River Song (12 page)

Back in Yuma, Lieutenant Andrew Wallace pointed a manicured fingernail at a man in the chair across from his desk. "Your heart will explode if you don't calm yourself, Patrick, my friend." He pulled the bottom drawer of his desk open. "Maybe a sip from what's left of my private stock will cool your temper."

"Thank
ye
and I'll be
acceptin
'
yer
kind offer, but
nothin
' except justice will cool me temper." Patrick Callahan dropped into the chair and slammed both palms against the desk. "Now will ye be
helpin
' me or nay?"

"And how am I to do that, Patrick?" Andrew poured two glasses full of amber liquid and slid one across the polished walnut desk top. "My troops pulled out of here four months ago and all I got left is a half-dozen infantry who are more boys than men. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't spare them."

"Then borrow some troops." Patrick took a swig of whiskey and swished it around in his mouth before he swallowed. "Fort Mohave's still running at full strength, is it not?"

"Yes," Andrew said with a heavy sigh, "and no."

Patrick
squinted
an ice-blue eye at the lieutenant and leaned across the desk. "We’ve a
sayin
' in the old country
. 'Tis a dark day indeed when a cloud obscures an Irishman's smile."
Patrick's expression was grim as he added a warning, "If ye and that miserable excuse for a sheriff do not stop the malarkey
ye've
been
ahandin
' me, I'll be makin' bad
cess
for the pair of ye 'til I'm
lyin
' beside me faithful wife."

"Take it easy, friend," Andrew comforted. "Star was a fine woman, and Mike was a son any man would be proud of. I'd do anything to help you, but my hands are tied."

"Then untie 'em. Wire the commander at Fort Mohave."

"You're not listening to me, Patrick." Andrew refilled the Irishman's glass but bypassed his own. "There are no available troops. Forty-six companies of infantry and forty companies of cavalry—the entire army—have been called to Fort Bowie, orders of President Cleveland himself."

"What
fer
?"

"To rid Arizona of Geronimo and the Apache problem once and for all."
The lieutenant's laugh was caustic as he added, "That figures out to be around one hundred and twenty-five troops per Indian. What do you think of those odds?"

Patrick took a large gulp of whiskey as he did a little arithmetic in his head. "Five thousand troops
chasin
' forty Apaches?
And Geronimo with 'em?
I heard tell General Crook brought him in this past month."

"He tried," Andrew grunted. "Geronimo and his followers surrendered to General Crook at Canon de los
Embudos
in Mexico, but on the way to Fort Bowie, some idiot bootlegger sold them whiskey and convinced them that as soon as they crossed the border into Arizona, the army planned to shoot them all.
Can't say I blame Geronimo for waiting until nightfall, then heading back to his hideout in the
Sonoran
Mountains."

"Nor kin I," Patrick agreed, "but I do not understand why Crook needs so many men
fer
so few Apaches.
Ye'd
think he could spare a few for me
troubles
_v
"

The lieutenant laughed at this, but more due to the irony of the situation than the humor. "Just between you and me, the orders from Washington are from men working out of West Point textbooks. They don't seem to understand we're facing a small but clever band of Indians who do not stand and fight on a broad front, who do not think it honorable to fight to the death rather than retreat. This war could go on forever."

"Aye," Patrick agreed with another swig of his drink. "But Crook is a good man. He understands the way the Apache think and they seem to trust him. I still do not see the need for so many troops."

"There lies the problem, friend. It no longer matters what the general wants to do. President Cleveland has relieved him of his command at the Department of Arizona. He wants those Indians rounded up and turned over to civil authorities to stand trial. The new commander, General Nelson Miles, will be conducting the latest attempts at surrender."

"Then I'll not be wishin' him luck." Patrick tossed the remainder of his whiskey down in one swallow, then pushed his chair back and rose. "I thank
ye
for
yer
time, if not
yer
aid."

After getting to his feet, Andrew circled the desk and took Patrick's hand. "I know it's not much, but I can promise to keep my ears open and make a few inquiries around town. If those animals are still in Yuma, they'll be bragging about their adventures, and sooner or later I'll hear about it."

"And when ye do," Patrick said as he shook the lieutenant's hand, "be sure to save 'em
fer
me."

Then the broken man turned a little unsteadily and ambled slowly out the door. He walked aimlessly through the dusty street for an
hour,
stopping only once at the depot to check on incoming wires, then found himself standing in front of Yuma's most notorious saloon, The Bucket. Not realizing or caring that the seedy establishment had become his home since the devastation of his family, Patrick Callahan crashed through the swinging doors and slumped onto the first empty bar stool he came to.

"Whiskey," he barked to the bartender, "and
leave
the bottle."

Then he turned his thoughts to the only bright spots left in his life. Did his children still glow with life's precious light, or had their flames also been extinguished by the harsh land in which they'd been sired?

Patrick closed his eyes, and swimming in an alcoholic haze, saw the image of his beautiful daughter, Sunflower. But the thought that she, alone and unprotected, might have met with the same fate as her mother was too much to bear. Groaning heavily, he rubbed at his eyelids as if he hoped he could wipe the terrible nightmare from his life, but when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed.

He was alone with a bottle of whiskey. His wife and youngest son were dead. Sunflower was somewhere in the vast desert. And Sean was hot on her trail.

If the lad had somehow managed to find it.

If he hadn't already been murdered by the very men he sought.

 
CHAPTER
FIVE

Just as Sean started up the wash, he spotted another set of hoofprints mingled with the others he'd been following. There were three riders, not two as he'd first assumed.

With a yank of the reins, Sean jerked Whiskey to a stop, then whirled the animal around and backtracked to the area where he'd picked up Paddy's trail. As the mule plodded slowly along, Sean kept a sharp eye out for the point where the pony's tracks originated, and where they were joined by the others. In the wash, all the prints seemed to blend into one, but just past a large clump of creosote bushes and barrel cactus, three clear sets of hoofprints gouged a winding path down the side of the mountain. Should he go up?

Realizing any clues about
who
or what he might be up against were better than what he had, Sean elected to scour the mountainside. And even though it appeared as if the riders had already left the area, he knew surprise would be his best weapon against two adversaries if they hadn't yet broken camp. He tied Whiskey to the bush where he'd discovered the bit of yellow cloth, then silently climbed up the side of the hill on foot. At the crest, he peered between the branches of a
palo
verde
tree and discovered an abandoned campsite. A quick glance around showed him a hastily covered campfire, a couple of small clearings smoothed out as sleeping circles, and at the far edge of the plateau, a large pile of rocks.

Curious about the stones and what they might be concealing, but still cautious, Sean cut a wide circle around the campsite and quietly made his way to the spot. Once he recognized the mound as a crude grave, he quickly forgot about his own safety and crashed through the trees.

"Sunny?" Sean called as he reached the pile of rocks. But the only response was a hot breeze whistling through the trees. Swallowing his fears, he took another look around the campsite and walked over to the fire.

Squatting down beside it, Sean sifted through the ashes. They were at least two, maybe three days old. He rose and crossed over to the area where Paddy and the two horses had been tied to the trees. Three mounts added up to three riders, and yet there were only clearings for two bed rolls. Had the third horse carried not a man, but a corpse?

Sean took off his hat and ran his fingers through his sable hair as he walked back to the grave. Then another thought occurred to him. It was just possible the riders only required sleeping quarters for two because they passed Sunny from blanket to blanket during their nights on the trail.

Sean's nostrils flared and his fists curled into tight balls as he realized he'd come up with the most reasonable explanation. The only thing keeping him from screaming his rage while he contemplated her predicament was the knowledge Sunny wouldn't be making life easy for her captors. He knew she would fight their indignities with every ounce of her strength, would leave her mark on any man who tried to violate her. A horrifying thought suddenly cut off his reassurances.

His eyes wide, his stomach rolling like a pair of loaded dice, Sean looked down at the pile of rocks. Who
had
died on this spot—and why?

"Please, not Sunny," he said as he dropped to his knees and began frantically tossing aside the large rocks as if they were pebbles. When the stones were all removed, Sean's hands became shovels, and sprays of loose dirt and sand fanned out behind him like a cloud, until his fingertips finally connected with something other than soil.

The sensation sickened him. Sean recoiled and sat staring at the object for a long moment before he could be certain his eyes hadn't deceived him. He gazed on two thick, gnarled fingers.
When at last he was able to accept the body as that of a man, not the young beautiful woman fueled by the same blood as he, Sean breathed a long, hoarse sigh.

Sunny lived.

At least she'd lived through whatever happened here. Certain until now he'd been following only Paddy and one horse, Sean surmised the campsite had probably been a pre-arranged meeting site for the two outlaws who'd murdered half of his family. He could only guess that once the men joined up again something, possibly Sunny, had put them at each other's throats.

Now his sister rode towards Phoenix with the stronger of the two. Would she be able to hang on until he reached her? Or had her spirit already been irreparably broken?

Sean fingered the pistol he carried in the waistband of his trousers and made a deadly vow.

This man, this
murderer
who'd forced Sunflower to accompany him, would pay dearly for that atrocity.

More than a hundred miles to the east, Sunny and Cole crested the last red-rimmed ridge before the short ride into the town of Phoenix. Although the farther they traveled, the more the landscape changed from sandy browns and cloudy greens to terracotta and rich emeralds, she was unprepared for this oasis in the
Sonoran
desert. Marveling as the town and its lush valley came into view, Sunny said, "Your Phoenix is very beautiful. You must be so proud of it."

"Proud?" Cole shrugged and slowed Sage to a trot. "I don't know
,
it's not something I think about much. My father is the one who's so proud of this little city. Nearly twenty years ago, he was part of the citizen group which founded the town. He's been active in Arizona politics ever since."

"Then," she laughed, "
you
must be very proud of your father."

Again he shrugged. "I suppose so." He was proud in many ways, but in many others, more and more Cole found himself questioning Nathan's ethics and prejudices, his rules and his methods. How would the old man react when he learned Cole no longer shared his goals, and that his return to the Triple F ranch was only temporary?