Willis had waited in Santa Fe only long enough for the body to be discovered. Now, seeing that he was under no suspicion, he decided it was time to move on. The only problem was, he needed money to do that, and he was flat broke.
Even as he was thinking about the problem, it was solved for him when he saw the tall, gray-haired man at the bar flash several bills.
“Damn, Johnny, what are you doin’ carryin’ so much money around?” the bartender asked.
“Don’t worry, Pete, I don’t intend to carry it with me for long. I’ll be puttin’ it in the bank first thing tomorrow,” Johnny replied. “I just sold a string of horses to Wells Fargo and they give me two hundred dollars.”
“Hey, Johnny, want to play a little poker?” one of the cardplayers called out. “We’d love to have your money.”
The other cardplayers laughed.
“Now, if I played poker with you boys and lost this money, Martha would be down here to clean house. And trust me, you don’t want to see my wife mad.”
This time, not only the cardplayers, but the other customers, laughed as well.
“Speaking of Martha,” Johnny said. He picked up his beer mug and tossed the rest of it down. “I reckon I’d better get on home now or I really will be in the doghouse.”
“Good night, Johnny,” several of the others called.
“Be seein’ you,” Johnny tossed back over his shoulder as he left.
Willis got up from the table then and went through the back door of the saloon, as if he were stepping out to the outhouse. Once outside, he ran up alongside the saloon to see which way Johnny was going. He was heading west, but he stopped to say a few words to someone on the street.
The delay gave Willis the opportunity he was looking for, and he hurried down to the west end of the street, then stepped behind a barn.
He didn’t have to wait very long. No more than a couple of minutes later, Johnny came riding up the street. Willis waited until Johnny was even with him; then he stepped out behind him, aimed, and fired.
Johnny gasped, and fell from his horse. Willis ran up to him and quickly found the money.
The gunshot started some dogs to barking, and in the house nearest the barn, someone came outside carrying a lantern.
“Hello?” the man with the lantern called. “Anyone out here?”
The dogs continued to bark and a mule began to bray.
“What is it, Clyde?” a woman’s voice called from inside the house.
“I don’t know,” the man with the lantern answered. “I thought I heard something, but it must have just been the dog.”
The man with the lantern went back inside, and when he did so, Willis, with money in his pocket, mounted Johnny’s horse and rode away.
St. Louis
Matt was in the Old Strong Tavern on Lafayette Street, reading the telegram he had just retrieved from Western Union.
AS PER YOUR REQUEST YOUR HORSE WILL BE SENT TO SUNDOWN CORRAL IN PHOENIX STOP SPIRIT WILL BE THERE WHEN YOU ARRIVE STOP WILL SETTLE ACCOUNTS WHEN YOU RETURN STOP
REDCLIFF STABLES
“Mr. Jensen? Are you Matt Jensen?”
Looking up from the telegram, Matt saw a man with long hair and a full gray beard. There was something familiar about the man, but Matt didn’t recognize him right away.
“Yes, I’m Matt Jensen.”
A broad smile spread across the man’s face. “I’m J. C. Jones.”
When Matt didn’t respond, the man added, “You may remember me as Trooper Jones.”
Now Matt smiled as well, and he stood up quickly and offered his hand. “Yes!” he said. “Yes, of course I remember you.” Matt motioned toward the man’s clothes. “But the last time I saw you, you were wearing an army uniform.”
“Yes, but no more,” Jones said. “When my hitch was up this time, I left. Oh, I might have stayed if Sergeant Emerson was still around. Me and Emerson was pards and had been since we was in the war together. But, as I am sure you remember, Sergeant Emerson got hisself killed when that fool Trevathan led us into that ambush.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “I remember well.”
“You was smart to leave when you did. Not long after you left, Lieutenant Manning—I reckon you remember him—took a platoon out lookin’ for Delshay.” Jones shook his head. “Manning didn’t have enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, and he made camp down in a ravine, didn’t post no lookouts or nothin’. Delshay attacked him and killed more than half his platoon, includin’ the civilian scout that was with him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Matt said. “I didn’t scout very long, but I met several of the soldiers and liked them.”
“Yes, one of them killed was Angus Pugh. I know you remember him.”
“I remember him very well,” Matt said.
“Ole Angus—he was a colonel in the Confederate Army,” Jones said. “Not a lot of folks knew that.”
“I know he was a good soldier,” Matt said.
“So, Mr. Jensen, what are you doin’ in St. Louis?”
“A friend of mine was killed and I came to St. Louis to give the news to his brother.”
“Oh, that’s got to be hard to do.”
“I haven’t done it yet. Turns out he’s in Phoenix, so I have to go out there to find him. I’ll be taking a train back tomorrow.”
“Damn, that means you’ll be goin’ right back into Delshay country,” Jones said.
“I guess I will,” Matt said. “But I don’t expect to run into him this time.”
“Well, I hope not, for your sake,” Jones said. “I tell you the truth, ever’body knows about Geronimo—but for my thinkin’, Delshay is a lot meaner and smarter than Geronimo.”
“He’s smart all right,” Matt said. “He was the one who set up the ambush that Trevathan led us into.”
“Only, if Trevathan had listened to you, there wouldn’t have been no ambush,” Jones said. He stuck his hand out. “I have to be going. I’m a deckhand on a riverboat now and we’ll be pulling out tonight. It was good seeing you again, Mr. Jensen. Good luck—and don’t run into Delshay.”
Chapter Eleven
San Carlos Indian Reservation
After taking his leave of Geronimo, Delshay returned to the reservation, where he was greeted warmly by his wife and children.
“Delshay,” someone said and, looking toward the sound of the voice, Delshay saw two Indians wearing the uniform and accoutrements of the Indian police.
“Sentorio, have you become a running dog of the white man?” Delshay asked, recognizing a young man with whom he was raised.
“I am a policeman,” Sentorio replied.
“Yes, like I said, a running dog of the white man. What do you want?”
“Agent Baker heard you were back. He has sent us to bring you to him.”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“You are to come with us,” Sentorio replied without being any more specific.
“And if I choose not to come?”
Sentorio and the other Indian policeman looked at each other, and it was obvious they were frightened at the prospect of having to force Delshay to come with them.
Delshay laughed. “Do not be frightened, friend of my youth,” he said. “I will go with you to see the Indian agent.”
Agent Eugene Baker was sitting on a stool under an umbrella, on the edge of a long, deep trench. There were dozens of Apache down in the ditch, digging with pickax and shovel. The ditch was the brainstorm of Agent Baker, ostensibly to be an irrigation ditch to bring water to the reservation from Salt River. As there were times during the year when the Salt River was dry, the irrigation ditch seemed a waste of time, but as Baker said to the representative from the Indian Agency who questioned him, “It keeps the bucks busy.”
“Agent Baker, we have brought Delshay to you,” Sentorio said.
There was a table beside Baker’s chair and on the table was an apple. Baker picked up the apple and began paring it as he spoke.
“So, Delsh
ay, you have come back to us, have you?” Baker said. “Did you find that riding with Geronimo was more difficult than you thought it would be?”
“I have been hunting,” Delshay replied. It wasn’t exactly a lie, it just wasn’t the entire truth.
“Oh, yes, I have no doubt but that you have been hunting. Tell me about the hunting you have been doing, Delshay. Was it with Geronimo?”
Delshay didn’t answer.
“Uh-huh, that tells me all I need to know. Hunting for white scalps, more than likely. How many white men did you kill while you were with Geronimo?”
Delshay still did not answer.
“I have no doubt but that you have the blood of many white men, women, and children on your hands,” Baker said. “Well, if you want my opinion, Delshay, I think you should have stayed with that renegade, because there is nothing for you here.”
“My wife and children are here,” Delshay said.
“Ah, yes, your wife and children,” Baker said. Out of the corner of his eye, Baker saw one of the Indians climbing up from the ditch.
“Here!” Baker called to him. “I did not tell you that you could quit.”
“I want water,” the Indian said.
“You can get a drink when it is time. You don’t want to leave the others to do your work, do you? Now get back down there and keep digging.”
The Indian who had tried to climb up from the ditch glared at Baker for a moment, but he turned and went back down into the ditch.
“Now, where were we?” Baker asked. “Oh, yes, your wife and children. The truth is, Delshay, your wife and children are better off without you.” The apple now pared, Baker quartered it. “Just make certain you do nothing that will put you on my bad side,” he said as he popped a piece of apple into his mouth. Then, using his knife as a pointer, he continued his admonition. “I will tell you the truth, Delshay. If I had it my way, I would hang you right now. At the very least, I would put you in prison. But the Great White Father in Washington has ordered that I treat humanely all the Apache who are willing to surrender to authority, so I have no choice but to accept you back onto the reservation.”
After doing all in his power to humiliate Delshay, Baker dismissed him, once more warning him to do nothing that would incur his wrath.
Hachita, New Mexico Territory
Philbin, Oliver, and Cantrell reached the tiny town of Hachita just after midnight. Cantrell bought a bottle of tequilla at the cantina, then picked up a Mexican whore, taking her as much for her bed as for any of the “special” services she could provide for him.
Hachita was a scattering of flyblown, crumbling adobe buildings laid out around a dusty plaza. It was less than ten miles from the Mexican border, and what made it attractive to people like Philbin, Cantrell, and Oliver was its reputation as a “Robbers’ Roost,” or “Outlaw Haven.”
The town had no constable or sheriff, and visitations by law officers from elsewhere in the territory were strongly discouraged. There was a place in the town cemetery prominently marked as “Lawman’s Plot.” There, two deputy sheriffs and one deputy U.S. marshal, all uninvited visitors to the town, lay buried.
Cantrell woke up the next morning with a ravenous hunger and a raging need to urinate. The puta was still asleep beside him, and she didn’t wake up when Cantrell crawled over her to get out of bed and get dressed.
There was an outhouse twenty feet behind the little adobe crib, but Cantrell disdained its use, stepping out into the alley and going against the wall instead.
“Oliver,” he called as he stood there, relieving himself. “Oliver, you still in there?”
Oliver had gone with the puta in the next crib over.
“Yeah, I’m in here.”
“You goin’ to sleep all mornin’ or what?”
“I’m comin’ out.”
Cantrell heard a sound from within the shadows of the crib; then Oliver appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his boots, hat, and long underwear. He joined Cantrell at the wall.
“Philbin, where are you?”
Philbin didn’t answer.
“You seen Philbin this morning?” Cantrell asked as they stood there relieving themselves. He shook himself, then put it away.
“Not this mornin’, I just woke up. I seen him last night, though. He went in there,” Oliver said, pointing to one of the other cribs.
Cantrell walked over to the crib and looked inside. The whore Philbin had been with was still asleep, but she was alone in the bed.
“He ain’t here,” Cantrell said.
“So where the hell did he go?” Oliver asked.
“Beats me. I ain’t goin’ to worry about it right now. I’m goin’ over to have breakfast. You want to come along?”
“Yeah, I reckon so,” Oliver replied.
In the Casa del Sol cantina, Cantrell rolled a tortilla in his fingers and, using it like a spoon, scooped up the last of his breakfast beans. He washed it down with a drink of coffee, then lit a cigar just as Philbin and Meechum came in.
“Well, I’ll be damn,” Cantrell said. “Look here, Oliver. Look who has just showed up.”
“Meechum,” Oliver said. “I didn’t think we’d ever see you again.”
“I sent word about the time lock on the safe in that bank back in Bent Canyon. It ain’t my fault you didn’t get it.”
“If you’d done a little more lookin’ into it than you done, you wouldn’t have had to send word about nothin’,” Cantrell said angrily.
“And if you hadn’t left early, you would of got the word,” Meechum said. “The truth is, you got greedy and was plannin’ on keepin’ all the money for yourself, wasn’t you?”
“What money?” Oliver asked bitterly. “The only thing we got out of that was damn near killed. And Morris did get hisself killed.”
“Do you want to sit around here and argue about that? Or do you want to do a job that will make us some money?”
“What’s the job, and how much money?”
“I don’t know,” Meechum said.
Cantrell’s laugh was gruff.
“You set us up with a bank robbery that got us no money and damn near got us killed, now you want to set us up with another job, but you don’t know what it is and you don’t know how much money,” Cantrell said. “Meechum, you ain’t makin’ a hell of a lot of sense, you know that?”
“I’m not the one setting up the job,” he said. “But I know who is and, knowin’ him, I figure there’s goin’ to be a lot of money involved. Otherwise, someone like him wouldn’t waste his time with it.”
“Someone like who?” Oliver asked. “Who are you talkin’ about?”
“He’s talkin’ about Pogue Willis,” Philbin said, unable to keep quiet and let Meechum tell them.
“Pogue Willis?” Cantrell said, his demeanor changing. “Is this for real?”
Smiling, Meechum nodded. “Yeah, it’s for real,” he said. “I run into Willis back in Arizona and he asked me if I knew where I could get a few good men for a job he had in mind.”
“He didn’t tell you what the job was?” Oliver asked.
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“You don’t ask a man like Pogue Willis,” Meechum said. “If he says he has a job lined up, I believe him. And like I say, a man like Pogue Willis ain’t goin’ to be wastin’ time with a job that don’t pay a lot.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think,” Philbin said.
“Philbin, you’re willin’ to go along with this?” Cantrell asked.
“Yeah.”
Cantrell nodded. “All right,” he said. “You was in Bent Canyon, same as me and Oliver. I reckon if this is good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.” He looked at Meechum. “Where is this job?”
“It’s over in the Arizona Territory,” Meechum said. “About five days ride.”
Chapter Twelve
San Carlos Indian Reservation
For the first month after he returned, Delshay felt isolated from t
he rest of the people. Many, he knew, blamed the slow delivery of meat and other supplies to the reservation on Goyathlay, and, by extension, Delshay as well, since he had ridden with the raiders. And because Delshay was the only one of Geronimo’s band present at the reservation, some took their anger out on him.
However, there were as many on the reservation who respected and looked up to Geronimo because he was carrying the fight to the white man. And because Delshay had ridden with him, they treated him with respect and honor.
From his cousin, Chandeisi, whose name meant Broken Nose, Delshay learned to make jewelry from the silver and turquoise that they were able to mine on the reservation. Sagozhuni, Delshay’s wife, was particularly skilled in weaving baskets of various shapes and sizes, all incorporating beautiful and intricate designs.
It had been two months since returning to the reservation, and Delshay was sitting in front of his hogan when Chandeisi came to see him.
“I have spoken with Baker,” Chandeisi said. “He has given permission for us to go to Picket Post to trade jewelry and baskets.”
Delshay spat on the ground. “Are we children, that we must have permission?”
“Delshay, it is the way of life on the reservation,” Chandeisi explained. “If we live here, we must follow the rules.”
“Cousin, are you content to follow the rules of the white man?”
“I have no choice,” Chandeisi said. “I have a family, as do you. Would you rather be with Goyathlay than with Sagozhuni and your children?”
Delshay looked over at his youngest child, who was sitting on a blanket.
“Soon, the child will be old enough to go and I will take my family and leave this place.”
Chandeisi looked around quickly to make certain no one overheard.
“Delshay, you must not speak of such things,” he said. “If the Indian police hear you, they will report you to Baker and Baker will put you in jail.”
“Maybe,” Delshay said. He smiled. “Or maybe I will kill the Indian police before I leave.”
When Delshay saw the shocked look on Chandeisi’s face, he laughed out loud. “I am making the joke, cousin,” he said.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Page 8
