Apache Sundown

by Jory Sherman

  He grabbed the crook of O’Hara’s elbow and guided him away from Deets. He leaned close and whispered into the lieutenant’s ear. “Come with me,” he said.

  Zak walked for several yards, then stopped and again put his face close to O’Hara’s.

  “Deets was lucky,” he said. “He’s not badly wounded. But I don’t want him to know that.”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a flesh wound, O’Hara. My bullet plowed a hole in his left side. The bullet went clean through. He’s lost some blood, but no broken bones, no lead in him.”

  “So, what do we do with him?”

  “I want Deets to think he’s going to die,” Zak said.

  “You what?”

  “If he thinks he’s going to die, we may be able to get some information from him.”

  “That sounds pretty close to torture, Zak.”

  “It’s not torture. He’s wounded. He has a bullet hole in the fatty part of his side. When it gets light, I can find some clay to stuff inside it, plug up the hole.”

  “In the meantime, he suffers.”

  “He would have suffered anyway, if we hadn’t found him. He might have bled to death if that wound tore up any more. We keep him quiet and talk to him. I think he can give us information about Trask that might help us.”

  “All right. I’ll follow your lead, Zak. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just back me up when I tell the man he doesn’t have long to live.”

  “I can do that…I will do that.”

  “Good. Let’s get started. He might pass out. I don’t know how much blood he’s lost, but he’s weak. We have him where we want him.”

  The two walked back and squatted down on both sides of Deets.

  “Deets,” Zak said. “You awake?”

  Deets moaned.

  Zak bent over him. Deets’s eyes were fluttering, but he was awake.

  “Deets, I’ll call you Al. You don’t have much time left.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve got a bullet in your gut, Al. You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re still bleeding.”

  “Damn.”

  “Maybe I can help you when it gets light. I might be able to get that bullet out and sew you up.”

  “You—You got any whiskey?”

  “No. You’ll have to bite on a stick.”

  “Shit.”

  “What can you tell me about Ben Trask? I want to know where he’s going and what he’s going to do.”

  “You go to hell. You the one who shot me?”

  “I am. And I’m the one who can make your last minutes here on earth the worst you’ve ever had. I can make your last moments pure hell, Al. Is that what you want?”

  “I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.”

  “Suit yourself, Al. If I start going after that bullet, you’re going to scream your head off, and if I find it, I’m going to push it in so deep, you’re going to beg me to put a bullet in your brain.”

  “I—I don’t want to die.”

  “Then tell me what I want to know. You’ve got two seconds to think it over, then I’m going to stick my finger into that bullet hole. If I can’t go deep enough, I’ll cut you with my knife.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me what Trask is after. Apache gold?”

  “Th-That’s part of it,” Deets said.

  A blast of wind washed over them, drenching them with gallons of rain. Deets squirmed in pain as Zak poked him in his side. He cried out in pain. His legs twitched in a sudden spasm.

  “Just spell it out, Al, and maybe I can pull you out of this.”

  Deets hesitated. Zak pressed down on his wound with the heel of his hand.

  Deets screamed in pain.

  “Sorry,” Zak said. He knew he was resorting to torture, but he wanted Trask so badly, he’d do this to get the information he wanted. In the name of expediency, he reasoned. If his shot had not been off, Deets might be dead now. A little pain wouldn’t kill him. He felt O’Hara’s disapproving gaze burning into him, but he didn’t look at the lieutenant. Deets was close to opening up with the information he wanted.

  “Don’t—Don’t do that no more,” Deets said, his voice laced with the pain shooting through him.

  “Then talk, Al.”

  “They—They’s a group of citizens what wants the Apaches wiped out. H-Hiram Ferguson, he’s behind it. But Ben Trask, he—he wants Cochise’s gold. They mean to start a war with the Apaches. So’s the army will wipe them out. ‘Stir ’em up.’ Th-That’s what Ferguson said to do. And there’s a big payday for all of us when the army goes on the warpath. That’s what Ben Trask is after. The money and the Apache gold.”

  O’Hara let out a long breath.

  “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there, Al?” Zak’s voice was soft and steady, his tone coaxing, almost friendly.

  “Wh-What do you mean?” Deets said.

  “Fort Bowie,” Zak said. “Someone there is helping Ferguson and Trask.”

  Deets sucked in a breath. The breath brought pain to him again. He threw an arm over his forehead and rode it out, gritting his teeth.

  “Deets?” O’Hara said, eager to hear an answer to Zak’s question.

  Lightning scarred the skies a few miles to the east. Thunder rolled over them a few seconds later. The flood seemed to be losing force and there was only a faint whisper of rushing waters as Zak waited for Deets to tell him what he wanted to know.

  The comparative silence seemed to last an eternity.

  Scofield shifted the weight on his feet.

  Colleen held her breath.

  “You don’t have long to live, Al,” Zak said, his hand poised above the wound in Deets’s side. “Time is running out. Right along with my patience.”

  Deets drew his arm away from his forehead and looked up into Zak’s eyes. He could not see them, but he could imagine them. They were boring into him black as the twin muzzles of a double-barreled shotgun.

  He could feel death coming on.

  Death, he thought, was real close.

  Chapter 13

  Zak drew his pistol.

  O’Hara reared back in surprise. Colleen let out an involuntary gasp.

  Scofield drew in a sudden breath, held it.

  Zak cocked the pistol, rammed the barrel straight into the open wound.

  Deets stiffened, stifled a cry of pain.

  “If you don’t start talking, Al, I’m going to blow this hole so big you’ll start screaming for me to put the next bullet in your miserable brain. It won’t kill you right off, this bullet, but you’ll stay alive long enough to pray for death a thousand times. You got that?”

  “M-Major. It’sthemajor,” Deets said, the words blurting out so quick they ran together.

  “Willoughby?” O’Hara said in astonishment.

  “Yeah—Major Willoughby.” Deets started to shake as if he were passing apricot seeds. His teeth chattered, clacking together in a staccato tattoo.

  Zak pulled the pistol away from the wound in Deets’s side, and nudged the barrel against his temple.

  “No lie, Al?” Zak said.

  “No lie. Honest. Willoughby wants Cochise’s scalp to hang on his belt. He—He owns land in town and round about. He wants every red Apache dead. That’s what he told Ferguson and that’s what he told Ben Trask.”

  “Shit,” O’Hara said, and looked at Zak. “Can we believe him?” He asked.

  “Ever hear of a deathbed confession, Lieutenant?” Zak said.

  “No.”

  “Well, you just heard one. Deets was mighty close to death, and I think he just might want to live.”

  “Are you…goin’ to fix me up?” Deets said.

  Zak eased the hammer back down to half cock and holstered his pistol.

  “Yeah, Al, we’ll fix you up come morning. I may need you down the road.”

  “Need me? What for?”

  “To testify against Major Willoughby when I bring the traitorous bastard up
on charges.”

  O’Hara let out a long whistle. “Boy, you go right for the throat, don’t you, Cody?”

  Zak stood up. “He’s your prisoner, O’Hara. You, your sister, and Corporal Scofield are going to testify, too. You were all witnesses to what this bastard told us. We’ve got a live snake in the woodpile at Fort Bowie.”

  “I can’t believe it,” O’Hara said. “Major Willoughby is a good soldier. Trusted.”

  “Those are sometimes the ones you’ve got to watch.”

  “Willoughby—”

  “Don’t worry too much about it. Just think about why he sent you out to track Cochise. Ask yourself that question, O’Hara.”

  “He—He said it was—was to protect the Chiricahua.”

  “You think Cochise needs army protection?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  “Ask Cochise. If you ever see him again.”

  Zak walked away, leaving O’Hara to search for answers. Leaving him to think about his mission and why he was kidnapped by Trask’s men.

  Colleen came up to her brother, took him by the arm.

  “You seem troubled, Ted. I hope Zak didn’t say anything to upset you.”

  “I am troubled.”

  “About Zak Cody?”

  “No, he seems a straight shooter. It’s just…well, he thinks we’ve got a traitor at the fort.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know what to think. But Zak may be right. Damn it, he goes right to the heart of a matter and lays it all out like it’s gospel truth. I don’t know what to make of it. I know General Crook thinks mighty highly of him. President Grant, too. But it’s just hard to swallow that Major Willoughby would betray the army, would deliberately send me out so I could make it easy for him and Trask to wipe out the Chiricahua.”

  “’Most everybody at the fort hates Apaches,” Colleen said. “The only good one is a dead one, they say.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. More than once. But Cochise is following orders, same as me. He doesn’t want to own land or build a settlement. He just wants to be left alone. To live his life the way he always has.”

  “You like Cochise?” she asked.

  “I respect him. I admire him in many ways. He seems a man true to his own beliefs. I’ve smoked the pipe with him.”

  “But he’s a savage, Ted.”

  “To the whites, maybe. But in his own world, he’s…he’s like a wise and kind king. I’ve seen him with kids, and seen the way kids and their mothers look at him. Oh, he’s a fighter, all right. And I’d hate to face him in battle. But left alone, left to roam this desolate wild country, I don’t think he’d be a threat to the white settlers anymore. He knows we’re here, and he knows we’re going to stay.”

  “I think you give Cochise too much credit. Too much honor, maybe.”

  “Well, I sure as hell wouldn’t betray him. And that’s what Willoughby seems to be doing.”

  “I—I admit I’ve grown somewhat fond of the Apache children myself,” she said. “I taught them in another Indian village, you know. That’s why I wanted to go to Fort Bowie. Their mothers are sweet, too, ignorant as they are about our ways.”

  “Dumb, you mean.”

  “No, not dumb. Ignorant. Not knowing. But even the mothers seem eager to learn new things. And they want the best for their children. They want their children to be happy and to learn.”

  “Maybe the answer is to bring teachers out here on the frontier, not soldiers.”

  “Ted,” she said, “those are the wisest words you’ve ever spoken.”

  “Colleen, get back to your post. It’s still raining, and we can’t solve the Apache problems between us.”

  “Yes, sir,” she mocked. “And you’re right. Who would listen to us anyway?”

  “Not the army,” he said.

  The rain was beginning to slacken and the wind seemed to be backing off from its former fury. But there were still bolts of lightning ripping silver rivers in the clouds to the east and the rumble of thunder across the black heavens.

  Deets groaned.

  “You goin’ to help me, soldier?” he said to Scofield.

  “I don’t know. Sir?” Scofield said to O’Hara.

  “Corporal,” O’Hara said, “you got a first-aid kit in your saddlebags?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Got any iodine?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Pour some in this man’s wound.”

  “Now, sir?”

  “When the rain lets up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Scofield said.

  “Iodine?” Deets said. “That’s what you got to give me? Ain’t you got any whiskey?”

  “Any more out of you, Deets,” O’Hara said, “and I’ll have Corporal Scofield pour the iodine down your throat.”

  “That other’n said he was going to sew me up. I hurt awful bad.”

  “I wouldn’t count on Mr. Cody to make good on that promise, Deets.”

  “Mr. Cody? Zak Cody? Was that Zak Cody?”

  “It was,” O’Hara said.

  “Lord God. That’s the man Ben Trask wants to kill worse’n anything.”

  “I think the feeling’s mutual,” O’Hara said.

  “Huh?” Deets was a voice in the rain and the dark. He lay flat on his back, spitting out rainwater.

  O’Hara looked down at him without pity. The man had been his captor and was now begging for mercy. What’s more, he didn’t have the brains of a pissant.

  “Deets,” O’Hara said, “this is all going to seem like one of the best times of your life.”

  “I—I don’t follow you, O’Hara.”

  “You’re going to the gallows, Deets. You and Trask, the whole bunch of you.”

  Deets gasped, but said nothing.

  “Keep an eye on him, Scofield. And don’t be in any big hurry getting that iodine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Scofield said.

  O’Hara walked back to his post, his mind mired deep in a quicksand of thought. The ordinary world he had known, the army, had suddenly changed. First, he had been kidnapped, forced to draw maps and reveal secret information. Then he had learned that his own post commander, albeit on temporary duty, was essentially a traitor. Willoughby was defying military orders, contradicting the wishes of the U.S. government itself in order to further his own aims. He had brought his sister Colleen into this quagmire, this mess, and now it appeared she was about to give herself to a man with no future, Zak Cody.

  He trudged to his former position, stood there as if alone on a small island. There was no one he could turn to anymore, no man he could trust, no one he could confide in or hold in confidence in the midst of his quandary.

  Colleen was a grown woman, of course. But he was her older brother. He should be able to talk to her, to advise her, to warn her. But she seemed distant and alien to him now. He wondered if she had fallen for Willoughby at the fort. Was that possible? Had she even met the man? She didn’t seem to understand the Apache situation. She might bear some compassion for the Chiricahuas, the children, at least, but not for Cochise and the others of his tribe.

  And what of himself? Had he allowed himself to be deceived by an Apache with a price on his head? Once, he knew, the Mexicans had placed a bounty on Apache scalps. And now the Americans were trying to stir them up so they could be eliminated from the human race.

  The storm seemed to embody the turmoil he felt. The lightning, the thunder, the wind, the rain, the flash flood, and now, in his heart, one flash flood after another, all roaring through him, drowning his emotions, smothering his ideals, strangling his honor, washing away his sense of duty.

  He wanted to cry out, to scream, to run back to Deets and shoot bullets into him until his pistol was empty. But he knew that would not assuage the anguish he felt at Willoughby’s betrayal, nor quell his anxiety over Colleen’s attentions toward Cody.

  And somewhere in there, in all that turmoil, was Ben Trask, a man Cody wanted to c
apture and bring to justice.

  Cody. He was a mystery. He was a shadow rider. He came out of nowhere and he would ride on when his job at Fort Bowie was finished. He would not take Colleen with him. He would take nothing with him but his secrets and his shadow. Wherever Cody went, he left dead men in his wake, and maybe a few broken hearts.

  That would be Colleen’s fate, he was sure.

  But what of his own?

  What would become of him and his career in the United States Army? Would the stain of Willoughby be on his forehead, on his uniform, for all to see, for the rest of his days?

  Ted raised his head and exposed his face to the falling rain. He should feel cleansed, he thought, but he felt dirty and ashamed, ashamed of his thoughts, ashamed of his commander, ashamed of his fellow humans.

  And ultimately, he felt ashamed of himself, of his powerlessness.

  There was a great force advancing toward him, and he felt defenseless. There were things, he realized, that could not be fought with sword or gun, but only with wits and courage.

  Did he have such courage? he wondered.

  And then he thought of Zak Cody. Colonel Zak Cody. General Crook trusted him. So did President U.S. Grant.

  Could he trust him as well?

  He lowered his head and listened to the patter of rain on his hat, the subsiding waters of the flood whispering below him in the darkness.

  He wanted to sleep, to dream, to float away from a world that had suddenly turned into a hellish nightmare.

  Chapter 14

  The roof sagged where the adobe wall had once been, held up by the part of the wall that was still standing. Water covered the dirt floor, knee high. Rats swam up to the men who stood in the shack and tried to climb up their trousers. Furniture floated amid other rubble, rags, clothing, near empty air-tights, bottles, pots, pans, cups, and a myriad of unidentifiable objects.

  Ben Trask stood two paces away from the gaping fissure and stared out at the receding flood waters. Ferguson, a half foot away, saw dead animals float by, even in the dark. The heads and tails bobbed up, tumbled, disappeared: prairie dogs, quail, a coyote, and a dozen or so dead rats.

  “Gone down some,” Ferguson said.

  Trask lifted a foot out of the water, let the boot fall back with a splash.