A Tale Out of Luck (8 page)

“Well, then, we’d better warm up a mug or two,” Hank said.

She poured the beer, then leaned across the bar toward Hank, batting her eyes apologetically. “Hank, I’m so sorry about what happened to Jay Blue last night. It all happened so fast. He was taking up for my hired girl, Janie, and those boys from the Double Horn jumped him before I could—”

Hank silenced her with a wave of his palm. “Muchachos will be muchachos.”

“Hey, you stole that from me,” Poli complained.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Hank continued.

“Why, then?”

“Well, mostly for a drink—and to lay my eyes on the prettiest sight in Texas—but I also came to ask you a favor.”

“Anything, Hank. And you know I mean
anything
.”

Poli choked on his beer. “You want me to wait outside with Tonk?”

Hank ignored him. “That Kentucky mare of ours ran off last night while Jay Blue should have been on guard.”

“Oh, no, Hank. She’s gone?”

“
Más
gone than gone,” Poli said. “She ran off with El Grullo.”

“Who?”

“The Steel Dust Gray.”

“The mustang? He really exists? I thought he was just a wild tale—an excuse for the fainthearted so they wouldn’t have to chase down horse thieves.”

“I wish he was just a myth. He chased off my mare, and Jay Blue or Skeeter was supposed to be on guard and neither one of them was, and . . . I got a little riled over it this morning.”

“A little riled?” Poli whistled.

“Jay Blue ran off, Flora. Skeeter, too. They said they were going after that mare.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, Hank?”

“Just keep your ears open for me. You hear all the daily gossip here first. Let me know if you hear where they went or what they’re up to. I’ve trailed them as far as Sam’s store, but I don’t know where they went after that.”

“Sure, Hank, but what about those Comanches camped over on Flat Rock Creek?”

“Tonk rode out the other day and looked them over from a safe distance. It’s just a hunting party under old Chief Crazy Bear. They’re not wearing paint. I wired the reservation in Indian Territory and found out that Crazy Bear has a pass from the Indian agent to lead a hunt.”

“So, they won’t cause the boys any trouble?”

“Not likely. I fought Crazy Bear in the old days, but he’s been on the peace trail now for years. His warriors won’t start anything unless some hothead riles ’em up first.”

“If I hear anything, Hank, I’ll make a note of it. If it’s urgent, I’ll send a rider out to your ranch. I’ll ride there myself, if I have to.”

“Well, now, there’s a welcome thought.” Hank winked at her, and drained his mug.

Flora grabbed the mug and opened the tap on the wooden keg.

Poli gulped his beer so he could have a refill, too. “Aw, those muchachos have got more sense than you think, anyway. They can ride hard and shoot good. And I’ll guarantee you one thing,
Capitán
. After this morning, those boys will never miss guard duty again.”

13

A
S FIRST SERGEANT JULY POLK
cantered his mount back toward the troopers Major Quitman was leading across the low rolling hills, he couldn’t help but think what a pretty sight it was—the column of fours riding toward him, sunlight glinting on saber hilts and polished buckles. Only the cowboys from the Double Horn Ranch seemed out of place riding in a disorganized cluster to the major’s right.

Polk thrived on army life, especially here on the frontier. He believed in the army way. He saw in the federal cavalry service a rare opportunity for himself and his fellow black men. Some of those soldiers had been born into slavery, and look at them now! They wielded weapons and rode half-wild horses across an open landscape, serving the union that had almost torn itself apart to set them free. This nation had a long way to go before it could live up to its claim of all men being created equal. But this was a start—this regiment of black soldiers. First Sergeant July Polk was a proud part of it.

As he slowed to a trot, he saw the major call a halt so that they could confer.

“Report, First Sergeant!” Quitman was plainly throwing his weight around a little more than usual for the benefit of the cowboys.

“The camp’s still there, sir. Right where it was before.”

“And their number?”

“Same as before, sir. Not more than two dozen men, women, and children. I’d figure on eight warriors, ten at the most.”

“And their attitude?”

“Everything looked casual, sir.”

“If I’d have scalped a white man, I might be a little nervous right now.”

Jack Brennan let out an impatient sigh—almost a growl.

“Maybe it wasn’t them, sir. Maybe it was some renegade band passing through. Or, on the other hand, maybe they just didn’t expect anybody to find the body so soon.”

The major used the arrow he had carried along with him to point at the first sergeant. “I’ll find out, won’t I? Did you go undetected?”

“They never seen a hair on my head, sir. Their hosses didn’t even smell me. I scouted downwind.”

“Sentinels?”

“Just some boys watching their horse herd.”

“Well done. Give the order to march.”

“Yes, sir. But, if I may, sir . . .”

“What is it?”

“The best trail is from the southwest, sir, because—”

“First Sergeant, remember your place!” the officer snapped. “Give the order to march!”

“Column of fours!” bellowed Polk. “Forward,
march
!”

Polk hoped he had made his point about moving in from the southwest. Comanches always set their tepees up with the lodge doors facing east. If the company rode in from the southwest, they would remain out of view of anyone who might be lurking inside one of those tepees.

If Quitman had had any Indian fighting experience, he would know this, but Polk happened to know that the major had no combat experience at all, having served throughout the Civil War as a commissary officer behind the lines. As a quartermaster he was quite efficient, but Polk feared he might be leading the men into dangers he didn’t understand.

Another hour brought the column of fours over a rise that afforded a view of the Comanche camp. And, as Polk had feared, Major Quitman rode in from the southeast, where he could be seen by potential shooters inside the tepees. Polk dropped back to ride next to Corporal Cornelius.

“Good thing you’re in a fightin’ mood today, Corporal. You may need that mean streak any minute now.”

“I ain’t scared,” the corporal growled.

The Comanche horse herd was some distance from the camp, being tended by some mounted boys. The animals had grazed their way into a position that put them between the soldiers and the Indian camp as the cavalry unit rode in. One of the boys rode at a gallop to the camp to spread the alarm, while the other boys bunched the pony herd and moved it away from the approaching cavalry.

“Look there!” said Jack Brennan, riding up to the major. “That sorrel and that bay. Those are the mounts I’m missing. You’ll see my brand on their left hip. And that claybank! Do you see it?”

“What of it?” asked the major, examining the horse herd when he should have been keeping his eyes on the Indian camp.

“That’s the mount the dead man rode.”

“How do you know?”

“I told you I saw the man once at the saloon in town. That claybank was tied at the rail outside. You don’t forget a horse like that.”

First Sergeant Polk had to agree. That was some piece of claybank horseflesh. But those two mounts Brennan claimed—the sorrel and the bay—were the sorriest-looking animals in the herd. He wondered why a man would even want them back. He saw all this at a glance, as his main concern was the movement of Indians in the camp, and they were all astir.

The major was still distracted by the big rancher. “There are procedures to follow, so don’t think you can just ride in here and claim your property. You’ll get your stock back in due time.”

“Due time, hell, Major! They’ve got the claybank! They scalped that poor bastard we found! We should attack before they can get organized.”

“Nonsense. I’ll question them, and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Brennan spat on the ground. “You just made a big mistake, Major. I can tell you don’t know shit about an Indian.”

Polk continued to analyze the movements in camp. He saw women dragging children and carrying babies to hide behind tepees on the far side of the camp. Several warriors were easing toward the near edge, but none held a weapon in his hand. Indians ducked in and out of the lodges, and it was hard to watch it all at once, but Polk sensed that not all the warriors were coming to the edge of camp to parley. A few, he feared, were watching from the shadows inside those lodges. He groaned under his breath and glanced at Major Quitman, sitting haughtily in his saddle.

Now the first sergeant saw an aged warrior walking toward the near edge of the camp carrying a stick festooned with a white flag, and the striped and star-spangled banner of the U.S.A. Five warriors came with him. They were strolling to the southeast edge of the camp, luring the soldiers into the line of fire from the lodge openings. The troopers splashed across the ankle-deep waters of Flat Rock Creek.

“Gutierrez!” the major shouted.

The translator, Gavilan Gutierrez, spurred ahead. Polk knew his story. An Indian captive as a boy, he spoke the Comanche language well.

As the soldiers rode right up to the edge of the Comanche camp, Polk got a close look at the chief. He wore a single eagle feather in his hair, deerskin breechcloth, and leggings. He went bare-chested and sported a huge scar right where an army officer in dress uniform would wear his medals. A young warrior trotted up to his side, clearly taking the position of lieutenant. He looked barely twenty. He wore a quiver on his back, but his bow remained in the quiver, unstrung. The old man carried no arms at all. Not even a knife could be seen.

“Ask him his name,” the major ordered.

The translation came back from Gutierrez: “Crazy Bear.”

“Who’s the young man beside him?”

“His grandson,” Gutierrez said. “He is called the Wolf.”

Now the Comanche leader held up a folded piece of paper, wrinkled and soiled from travel. The translator took it and handed it to the major, who read it.

“They have a pass from the reservation authorities. They’re hunting.”

“Hunting poor white bastards to scalp,” Brennan growled.

The major handed the folded paper back to the translator, who returned it to the chief. “Ask him where he got those horses. The bay and the sorrel. And the claybank.”

Gutierrez made the inquiry and listened to the reply. “He says the horses wandered up. He says he doesn’t want them, and you can take them.”

“Lyin’ horse thief,” Brennan said. “Murderer.”

“Ask him if this arrow belongs to any of his warriors.”

The arrow was handed from the major, to the translator, to the chief. The old man looked at it. His eyes widened. He handed it quickly back to Gutierrez. It seemed to Polk that Crazy Bear couldn’t get rid of that arrow fast enough. He seemed to fear it the way Corporal Cornelius had feared catching albinism earlier that day.

“He says it does not belong to any warrior in his camp.”

“But he recognized it, didn’t he? Ask him.”

The translator had an exchange with the chief. “He said he will have all his warriors give you one arrow to show that the designs are not the same. He said they are not even carrying war points, only hunting points.”

“He’s avoiding my question. Ask him again if he knows who this arrow belongs to. Tell him the owner of this arrow killed the owner of that claybank horse.” Major Quitman pointed toward the Indians’ pony herd. “Ask him again who owns this arrow.”

“He says he cannot speak the name.”

“Or
will
not.” The major drew himself up into his most authoritative posture. “Tell him every warrior in his camp must ride back to Fort Jennings with us for further questioning. Order each man to bring his arrows.”

As Gutierrez made the translation, Crazy Bear frowned. But he and his grandson, the Wolf, began talking things over, and it looked to Polk as if they were about to give in to the major’s demand. Until that big rancher, Jack Brennan, rode his horse into the Indian camp.

“Hey!” Brennan said, charging in among the tepees. “What the hell is this?”

Crazy Bear and his followers turned in anger at the disrespectful invasion of the camp and glowered as the big white man leaned sideways on his mount, low enough to snatch up a fine, tooled saddle in an impressive feat of strength.

“This is the saddle I saw on that claybank at the saloon! Tell me that don’t prove they killed the son of a bitch.” Then Brennan dropped the saddle and drew his Colt. “That one’s armed!” he shouted, and fired at some target that Polk could not see behind one of the lodges.

Skittish cavalry mounts dodged in every direction with the first gunshot, and the Double Horn cowboys opened fire on the camp. As Polk had feared, muzzle blasts flashed from inside the nearby lodges, and Corporal Cornelius flew off the rump of his horse, the back of his head having become a pulpy mass of bone, brains, and blood. As warriors scattered, firing bullets and arrows, the cowboys charged haphazardly through the camp.

Polk’s horse wheeled, and he caught sight of the major. The officer’s hat had flown off, and blood was trickling down into one eye. Then the major drew his revolver and blindly pulled the trigger without aiming, his shot hitting Chief Crazy Bear in the stomach. The chief dropped his peace flags. The Wolf still stood beside him, stringing his bow.

Another blast came from somewhere in camp, hitting Major Quitman square in the chest, killing him before his body could hit the ground.

In this chaos, Polk noticed that Gavilan Gutierrez had charged off with the cowboys, who were riding in different directions through the camp, firing everywhere. Forcing his startled pony to face the camp again, Polk saw the Wolf notching an arrow. It flew before Polk could swing his pistol barrel around, and the arrow hit the first sergeant in one of those bulging stripes on his sleeve. Polk fired back, but only managed to cut the buffalo sinew string on the Wolf’s bow.