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Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson

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BOOK: Ghost Warrior
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Rafe felt in his pocket and pulled out the tiny socks he had knitted. He handed them to He Makes Them Laugh.
“Para la niña de María Mendez,”
he said.
The puppies would have to go back with him. This was not the time to leave a present of something the Apaches considered bad luck.
He Makes Them Laugh took the socks and stuffed them into the top of his moccasin. He turned abruptly and led the mule away.
TREACHEROUS WRETCHES
R
afe paused at the door of the quartermaster sergeant's office. As angry as he was, he knew he would enjoy this anyway. Sometimes he could almost believe that God had a sense of humor.
He knocked, then opened the door and walked in without waiting for an invitation. As he expected, the owner of the Belly-Up Ranch and his weasel of a foreman were doing business with the supply sergeant. Or at least they thought they were. Rafe was about to change their plans.
“Hello, Collins.” The sergeant looked up from the beef contract spread out in triplicate on the desk in front of him.
“The cattle the government ordered from Mesilla are here,” Rafe said. “My men are driving them into the pen.”
“How many head?”
“As many as you ordered.”
“Thirty?”
“Have I ever come up short on the count?”
“No, but there's always the first time. Apaches hit a supply train heading for Fort Cummings. Drove off the horses and mules.”
When Belly-Up and his man registered the fact that Rafe was delivering all the cattle, they didn't disappoint him. Surprise, anger, guilt, and chagrin went chasing across the mendacious bad-lands of their faces. The sergeant was a smooth one, though. His gaze never wavered. He might have been innocent, but Rafe doubted it. That was why Rafe didn't make any accusations. As with most army supply contracts, he couldn't be sure who was in cahoots with whom.
Rafe took the invoice from his coat pocket, laid it on the
desk, and bent over to smooth it out. While he was at it he read, upside down, the amount and the date written on Belly-Up's contract.
Eleven steers to be delivered tomorrow. What a coincidence. Eleven was the number of stolen animals that Rafe and Caesar had tracked to the Belly-Up Ranch. They had arrived as the two thieves were driving the stock into the corral. A few shots had sent the pair galloping off into the scrub oak. The Mexican vaqueros said that the Belly-Up's patron and his
segundo
had gone to the fort. Rafe and Caesar had driven the steers back to the herd and headed for the fort themselves.
That sort of swindle had happened to others, but never to Rafe. He was more than furious. He was embarrassed that the thieves had gotten the drop on his two Mexican herders and made off with the cattle.
Even so, he was grinning when he left the sergeant's office and met Caesar coming from the stock pen with his gray and Red. Rafe patted the chest of his coat to indicate that the payment for the cattle was in the wallet inside it.
Caesar grinned back. They were headed for Central City to spend the money. They had heard that the town's amateur theater troupe would perform soliloquys from Shakespeare's plays. Caesar had never seen Shakespeare's words delivered from a stage, and he'd been talking about it all day, even while they tracked the stolen cattle and had a galloping gun battle with the thieves.
“Mistuh Red was wooing that paint mare of the cap'n's,” he said.
“Red's too old for wooing, and he's overdue for retirement. Next time we have business in Arizona I'll take him to Camp Grant. The blacksmith there has agreed to let him frolic in the tall grass, even if the old boy can't fire his artillery anymore.”
Red had lived almost twenty arduous years. He was still game, but he had earned a rest. Rafe had been putting off the decision for a long time. He couldn't bear to think of riding anywhere without Red under him.
“I wish I'd seen the look on ole Belly-Up Hardin's face when you sashayed in with the invoice for those cows,” Caesar said.
“It was some entertainment.”
“You reckon the supply sergeant was in on it?”
“Most likely.”
They rode in a comfortable silence for a mile or two before Caesar spoke again.
“The colored troops got into a row with the officers whilst we was gone,” Caesar said. “It turned right squally.”
Caesar gathered the latest news while Rafe collected the pay for whatever they were hauling. Caesar was usually more successful at his task than Rafe. Money had a way of vanishing in the short distance between the government strongbox and Rafe's outstretched hand.
More than once he had carried Victorio's war club into the quartermaster sergeant's office. He merely laid it on the desk. Rafe made no threats with it, nor did he glance at it, but it was a disturbing artifact even for seasoned campaigners like the sergeants. It obviously had one purpose only. With its flexible head, it would never serve to hammer in tent pegs or nails. It was designed to crush a man's skull, clear and simple.
More disturbing was the question of how Rafe had obtained it. Had he taken it from a dead Apache, or had a living Apache given it to him? Either way, he was a man to reckon with, and the sergeants always found the money they owed him.
“The colored soldiers said they'd kill anything in shoulder boards,” Caesar went on.
“The food's bad enough to cause a mutiny.”
“'T'warn't the victuals. The lieutenant says his new colored maid stole his wife's brooch-pin. The colonel, he says she has to leave the fort. The soldiers say she didn't take the brooch, and even if she did, the colonel might as well put a gun to her head and shoot her his own self as turn her out alone in Apache country.”
“Do you know her?”
“Naw. She come on the mail stage whilst we was to Mesilla. The soldiers say she belongs to the lieutenant's family back in Louisiana.” Caesar corrected himself. “She used to belong to 'em. Don't nobody own nobody no more. Mistuh Lincoln saw to that, God rest his soul.”
Well, nobody owns anybody officially, anyway, thought Rafe, not since General Lee handed over his sword and ended the Southern rebellion more than four years ago. Four years. Had that much time passed? Had it been two years since he last saw Lozen in the ruins of her village, with dead grandparents scattered about?
The time seemed much briefer than that because he still heard her grief-stricken wail in his dreams. It was a cry of such sorrow distilled to its essence that it would not let go of him. He would wake up with his heart pounding and realize that a coyote had howled, and he had made it part of the dream of her.
He wondered where she and the others had gone. They had vanished as though they had never existed.
Rafe had a bit of news of his own. “The sergeant said the colored troops will be leaving in a couple months,” he said. “Their enlistment is up.”
“They been here three years already?”
“Yep.”
A figure on the trail ahead shimmered in the late-August heat. She carried a sack on her back, and at first Rafe assumed she was a Mexican woman going to the market on the outskirts of Central City, five miles away. She was tall, though, and she walked down the middle of the road, which wasn't like a Mexican. It wasn't like a Negro, either, but as Rafe drew closer he saw that where perspiration washed away the dust on the woman's bare feet and calves, the skin underneath was the rich, vibrant brown of molasses.
“Mus' be Mattie Martin,” Caesar said.
“The maid?”
“I 'spect so.”
She wore a red bandana on her head with the four ends tied at the base of her skull, leaving exposed a neck long and
gracefuly curved. She had on a calico dress that had started out blue but had faded to streaks of gray. She set down the sack and turned to watch them approach, her hand up to shade her eyes.
Rafe saw why the lieutenant had gone to the trouble and expense of bringing her from Louisiana. He understood why the black soldiers had rioted over her mistreatment. And he suspected that the source of the lieutenant's wife's anger was not a stolen brooch.
Mattie Martin looked as though God, in a fit of remorse, had tried to make up in beauty for the sorrow and hardship the color of her skin—flawless as that skin was—would cause her.
Ripe
was the word that came to mind when Rafe looked at her. Full, succulent mouth. Large, bright eyes. A broad sweep of a nose with flaring nostrils. And breasts—well, the breasts definitely looked just fine under the dress that draped her slender body with an artless grace. The slight loft of her chin gave her a look that was wary, combative, and imperious.
No doubt Caesar intended to play Galahad again. He had a knack for finding damsels in distress, even when damsels of any sort were in short supply and those who existed seemed able to take care of themselves. Rafe didn't have to be a mind reader to know that his friend had been struck by an arrow, though this one came from the bow of a bare-arsed cherub named Eros. Rafe figured he could be smitten by Miss Mattie Martin himself.
Caesar reined the gray to a stop. “Good day, ma'am.” He tipped his hat. “My name is Caesar Jones, and this here's my associate, Mistuh Raphael Collins.”
“Pleased t‘meet you ge'men, I's sure.” She flowed into a curtsey. “I's Mattie Martin.”
“Miz Martin, may we offer you a ride to town?” Caesar asked.
“I'd thank you kindly for it.”
While Caesar tied her sack of belongings on top of his bedroll, Rafe offered Mattie his canteen. She looked at it as though she didn't believe a white man would do her any
kindness. After a pause, she reached for it, took a long drink, and returned it.
Caesar pulled her up behind him, and she put tentative hands on his waist. As the three of them rode toward the mismatched cluster of mud-and-straw hovels and makeshift shebangs called Central City, Rafe felt happier than he could remember being since the death of the Navajo woman he called Dream Weaver. He knew with a fair certainty that he would never find another woman to bring him the contentment that she had, but he could enjoy the thought that his friend might.
 
 
SHAKESPEARE COULD NOT COMPETE WITH MATTIE MARTIN, but Rafe figured the Bard wouldn't want to. The author of
Romeo and Juliet
would understand the urgency of love. Instead of coming to the performance, Caesar took Mattie to an inn where he knew the owner was looking for a maid and a cook. He said he would be along shortly, but Rafe doubted that.
Bushrod Franklin's saloon was the location of the performance because Bushrod was a shrewd business man, because it was the largest building in town, and because it contained a billiard table. The billiard table was the key to the enterprise.
The entire population seemed to have gathered there. Rafe had to turn sideways to work his way through the noisy crowd. He reached a far corner of the rough-timbered room, climbed onto a crate, caught hold of the rafter, and swung himself up onto it. The effort winded him. He didn't know the exact date of his birthday, but he was pretty sure he was going to be thirty-nine years old soon.
The view of the billiard table was worth the effort. The actors had laid pine boards across it to form a platform. Putting the stage on top of the billiard table not only made it more visible, but it also raised it off a floor awash in tobacco juice.
Rafe recognized the saw marks on the planks. They came
from the mill at Pinos Altos, and they were part of a government shipment he and Caesar had freighted in so the soldiers could build their barracks. He wondered why he and Caesar had bothered to unload it at the fort since the supply sergeant was going to sell it to the merchants in town, anyway.
Rafe had been present at the last drama involving this particular billiard table. Someone had shot a miner in a falling out over one of Bushrod's doxies. The town's barber had laid the man out on the table to see what he could do. The patrons crowded around to watch, and the betting began, twenty dollars that the patient would die, twenty that he wouldn't. They watched with rapt attention, and whenever he coughed up blood, those who had bet on his mortality cheered while the others booed. The cheering and booing reversed when he rallied. In the end, the barber lost the twenty dollars he had bet on his own skill.
Today, though, the men expected to see a “leg show,” women in tights, or at least a view up the skirts of the two female members of the troupe. They were hoping for a long view, maybe as far as the lace hems of the pantalettes, but the lower portion of the calves would suffice. They would even settle for ankles clad in lisle stockings.
Most of them had primed themselves with whiskey, and they were growing restless. Rafe could tell that they were almost ready to start throwing the old eggs they had brought for any actor whose performance didn't meet their standards. Bushrod Franklin mounted the packing crate steps and held up his arms for silence. He never got it, but the uproar diminished enough for people to hear him if he shouted.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, the purpose of this evening's performance is to raise funds to outfit that brave company of Indian fighters, the Bear Creek Rangers, led by our own James Halloran. We are gratified to know that these intrepid men do not think it worth the effort to take murderous redskins as prisoners.”
BOOK: Ghost Warrior
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