The Arrow Keeper’s Song (21 page)

Philo Underbill, sitting cross-legged opposite his companion, was stirring the muddy-looking grounds at the bottom of the coffeepot with a long-bladed, double-edged knife whose elkhorn handle had been carved in the shape of a bear. Philo was softly singing to himself as he waited for the bacon to fry. A plate of blackened biscuits had already been set aside.

“Gonna saddle me a big brown mare,

and ride away from here,

to where the wind blows free

that's where a man oughta be

on the lone prairie.”

Too thirsty to wait any longer, he started to fill a cup with the black, bitter brew when Tom's shadow fell across the bed-roll and Krag rifles neatly stacked against the hut. Joanna had already caused a flurry of curious looks as she entered the camp alongside Tom. The physician was certain such obvious interest was inspired by the fact that these men hadn't seen a woman in months, save for the few stern nurses who had accompanied Marmillon's medical unit ashore. The uniform, however loose fitting, revealed far more of her figure than a dress would have.

Joanna, aware she was rapidly becoming the center of attention, shifted uncomfortably beneath the openly lustful scrutiny of the soldiers. Celestial's men had treated her in much the same fashion for a while, but she had ultimately won their respect and admiration. The frequency of her clandestine forays into the countryside had bred a certain familiarity among the rebels, who had come to think of her first as a healer and a friend. Sex was of little consequence to a man with a shattered limb or a bullet in his gut.

Philo clambered to his feet and doffed his campaign hat. He offered his coffee to Joanna, who declined, and then to Tom, who gratefully accepted the cup and tilted it to his lips. “Appears you been busy, Sergeant Sandcrane,” the Creek remarked, noting the bruises discoloring Tom's features.

“A few former friends paid me a call,” he replied, draining the contents of the cup. The rum-laced brew burned the stiffness out of him.

“We'd have been pleased to make their acquaintance,” Tully said, trying to take his eyes off Joanna. He flashed a toothsome grin, which, unfortunately, made him appear all the more homely.

“They didn't stay long,” Tom added. He was struggling to shake off the image of that hawk with its crimson wings. It was a decidedly lethal specter he hoped never again to encounter.

“Hrumph! Lucky for you,” Philo grunted, refilling the cup for himself. “Sure you won't have some, ma'am? Nobody makes better coffee than Philo Underhill. That's what my first wife used to say, God rest her soul.” He glanced at Tully and then Tom, both of whom were accustomed to his many lies when confronted with a lady.

“No, thank you,” Joanna said, wrinkling her nose as the aroma of burned bacon and biscuits assailed her nostrils. “I'm sorry about your wife.”

“Don't be,” Tom said, frowning at the soldier. “Philo's never been married. That's just a story he uses whenever he meets a pretty woman like yourself. He figures sympathy will get her all warmed up toward him.” He ignored Philo's glowering features.

“I had assumed from the smell of breakfast that the poor lady died of poisoning,” Joanna added with a wink.

“Haw haw haw.” Tully doubled over, his hands on his knees. “She got you there, Philo.”

The cook by the fire grumbled beneath his breath, but the woman before him had such a pretty smile, he couldn't hold a grudge.

“Listen up, fence riders. I'm going for a ride. It ought to take about a week,” Tom said. “I thought maybe you boys would like to come along—unless you'd rather stay around here unloading boats and tending mules and drilling when Captain Huston decides you haven't sweated enough.”

“A ride … where?” Philo asked, suspecting trouble, his sleepy gaze suddenly alert.

Joanna pointed to the rugged brown skyline through the palm trees. The mountains waited, silent and ominous, though bathed in sunlight. “Up there.”

Philo Underhill and Tully Crow lifted their eyes to the Sierra Maestra. The whole blamed Spanish army was waiting beyond the horizon, hidden, poised to pounce like a wild cat.

“A man'd have to be plumb crazy to take a ride like that,” Tully dryly observed.

“Sure as hell,” Tom replied.

“How many are going?” Philo asked. Tom held up one finger. Philo looked at Tully, who nodded as if agreeing to an unspoken suggestion. They had always been lucky for one another, ever since Oklahoma; there was no sense in breaking up a good thing.

Philo held up three fingers. “When do we leave?”

“Today. As soon as I report to Captain Huston,” Tom said. He tilted his hat back on his sun-darkened forehead, misgivings suddenly threatened to erode his confidence. Their horses were grazing in an overgrown garden that once served the needs of the village. “Philo, we'll need a wagon. A two-horse team. And cushion the wagon bed with as many blankets as you can find. Tully, draw food, ammunition, and a box of dynamite from supplies. Maybe an extra rifle or two. After all, we aren't going on a church picnic.” Tom turned back to Joanna. “Now, ma'am, I think you said something about a map.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

N
EAR NOON ON THE TWENTY-SECOND OF
J
UNE
,
NINE DAYS BEFORE
San Juan Hill and the battle that would add to his legend and eventually propel him to the White House, Colonel Theodore Roosevelt waited in the company of Captains Huston and Marmillon for the volunteers from the Indian Brigade to file past the porch of the plantation house. As the military amenities had been dispensed with, there was no reason for the patrol to approach their commanding officers. A simple salute from a distance would suffice.

Roosevelt regarded with suspicion a cup of
panal
, a drink made from the milk of green coconuts to which the medical officer had added a portion of dark rum. The colonel risked a sip of the thick, sweet beverage and grimaced.

“My God, Bob, you actually drink this stuff?”

Huston coughed and nervously cleared his throat. “It takes a little getting used to, sir,” he replied.

“So does castrating stallions,” Roosevelt replied, harking back to his days in the Dakota badlands. “Although necessary at times, I never warmed to the undertaking.” He pointedly set the cup aside and patted the wrinkles from the carefully tailored uniform he had purchased at Brooks Brothers prior to the expedition. The once crisp blue and tan lines of his coat and trousers were rumpled and sweat stained, despite the shade on the porch.

Local beverages were the least of Colonel Roosevelt's troubles, thought Bernard Marmillon. It was plain to everyone that the dashing commander of the Rough Riders was eager to be off the beach and engaging the Spanish forces.

Marmillon's chief concern, on the other hand, was of a more intimate nature. With the rescue party dispatched into the mountains, Joanna would no doubt be happier. She had done all anyone could do, and now the matter was beyond her control. Bernard intended to give this attractive lady something else to think about. Already he had planned a shore dinner out beyond the army's sprawl of supplies and armaments. Bernard had in mind a campfire and perhaps a plate of panfried snapper and some oysters and, most important of all, the bottle of wine tucked away in the trunk beneath his cot. He intended to make this evening memorable. After all, Joanna had been attracted to him once. Bernard intended for that lightning to strike twice.

“My compliments on how well you've worked all this out, Colonel Roosevelt,” the medical officer said, pointedly avoiding the clay cup of
panal
Huston had set aside for him. He was well aware of the concoction's potency. An entire afternoon of tending the ill and injured awaited him, and it wouldn't do to treat his patients while under the rum drink's heavy influence. However, Bernard didn't mind having one of the hard-boiled eggs Roosevelt's cook had left on a nearby table. Tapping the egg on the porch railing, he began to peel away the shell.

“How do you mean?” Roosevelt asked, ever mindful of a slight. The colonel's tone of voice gave Marmillon cause to worry that somehow he had offended the pugnacious commander of the Rough Riders, who was a proud and feisty individual determined to make a name for himself in this war. With a stroke of his bushy mustache Roosevelt turned to face the medical officer, and when he did, the lenses of his spectacles reflected the late-morning glare. It gave the illusion that sunlight was streaming from his eyes, as if he were generating the radiance like some human dynamo. The effect thoroughly cowed Bernard and left him stumbling for words.

“Well … uh … only … uh … that by sending out the volunteers you've made Joanna happy. And … when her father learns you have found her alive and healthy, then I should imagine his … uh … gratitude will be boundless.” Bernard bit into the egg as an excuse to gather his wits before he talked himself into real trouble. He shifted his focus to the flatbed wagon and horsemen threading their way through the encampment. Tom Sandcrane was in the lead, astride a sorrel gelding. A thin, leathery-looking man rode behind him, followed by a heavyset breed handling the pair of chestnut geldings pulling the wagon. Bernard continued to explain his remarks without meeting the yellow fire of Roosevelt's stare. “And when the locals learn of your attempt, whether it succeeds or fails, you will have won the gratitude of the Cuban people.”

“Do you think me insincere, Mr. Marmillon? Do you suspect my motives?”

“Why … uh … no. On the contrary. I assure you—”

“We shall attempt to rescue Antonio Celestial because it is the just and decent and fair thing to do. And, by heaven, if the United States stands for anything, it stands for justice and decency and fair play. Spain is a bully, gentlemen. And I hate bullies—always have and always will. Don't think for an instant I consider these men from the Indian Brigade expendable. If anyone can bring in Celestial, it is these volunteers. The red man can pass unnoticed where a white man would only call attention to himself. It has been my experience in the wilds that a red man can outhunt, outfight, and outrun a force three and four times his number. No—these three lads will do fine. In fact, I've instructed them to rejoin us in Santiago. By then we will have either taken the city or be engaged in that endeavor.”

“Five sir,” Captain Huston corrected. He had finished his drink and was standing off to the side, grateful that Bernard Marmillon was receiving the brunt of Roosevelt's harangue. The medical officer struck Huston as a little too big for his britches, and it was enjoyable to see the colonel cut the man down to size.

“What's that?”

“Five men, sir. Another couple of volunteers asked to join Sandcrane just about an hour ago. I saw no reason to deny them. Five seemed like a good number to have if they run into trouble. See? There they are.” Huston pointed to a pair of soldiers who had trotted their horses over to join the men leading the wagon up from the occupied village of Daiquirí.

Earlier that morning Huston had noticed Sandcrane's bruised features when Tom volunteered to rescue the Cuban leader. As the sergeant wasn't forthcoming about the cause of his injuries, Huston saw no reason to press the matter. Captain Huston's sole concern had been to find men willing to undertake Celestial's rescue. To the captain's delight Tom Sandcrane had not only volunteered, but he had arranged for another two men to accompany him on the patrol.

Joanna had expressed her obvious pleasure that the army was acting on the behalf of her Cuban friend. If Joanna Cooper was pleased, then Colonel Roosevelt was satisfied. And if Doctor Cooper's influential father back in New Orleans happened to received a cable describing how helpful Roosevelt had been toward his daughter, so much the better.

“Two more brave fellows, eh? Excellent, Bob,” the colonel remarked. “I am certain the sergeant can handle the addition to his patrol.”

“In fact, Sandcrane ought to be delighted to see them,” Huston continued, pleased with the present turn of events and willing to take credit for any favorable outcome. “After all, they're Cheyenne, the same as he.”

“Where's the doctor?” Tully asked, glancing aside at Tom.

“Yeah,” Philo called out from the wagon. “The least she could have done was give us a proper send-off.”

“What were you looking for—flags and a marching band?” Tom replied with a grin. He also found Joanna's absence strikingly curious but saw no point in making an issue of it.

“Not from her. I kinda figured a fare-thee-well kiss to be the least she could do, since we're so brave and all.” Philo peeled a chaw from the plug of tobacco he kept in his shirt pocket and wadded the black leaves in his cheek. He glanced over his shoulder at the contents of the partly loaded freight wagon. Save for some medical supplies and an extra box of ammunition for the Krag rifles, the only other items of note were a stretcher and a hardwood crate of dynamite along with a roll of fuse and a case of priming caps. “You loaded the damn explosives between my legs, Tully. If we run into any Spaniards, what happens if they shoot low?”

“Well, then you've precious little to lose,” Tully said with a chuckle and a wink at Tom, who was suddenly oblivious to the good-natured banter of his friends. Tom's attention was directed toward the two men riding through the noisy encampment, headed straight for him.

Willem Tangle Hair, his features dark with freckles, and big Enos Stump Horn, his nose swollen and flat from its previous encounter with the back of Tom's head, rode up and placed themselves before Sandcrane's patrol. Both Cheyenne were armed as Tom and his men were, with Krag rifles and thirty-eight-caliber double-action Colt revolvers holstered on their hips. Cartridges for the Colt circled each man's waist. A bandolier of ammunition for the bolt-action Krags was slung across each man's shoulder. All soldiers carried knives, although big Enos favored an iron-bladed throwing 'hawk with a hand-forged iron head on an eighteen-inch hickory handle.