Shadow River (8 page)

What can you say . . . ?
Sam told himself. He wasn't about to give up his identity. Even if he did, what good would it do? Who would believe him? He couldn't tell this very good friend of Captain Silvero that his amigo Silvero was taking money from Crazy Raymond Segert. For all Sam knew, so was Flores. All he could do was play this thing on out, hope to get himself, and yes, even these two outlaws standing beside him, out of this situation alive.

“
Capitán
,” said Sergeant Bolado, “now that Corporal Valiente has identified this one, do you want me to form a firing squad for him and these two gringos?”

Sam stood tense, ready, watching the captain consider the matter. He was not going to stand here and be shot down without trying to save himself. He glanced at an ornate-handled saber hanging at the captain's side. He poised, on the verge of leaping out, grabbing it up with his tied hands and slashing his way to the horses. But he had to stop and settle himself when the captain spoke.

“No, Sergeant,” Captain Flores said. “We will not shoot them here. We will march them to Fuerte Valor, along with this stinking Apache rabble.” He wrinkled his nose in association with the warriors' offending smell.

“If you will permit me to say so,
Capitán
,” said the sergeant, “these gringos do not deserve to be taken to Fuerte Valor. These men are no better than dogs.”

The captain gave him a dark glare. Sam, Clyde Burke and Stanley Black stood listening intently.

“I do not permit you to say so, Sergeant,” the captain said bluntly. He folded his gloved hands behind his back in rigid military style. “The Apache will hang as a public display of our military might. These gringos will be further questioned about the death of Capitán Silvero and his men. They will then be shot as supporters of a rebel force that threatens the sovereignty of Mexico.”

The sergeant turned from the captain back to Sam. “Perhaps,
Capitán
, you will allow me to shoot this one myself, when the time comes.” He patted Sam's bone-handled Colt standing behind the sash around his waist. “With his own
pistole
, perhaps?” He grinned evilly at Sam.

“We will see, Sergeant,” the captain said. He turned a cruel smirk to Sam and said, “You'd better watch your step, pistolero. My sergeant does not like you so much.”

“I caught that right off, Captain,” Sam replied drily.

Relieved, he let out a breath, glad to hear that he and the other two were headed for Fuerte Valor—Fort Courage, he translated to himself. Once there, when the time came, he would reveal his true identity and his reason for being here.

In
the night, Sam, Clyde Burke and Stanley Black sat in a row opposite the Apache warriors. Both lines of prisoners stared at each other from ten feet apart. A rifle guard walked slowly down between the two rows of prisoners. At the end of each walk, he warmed his hands at the fire ten feet away, turned around and walked back, fulfilling his monotonous routine between caged and watchful eyes.

“Good thing my hands are tied behind me,” Burke whispered as the guard held his hands out over the fire. “I know I'd choke this fool to death, take his rifle from him and fight my way out of here.” He paused for a second, staring at the Apache. “Maybe put a bullet in a couple of these Injuns while I'm at it.”

“Take it easy, Clyde,” Sam said. “Now's not the time.”

“Then when is the time?” Burke asked.

Sam didn't answer.

After a pause, Burke asked Sam quietly, “Any chance of you doing that for us, Jones?” He wiggled his hand behind his back. “It appears you're the only one with hands that can do any choking.”

“Not a chance,” Sam whispered with no hesitation. Without taking his eyes off the warriors staring back at him, he said, “There'll be better chances of us making a break while we're on the trail. It's a long march to Fuerte Valor.”

“Fort Courage, my ass,” Burke translated in a whisper. He spat in the dirt in contempt. “I've left more courage running down a privy wall.” He leaned his head and wiped his lips on his shoulder.

“Jones is right, Clyde,” Stanley Black whispered on Burke's other side. “There'll be better chances on the trail.”

“Jesus!” said Burke, jerking his head around toward Black. “Let a man know when you're sneaking up that way.”

“I wasn't sneaking, I'm sitting right here,” said Black.

Burke drew away from Black, seeing his face, his eyes peering at him from the narrow gap between his hat's sagging brim and its crown.

“You sure as hell are,” said Burke with sarcasm. He shook his head, staring at Black. “Stanley, do you have even the slightest idea how stupid you look wearing that Gaw-damnable hat?” His voice grew a little louder as he spoke.

“No talk,” said the guard, turning toward them from warming his hands at the fire.

Sam saw by the look on Burke's face that he was losing control.

“Oh yeah?” Burke shouted out at the guard. “Why don't you go
fummmmph—
” he said, his words muffling suddenly behind Sam's cuffed hands clamping over his mouth. Burke thrashed back and forth. But Sam held on until Burke finally settled. Across from them, the Apache looked on blankly, firelight glittering in their black eyes.

The guard adjusted his rifle in his hands and walked straight toward them.

“Get yourself in hand, Clyde,” Sam whispered, letting go of Burke as the guard drew closer. “It'll do us no good to make a move, you with your face bashed in by a rifle butt.”

The guard stopped and looked down at the three pistoleros. Sam spoke up before Burke got a chance to say anything.

“He was asleep,” he said, gesturing toward Burke.
“Habla en su sueño, éste.”

“Ah,” said the guard. “This one talks in his sleep?”

“Sí
, he does, he wakes himself shouting out,” Sam said. “I'll watch over him—see to it he doesn't do it again.”

“You do that, gringo,” the guard said, leaning in close to Sam and Burke. “If he talks in his sleep, he can die in his sleep.”

“We understand,” Sam said quietly. As the guard turned to walk away, he looked down at Black, cocked his head curiously, seeing the eyes look up at him from above the sagging brim. Chuckling under his breath, he walked away, shaking his head. When he was out of whisper range, Burke leaned close to Black.

“See? Even these fools think you look like some damn circus clown,” he whispered harshly. “Get rid of that hat. I mean it.”

“Go to hell,” said Black.

“Both of you shut,” said Sam. “Try to rest for a few minutes. We'll be heading out of here before long.”

The two fell silent, Burke grumbling something under his breath before doing so.

Sam took a deep breath and sat staring at the Apache in the shadowy firelight. He wished he knew what they were thinking—what plans they had to get free. But they weren't going to give up any plans any more than he was.

And that's how it is. . . .

There was nothing he could do about it, he reminded himself, staring at their dark formidable eyes. He fought sleep, yet after a moment he felt his head lower to his chest and his eyelids droop and finally close altogether. It felt like only moments later when he opened his eyes quickly and saw that first light had mantled the far upper peaks of the Blood Mountain Range. The guard and three other soldiers began to roust both sets of prisoners to their feet and then formed them into two lines. While the rest of the camp gathered, saddled and readied their horses for the trail, three soldiers walked from prisoner to prisoner. While the guard looked on, one soldier untied the ones whose hands were tied behind them and retied them in front. The second soldier carried a large pot of cold red beans from the night before, along with a wooden dipping spoon. The other soldier carried a canvas sack half-full of cold, hard bread.

“Hold out one hand,” the soldier with the beans ordered. As the prisoner's hand came out, the soldier slopped a spoonful of beans into it.

“Your other hand,” the soldier carrying the bread sack ordered. As empty palms turned up, he plucked up a torn chunk of bread from the sack and dropped it onto each empty hand.

“How about a plate or bowl or something?” Burke called out to the soldiers.

The one carrying the bean pot looked back and grinned.

“Yo no hablo ingles,”
he said.

“Don't speak English, my ass!” said Burke. “Your sister does,” he called out, but not loud enough for them to hear him clearly.

The soldiers both looked back at him curiously.

“I say
yum-yum
,” Burke said mockingly, giving them a wide, superficial smile. As the soldiers walked away, he stared down at the beans dripping from his hands. “What's the gospel truth is this is how they all eat at home.” He raised his voice toward the two soldiers. “They never heard of washing their hands. They lick at them all day like a damn cat—”

Sam gave him a push with his elbow to shut him up.

“Leave it alone, Clyde,” he said in a low voice. “Eat your breakfast. Your hands are out from behind your back. Let's see if they keep them there.”

“Be thankful they fed us at all,” Black said, through a mouthful of beans and bread.

“Right you are, both of you,” Burke said, taking on a better attitude. He laughed. “I'm grateful for everything every son of a bitch ever done for me.” He raised his beans and bread to his lips and managed to take a bite of each, leaving crumbs and a red smear in his beard stubble. “Speaking of cats, how's your claw wounds this morning?”

“Better,” Sam said. “They'll be even better still if we stop at a water hole long enough for me wash up.”

“What was the captain talking about, you cutting the panther loose?” Burke asked.

“I don't know,” said Sam, giving a slight shrug.

“Was you?” Burke asked.

“Was I what?” Sam said.

Burke just looked at him.

“Was you trying to set her loose?” Burke asked.

“What do you think?” Sam said.

“I don't know,” Burke said. “That's why I'm asking.”

“I wasn't,” Sam said. “So forget about it.” He turned and looked off toward the soldiers. “That's the craziest thing I've ever heard of.”

Burke shrugged, his beans and bread in his cuffed hand. “I was just thinking about it, is all.”

“You want something to think about?” Sam said. “Think about us walking all the way to Fort Courage.”

“I already am,” Burke said grimly.

•   •   •

The mounted Mexican army patrol led the two lines of prisoners down from the hillside ruins onto the desert floor. They traveled forward through rock, gravel, low cactus and sand, in the direction of Fuerte Valor. Fortunately Sam's and all of the other prisoners' hands were left tied in front of them. Unfortunately the two rope lines of prisoners were traveling afoot among horseback riders whose object appeared to be keeping them too hungry, thirsty and weak to think about making a getaway.

It was noon before the soldiers directed the exhausted gunmen and Apache off the desert floor and back onto the hillside. They headed into the rock and cactus shade of the water hole where the Montana Kid had shot the wounded gizzly bear. Buzzards stood feasting on the bear's large carcass on a bed of gravel and small stone. Newcoming scavengers circled overhead, and stood randomly on rock and cactus watching, as if awaiting their turn at the feast.

Upon arriving at the edge of the water, rifle guards held the prisoners back until the soldiers drank their fill. They continued holding them back while the soldiers let their horses and the team of mules slake their thirst.

While Sam was standing in line waiting, a soldier led Sam's dun and his white barb past him. The dun was bareback; the barb had been stripped of its pack frame and supplies. The dun pulled against its reins and tried to nose over to Sam, but a soldier jerked the horse away and slapped the dun with a leather quirt hanging from his wrist. The dun resisted, half reared against the sting of the quirt. Sam jumped sidelong toward the soldier, but Burke and Stanley Black grabbed him and held him back.

Sergeant Bolado stepped in and gave the young soldier a sound slap across his shoulder.

“What good is a soldier who cannot control and water horses?” he said harshly. He grabbed the dun and the barb's reins, settled them expertly and handed the reins back to the humiliated young man.

“Now go,” he said with a dismissing gesture. As the soldier led the horse on to the water, Bolado turned to Sam.

“Those two are your horses,
sí
?” he said.

“Yes, they are,” Sam replied, swaying a little from thirst and the relentless heat.

“Where were you going that caused you to need a packhorse and so many supplies?” he asked. “Most of you gringo pistoleros
travel with only your guns—your guns and your whiskey.” He gave a faint smug grin.

Sam stared without reply.

The sergeant leaned in close as if speaking in secret. “Perhaps you were going somewhere important, eh? Somewhere that would require such provisions?”

“It was for all of us, Sergeant,” Sam said.

Bolado looked back and forth as if making sure they weren't being watched or heard.

“I don't think so, pistolero,” he said secretively, even as Burke and Black looked on, trying to listen. “I think you were going somewhere by yourself until you joined with these others.” He studied Sam's eyes intently, searching for answers there. After a moment he gestured toward Corporal Valiente, who stood a few feet back behind him. “He thinks so too,” he said.

“Like he said, Sergeant,” Burke cut in, “it was supplies enough for all of us. Leave him alone. You want to pick at somebody, pick at me.” He gave a defiant grin. “You hit like a woman, Sergeant. I sort of like it.”

The sergeant started to turn on Burke, but then he saw that was exactly what Burke was trying for. He raised a finger and shook it at Burke.

“Don't worry,
embecile
,” he said to Burke. “I will hit you some more, only later.” He turned back to Sam, but as he started to speak, he caught sight of the captain riding forward. Tugging his tunic down into place, he said to Sam, “I will talk to you later. We have much to talk about.” He stepped a few feet away from Sam to meet the captain.

“Why are we not watered yet and ready to go, Sergeant Bolado?” the captain asked, swinging his horse around quarterwise to the sergeant and the corporal.

“It is the heat,
Capitán
,” Bolado said, he and Corporal Valiente almost snapping to attention. “The men and the animals are moving slower becau—”

“Do not explain to me the heat!” Captain Flores shouted, cutting him off. “Get these prisoners watered and ready to travel.”

“Yes,
Capitán
, right away,” said Bolado. He and Valiente snapped a salute to the captain, turned briskly and walked toward the soldiers and horses at the water hole. “Why are these horses and prisoners not watered and ready to go?” he called out, almost mimicking the captain's words.

As the soldiers hurriedly led the animals away from the water's edge, guards led Sam and the others forward. Both gunmen and Apache dropped onto their chests in the water and drank their fill, their tied hands folded out in front of them as if paying homage to some greater being farther up the rocky hillside.

When the prisoners were watered, they stood back from the hole in line, dripping wet. Sam's blood-crusted chest had washed clean, and a thin trickle of fresh blood had begun to run down his belly and beneath his shredded shirt. As the soldiers gathered the spare horses and the team of mules, Corporal Valiente weaved his nervous horse around on a thin path leading through a strip of larger stone standing between the men and the bear's carcass.

Sam watched him ride in close to the dead bear for a look, then back his horse when the buzzards screamed and batted their greasy wings at him. Cursing the big birds, he turned his horse and had started back along the path when a monstrous bear stood up atop a rock in front of him.

“Good Lord God Almighty!” said Burke. “It's the bear's big brother!”

The large brute stood high on its hind legs and bawled out loudly.

Valiente's horse whinnied and reared so high it almost fell backward. The corporal, his arm healing in a sling, tried to get the horse in check and grab his rifle from its boot. But before he could do anything, the big bear rumbled forward from the rock and knocked both horse and rider to the ground with a long powerful swing of its wide paw. Valiente hit the ground as the horse crawled and whinnied and scrambled up, finally racing away limping, its saddle hanging under its belly.