Warpath Page 3

“I guess you’re disappointed in me,” McFeeley said sadly.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m wearin’ the Yankee uniform now.”

  “It’s not the Yankee uniform anymore. It’s the uniform of all Americans, no matter where they’re from.”

  “I didn’t know what to do with meself after the war, Cap’n, so I joined the cavalry, but it ain’t like the old days. These Apaches are regular devils. They don’t stand up and fight you like men. They sneak up on you when you’re not ex-pectin’ somethin’, and slit yer throat before you know they’re there.”

  Stone looked down the bar at the three Apache scouts drinking at the end. “Some of them are on our side, I see.”

  “Don’t ever trust any of ‘em no matter whose side they’re on, and you’ll live longer. What are you doin’ out here?”

  “Lookin’ for somebody.” Stone took the picture of Marie out of his pocket and showed it to McFeeley. “Ever see her?”

  “I remember this picture,” McFeeley said. “You carried it in the war, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I ain’t never seen the woman. You was goin’ to marry her, I recall. What happened to her?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  McFeeley handed the picture back to Stone. “I hate to say it, Cap’n, but you look kinda down on your luck.”

  “It’s a hard life.”

  “Maybe you should join the cavalry. Twenty miles a day on beans and hay. It’s better than nothin’.”

  “Maybe someday.”

  McFeeley’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Do you ever think about Gettysburg?”

  “All the time.”

  “Sometimes at night I dream about it. It’s as if it happened just yesterday. You couldn’t explain it to somebody. If they wasn’t there, they’d never believe it.”

  Stone looked down into his glass and remembered July 3, 1863. The Hampton Brigade and Yankee cavalry under General George Armstrong Custer charged each other on the field of battle and collided with such force that horses turned end over end. Many cavalry soldiers on both sides had been crushed to death by fallen horses in the initial moments of combat, and then it was sabers and pistols at close range, a terrible bloody melee that lasted until dark, and when it was over neither side had won a clear-cut victory. Wade Hampton had been put out of action with a saber wound to the head, and Stone had been slashed several times and shot through the arm, but he still was able to lead old Troop C to Cress’s Ridge where they took up positions for the night. It had been the worst day of his life.

  “I don’t think I could ever do it again,” Stone said.

  “Me neither, but we’re still here, and the whiskey is better than ever.” McFeeley raised his glass to his lips and guzzled down every last drop, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” Stone said.

  “No, Cap’n — lemme buy you one. I’d consider it an honor.”

  McFeeley called the bartender and ordered the whiskey. Stone looked at McFeeley, thinking how strange life was. He’d never socialized with McFeeley during the war, because McFeeley had been an enlisted man and Stone an officer, and they’d never had an unofficial conversation, but now, four years later, they were like old friends.

  The bartender poured the drinks, and this time they drank to Wade Hampton, who still was alive in South Carolina, active in politics according to the last news Stone had heard about him. Then they drank to Jeb Stuart, who’d been killed at Yellow Tavern on May 11, 1864, less than six miles from Richmond.

  “I’ll never forget old Jeb,” McFeeley said, his eyes glittering with memories. “Do you remember how he used to wear his brown hat with the long black feather, troopin’ the line?”

  “I remember,” Stone replied, looking across the interior of La Rosita, but seeing bearded Jeb Stuart in his fantastic uniform, atop his prancing horse.

  “Crazy son of a bitch, wasn’t he?”

  “A little too crazy, maybe.”

  Jeb Stuart and Wade Hampton hadn’t gotten along too well. Hampton thought Stuart was too erratic, a glory hound careless with the lives of his men. After Stuart was killed, Hampton took over his command. Under Stuart there had been frequent panics and much confusion, but everything settled down under Hampton, who’d been steady as a rock.

  The two soldiers sipped their whiskey, lost in memories of war, and then McFeeley turned to Stone and looked up into his eyes. “What happened to us, Cap’n?” he asked plaintively.

  “We lost a war — that’s what happened to us.”

  “We were better men, Cap’n. You know we were.”

  “I used to think we were. Hell, I guess sometimes I still think we were, and other times I think maybe all of us on both sides were good men.” Stone shrugged. ‘The Yankees had more of everything than we did, and that’s why they beat us, but they didn’t beat us because they were better men. Nobody was better than the old First South Carolina.”

  They stood at the bar silently for a few minutes, lost in reverie. Men shouted and shoved all around them, but it was as if Stone and McFeeley were in the eye of a hurricane, where all was peaceful and still.

  Finally McFeeley raised his glass and drank it dry. “Well, Cap’n,” he said, “I gotta git back to the post. They wake us up early in the mornin’, you know what it’s like.” He held out his hand. “It was nice talkin’ to you. How long you gonna be in town?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Let’s have a drink together before you hit the trail again.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  They gripped each other’s hands firmly, then McFeeley turned and made his way drunkenly toward the door.

  Stone called the bartender and got another refill, which he poured down his throat. McFeeley brought back the war. It seemed as if Gettysburg had been fought only last week.

  Stone wondered if he’d ever get over the war. It kept coming back to him at odd moments when his mind was wandering or when something jogged his memory. He felt as if he’d lived a hundred lifetimes during those five years. He often dreamed about the great battles of the war, reliving every moment, every saber slash and every pistol shot. He thought it was a miracle that he’d survived, because so many of his friends had been killed, and indeed, virtually the entire top leadership of the Confederate Army had died on the field of battle, Stonewall Jackson, James Longstreet, and old Jeb Stuart among them.

  He was amazed by things that he’d done during the war. The Yankees often used canisters in their cannons, and canisters were tin cans filled with balls of lead around an inch and a half in diameter. Canisters were fired directly into the Hampton Brigade at Gettysburg, tearing huge holes in the line, but Stone charged right into the thick of it, and every single man in old Troop C had followed him.

  We must’ve been crazy, he thought, draining his glass. He called the bartender and got another refill, then gulped half of it down.

  He was feeling light-headed from the whiskey, and didn’t like remembering the war. Glancing around, he saw men guzzling whiskey. Stone had been drinking for most of his life, even when he was a teenager in South Carolina, but he’d never seen people drink the way they drank on the frontier. Nearly all the men drank virtually all the time. His own drinking had increased substantially since he came onto the frontier. It seemed to be the only thing to do.

  He looked at the three Apache scouts at the end of the bar. Two of them pushed their empty glasses forward, spoke a few words with their comrade, and then turned around and walked out of the saloon, leaving the third Apache alone with his glass of whiskey.

  The lone Apache was broad-shouldered and thick in the chest, with long straight black hair and a red bandanna tied around his head. He looked incongruous at the bar, a savage among American cowboys, card sharps, cavalry soldiers, and Mexicans.

  Stone stared at him, fascinated and curious. He’d never spoken with an Apache before, and thought about goi
ng over and introducing himself. The worst thing that could happen was that the Apache would ignore him, but that wouldn’t bother Stone. He’d been ignored before. Lots of people were wary of strangers.

  The Apache appeared confused. His glass was empty, and he searched his pockets for money, the corners of his mouth turned down. Stone picked up his glass and walked down the bar toward the Apache.

  The Apache heard him coming and spun around suddenly, measuring him with his eyes. The Apache wore a standard-issue blue cavalry shirt without insignia or rank, white pants, and a long white breechclout, with standard issue cavalry boots.

  Stone stopped beside him and estimated his height at around five feet ten inches.

  “Do you speak English?” Stone asked.

  “Yes,” the Apache replied gutturally.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  The Apache narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why you want to buy me a drink?”

  “For the hell of it.” Stone motioned to the bartender. “Two whiskeys.”

  The bartender poured the booze, and the Apache stared at the clear amber liquid trickling into his glass. Light from lanterns illuminated his face, and he appeared young, in his late twenties like Stone. When the bartender was finished, the Apache grasped the glass tightly and raised it to his lips, taking a gulp.

  “What’s your name?” Stone asked.

  “Lobo.”

  “I’m John Stone.”

  Lobo looked at him. “I remember you. We find you on the desert today. You nearly become food for the vultures. Warriors were near you. If we did not come, they would have kill you. Did you see the vultures circling over your head? What you think they were there for? They were there for you.”

  Stone recalled the vultures circling over his head, but hadn’t been aware they were waiting for him to be killed. “How do you know warriors were near me?”

  Lobo snorted derisively. “I see them. They were on the hill where we first see you. Three of them. They would have kill you. You are a fool.”

  “I’m new to this part of the country.”

  “You will not last long.”

  “You actually saw three warriors coming after me?”

  Lobo nodded solemnly.

  “Wasn’t it your job to report anything you saw?”

  “There was no danger.”

  “It was up to your commanding officer to make that decision.”

  Lobo turned down the corners of his mouth. “I have no commanding officer. I am not in your Army. I am not a bluecoat soldier.”

  “You’re a scout, aren’t you?”

  “The bluecoat Army pays me to warn of danger. There was no danger.”

  Lobo raised the glass to his lips and took another gulp, and Stone could sense his strength and ferocity. There was a scar on Lobo’s cheek and another on his left hand.

  “I was standing down the bar there looking at you,” Stone said, “and I was wondering about something.”

  “I saw you look at me. What do you want?”

  “Why do you betray your people?”

  Lobo’s eyes clouded over for a moment, then he raised his chin an inch. “My business.”

  “Do you do it for the money?”

  Lobo spat onto the floor. “That is what I think of money.”

  Stone took out his bag of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette, then passed the tobacco to Lobo, who accepted it and rolled one for himself. Stone lit both cigarettes with a match. Lobo leaned one elbow on the bar and puffed his cigarette, closing one eye to keep the smoke out.

  “You say you stand there at the bar looking at me,” Lobo said. “Well, I stand here looking at you. I think to myself: That white eyes is a warrior. Is so?”

  “I used to be a warrior, but not anymore.”

  “You were a bluecoat soldier?”

  “I was a graycoat soldier.”

  “Ah. The gray coats. They lost.”

  “One side always has to lose.”

  “I think you are still a warrior, but you do not know anything about the desert. Do not ever go there alone again. My people will kill you. And you will not like the way they kill you. It will not be fun, I promise.”

  “Why don’t you live with your people?”

  “My business.”

  “If you don’t do it for the money, what do you do it for?”

  Lobo narrowed his eyes and said nothing.

  “You must have a good reason,” Stone said. “A warrior doesn’t do anything unless he has a good reason.”

  Lobo raised his glass and drained it. “I go now,” he said.

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “I only asked you one question. I was a warrior too, as I told you, and I never would’ve betrayed my side for anything. You’re obviously a man of honor, and I can’t help wondering why you betray your side.”

  The bartender lifted Lobo’s empty glass. “Care for another, gents?”

  “Two more,” Stone replied.

  The bartender poured the drinks, and Lobo stood with his fists resting on the bar. His face was expressionless, but his body was rigid with tension. Then he turned to Stone and looked him in the eye.

  “I hate Coyotero,” he said.

  “Who’s Coyotero?”

  “Coyotero has disgraced my sister, and I kill him someday.”

  “What about the other Apaches who work as scouts?”

  “They do it for money and guns. They are fools, but they are good warriors. I tell you as one warrior to another: don’t ever trust Apache.”

  “Can you be trusted?”

  “No white eyes should ever trust Apache, because we hate you. You are killing us.”

  “I know we’re crowding you off your land, but we want to live here too.”

  “We cannot live together. One of us has to die, and it will be the Apache.”

  “Why can’t we live together in peace?”

  Lobo laughed bitterly. “The only way you let us live in peace is if we move to reservation, where we live like rats. No, we are enemies until one of us is gone, and the one who is gone — that will be the Apache.”

  Stone couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, because he understood how it felt to be part of a dying breed, like the Confederacy.

  Stone heard the strum of guitars behind him. He turned around and saw that the stage had become lighted while he’d been talking with Lobo, and two Mexican guitarists were seated on chairs, playing a tune.

  Then a young Mexican woman stepped onto the stage, and Stone recognized her as the pretty one he’d seen in the church praying so fervently before the plaster statue of Mary. She had flashing eyes and a broad smile, quite unlike the somber expression she’d worn in church.

  She raised her hands and sang to the accompaniment of the guitarist. The song was sad, and her voice was clear and pure, strong enough to drown out the conversation and other extraneous noise in the saloon.

  Stone gazed at her, stirred by a song he couldn’t even understand, but she was pouring her soul into it, singing with the same passion that she’d brought to her prayer in the church.

  Stone thought she was lovely, and he’d never seen anyone sing with such intensity. It was as though the song was important and she meant every word.

  “Do you know what she’s saying?” Stone asked Lobo.

  “Something about love,” Lobo replied, a note of boredom in his voice. “The Mexican girls — they always sing about love.”

  Stone returned his attention to the stage. He’d never been among Mexicans before, and it was all new to him. Americans usually hid their emotions, but the Mexican woman was cutting loose with everything she had.

  Suddenly, in what seemed to be the middle of the song, the woman stopped singing, and the guitarists hit a final chord. The woman bowed, her long black hair dropping toward the floor, and everybody applauded loudly. Stone clapped his hands too, thinking of her kneeling before the altar in church.

  She left t
he stage and was replaced by three Mexican women, who performed a dance to the accompaniment of the guitars. The woman who’d sung disappeared into the crowd.

  “I am leaving,” said Lobo.

  “What’s your hurry?” Stone replied. “I’ll buy you another drink.”

  Lobo narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why you want buy me another drink?”

  “I have a business proposition for you.”

  “A what?”

  “A job.”

  “You want to pay me to work for you?”

  “That’s right. Let’s have another drink, and then we’ll talk about it.”

  Stone called for the bartender and ordered another round. Two cavalry soldiers argued loudly at the other end of the bar, and the Mexican dancers spun around on the stage, the hems of their dresses rising above their knees, their castanets clicking wildly, their eyes and teeth glittering, and the men close to the stage clapped their hands to the beat.

  The bartender poured two more drinks for Stone and Lobo.

  “I am getting drunk,” Lobo said, raising the glass to his lips.

  “So’m I.”

  “It is no good to get drunk.”

  “Why not?”

  “It makes a warrior stupid.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Because it helps me see things.”

  “What kind of things.”

  “I don’t trust you. You want something from me.”

  “That’s right — I do want something from you, and I’ll tell you what it is: I want you to take me to Tucson.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars. I know you can get me there, because you are an Apache and the Apaches know the desert.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I take you to Tucson?”

  “For twenty dollars.”

  “Money does not mean anything to me.”

  “Thirty dollars.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  Lobo drank some whiskey, his eyes half-closed. Stone remembered the Comanches he’d fought in Texas, and they hadn’t looked much different from Lobo. It was strange to be standing at a bar talking with a wild Indian.

  “It will be dangerous in the desert,” Lobo said.

  “It’s dangerous everywhere — so what?”