“He knows!” argued Roxy, the tone in her voice downright nasty to Porter’s ears.
“I will get many more horses and then my Blood Brother will forgive me,” he said under his breath.
“Hell, I forgive you, ya impatient cuss. We just better hope we can get these horses soon.”
“Everyone makes mistakes, Porter,” grumbled Roxy.
“I said I forgave him. Let it go, Little Sister.”
She sniffed and gently patted Redbone on the back as if to say that she was there to defend him. He looked over his shoulder at her a little puzzled.
Porter rubbed at his beard, like he always did when he was thinking. “Well, say we ride on past the fort and see if we can’t find some tracks. To determine if Matamoros is already gone or if he is holed up in there. If he’s gone, there’s no need for us to do anything about the fort. We just keep trailing after Matamoros slow as we are.”
“And if he is still there?” asked Roxy.
“Then we better come up with a damn good way of yanking him out. It won’t be easy. Those things are made to withstand serious Indian attacks. They’ll have plenty of food and a well for sure.”
“And horses,” said Redbone.
“That’s right, and horses.”
“So—” began Roxy.
“Redbone and I will go and check it out. You three stay put and out of sight. We don’t want them seeing a campfire and coming to get you. Not that I think they would.”
“That’s comforting,” said Emily, breaking her vow of silence for the evening.
“You wanted to come along, girl. This is dangerous business.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Quincy.
“Good man, Quint. I expect we’ll be a few hours,” said Porter, as he mounted his horse. Then he and Redbone disappeared into the night, silent as phantoms.
“You sure we’re all right?” asked Emily.
“If you was in a fort, well-guarded and stocked with food, would you come out into the dark to fight some Indians hiding out in the brush across the river?”
“No,” said Emily, shaking her head vehemently.
“Exactly. I say we go over that hill and get us a campfire going, just for a little warmth and some hot coffee.”
Roxy reluctantly agreed, finding no fault in Quincy’s logic, so long as they were indeed out of sight of the fort. Being across the river and having Porter and Redbone out there gave her comfort too. Still, it was a chilly night and the feeling of trouble wouldn’t subside.
It took them almost an hour to get to a spot they figured was good and sheltered, and then it took a while yet to find enough juniper to make even a tiny fire.
“I’m going to go find a little more wood,” said Quincy.
Emily and Roxy continued feeding the blaze the tiny sticks they had collected along the way.
“What do you think? Is she at the fort or has she moved on?”
“What do you mean, moved on?”
“I mean do you think she is dead?”
Roxy shook her head and aware of how ratty her hair had become. She pulled a brush from her saddle bags and began brushing. ‘I don’t want to think about that. I guess I’m refusing to think about it, until we see a body. Grim as it is, I think they want live prisoners, you know? A dead girl doesn’t do them any good.”
“I’m not so sure,” mumbled Emily.
“Don’t talk like that,” urged Roxy. “We’ll get her back.”
“I just worry over some things I heard, I—”
“I said to quit talking like that. You’ve got to stay positive in this outfit.”
Emily nodded and buried her head in her knees.
Quincy returned with an armful of juniper and sage clumps. “Tain’t the best wood, but it’s something to keep the cold off,” he said, dropping the pile beside the fire. He sat and warmed his hands. He looked at Emily then Roxy with an arched brow.
She shrugged and silently mouthed. ‘She’s tired.’
The sudden sound of hoofbeats made Roxy turn around with a smile. “Well that didn’t take you two that long,” she trailed off and the pleased grin vanished at the sight of the riders.
***
Porter and Redbone went a good ways upriver of the fort on their side of the current before deciding to cross. It was cold. Porter wondered why he had to push himself so hard. Shouldn’t life be getting easier with age? Shouldn’t wisdom and being able to sit back on your laurels come at some point?
Who was he kidding? Just himself. No such luck.
His horse stepped in a hole and everyone went all the way under for just a moment. He was soaked to the bone. Redbone had fared no better with Quincy’s horse.
They clambered from the river and took a moment to wring as much water out of their buckskins as possible. Then silently headed toward the route the Old Spanish Trail had carved into the desert basin. It didn’t take long and they determined that Matamoros’s crew had indeed passed by.
“Looks like ten horses, all right. And all of them are weighed down with extra gear or . . . prisoners.”
Redbone grunted. “We are a full day behind. We must press on.”
“We can only go so fast. Plus, we’re down a horse. Remember?”
Redbone grunted. He got back on Quincy’s bay and kicked his flanks, riding into the night following the trail.
“Stupid sum bitch,” growled Porter, through his teeth. He wanted to yell, to curse at the impetuous Ute, but he wasn’t about to do anything to alert whomever was still inside the fort and might hear something in the night.
He pondered if he should chase after Redbone or go back and cut his losses. It wouldn’t be right to leave Quincy and the womenfolk in the dark about all of this. They needed to know that the trail was moving on and that the fort wasn’t anything they should worry about other than avoiding it.
He could still hear the faint thump of Redbone’s horse’s hooves as it chased after the trail splashed in moonlight. “Damn fool.”
Watching the fort, Port could see the faint glow of a campfire inside. The lights flickered at the shuttered window’s edges and through the gun ports in the stone walls. Yes indeed, the sooner they got away from that deathtrap the better.
Torn at what to do, Port considered chasing after Redbone at least to a point where he could holler at him to wait, lend him the horse and go and get the others. Deciding that would ultimately be the swiftest thing, he started after Redbone. But upon a slower horse, he found himself looking at the ground a bit more than the headstrong Ute. In so doing, he soon noticed a second set of prints leading back to the fort from almost the same direction.
He stopped and dismounted. Examining the tracks as closely as possible, it wasn’t too hard for Port’s trained eye to realize these were prints from the same animals and with that information, he walked in a wide swath until he was even sure it was the same rider’s minus the weight upon one of the ten horses.
Scanning out at the dark horizon, Porter wondered a long moment as the wind blew in cold and cruel. Either Matamoros had killed the girl and left here out here not too far away, or they had ridden some short distance and sold the girl already. At these crossroads along the Old Spanish Trail and so close to the Navajo nation, anything was possible.
Likely as not, soon enough Redbone would spot the returning tracks and realize his impulsive mistake and come back to meet up with Porter and the others.
Port decided he better go back to the others, get some rest and wait for Redbone to return. He had to, he still needed their help against whatever foe now had his daughter, didn’t he? Porter waited a long moment in the cold wind hoping he would hear Redbone doubling back but he didn’t.
“Argh, horse chips,” he spat, as he got back on his mount and turned back.
22. Feeling Split
Still dripping water, the gun in Matamoros’ hand pointed right at Quincy.
“Where are the others? Huh? Rockwell and the Indio?” Matamoros asked. His men moved in from all
round.
Roxy counted at least ten men, as she glanced about looking for any possible avenue of escape. There wasn’t one.
“They’re dead,” said Quincy, absently.
Matamoros sneered. “If you are gonna lie to me, at least make it a good lie.”
“It’s the truth,” insisted Emily. “The Indian was washed down the river with a bullet wound in his heart and Porter died of a snakebite.” She glanced at the others as if to gain their support in her ruse.
Matamoros laughed. “She is trying, I’ll give her that. But no snake could kill Rockwell, no, I think he must be scouting me out just as I am here. Eh? Good thing for me, you were foolish enough to light a fire and give me a guiding light, huh?”
“I didn’t think you could see it from the fort here,” said Roxy, feeling like a titanic fool.
“We couldn’t, but I left Antone,” he motioned to one of his Apache scouts, “on scouting duty in the hills and he came in and told me. Very bad news for you, huh?”
Quincy took an easy, slow step backward to get closer to his rifle.
“Not so fast, my negro amigo. Drop that gun belt and move a little closer. You too,” he barked at Emily and Roxy. “We are gonna go back to my Hacienda and see if maybe Rockwell doesn’t return from the grave to ask after you, huh? And even if he doesn’t and you were telling the truth, I have another who wants to meet you.”
Emily stood up and spat.
Matamoros glared and made as if he would slap her, but Quincy intervened. “She is just a young, troubled girl, you don’t need to go and get physical with her. We’ll go with you. Just don’t hurt them.”
Matamoros gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “You really are crazy. Vamonos!”
The bandits picked up most of the gear and supplies, and then shoved them along heading back toward the river. They patted all of them down, but Roxy was grateful when they missed the knife strapped to her thigh. She knew she would need it sooner than later.
For the river crossing they were all bound together. Matamoros joked that if one drowned they would all drown. Roxy felt like she almost did drown in the cold waters, feeling mostly blind and bound.
On the other side, they were marched inside the fort and all placed in a small room with hay and dung on the floor. It appeared to have been a stable before their incarceration. With their hands still bound, they gingerly worked at rubbing the ropes against the rough stone of the cell, but it didn’t take long for the guards to hear them. Each received a beating for the effort.
Roxy was cold, in pain and worried. Where were Porter and Redbone? Would they come charging in a hail storm of blood and thunder?
Half of her wanted them too, and the other half worried at what might happen to them if they did. A lot of people would die, maybe her and Quincy and Emily. She looked around, hoping to see Redbone’s daughter, but there didn’t seem to be anyone like that here. There were several Apache warriors, a dozen Spaniards or Mexicans and a few old squaws working the more menial tasks.
Maybe they had Kimama in another room? But why keep her separate? It was a longtime until Roxy fell asleep. She seemed to think she was seeing just the hint of dawn as she passed out.
***
Porter was mad, but took his time crossing the river. As upset at Redbone as he was, he didn’t want to risk letting whoever was in the fort know that he was out there. He dried off as best he could once again, and then headed back down to where he had left Quincy and the women.
He was more than a little irked they weren’t where he had left them. It was apparent enough where they had gone through the bent grasses and sage. He knew it. They went around the hill so they could have a fire. A part of him, the cold river part, wanted the fire too, but it was risky.
He dismounted and led the stallion, now winded from two river crossings, along the path. The moon above gave little light between the clouds, just snatches making the landscape stark grey. Here and there, movement betrayed the presence of animals, coyote and ground squirrels, rabbits and night hawks, all things that hunted or were prey. Funny how each in turn was used by something else eventually. Damn, getting too introspective again, Porter told himself. Stop thinking so much about getting old and just do the job at hand. He had to tell the others about Redbone and figure out what to do, now that he knew the girl was gone again and yet there were enemies still in the fort taking potshots at whoever might cross the river. Maybe they would have to go downstream a long ways and pick up the trail again. So long as they weren’t followed. Wait, followed?
He stopped cold. A second path cut through the brush, meeting his. It was larger, as in more men had used it. He drew his Navy Colts and stepped slow and easy. Listening for anything.
Not far away he found the smoldering remains of the tiny campfire. Curious, the grass was matted down where they had been sitting. Porter could even see the prints of Quincy’s coffee cup and Emily’s blanket. But there was no one there and no sign of struggle. It almost looked like they had just gotten up and walked away from the campfire all on their own.
Someone had to have taken them. At least there was no blood. But damn it! Could anything go right tonight? Porter wondered, had their enemies in the fort snuck up on them, pointed their guns, and they just came freely as prisoners? He thought about that thing they’d seen last week, the Uninvited. Could that thing have mesmerized them again?
Pushing that thought out of his mind, he decided that would be too incredible a possibility to be allied with the fort. But he needed answers.
Port wheeled his stallion back off the trail and went toward the river front. Sure enough, if he strained his eyes against the black he could see some faint shambling shadows moving against the azure horizon; their forms only perceptible against the blotting out of the stars. People were there, they had captured Quincy and the women and taken them back for some kind of unspeakable torture.
Porter cracked his knuckles. He was going to take his frustration at Redbone out on whomever had taken his friends. He’d have to deal with Redbone and Matamoros later.
***
Redbone’s blood boiled. Why hadn’t his Blood Brother followed? Wasn’t he supposed to support him? They were so close now to his daughter. He could feel it. He had to hurry if he was going to save her life.
“Kimama,” he said through his dry scaly lips. “Kimama, I will find you.”
Racing his horse up and over the dark sage covered hills he came to a spot where a convergence of tracks caught his eye in the moonlight. Letting his horse rest a moment, he leapt down to examine the sign.
It was the same ten riders coming back to the fort. One horse might have been light a rider. Its gait and prints were softer and farther than in heading north. Perhaps his daughter had already been sold? But what if she hadn’t? What if she was still back at the fort? He needed answers and, as much as it pained him, he knew he had to calm and start over. He had to go back to Porter and the others and investigate the fort.
“Great Spirit, why am I to endure these things? Why can I not just live in peace with my people? Why was my daughter taken? My sons killed? My village burned? I do not want this pain. Make my heart like a stone that I will not feel this pain anymore.”
He let his prayer rise with the mist of his breath, and then he got back on his horse and rode hard toward the fort.
23. Storm is Coming
Porter was in no rush to run headlong into danger. He wanted to be the danger hunting someone else. He rode at least a mile upriver, before crossing a third time on the night. Guessing it would be best to give himself some time before spying on the fort again. He thought it best to take the long way around and truly catch the lay of the land and be wary for any outlier guards. One thing was for sure, Matamoros was twice as crafty as Porter had initially believed. The man was a snake, a cat with the nine lives, and Porter didn’t much care for cats or snakes.
This side of the river had a low flat valley following the contours of the torrent between the hil
ls. There was dry grass and a few bits of sage. The occasional juniper beside the river might give some cover if Porter snuck closer during the day; but even then, the fort had been cleared of all obstructions in every direction for at least 300 yards.
He rode back, just on the far side of the hill to the east. He intended to keep a lookout on the fort and at least see people coming or going. Taking the chance for a little bit of sleep, he soon passed out awakening only when his horse nickered softly at someone’s approach.
Porter wheeled about with his six-guns drawn. It was an old Navajo wrapped in a blanket. Seeing that the man posed no threat, just curiosity, Porter lowered his guns.
The sun blazed bright yellow behind the old man. Porter realized he had slept later than he meant. He had been dog tired from all the riding and river crossings the night before. He had to be more careful. Someone a whole lot more dangerous than this old man could have snuck up on him. “Hey old-timer, you know anything about that fort?”
The old Indian nodded slowly, but gestured for food instead of giving answers. Porter got up and found a piece of hardtack in his saddlebags. He broke it in half handing the old man the smaller half for breakfast.
The old man babbled, pointing toward the fort and then at Porter’s half of the hardtack. Not following what the old man was saying, Porter nodded, and offered the larger half in his left hand instead of the smaller half in his right hand. The old man shook his head and took both pieces of the hardtack.
“Fine, but I hope you have something to tell me that is worthwhile,” grumbled Porter.
The old man put both pieces of the hardtack in the satchel at his side. He then pointed toward the fort, saying, “Much bad medicine there. The Stag-Man takes people.”
“Stag-Man?”
The old man nodded. “Witch. Brujo. The Mexicans sell him slaves.” He repeated earnestly.
All of Porter’s fears about the Uninvited came flooding back. He knew there was good in the world, but for every bit of light there was dark to contrast that brightness. How it all worked, he sure had no idea, but he respected it was indeed there. But, he couldn’t focus on any of that philosophizing, this problem was flesh and blood down there in the fort.
CRAZY HORSES: A Porter Rockwell Adventure (Dark Trails Saga Book 2) Page 9
