Warpath Page 2

  Red Feather looked up at the sky and saw three vultures flying away. They’d been expecting to make a meal of the lone white rider, but the bluecoats had saved his life and the vultures would have to find another meal.

  Red Feather watched the big white eyes on the black horse riding toward Fort Kimball with the soldiers. You got away this time, Red Feather thought, but maybe next time you will not be so lucky.

  Chapter Two

  It was night when the cavalry troop arrived in Santa Maria del Pueblo, and the streets were crowded with processions of Mexicans. Torches and lamps blazed in front of squat adobe buildings, and men wearing huge sombreros strummed guitars. Children, begging for coins, ran alongside the cavalry soldiers.

  Stone rode in front of the column with Lieutenant Lowell and the scouts.

  “The Mexicans’re having their yearly festival here,” Lieutenant Lowell explained, the light from lanterns flickering on his youthful face. “On this date, about seventy-five years ago, the Virgin Mary supposedly was seen here by a Franciscan priest. A church was built on the site where the visitation took place. People from miles around come here for the holiday every year.”

  “Where’s the livery stable?”

  “Just down the street on the right. The hotel’s next door. The best restaurant in town is the La Briza, if you like spicy food. If you want to come out to the fort, just ask for me. We can have a drink together at the officers’ club.”

  “I’ll take you up on that one of these nights,” Stone said. “Thanks for accompanying me here.”

  “Glad to have you along. Do yourself a favor and don’t go out on the desert alone anymore.”

  Stone touched a finger to the brim of his hat and pulled his horse away from the cavalry troop. Stone’s horse danced at the side of the road as the cavalry troop passed, clanging and pounding, sending up a cloud of dust. Stone rode into the livery stable and pulled the saddle off the black. He rubbed it down, as it ate oats in the trough.

  Stone patted the horse on its massive haunch. “See you later, old boy. I’ve got to tie on the feed bag myself.”

  He tossed the saddlebags over his shoulder and walked to the sidewalk. A child ran by, blowing a tin horn, and a Mexican on a horse yipped and yelled as he rode toward the saloon at the end of the street. Stone came to the Cardenas Hotel, a sprawling adobe structure, and entered the lobby. American cowboys and Mexican men sat around on the chairs, talking loudly, and a Mexican with a long black mustache with the ends turned up worked behind the desk.

  “Room for the night,” Stone said, “in back where it’s quiet.”

  “You are new in town, Señor?”

  “Just arrived.”

  “I am Pedro Cardenas, and this is my establishment. Welcome.” He shook Stone’s hand. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Nolan.”

  “What brings you to Santa Maria del Pueblo?”

  Stone took out the picture of Marie and showed it to him. “Ever see this woman?”

  “She is very pretty, but no, I do not believe that I have. Who is she?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  “Perhaps if you go to the church and pray to the Virgin, you will find her.”

  Stone signed the register and Pedro Cardenas gave him a key. Stone walked down a corridor lined on both sides with doors, and finally came to his room. He unlocked the door and walked inside, lighting the coal-oil lamp on the dresser with a match.

  The room was a tiny cell containing a narrow cot, a wooden chair, and the dresser. A brightly colored Mexican blanket covered the cot, and Stone sat on it, rolling a cigarette. A crucifix hung on the wall above the bed.

  This was the first time Stone ever had been in a town that was predominantly Mexican, and he felt as if he were in a foreign country. Puffing the cigarette, he took out the picture of Marie and looked at it. For four years he’d ridden from town to town on the frontier, showing her picture, and no one had seen her. Sometimes it got discouraging, but Stone kept at it. He couldn’t forget her.

  They’d grown up on neighboring plantations in South Carolina, and he’d loved her ever since he was a little boy. They became engaged while he was at West Point, and then the war came. When he returned home after Appomattox, the plantation had been burned to the ground, his parents had died, and Marie had disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to her. Some thought she’d gone west with a Union officer.

  That had been difficult for Stone to believe, but all he could do was come west and look for her. He’d never worked a day in his life before going to West Point, but now he was just another drifter on the frontier, carrying another dream in his heart, the dream of a woman calling to him from the past and leading him into the future.

  He thought he’d rest for a couple of days in Santa Maria del Pueblo and then move on to Tucson. Maybe he could travel with a stagecoach or other people, since everybody thought he shouldn’t be out on the desert alone.

  His stomach rumbled and he decided to get something to eat, but first he had to clean up. A basin and pitcher of water were on the dresser, and he washed his face and hands, then combed the dust and alkali out of his hair. He thought he ought to shave, because he had four days of stubble on his cheeks and chin, but thought he’d do that in the morning.

  He put on a clean red shirt and tucked it into his pants, then readjusted his two crisscrossed gunbelts. He wore Colts in greased holsters tied to his legs.

  He put on his old cavalry hat and smiled at himself in the mirror, and his white teeth gleamed in the light of the lamp. He left the hotel room and made his way through the network of corridors to the lobby and then the sidewalk outside.

  Three Señoritas walked by, their long skirts billowing around them. Stone passed a group of Mexican men in wide sombreros, blowing a lively Mexican tune on their trumpets. A skinny little Mexican boy with ragged clothes and big brown eyes ran up to Stone and tugged at his shirt.

  “Fifty cents my sister,” the boy said. “She is beautiful — you will like her.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Forty cents?”

  Stone shook his head, but the boy wouldn’t let him go.

  “What is wrong with you, cowboy?” the boy asked mockingly. “Don’t you like pretty girls?”

  Stone stopped and looked down at him. “How can you sell your own sister?”

  “For the money, cowboy. Come on, you pay now and have a good time, yes?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Thirty cents?”

  Stone handed him a few coins. “You look like you could use a good meal.”

  The boy stopped and stared at the coins in his dirty palm, as if unable to believe what had happened. Stone continued to walk and came to a public square crowded with people. A small church with a tall spire was in the background, illuminated by torches. Vendors sold food at little wooden stands and a band was playing beside the church, while couples danced to the music.

  The little boy caught up with Stone and looked up at him. “You are new in town, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Paco, and I will be your friend. Who are you?”

  “My name’s John Stone.”

  “I will show you everything. What do you want to see first?”

  Stone stared at crowds of people entering and leaving the church, and recalled what Pedro Cardenas had said about praying for good luck in his search for Marie.

  “Are you hungry?” Paco asked. “This man here sell very fine burritos.”

  Stone looked in the direction where Paco was pointing, and saw a sad-faced Mexican at a wooden stand. “Get two,” Stone said to Paco, dropping more coins into his hand.

  Paco ran off to the vendor, and Stone stared at the church. It was crude, obviously slapped together by local citizens, a fortress of God in the middle of the desert. Some people laughed nearby, and seven Mexicans galloped past on horses, firing their pistols in the air.

  Paco returned with two white rolls of dough, and handed one to Stone. “You will li
ke it,” he said. “It will make you strong with women.”

  Stone bit into the burrito, and it was like eating fire. Tears came to his eyes and he coughed.

  “I get you something to drink!” Paco shouted.

  The boy ran off, and Stone swallowed the food desperately. Nearby, an old gray-haired Mexican woman laughed at him.

  “You gringos are ridiculous,” she said.

  “Food’s pretty hot.”

  “It is not the food. You are weak, like all gringos. You do not know what is good, and you destroy everything you do not understand.”

  The old woman stepped back into the crowd, just as Paco broke through, carrying two glasses of beer, and handed one to Stone.

  “Drink!” Paco commanded.

  Stone raised the glass to his lips and took a swig. It was ice-cold. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  Stone handed him more coins, and Paco counted them carefully like a teller in a bank. Stone took another bite out of the burrito, and this time it didn’t burn so much. It was filled with beans and meat with a special sauce.

  “Where you want to go now, John Stone?” the boy asked, his mouth full of burrito.

  “I think I’ll go in that church over there, after I finish eating.”

  “You are Catholic?”

  “No.”

  “What are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you believe in more than anything else in the world?”

  Stone thought for a few moments, then tapped one of his Colt .45s. “This.”

  “They say that whatever you believe in more than anything else, that is your God.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  “Jesus Cristo.”

  “How can you believe in Jesus Christ, and then try to sell me your sister for fifty cents?”

  “A man has got to eat.”

  “Don’t you go to school?”

  “My father says that in school you only learn to be estupido.”

  “Everybody needs an education.”

  “I get along all right. What were you talking to that old woman about?”

  “She called me a gringo.”

  “You are a gringo.”

  “What’s a gringo?”

  “You who have conquered us.”

  “My people were conquered too.”

  “Who were your people?”

  “We called ourselves the Confederacy.”

  “The gringo soldiers in gray! I know about the gringo soldiers in gray. They come here once, a long time ago. My father say they were just as bad as the gringo soldiers in blue.”

  Stone finished his burrito and washed it down with beer. “Paco, you know everybody in this town?”

  “Sure do.”

  Stone took out the picture of Marie. “Ever see this woman?”

  The boy stared at the picture. “She is very pretty, like a princesa. Who is she?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  Paco pointed to the church across the bustling square. “You should go into that church over there and pray to the Blessed Mother that you find her. There was a big miracle here once, you hear about it?”

  “The Virgin Mary appeared to a priest, right?”

  “Yes, and the priest have the stigmata. His name was Padre Fernando, and he bleed from his hands and heart and feets, like Jesus Cristo. He is buried in the church, underneath the statue of the Blessed Mother. You go in there and pray that you find your princesa, and then you will find her, you will see. Come on. I take you.”

  Paco grabbed Stone’s hand and dragged him across the square, passing guitar players, dancing girls, food vendors, and children chasing each other through the crowds. A flock of pigeons flew overhead to the top of the church steeple, where they perched and looked down into the square.

  Stone and Paco approached the front of the church, which was illuminated by candles and torches. Throngs of people entered and departed through the wide-open doorway. Stone looked inside and hesitated; it seemed mysterious and strange.

  Paco pushed him hard, and Stone found himself passing through the doorway, entering the church. It was mostly dark except for an altar in front, where a statue of the Virgin Mary stood in the light of candles, and people clustered around, praying on their knees.

  Smaller altars were located along the walls of the church, where other people were praying, and as Stone’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw additional people praying on their knees in the pews. Someone played a guitar softly. Stone moved into the shadows and watched what was going on.

  Stone believed vaguely in God, but never had seen anything quite like what was before him. People prayed fervently and deeply all across the church, and he couldn’t help being moved by their devotion. They were true believers and their faith was strong, whereas he wasn’t exactly sure of what he believed in.

  Everyone’s attention was centered around the statue of the Virgin at the front of the church placed on the spot where she’d appeared to Father Fernando. Stone wondered if he was witnessing pathetic superstition or a genuine miracle.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself moving with the rest of the pilgrims down the aisle toward the statue. He was caught up in the movement of bodies, and like a mighty wave it carried him toward the statue. As he drew closer, he could see that it was made of plaster, gaudily painted, chipped here and there, sort of a caricature of a pious woman with a halo, wearing a blue and white gown, looking up with doe eyes toward heaven and carrying an infant with a halo in her arms.

  The statue looked cheap and mawkish to Stone, but it gave him an eerie feeling and his eyes were watering, probably from the incense and smoke from the candles. Standing to the side of the statue, he recalled what Paco had told him about praying for luck, so he closed his eyes and felt stupid as he asked: Please send me somebody who’s seen Marie.

  When he opened his eyes he saw a beautiful young Mexican woman with black hair and golden earrings approaching the statue down the middle of the aisle. She wore a white blouse and brown skirt, and dropped to her knees in front of the statue, crossing herself gracefully, clasping her hands together, and closing her eyes.

  Her lips moved silently as she prayed, and Stone felt her religious zeal. She looked like a young madonna. I wonder what she’s praying for?

  The woman arose, adjusted her black shawl around her shoulders, and moved toward the door. Stone followed her, but some Mexicans walked in front of him, and by the time he pushed his way through them, she was gone.

  He walked out of the church and looked around the square, but couldn’t see her in the crowds of merrymakers. He stepped to the side and rolled himself a cigarette, lighting it with a match. He wasn’t hungry anymore and felt like having a drink.

  He saw an old cavalry sergeant walk by, his campaign hat askew on his head, his eyes glassy from too much booze. Stone walked up to him.

  “Where can I get a drink around here?”

  “La Rosita, down the street, but watch yer back.”

  Stone walked down the street, puffing his cigarette, hearing the strains of guitars, trumpets, and violins. Children laughed, and somebody shouted: “¡Ole!”

  He passed a series of stores closed for the night, and halfway down the street came to a noisy adobe saloon with a sign that said LA ROSITA. It had two small windows that glowed red and two swinging doors. Stone hitched up his belt and walked toward the doors, pushing them open, and stepping into a dim smoky room with a bar on the left and tables on the right. The ceiling was low and somebody had nailed baskets to the walls for decoration. Mexicans, American soldiers, and American civilians drank and played cards raucously, and at the far end of the bar, the three Apache scouts Stone had seen with Lieutenant Lowell’s cavalry column earlier in the day were huddled together drinking whiskey.

  Stone walked toward the bar and placed his foot on the brass rail, his cig
arette dangling out the corner of his mouth. The bartender, a Mexican with a bald head and a long flowing black mustache, sidestepped in front of him.

  “Whiskey,” Stone said.

  The bartender placed a bottle and a glass in front of Stone, who poured himself a drink and drank it slowly. It was like swallowing flames.

  La Rosita was a typical frontier bar except for the low ceiling and the presence of so many Mexicans. A small stage was against the far wall and Stone wondered what the entertainment was. Standing next to him was a lanky sergeant with his campaign hat on the back of his head, obviously quite drunk, with a curly red beard. He turned to Stone, stared for a few moments, and declared: “I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

  Stone looked at him, recognizing something familiar. “My God,” he said.

  The soldier drew himself to attention and saluted. “Sergeant Gerald McFeeley, First South Carolina Cavalry, reporting for duty, sir!”

  Stone recognized McFeeley underneath his red beard and blue uniform. McFeeley had been one of his sergeants in old Troop C. They shook hands heartily, slapping each other on the shoulders.

  “I can’t believe my eyes,” said McFeeley. “Is it really you, Cap’n?”

  “It’s me.”

  “You look like hell, if you don’t mind me say in’ so.”

  “So do you. What’re you doing out here?”

  “Soldierin’ is all I know, Cap’n. I took off one uniform and put on another, you might say.” McFeeley threw back his shoulders and sang: “If you want to smell hell, boys, join the cavalry — ”

  Stone smiled as he listened to McFeeley howl the exuberant driving rhythms of the old tune they’d sung around campfires so long ago. It had been Jeb Stuart’s favorite song, the unofficial anthem of Jeb Stuart’s command.

  McFeeley finished the song and held his glass of whiskey in the air. “To old Troop C,” he said.

  Stone touched his glass to McFeeley’s and together they drank. It was like the old days, when they were fighting for Bobby Lee, but now the two old soldiers were in a saloon on the frontier, and the bitter taste of defeat was in their mouths.