimate Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia said. “I find him to be a very clever person. He is also very loyal and dependable.”
“No doubt you should have married him, rather than me,” Bixby said.
Cynthia did not respond, but Bixby was too self-centered to notice.
Superstition Mountain
Approximately five miles from where Cynthia and Bixby abandoned the buckboard, six men were prospecting at the foot of Superstition Mountain. They were used to working alone, but with the recent outbreak of Indian trouble, they decided it would be safer to prospect together. The little valley where they were working rang with the sound of their hammers as they chipped away at the hard rock, looking for “color.”
“Listen,” one of them said. He held up his hand. “Stop the hammerin’ for a minute, will you?”
“What is it, Mickey?” one of the others asked. “I don’t hear nothin’.”
“Listen,” Mickey said again.
All six were quiet for a moment, with the only sound the ever-present mournful wail of the wind through the rocks and peaks. Then, they all heard what Mickey had heard, the distant thunder of pounding hooves.
“Better get to your guns, boys,” Mickey said. “We’ve got company comin’, and I don’t think it’s anyone we want.”
The battle was short and violent. Delshay moved in and out of gulleys, shouting with joy as he led the fight. The prospectors were all armed and they fired at him, but he was much too nimble to present an easy target for them, and not one bullet found its mark.
Within a short time after the initial attack, all six miners had fallen mortally wounded, and Delshay stuck both arms in the air, leaned his head back, and gave a loud shout of victory. The warriors who were with him, not one of whom had been wounded, shouted as well.
Delshay and the others went through the prospectors’ camp, taking everything that was of any value—guns, knives, cooking utensils. One of them took a compass, and though none of the Indians had ever seen anything like it before, they were intrigued by the way the arrow always seemed to point toward the McDowell Mountains. They discussed the possibility of the compass being some sort of omen, and decided to smash it on the rocks.
On the road with Bixby and Cynthia
“What was that?” Cynthia asked.
The two were walking west on the same road over which they had come, and Bixby was now breathing hard with the effort.
“What was what?” he asked, panting.
“That sound,” Cynthia said. “Didn’t you hear it?”
“I haven’t heard anything except the eternal and infernal howl of wind. What do you think you heard?”
“I don’t know,” Cynthia confessed. “It sounded like several pops.” She laughed. “Rather like the sound popcorn makes when it is popping.”
“Your imagination is working overtime,” Bixby said. “Perhaps you are hearing the Mountain God. What did Hendel say the Indians call him?”
“Usen,” Cynthia said.
“Usen, yes. Perhaps Usen is popping corn.”
Cynthia laughed. “Why, Jay, you do have a sense of humor,” she said. “I am surprised.”
“I meant it as sarcasm, my dear, not as humor,” Bixby said. “Oh, why did I ever think I might want to live out here?”
“But all you have to do is look around to answer that question,” Cynthia said. “Why, I think it is beautiful out here. See the way the sun plays upon the mountains? And look at all the different colors it displays. It is magnificent.”
“Only a fool could see beauty in this wild, trackless land,” Bixby said bitterly.
Suddenly, over a ridge just before them, ten Indians appeared. The Indians drew back quickly, as surprised to see Bixby and Cynthia as they were to see the Indians.
“Oh, my God! Indians!” Bixby shouted in sudden panic.
Delshay held up his hand to stop the others and, for a long moment, the ten Indians just sat their mounts, looking at the strange sight of a white man and a white woman walking along the road all alone. Neither Delshay nor any of his men made a sound.
“Please, please, don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” Bixby pleaded. Putting his hands on Cynthia’s shoulders, he shoved her forward.
“Take her!” he said. “Do you see how beautiful she is? I know that Indians like white women. Take her, I give her to you!”
“Jay! What are you doing?” Cynthia asked, shocked by her husband’s action.
“Kill him,” Delshay said, pointing to the white man.
One of Delshay’s men raised his club and started toward Bixby. He stopped when he saw the front of Bixby’s pants suddenly grow wet. Realizing what had just happened, he laughed and pointed, then spoke in Apache.
“Look! The white man is so afraid that he has wet his pants!”
The others laughed and Bixby, realizing that the laughter was at his expense, began shaking and weeping.
“Wait,” Delshay said. “Do not kill him.”
The warrior who had started forward stopped.
“White man,” Delshay said in English. “Would you give your woman to us to spare your life?”
“Yes! Yes!” Bixby said, nodding fiercely. “You can have her! I give her to you.”
Delshay pointed to the west, in the same direction that the white man and the white woman had been walking. “Go,” he said. “I will not kill you.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Bixby said. He looked at Cynthia for a long moment, his expression a mixture of fear, shame, and guilt. “Cynthia, I—I am sorry,” he said.
Bixby started walking west, but the walk quickly turned into a run as he hurried to get away from them before the leader of the Indians changed his mind.
Cynthia watched Bixby leave; then she turned to look into the face of the leader.
Perhaps it was shock, the shock of the attack, of seeing Bixby dissolve in panic, or of realizing that he had just traded her life for his. Whatever it was, it took away all her own fear.
One of the Indians pointed to her.
“I claim this woman as mine,” a warrior named Nalyudi, or He Runs About, said, though as he was speaking in his own language, Cynthia had no idea what he was saying.
“No, she will not be anyone’s woman,” Delshay replied, speaking in English. Then he added in his own language, “She is a woman with powerful medicine. We will honor that medicine.”
“She has no medicine,” Nalyudi said.
“She has not shown fear,” Delshay said.
“She will show fear of me,” Nalyudi said. Nalyudi was an anomaly among the Apache. While most Apache were relatively short, Nalyudi was well over six feet tall and was powerfully built.
“No, I think not. I think Mountain Lion Woman is without fear in her eyes.”
“Mountain Lion Woman?” Nalyudi asked. “You have given this white woman a name?”
“Yes,”
“I do not believe her medicine is strong enough for you to give her such a name,” Nalyudi said. “I will prove to you that she fears me. Then I will claim her as my woman.”
“She will show no fear,” Delshay said.
Nalyudi raised his war club, and he let out a menacing, bloodcurdling yell.
Cynthia was resigned to dying now, thinking that it might even be preferable to being a prisoner of the Indians. Because of that, the strange, almost numbing calmness that had come over her before was still present. She showed no fear.
“Nalyudi,” Delshay said in English. “Do you agree now that her medicine is strong?”
“Arrrghhh!” Nalyudi shouted in anger and frustration. He turned away from her.
“Come,” Delshay said to Cynthia, speaking in English. “You will not be harmed.”
“What is your name?” Cynthia asked.
“It is not the way of the Apache to give their name to everyone,” Delshay replied. “We give our name only to trusted friends and respected enemies. But I will tell you that my name is Delshay.”
“Delshay, I thank you for not killing my husband,” Cynthia said.
“You are a strange woman,” Delshay said. “You thank me for not killing your husband, but you do not thank me for not killing you.”
“I do not thank you, because my life is still in your hands,” Cynthia said.
“Uhn,” Delshay replied, nodding. “You are a wise woman. But do not thank me for letting your man live. Though he lives today, your man is a coward, and he will die many times.”
“Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once,” Cynthia said.
“You know of this, Mountain Lion Woman?”
“Yes. It is something Shakespeare said.”
“Your friend Shakespeare is a wise man,” Delshay said.
A couple of the Indians took Cynthia gently and led her to a horse, then helped her to mount. Although none of the horses the Indians were riding had a saddle, this was one of six horses that were saddled, and she wondered where they came from and how the Indians happened to have them.
As she mounted, she saw the angry look that the one Delshay had called Nalyudi was giving her. While she had not understood the conversation in which he’d tried to claim her as his woman, she did know that she had made him very angry. What she did not realize was that her action had caused Nalyudi to lose face before the other warriors. And she did not realize what a mortal enemy she had just made.
Chapter Twenty-two
Matt had drawn two queens and an ace. He discarded two cards.
“Two for Mr. Jensen,” the dealer said. “Three for the good doctor, one for Mr. Hanlon, and the dealer will stand pat.”
“Whoa, Paul, do you actually have something, or are you trying to run a bluff?” Dr. Presnell said.
“My dear fellow,” the dealer, Paul Pinkstaff, said. “I never run a bluff.”
Matt was playing poker with three new friends he had met in the Dry Gulch Saloon, and they all laughed at Pinkstaff’s declaration.
“I know you haven’t been here long,” Dr. Presnell said to Matt. “But you have just heard what can best be described as a whopper. Paul runs bluffs all the time.”
“Those are the ones you need to look out for,” Matt said. “You never can tell when they may actually have something.”
“Mr. Jensen is a smart man,” Pinkstaff said. “I suggest you listen to him. Dealer bets two dollars.”
Matt picked up his cards, but hi
s pair of queens wasn’t improved. He called, and when Hanlon raised the bet by a dollar, the dealer dropped out, to the whoops and laughter of the others around the table.
Matt called, though he didn’t feel good about it. As it turned out, he was right. Hanlon won the hand with three sevens. Matt had been playing for an hour and was down by about ten dollars.
“Mr. Jensen, I will say this for you,” Hanlon said as he drew in the pot. “You do lose graciously.”
“Whether you are gracious or angry, you are out the same amount of money,” Matt said. “So little is gained by being angry.”
“You are not only gracious, you are smart,” Hanlon said.
“Matt?”
Looking up, Matt saw Sheriff Williams approaching the table.
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“I wonder if you would mind coming down to the office with me. Marshal Gilmore and I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Be glad to,” Matt said. “If I stay here any longer, I’ll wind up losing even more money.”
Matt picked up the money that was in front of his chair, then followed the sheriff down to his office. There, he was introduced to Marshal Gilmore and a boy of about twelve, who was identified as Dewey Calhoun.
“Mr. Jensen, are you the same Matt Jensen who rode scout for General Crook several months back?”
“Yes,” Matt said.
“Good, I was hoping you were. We’ve got a little situation here that I’m hoping you can help with.”
“I’ll be glad to do what I can.”
“Son, tell Mr. Jensen what you told us,” Marshal Gilmore said to the twelve-year-old boy.
Dewey repeated his story of being out on the Picket Post Road when they encountered Indians. He concluded by telling of hearing the gunfire.
“Did you go back to see whether or not Malcolm was dead or alive?” Matt asked.
“Oh! No, sir,” Dewey said with a quick intake of breath. “I should have, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry, it’s just that I was so scared.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Matt said. “More than likely he wasn’t alive, and it wouldn’t have done him any good if you had gone back. In fact, it might have just put you in more danger.”
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Page 16
