Death Valley Drifter, page 7
Stevens scowled. “You’re being a little harsh, don’t you think, Colonel?”
Voight shook his head. “The shotgun was gone—and so was the Bowie knife. Remember that?”
Stevens seemed surprised. He had not forgotten the incident, which had taken place just hours before, but he had forgotten that Martins was carrying the knife.
“So he was the guy,” the private said.
“Yeah. A professional. I want to know how the lieutenant got him before we go after him.”
Stevens nodded; it was short and conciliatory. Voight handed Stevens the jacket. The private draped it over the back of the spare horse. Then he took the lieutenant’s head, and Voight grabbed the legs, and they hoisted Martins facedown across the saddle.
“I still don’t like the idea of letting the one who did this get away,” Stevens muttered.
Voight was losing his patience. “We came late and lost that battle—that’s a fact.” He gave the prostrate Lieutenant Martins a little push on the small of his back to make sure he would not slide off. “Let’s think about winning the war.”
With that, and after delaying to stomp-clean himself off so he was not blinded with his own dust particles, Stevens looped the reins of Martins’ horse over his own cantle and mounted. It would be slower going than both men would have liked, but it was either that or separating. With at least two adversaries, that was not going to happen. Not after fighting shoulder to shoulder through four ugly years on American soil, under Colonel Nathaniel Jackson Ahrens and the 1st Regiment Tennessee Volunteer Cavalry, and then five years of working against the Juáristas south of the border. Stevens had little interest in their cause one way or the other. With the overthrow and execution of the tyrannical Emperor Maximilian I, President Juárez had canceled all foreign debts. The governments of France, Spain, and Great Britain didn’t like that and sent their armies over in 1861—while the United and Confederate states were in no position to intervene, distracted by their own problems. After the Civil War was over, many soldiers came south to work for the high-paying Europeans.
Most of those had been defeated; only the French maintained a small, harassing presence. This mission was designed to make them more than that.
When Voight and Stevens had put together in something resembling a train, with Martins in the middle, the men rode out at a trot, toward the way station in Oak Ridge.
CHAPTER FIVE
A LIVING MAN. A free man.
Even if he did not know who he was, and despite the dull pain that beat on his skull with impressive resilience, Hank savored the moment of liberation. He had not only escaped captivity; he had turned back an attempt to retake him. Martins’ shotgun had not felt as natural to wield as the knife. Fortunately, Hank only had to put buckshot near the target, not in him. His concern was that he might actually hit the man without meaning to.
Martins had forced him to behave aggressively. So had this man, and Hank was glad he had kept checking behind him—common sense? An instinct? Whatever it was, it had saved his life. He had not wanted to shoot this man, not because he found it abhorrent but quite the opposite. It had felt too, too natural. Whoever he was, lawman or outlaw, perhaps a soldier like these men, there was nothing random about whom he hurt or killed. When he had thrown the knife at Martins, before all this, he had only sought to warn him. The lieutenant had said so himself.
Fortunately, this encounter was done—for now. He also had his liberty—for now. He held the Bowie knife in his hand, hoping it would reacquaint him with his past. Other than feeling as if it belonged, nothing came to him.
The caress of the air, the sun, the horse did more to soothe his injury than anything. Freedom won filled him like nothing he had experienced since his recent rebirth.
Riding at a slow gallop, he selected another strip of snake meat. Chewing it seemed familiar, just like the grass, though the salty taste was unfamiliar. Hank still occasionally turned back in the saddle to make sure the men were not in pursuit. Since the man who had chased him had turned back, they had not moved from where he had left Lieutenant Martins. Then, suddenly, after a few minutes, Hank turned, and they were gone from view.
They probably have to get somewhere to doctor the lieutenant, Hank thought. It would have been a two-man job if they intended to take him anywhere—and they must have realized, by now, that it would be a two-man job if they had attempted to take the man who had done that to Martins.
The brim of his hat dipped low, Hank kept up his pace until he felt it was safe to stop. He did not know by what instinct, what animal sense, he judged that; it was something he simply felt.
Hank slipped the Bowie knife in his belt. That did not feel right. It belonged to a particular sheath. Above all, he was eager to have that back where it belonged, on his left side.
Stopping on the near side of a low rise, Hank slipped from the saddle and retrieved the boots. He untied them from one another, shook out the stones, and—bless Jane Smith—put on his now roomier boots. With a final glance at the western horizon, he began to take stock of what was in Lieutenant Martins’ saddlebag. There was the additional food the lieutenant had mentioned, including sun-dried bananas, a tinderbox, and shotgun shells. There was also a pouch of tobacco. Hank had not seen the man smoking or chewing, so he must have used it for trade. That suggested to him that he was not operating with the U.S. Army as such. Otherwise, he would not have needed to swap a smoke for anything.
There was a large map that, when unfolded, covered the terrain from just below the California line to Sacramento in the north and the Arizona Territory and Nevada to the east, with trails indicated but nothing other than the stage trail and its stops marked on them. There were a pencil and a notepad with nothing written in it, but there were pages torn out.
“For leaving messages under rocks?” he wondered, though Hank had not seen the lieutenant write or leave any. Perhaps the men left notes for one another when they separated. Maybe they had finished down south and were headed home. Could the lockbox have held their wages?
That would make me just a common outlaw, he thought unhappily.
There were a half-full canteen and a sheath with the man’s own smaller cutting knife. Hank slipped it out. The four-inch blade smelled of fish. It seemed dainty, ineffective, used for scaling and filleting. He replaced it and took out his own. Once again he felt the heft of it, flipped it, and caught it, and looked around. There was a black snake in the grasses about six feet ahead. He did not know the kind; he only remembered rattlers. He took the knife by the point and hurled it, planting the blade deep and confidently in the ground, just behind the tail—close enough to cause the serpent to rapidly wriggle off.
“I guess some things can’t be knocked out of you.”
He wondered what else his body knew, what secrets his muscles retained.
Shooting a shotgun had not been one of them. That had seemed heavy, firing it overkill.
Hank recovered the blade. He noticed the stain of Martins’ blood on the bottom of the hilt. He looked, saw the man’s neck blood on his pants. Hank rubbed the stain in the dirt and went back to his horse.
He stood there a moment, looking in every direction. “You’re living and you’re free, but where are you going?”
He considered heading back to the desert where the present adventure had begun. Now that he knew Lieutenant Martins and his party had been situated farther south, there might be clues as to what he himself was doing there. But the way the man had described the attack—in the dark, sneaking—made it sound like it might be hostile territory. Especially if someone down there recognized him.
Indians or Mexicans? he wondered. It didn’t matter. If he encountered anyone who knew him, it would not be with much liking. They would more likely kill Hank than tell him who he was.
Besides, going south he would be tempted by the Smith cabin. That would not be fair to the easily busted hopes of a young boy—especially when Hank could not yet afford to be without the knife.
It was better to go north, to the way station. If nothing else, someone there might know or have seen Beaudine. Or him. Maybe they had come through it at some point. That plan had its risks as well. But it seemed to him he had to locate William Beaudine, or at least learn more about him, to find out anything about himself. One unsuspecting man could be tracked and approached with caution.
Climbing back into the saddle, Hank decided this much: He must have been riding long days before the incident that brought him down. His thigh muscles ached, and his seat was uncomfortable. He adjusted his posture as best he could, mindful not to agitate his wound, and he kept the pace slow to save both himself and the horse.
The countryside quickly took on more color, mostly reds in the form of grasses and berries, though it added no human population. The shotgun was in its cutoff scabbard, ready for quick-draw use, since Hank had no idea what kinds of wildlife or Indians might live hereabout. Circling buzzards, at a distance of maybe a half mile, told him that either two- or four-legged killers were out there. It also told him which direction to go for water: away from where animals were dead or dying.
As Hank rode, his mind returned, unbidden, to trying to remember. He had no mental memory of the sheath, only a physical sensation. His thigh recalled the weight of it. He put his hand above the spot where it would have been. He let his fingers hover just above the spot—
He could almost feel it against his fingertips—the scruffy touch of the deerskin sheath the knife had been in. There was a worn-out roughness to it. It had been through river water, sun, gritty winds. He let his fingers remember more of the texture. There were beads . . . and along the sides big piggin strings, the rawhide laces that held the sides of the sheath together. The deerskin was so worn, it was like soft leather in spots, but he kept it—
Because it was special.
“Why did someone take it after leaving me?” he wondered aloud. It was just one more thing to carry. Was it distinctive enough so that, seeing it, someone would know who Hank really was?
There were laces. He had flashes of himself bending and tying them. Why would he do that? They were long laces, long enough to go around his—
“Thigh. I tied it there so it wouldn’t shift when I drew it.”
Hank was sure of that. He couldn’t quite visualize it, but he knew. You had to be able to trust your weapon no less than you trusted your horse.
He wondered if he trusted William Beaudine.
“If not, it was surely with good reason,” he said.
Trust. Right now there was only one person he trusted; at least, that he remembered. Jane. Once again, Hank looked at his fingers. He raised his left hand and looked at the ring finger, rubbed it clean against his trousers—against Nehemiah Smith’s trousers. He suddenly felt covetous and a usurper.
As he had done with the knife, he imagined the fourth finger. He flexed it, believing that he would recall the presence of a ring. It didn’t seem like there had been anything there. There was no empty longing, except for the woman he had left behind.
Seems that a family would have to be one of the first things I’d remember, he thought. Holding a wife, a child. Their smell.
Spurring the horse, Hank made his way north with greater urgency, leaning forward in a manner that also suddenly seemed comfortable and familiar—
And something else.
He could feel himself having stopped, suddenly. Turning the horse to the left. Looking at the shape of a man who stopped his own horse a few paces ahead. There was something knocking on that horse. Whap . . . whap . . . whap . . .
It was dark, and it was laden with something . . . and then it was gone.
But Hank felt encouraged by it. The vision, if truthful, was another piece, and he rode on hard in search of the rest. . . .
* * *
* * *
JANE SMITH WAS working out back, trying not to think about Hank, about the thought of perhaps never seeing him again, when fate helped take her mind off the man and his plight. She did not know what had happened to make her cabin so popular this hot summer day. She loved her God and her Bible, and the wisdom they imparted, and the great and stalwart liberators like Moses and Joshua, the leaders and poets like David and Solomon. Flawed men all, but men all. Reading and rereading their sagas reminded her of her man.
But this day left her wondering what the heavenly plan was for her.
As she and her boy were busy composing the remains of the rabbit that was now, finally, in a stew, there was a faint vibration underfoot, like when the underground stream that fed the pond and their well was flushed and full and running.
Only it was not the stream. That mostly happened months before, in the spring.
Douglas was busy using the fireplace poker to alternately churn the mound and pretend he was a pirate in one of the picture books his father had brought from Apple Town. Without showing alarm, Jane left the rifle behind and wordlessly went to the eastern side of the cabin. Shielding her eyes from the early-afternoon sun, she peered southwest and saw a column of riders approaching.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned to go back to the compost heap and started when she saw Douglas beside her. “You gave me a fright!”
“I’m good at stalking, right?”
“You’re good, you are,” she agreed. “Now I want you to stalk right inside.”
“Why, Ma? Who are those men?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Douglas James Smith, but horses are unpredictable, and men are more so. Go!”
If he heard, he made no sign of it. He was staring over the poker, held straight out in his right hand, as he ticked off numbers.
“There’s thirteen of them,” he concluded. “Hey, you didn’t bring the rifle. Want I should get it and my bow?”
“You should do as you’re told!” his mother said. She started toward the back of the house, gently shoving her boy before her. “Now!”
“I’m going. I’m going,” Douglas said, swinging his head from side to side with defiant disapproval. But he did as he was told and retreated to the hot cabin.
The column riding toward them was visible beyond the well. The men were dressed in a uniform of sorts: not military but white peasant garb, black sombreros, and bandoliers. The wardrobe was common enough in these parts, though not in such numbers. She saw the ammunition from far off, which was why she had not gone to get her own rifle, which sat within reach against the table. She did not want to provoke violence by someone misunderstanding her nature.
Only one of the riders was quite unlike the rest. It was a woman wearing a white top with big sleeves and a low neckline. It was embroidered with red curls on top and shoulders. She also had on a tricolor lace skirt and a white shawl to protect her from the sun and wind. She was not a peasant, and Jane’s first impression was that the men were an escort for the lady.
Those soldiers Hank encountered must have been waiting for these other men or scouting ahead, she thought.
If their uniform was not military, their carriage was. Jane had seen enough horsemen in her thirty-three years to recognize trained riders, probably cavalry and not bandits. Except for the bandoliers, they had none of the hallmarks of brigands who haunted the local ranges. Each man was rigidly upright, riding an equal distance from the man beside, before, or behind him, and was silent. No one sang; no one spoke; no one smoked. And the man in front—of medium height and build with a thin chin and a thin mustache—held his head emphatically upright and straight. He was at least a captain, she suspected.
And they are pasty faced, she thought. Desert outlaws were sunburned, mountain men wind burnished. Except for the man in front, no one wore facial hair, which suggested they did not spend many nights out-of-doors in the cold. As they rode past the well onto her property, she could see under the circular brims of their hats they were not just fair skinned but several were blue eyed or green eyed.
Jane moved from the compost heap to where her rifle stood against the table. She did not pick it up but put the shovel down so her hands would be free.
The column came to a practiced halt when the leader raised his right arm. Jane was not surprised when that hand descended and swept off the man’s hat. She had guessed them to be Americans—Southerners, from their grooming, former soldiers working in Mexico, training Juáristas from the ragtag guerrillas they had been to the disciplined military force they needed to be.
She was surprised, then, when the leader spoke to her with a heavy French accent framed by a big, insincere smile.
“Forgive our intrusion, madam.” His eyes shifted briefly from the woman to the rifle, then back. His smile widened without adding conviction. “You and your family need have no fear.”
“We don’t. Caution isn’t fear.”
The man’s expression took on a moment of sincerity. “I respect the distinction, madam. I am Raoul Dupré.”
“I’m Jane Smith.”
“My pleasure.” He cocked his head toward the cabin. “The boy I saw. Your son?”
She nodded.
“And is Mr. Smith nearby?”
“He is.”
“May I ask where?”
Without taking her eyes from this verbal peacock, Jane nodded to his grave.
The leader had been in the process of replacing his hat. He looked over, halted, and bowed his bare head slightly toward her.
“My condolences, Mrs. Smith. The War?”
She nodded again. “The coach.”
“I see.”
The captain turned toward the well. “Might we impose on your hospitality for a canteen of water?”
“Help yourself.”
He bowed courteously once more. That was not, however, all he wanted. The pond was just a half a mile distant the way they had come. This was a stall. She could tell by the way he was looking around, but only at the ground.
