The Shadow Man (8 page)

Kirker turned away from his enemy and stared down into the valley. Six Indian men on horseback were emerging from behind a small hill a quarter of a mile up the river.

Kirker called out quickly to his men. “Get down and keep low. The Indian bucks are coming. Like always, when they get in range, we'll kill all of them with our rifles. Then, on horseback, we'll ride down the women and kids.”

“Some of the young squaws might be pretty,” said Rauch. “It'd be a damn shameful waste to kill them.”

“I think so, too, Kirker,” chimed in Borkan, who lay near Rauch. He rolled back from the top of the hill and sat up. “What do you two think?” he asked Flaccus and Wiestling.

The two bandits grunted in agreement. All the men watched Kirker expectantly.

“All right. Save a couple of the prettiest. But don't let that get in the way of catching every one of them and their kids. Now, stand ready with your rifles.”

The Indians rode into a grove of cottonwoods and out of sight. They reappeared a few seconds later, much closer. Kirker saw their long war lances tied on the sides of their mounts and sticking up at steep angles in the air. Two braves had bows and arrows, and three held rifles across the saddles in front of them.

“They've killed some buffalo,” Rauch whispered. “I can see the big haunches tied over the backs of those two packhorses.”

“Plenty of buffalo back to the east,” Borkan said.

“No talk,” snapped Kirker. “Listen for my word to begin shooting.”

One of the women spotted the approaching horsemen. She shouted out a happy greeting. The remaining women and children spun around to see what she saw. Then the whole group started to call, the children running forward in young, loose-legged strides.

The riders stopped in the center of the cluster of tepees. Five slid from the backs of their cayuses. The last man started to dismount, then caught himself, and his eyes jumped to the rim of the caliche hill. He ignored one of the women speaking to him and stared hard, directly at Kirker's hiding place. His rifle began to lift.

Kirker saw the gun moving and the man's chest swelling with a large draft of air, like a man who is preparing to shout a mighty blast.

“The smart son of a bitch knows we're here,” Kirker cursed. “I'll kill him. You fellows shoot the others. Shoot!”

Kirker hefted the rifle to his shoulder. At a range of slightly more than two hundred yards, putting a bullet into the center of the man's chest wouldn't be a difficult feat. Kirker fired.

The Indian dodged to the side with amazing swiftness. Kirker knew the man had moved before he could have heard the gunshot. He must have seen the gunpowder smoke spouting from the rifle barrel, and as difficult as that was to believe, reacted to that sign of danger before the bullet could reach him.

But even as quickly as the Indian had moved, he was not swift enough to entirely escape the ball of lead hurtling at him. Kirker saw the bullet strike the Indian, spinning him violently to the side. The shot meant for the heart had hit the arm up high near the shoulder. The man caught his fall and pulled himself erect, instantly flinging himself forward along the neck of his cayuse. He almost vanished from view behind the body of his mount, only an arm showing over the neck of the animal, and a heel over its back.

The man was yelling orders at the women and children. They began to run in frantic haste, scattering up and down the riverside.

Beside Kirker, the snarling crack of his men's heavily charged rifles was deafening. In the Indian camp two braves were hit with deadly blows and fell to the ground. Another was knocked tumbling. He leapt up immediately and dashed for a clump of trees.
A
bullet broke his spine, and he went down in a tangle of legs and arms.

The man Kirker had shot had given a command to his pony, and the animal sprang into a full run down the riverbank. Kirker grabbed up his second rifle, caught the neck of the pony in the sights, and tracked the target. The .54-caliber slug would easily penetrate the neck of the animal and kill the brave.

The rifle cracked. The top part of the cayuse's neck exploded in a puff of hair and flesh.

The fatally wounded beast swerved to the side, away from the horrible blow of the bullet. It continued its wild run. In its pain the dying horse didn't see the riverbank.

The cayuse and the clinging rider plunged over the brink and vanished into the mad, swirling flow of the rushing river. Neither man nor animal reappeared on the foaming surface. The yellow torrent poured onward, hiding the things it had swallowed.

“Goddamn,” Kirker cursed. “I just lost a hundred dollars.” He swung his attention back to the Indian camp. Eight bodies lay in crumpled mounds on the ground. Both ways along the river, women and children were running in frenzied flight.

“Mount up,” Kirker shouted.

The men ran to meet Connard who, mounted, was spurring his horse up the slope and dragging the saddled horses after him. All the men jerked themselves astride. They charged down from the caliche hill and onto the river bottom.

As Kirker gouged his horse ahead, an old woman jumped up from some bushes. He killed her with a shot from his pistol. A boy of seven or eight tore off at an angle, bounded over the trunk of a fallen tree, and then straightened out in a flat-out, dead-streaking run. The little brown bastard sure could travel, thought Kirker.

Lashing his horse, Kirker drew close to the boy. He slashed down with the heavy iron barrel of his revolver, clubbing the child to the earth. Kirker dragged his mount to a halt, whirled it around, and ran it back to the small, still body of the boy.

The firing dwindled and stopped as Kirker stepped from his mount. He deftly cut a circle around the top of the boy's head and ripped away a large segment of scalp and hair.

He halted at two other bodies as he returned to the camp, each time cutting away the victim's scalp.

Connard, carrying a handful of bloody scalps, came to meet Kirker. “Mighty fine target practice,” he said with a laugh.

“Stretch and dry these with those you have,” directed Kirker, and handed Connard the scalps he carried. “Did anyone get away that you saw?”

“No,” Connard said, separating the scalps to see how many had been given to him. “That makes twenty of them,” Connard added in a pleased tone. “That's every Indian we saw, counting the two girls Rauch and Wiestling caught.”

“Good,” Kirker replied. He walked to the men gathered around the two frightened girls huddled on the ground near the river.

“Now, ain't they pretty?” Rauch said. He reached down, clamped a brutal hold on the hair of the two young women, and roughly raised their faces so the men could see them.

“Yes,” agreed Kirker, “but there had better not be any fighting over them or I'll take a hand to stop it,” he warned. “Rauch, you asked to save the women, so now you see that their scalps are lifted and drying right along side all the others come morning.”

Kirker took the prettiest girl by the shoulder, raised her to her feet, and led her into one of the lodges. He slapped her into obedience and took her on a pile of furs.

When he had finished, he brought her back outside and flung her at Rauch.

The bandit chief almost laughed when he saw the hate in Rauch's eyes. I am the leader of these men, thought Kirker. I will always have first choice of horses and women.

Taking an arm load of furs from the lodge, he climbed up to the top of the caliche hill. He sat listening to the voices of his men, muted in the distance, and watched the last trace of sunlight die away to nothing. He lay down on the soft furs and drifted off to sleep. It had been a very profitable day.

Tamarron drank his first beer with Tim and Deek in the big cantina on the edge of the plaza. The brew had a delicious, tangy flavor and was icy cold from being immersed in a tub of snow brought down from the mountain above town. He took another long pull from his mug and let the savory liquid trickle delightfully down his throat.

“The first one is always the best,” Tim said, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “But we may not be drinking many more beers in Santa Fe.”

Tim paused, reflecting within himself, and then continued to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. “There'll soon be a war with Mexico.”

“I heard some fellows talking about war earlier today,” Jacob said. “But why do you say it?”

“I'll tell you why I believe so. Late last summer I was in Austin for a couple of months. Well, the talk was everywhere that Governor Pinckney Henderson wants to finally fix all the boundaries of Texas. They're already established on the north, east, and south. But the Texans claim a hell of a lot of land to the west that is still in the control of Mexico. The governor says the west border of Texas is all the way over here to the Rio Grande. Santa Fe is in Texas, didn't you know that? Now, that could be funny, except the man's serious. If Mexico doesn't start a war to take back Texas, then Texas will start one to try to take New Mexico,” Tim said, his voice rising gradually as he spoke.

Deek poked him sharply in the ribs. “Quiet down, Tim. There's a lot of tough Mexicans in here. And besides, Armijo might think we're plotting a revolution. He's a mean son of a bitch, and would have us arrested and shot.”

Tamarron glanced around the cantina. A group of seven American trappers were drinking and talking noisily at a table near the wall. Scattered around were tables of Mexicans, vaqueros, and townspeople, all in full-mouthed debate on various topics. The quietest bunch of men were the card players at the monte tables in the rear. No one could have heard Tim's remarks above the loud jumble of all the voices. However, all gringos had to be careful, for Armijo was not a trusting man and had spies in many places.

The door of the cantina was shoved open, and a small, mud-splattered man wearing the blue-and-red uniform of the Mexican Cavalry came inside. He staggered with weariness and clutched the leather pouch hanging on his shoulder as he made a course toward the bar. He ordered a beer and drank half of it in one swig.

Tamarron saw the man shiver as the strong, cold beverage hit his gullet. He leaned against the bar for a moment. Then he straightened and, with a second greedy swallow, finished the beer.

The small man looked at the keg of beer behind the bar in a hungry, wistful manner. He sighed and turned away, making his way across the cantina and out the door.

Tamarron noted the strained, exhausted face of the man as he passed and went outside. “He's ridden far and fast,” he said to his two comrades. “All the roads are closed to the north because of deep snow. Even the trail east to Las Vegas isn't open yet. He could have only come from the south.”

“The nearest Mexican army garrisons are at Matamoros and Saltillo,” Tim said. “I'm betting he came from one of them.”

“He has dispatches for the governor,” Jacob said. “I'm going to see if I can find out what the news might be.”

“Me, too,” Tim said.

Tamarron, with Tim and Deek following close at his back, quickly left the cantina. They stopped in the darkness by the wall of the building.

In the center of the street, the dispatch rider was leading a mud-covered horse. The worn-out animal did not want to move, and the man cursed it and jerked the reins cruelly.

“He's ruined that pony,” Deek said. “I'm sure there are other crippled horses along his trail. Now, a man doesn't do that unless there's some damn important message that has to be carried fast.”

“Quiet,” Jacob said. “The moon is bright, and if all three of us follow, we'll be seen. You two stay here.”

“All right,” said Tim. “We'll go back and have some more brew. But you come back and tell us what you see.”

The dispatch rider went straight across the plaza to the palace. Jacob stealthily trailed him, holding far to the rear in the darkness.

The armed sentry that was stationed in front of the Governor's residence intercepted the messenger, and they talked together in low voices. They went hurriedly to the front entry and knocked on the door.

Jacob, standing among the trees on the edge of the plaza, caught a brief glimpse of the broad figure of Governor Armijo in the lit doorway. Armijo took the dispatch pouch and dismissed the rider and guard.

The rider stumbled tiredly off with his horse toward the army stables. The sentry returned to his post on the walkway leading out to the plaza.

The door of the Governor's residence was jerked open. “Private, tell Captain Archuleta to report to me at once,” the governor shouted out.

“Yes, sir,” the guard called back, and left at a trot through the night shadows in the direction of the officers' quarters.

A moment later Jacob saw the tall figure of Captain Archuleta, commander of the Mexican Army garrison at Santa Fe, striding swiftly along the border of the square. The captain was admitted by the governor, and the door closed.

An hour passed before the captain left. He went directly to the army barracks on the opposite side of the officers' quarters. Five minutes later a second soldier with a musket joined the first guard on duty at the Governor's residence.

Jacob stole away. Threatening news had reached the governor, news that required the doubling of his personal guards. That meant a major Indian uprising, or worse, war with the United States.

* * *

Tamarron methodically fitted the golden coins into the several pockets of his wide money belt. Andrew Dexter observed him quietly, controlling his curiosity as to why the mountain man had come at the first opening of the store and asked that his money be taken from the vault.

Jacob fastened the heavy belt, weighing nearly twenty pounds, around his waist and let the buckskin blouse fall down over it. In dangerous times one had to protect one's wealth, he thought.

He spoke to Dexter. “Last night an army rider brought a message to Governor Armijo. Captain Archuleta was called, and the two men talked for a long time. The guard on the governor is now two armed sentries.”