Apache Moon Page 19

  The first rank of the detachment came into view, beneath the guidon of the Fourth Cavalry. They were led by their commander, gold shoulder straps gleaming through the afternoon haze, his gray wide-brimmed hat slanted low over his eyes. He sat ramrod straight in his saddle as he raised his hand in the air. His horse slowed, and a cloud of dust arose among the dusty, sweaty soldiers. They were in rotten moods as they fingered their weapons and searched for Apaches.

  Krandall reported to the captain: “I found these two folks, sir. He’s a federal marshal, and she’s the daughter of Big Al Thornton.”

  “I’ve met your father,” said the captain, stepping down from his saddle. He was forty years old and appeared constructed from steel rods. “My name’s Turner, and I met you when you were a little girl, after I first came to this territory. I’ve heard about your recent antics, missy. It seems that you’ve got yourself into a little trouble.”

  Phyllis didn’t know how to reply, but Marshal Stowe performed the task for her. “She was on the dodge with an outlaw named Duane Braddock, but I found her in an Apache village and brought her out. Braddock is on his way to Morellos, and if I can borrow one of your fresh horses, maybe I can catch him.”

  “I was in Shelby only five days ago,” Captain Turner replied, “and Duane Braddock is all they were talking about. They said he’s innocent, and now I’m looking for Lieutenant Dawes. He and his detachment have disappeared on a scout through this area. You haven’t seen them, have you?”

  A chill came over Phyllis as she remembered the Property Dance. “No, I never saw him,” she replied.

  Marshal Stowe noticed her reaction. “Neither have I, but the Apaches had a load of army horses in their corral and lots of army equipment lying around. Wouldn’t be surprised if they bushwhacked them.”

  “Goddamned savages,” Captain Turner replied. “Texas won’t be safe until every one is dead.”

  Phyllis recalled praying around the fire with the women on the night of the revenge raid. It hurt her to think that the People could be massacred by the Fourth Cavalry. Meanwhile, Marshal Stowe selected a fresh strawberry roan and two troopers saddled the animal.

  Captain Turner stood next to Phyllis and appraised her with concern in his eyes. “You look a little peaked, missy. We’ll stay here a spell and water the horses. Living with the Apaches must’ve been quite an experience.” The officer chuckled as he raised the canteen to his cracked lips.

  Marshal Stowe rode the strawberry roan toward them. “Guess I’ll be moving on,” he said to Captain Turner. “Thanks for the horse, and good day to you, Miss Phyllis. When you see your father, tell him I hope to visit soon.”

  “You’re a cruel man,” she replied.

  “The law is cruel, ma’am. I hope you have a safe trip home.” He laughed oddly as he urged the horse forward. The animal took a few steps and burst into a lope. It kicked up clods of dirt, and soon the lawman was gone.

  “He’s liable to ride into a nest of hornets at the rate he’s going,” Captain Turner said. “And besides, everybody knows that his warrant is a joke. Texas judges are crooked, but not so crooked that they’d hang an innocent man.”

  “It’s happened before,” she told him.

  “I don’t think Mister Braddock has got anything to worry about if he shot Otis Puckett. You and he’ll get together again someday, missy. Now where’s that goddamned mess sergeant of mine? I could use a cup of coffee.”

  Captain Turner marched off in search of his cook, while Phyllis sat a short distance from the well. Soldiers set up tents for the night as she gazed in the direction Marshal Stowe had ridden. I hate that man, she admitted.

  She was feeling worse about her separation from Duane. Something told her that she’d made a mistake. He needed me, but I didn’t have the courage to go on the dodge. And I missed my family like a little girl. Yet if I stayed with him, there would’ve been trouble—no doubt about it. Duane Braddock draws it like a magnet, and I’ve never known it to fail. Do I want to die for him?

  Duane Braddock arrived in Morellos at high noon two days later. He rode down the main street and passed thick-walled adobe buildings jammed side by side. Horses carried riders or pulled wagons alongside him, and he looked about warily, uncomfortable in the miner clothes that were far too big. He wore no hat, and his long black hair was held in position by his red Apache headband. Ahead was a sign that said GUNSMITH.

  Duane angled his horse in that direction. Men sat in the shadows beneath the eaves of saloons and stores, and he knew they were watching the new face in town. He climbed down from the saddle, threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up the sack of weapons, and carried them into the gunsmith’s shop.

  The man behind the counter wore glasses and was reading a newspaper. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got some guns to sell.”

  Duane poured the weapons out of the sack, and the proprietor looked them over carefully. He asked no questions, not even the name of the person he was confronting. “I’ll give you seventy-five dollars for the lot.”

  Duane held out his hand, and the proprietor dropped the coins in it. “Where can I buy a hat?”

  “Down the street on the left.”

  Duane saw a wagonful of something covered with a tarpaulin creaking down the center of the street, and he wondered what was being hidden. He’d never been in a border town before but knew they contained dangerous men on the dodge from all directions. He walked along the dirt sidewalk, passed El Sombrero Saloon, and came to Buckley’s General Store.

  Inside, a middle-aged woman was working behind the counter. “Can I help you, sir?” She was serious, mid-thirties, with a wedding band.

  “I need some clothes.”

  She looked at his Apache headband and then peered at his Apache moccasins. “My God,” she whispered, turning pale.

  “Have you got a black hat with a wide brim, a high crown, and a neck strap?”

  She gingerly wrapped a tape measure around his head, then took down a box and removed the lid. Inside was a big black cowboy hat influenced by the Mexican sombrero. “I also need a pair of jeans and a shirt.”

  She searched among the shelves, while he removed his silver concho hatband from his saddlebags. He tied it around his new hat as the woman laid out shirts and jeans on the counter. He selected black jeans, a red shirt, and a black bandanna. She showed him the dressing room, where he changed clothes.

  “You speak English very well,” she said.

  “So do you.”

  He stood in front of the mirror, and the Pecos Kid looked back at him, black hat slanted low over his eyes, conchos flashing, gun belt slung low and tied down. “How much?”

  He paid the women, slung the saddlebags over his shoulders, returned to his horse, waited for a wagonload of animal skins to pass, and backed his horse into the street. Phyllis had stolen the animal from her father’s ranch, and he was spooked by his abrupt return to civilization. “Take it easy, boy,” Duane said, patting his black mane. “This isn’t a picnic for me, either.”

  The horse didn’t know what to think as his big luminous eyes roved back and forth. He’d been leading an easy life as one of Big Al Thorton’s favorite mounts, and then, before he knew what happened, people were shooting at him. Next thing he knew, he was living with Apaches who ran their horses until they dropped and then ate them. Now he was on the dodge again in a town that reeked of danger.

  They came to Sullivan’s Stable, and Steve the cow horse walked through the big front door. Inside were rows of brothers and sisters in stalls, the fragrance of hay, oats, and manure permeating the air. A man in his mid-twenties, wearing a smudged white hat, stepped out of the shadows. “Help you, sir?”

  “I’d like to leave my horse for a few days.”

  “Put ’im in any empty stall. What’s yer name?”

  Duane hesitated, because he didn’t want to say.

  The stable man grinned. “Give me any name, so I’ll know who owns that horse.”


  “Smith.”

  “I’ve already got six Smiths. Can’t you think of somethin’ a li’l different?”

  “Butterfield.”

  “There was a fast hand once name of Butterfield. But he’d be a lot older’n you, if he’s still alive.”

  “What’s the best hotel in town?”

  “The McAllister.”

  Duane left the stable and made his way down the street, passing saloons, a barbershop, a lawyer’s office, and then the bank. He slowed as he recalled his gold nuggets. They were too big to spend, and he’d have to trade them for dollars. He pushed opened the bank door, and a teller in a green visor was seated behind the cage. “Help you, sir?”

  Duane took out the leather bag and spilled the nuggets onto the counter. “I’d like to sell these.”

  The teller’s eyes widened. “The manager handles gold transactions personally.”

  The teller sped toward the back corridor as Duane examined the shellacked wooden interior of the bank. How can anybody feel safe with his money in this place? he wondered. A robber could walk through the door and hold it up with no trouble at all. Then the manager appeared, wearing a thin black mustache and suave manners. The teller pointed to the gold nuggets, and the manager knitted his brows as he picked one up. “I’ll have to assay them,” he said.

  Duane followed the manager to an office at the end of the hall. The sign on the desk said BABCOCK. The manager sat in his chair, took out a scale, and lined up bottles of chemicals. Then he proceeded to apply scientific tests to the nuggets. “Where’d you get them?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Somebody gave them to me.”

  “He must’ve been a very good friend.”

  “The best.”

  “You’ll have to give me your name, for my records.”

  “Joe Butterfield.”

  The banker weighed the nuggets. “The best I can do is nine hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “That’s a lot of money to carry around. It might be prudent to invest such a sum. We have numerous interesting opportunities available in this very area. How’d you like to buy a saloon?”

  Duane was surprised. “You can buy a whole saloon for nine hundred and fifty dollars?”

  “Depends on the saloon.”

  “Let me think that one over.”

  Duane stuffed the money into his boot and left the bank. “I guess I’m rich,” he muttered. He wondered what to buy first and decided on a good meal. A few doors down, he found the Red Rooster Saloon. He pushed open the bat-wing doors, stepped into the shadows, and checked the crowd. A Mexican with a wide sombrero sat in a corner, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. Two cowboys and three vaqueros played poker, deeply intent on their cards, a mound of coins piled in the middle of the table. There was the usual crowd of drunkards at the bar, and waitresses in low-cut blouses carried food and drink along the narrow aisles.

  Duane found a table and sat facing the door, his hand near his Colt. Maybe I should bury the money, but what if a gopher digs it up? He was approached by a waitress in her late twenties, with black hair and two teeth missing, one on top and one on the bottom. “Where’d you blow in from?” she asked saucily.

  “Give me a steak with all the trimmings and a mug of beer. Have you got any tobacco and paper?”

  She looked him up and down. “I got anything you want.”

  “I’m not arguing with you.”

  She appeared uncomfortable, blushed, and launched herself toward the chop counter. Duane pulled the brim of his hat lower over his eyes and examined his companions once more. The men looked like they could steal your stockings without removing your boots, while the ladies were the kind who’d do anything for a dollar. The saloon was dingy and squalid, a far cry from the clean air at the top of Gold Mountain. Duane missed Cucharo, Delgado, the old chief Pinotay, and even Gootch, but most of all he missed his woman.

  He felt incomplete without her, as if his kidney or liver were missing. He wasn’t sure that he’d see her again because anything could happen in Texas. He couldn’t help wondering if she and Delgado had finally got together, because many times he’d noticed them looking at each other with desire in their eyes. Perhaps they’d surrendered to their natural inclinations now that I’m not there to watch them. It’s not as if she’s still a virgin, he thought dourly. For all I know, she’s flirting with Delgado at this very moment.

  His eyes scanned the saloon relentlessly because a fight could break out at any moment. He’d seen it happen time and again, and usually he’d ended up in the middle. From now on, I’m staying out of fights, and I don’t care what they say about me. I’ll take me a little vacation in this town, and I’m sure I can find something to do.

  The waitress returned with a steak platter and a foaming mug of beer. She placed them before him, told him the price, and he paid. “Is there a library in this town?” he asked.

  “No, but do you know how to read?”

  “I went to school for most of my life. How about you?”

  “I can read a little, but I never read a whole book. Is it hard to learn?”

  “Not at all.”

  “If I pay you, would you give me readin’ lessons?”

  “I don’t plan to be in town very long.”

  Duane didn’t realize that she wanted more than mere reading lessons, but he only had eyes for Phyllis Thornton. He dug into his steak, thinking of the hot kisses and mad embraces in their cozy little wickiup. There’d been moments when he thought they’d tear each other’s skin off. He still carried a scar from one of her neck bites.

  He felt excited at the mere thought of her, but she was far away, and his bed would be cold that night. He frowned morbidly as he sliced into his slab of beef. First good-looking man that comes along, she’ll be on him like a dog on a bone.

  ***

  The Fourth Cavalry rattled and clanked across the desert, while morale plummeted. The Apache scouts had found the spot where the raiding party had stolen Lieutenant Dawes’s horses, and now they were following the trail of the lost detachment as it proceeded in a northerly direction.

  Phyllis rode beside Captain Turner at the head of the formation, and behind them came the bugler and trooper carrying the colors of the Fourth Cavalry. Phyllis dreaded what lay ahead because there was no way that Lieutenant Dawes’s soldiers could survive without horses in this remote corner of Apacheria.

  Phyllis had met Lieutenant Dawes once, and the West Pointer had been impressive in his immaculately tailored uniform. It was difficult to believe that such a cultured and sophisticated man could die violently in a barren, remote wasteland.

  The scouts appeared among the cactus, led by Krandall in his stained and smudged buckskins. Phyllis could see the weight of death on their faces. Krandall saluted Captain Turner. “They’re up ahead, sir.”

  The detachment rumbled onward, as word traveled back through the ranks. Evidently Lieutenant Dawes had led his small detachment into deepest Apacheria, and the results had been disastrous. “This might be a little hard for you to take, Miss Phyllis,” said Captain Turner out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she replied staunchly, for she’d heard about massacres all her life, although she’d never actually seen one. She gritted her teeth and hardened her heart, for it wouldn’t do to faint among the soldiers. They had enough to do without taking care of a sickly woman.

  “There they are,” said Captain Turner deep in his throat.

  At first Phyllis thought she was seeing bleached branches lying among the bushes and cactus spines, but then she realized they were human bones! Her eyes fell on a skull severed from its body, its eyes huge, black, and staring endlessly at the sky. Arms and legs were chopped from torsos, skulls cracked in two, and everything had been picked clean by buzzards, ravens, crows, and rodents. Phyllis caught a vision of Apaches attacking suddenly, transforming the desert into a slaughterhouse of cavalry troopers. But now it was over, the troopers had
gone to their just rewards, and the desert had returned to its cruel splendor.

  The men set to work digging graves as Phyllis sat alone with her canteen in the shadow of a cottonwood tree. The final shred of her innocence dissolved in the killing ground before her. Elegant and dashing Lieutenant Dawes was a bunch of bones somewhere out there.

  Meanwhile, Captain Turner fulminated at the edge of the clearing as he paced back and forth. “General Sheridan ought to send a thousand men down here and clean the redskinned bastards out once and for all! Boys, one of these days we’ll run into ’em, and we’ll make ’em wish they were never born!”

  Marshal Dan Stowe looked at the buzzards circling in the sky, dipping to earth and rising again. It appeared that a feast was taking place straight ahead, and he wondered whether to see what it was or circle around.

  He was passing through territory that had never been surveyed and didn’t know exactly where he was. His crude map said Turkey Creek was up ahead, and he needed to water his horse. He held his gun in his right hand, but it wouldn’t help against an arrow shot silently from behind a poinsettia bush. He knew that he should travel at night and sleep during the day, but he didn’t want the Pecos Kid to get away.

  Sometimes he wondered what was wrong with him because all he had to do was collect his remaining nineteen hundred dollars from Big Al Thornton and head for Westminster Abbey, Parliament, and Stratford-upon-Avon. This doesn’t make sense, Marshal Stowe told himself. If the Pecos Kid is innocent, maybe I should forget about him.

  The lawman’s much-vaunted honor seemed a charade in the boiling desert. What’s Duane Braddock to me, and what am I to him? I’ll just say he disappeared, and perhaps Prince Albert will invite me to tea. I might even settle in London and fall in love with a duchess. He remembered the famous lines by Sir Walter Raleigh:

  Now what is love? I pray thee, tell.