Warriors of the Night (17 page)

But the grim god had yet to be glutted. Fire Giver knew this. He had heard it in the moaning wind. As evening deepened he turned away from the edge of the cliff and with war axe in hand made his way along the ridge and down to the encampment Striker had found. The shaman picked his way among sumac bushes, prickly pear, and ocotillo cactus. Limestone gravel gave way to bunchgrass and oak shrubs and mesquite trees. There was water here, a silty, shallow creek that was barely adequate to meet the needs of his band. Young Serpent had led a group of young warriors into the edge of camp, where they were waiting for Fire Giver to return to the arroyo so they could make their complaints known. Young Serpent had discarded his eagle head-dress and his atlatl and throwing spears. He did not want to show disrespect for the shaman.

Fire Giver descended from the ridge in a cloud of luminescent insects that swirled around the high priest with every step. Fire Giver saw the gathering of warriors awaiting him. Between the jaws of his jaquar-head helmet, the shaman’s eyes seemed to burn with an unearthly intensity. His multicolored robe made a solid, smooth-lined silhouette of his wiry frame and, along with the helmet, provided an imposing stature to the man.

“Why are my children come to me?” he asked. The remainder of the braves were resting in the comforting glow of half a dozen campfires.

“Sacred One,” Young Serpent began. He had been elected to speak by virtue of the fact that his mother had been Fire Giver’s sister and the other warriors figured the shaman might not take offense if it was a relative who questioned his choice of campsites. “There is too little water here. We are forced to build shelters for ourselves, while in the canyon on the other side of the mountain of the Sleeping Panther, there is good water and shelter made of stone just waiting for us.”

Fire Giver nodded and stepped around the braves, then motioned for them to follow him back to the camp. The shaman stopped at the first campfire he came to, reached down, and plucked a length of branch from the outer ring of coals. He held the branch so that all the men with Young Serpent could see it.

“This is the
home
of the mountain people,” Fire Giver said, indicating the glowing red tip of the branch. He stepped out of the firelight, and in a matter of seconds the pulsing red tip had attracted a pair of moths that fluttered and swirled around it. “See, these winged ones are the people of the canyons who will return to their home.” He blew on the branch until the glowing red tip burst into flame. Tongues of fire flared up to engulf the moths. “And we are the flames. We will wait and watch, and when more of the mountain people come within our reach…” He held the branch beneath Young Serpent’s nose. The moths had been reduced to gobs of molten wings and shapeless gray-black bodies.

But Young Serpent longed for his village.

“When shall we return to the Valley of Eagles?”

“You will know the time,” said Fire Giver. “All of you will see the sign and know it is time to return to home. I speak for the Smoking Glass and tell you this.”

S
PARKS BILLOWED UP INTO
the evening air as Clay Poole dug up the sotol roots he’d roasted in a bed of ashes. Each root was about the size of a potato, emerging crinkly black from its bed of coals. However unappealing the sotol looked at first glance, sliced in half it revealed a delectable orange-colored, fibrous meat with a taste similar to sweet potato. As harsh as these desert mountains seemed, a man need not starve to death if he knew what to look for. Moisture could be squeezed from the pods of a prickly pear and, once peeled, the pod itself provided nourishment. Tinajas where the rainwater collected in hollows of eroded stone could be discovered by following animal tracks or noticing the flight of bees.

Ben was a conscientious student. Ten days on the trail and he could identify many of the plants that might supplement an otherwise drab diet of salt pork, tortillas, and beans. He’d even acquired a taste for sotol. He consumed his share without hesitation and topped it off with frijoles wrapped in a tortilla and washed down with black coffee.

The Rio Grande lay behind them. They had chosen a camp near a spring in the foothills of the Sierra Madre Oriental. The three Rangers were breaking the law by being in Coahuila, but none of them seemed concerned. Snake Eye wasn’t the kind of man to let a little thing like a border keep him from pursuing the kidnappers of Matthew Abbot.

Ben McQueen sipped black coffee and took the measure of his makeshift invasion force. An artist, a Comanche war chief, three Rangers, and an army lieutenant did not make for the most cohesive group. Gandy and the other Rangers were simply grateful that Spotted Calf hadn’t murdered them in their sleep. They couldn’t understand why Ben trusted the brave. As far as Ben was concerned, Spotted Calf had given his word, and his word had been bound with the mingling of his blood with the lieutenant’s. Ben glanced at Peter Abbot’s huddled form. Peter had slumped wearily onto his bedding, propped his head against his saddle, and closed his eyes. Was he asleep or thinking of his father? Peter had held his own through the long days on the trail. Ben wasn’t surprised. Abbot was no dandy. He could ride and shoot as well as anyone. Peter simply marched to a different drummer, to a cadence his father had never been able to understand.

Spotted Calf sat apart from the men around the campfire and finished his meal. A different hunger glinted in his eyes, directed toward Clay Poole, who was busy checking the percussion caps on the spare cylinders he carried in a buckskin pouch slung over his shoulder. Ben could imagine what was going on in the Comanche’s mind. Up until now, against single-shot weapons, the “lords of the plains” had held their own against the white man. With the advent of these “many-times-firing guns,” the tide had turned and the red man’s days of mastery were at an end.

Unless, of course, such weapons came into the hands of Spotted Calf and his tribe. The war chief rose from his blanket. Immediately two pairs of eyes turned his way. Virge Washburn and Clay Poole watched as the brave walked across the camp to stand alongside Ben. The wind stirred the branches of the mesquite and drew the campfire smoke into the night sky. They had camped near a spring with a ridge to north and west. Hoping to conceal their presence, they’d built their campfire in a mesquite thicket in the center of a patch of lechugilla cactus whose tall, thorny stalks were bound to deter any nighttime aggressor. The dark shadows of the mountains rose against the night sky. As Spotted Calf studied them, a sense of foreboding filled his spirit. He seemed oblivious to Ben’s presence, though the lieutenant stood close at hand.

“Tell me of the blood-eating god,” Ben said. It was a particularly fiercesome term and one he had not encountered until recently.

“It is best not to talk of such things, especially when we are so close.”

“To Cordero’s hacienda?”

“That too. Maybe two moons from here,” Spotted Calf said. “We will find it. If we have not been killed.”

“I will not die,” Ben replied. The brave’s gloomy demeanor was beginning to affect him. “I thought the Quahadi Comanche were not afraid to die.”

“To die in battle is one thing,” the brave explained. “But it is said the dark ones steal your spirit as they kill you. It is a bad thing.” He stared at the mountains. They had been home and haven for his people during the long winter months. He had always felt safe here… until now. Spotted Calf glanced at the soldier.

“I should have a gun,” he said.

“Take me to Cordero’s canyon.”

“Then I will have a gun?”

“Then you will have your freedom.”

Something rattled in the underbrush and both men turned to face the threat. Ben drew his revolver. The Comanche snatched up a fist-sized stone. About twenty yards in front of them a sumac bush shook and trembled. Ben’s eyes searched the night. His heart leaped to his throat as he scanned the darkness. The dark ones, the blood-eating god, the Warriors of the Night—all these ominous legends crowded his thoughts and left him poised and alert. His hand trembled. He exhaled slowly. The shaking stopped. What is it? What the devil is out there? He frowned and wished he hadn’t thought of the devil.

Spotted Calf hurled the stone at a patch of shadow darker than the shapes around it. The missile struck flesh, and a garish squeal erupted from the intruder. Ben almost fired off a shot but caught himself just in time as a javelina, a breed of wild pig around whose water hole the men had camped, broke from behind the underbrush and scampered off through the lechugilla. Ben sighed in relief and looked askance at his companion’s flat, battered, dark-skinned features, but the brave remained taciturn. Spotted Calf sauntered off toward the camp-fire. He walked with heavy, plodding steps, as if his squat, round-shouldered frame bore the weight of some tragedy he alone could foretell.

Ben leaned against a limestone outcropping after clearing out the prickly pear sprouting at its base. He tilted back and stared up at the sky, and imagined Anabel Cordero watching the same starry night. His anger toward her had cooled. She certainly wasn’t at a loss for courage, the way she went after Ashworth with only a sombrero against his Colt. He was remembering the night on the balcony of the hacienda and the ease with which she had won his trust. He’d been only too happy to give it. Had it all been a ruse on her part? If so, she was a damn fine actress, or maybe he had just been the perfect audience, a man looking to be healed.

“You spook the javelina?” Snake Eye asked from off to Ben’s left. Ben jumped and, after he’d regained his composure, scowled at the Ranger. “Best you keep alert,” Snake Eye warned. “One of them ghost warriors the Comanche talks about is liable to sneak up and put a knife in you.” Gandy chuckled and walked over to the rock. “Been circling the camp. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of trouble. Just that ol’ scared desert pig. She damn near trampled me trying to get to safety.”

“You don’t believe Spotted Calf.”

“Not as far as I can toss him.” Gandy looked at the silhouettes of the mountains against the night sky. “There’s enough to ride shy of in this country without looking for trouble. Injuns is always talking about spirits and curses and such.” The Ranger shifted his stance and added, “But I reckon you know all about that, being part Injun and all.” Gandy jabbed a thumb back toward camp. “Peter and I been talking some since leaving San Antone.”

“I’m quarter Choctaw,” Ben said. “It’s not something I’m ashamed of.” His tone of voice was as hard as the rock at his back. “If you’ve got a problem with that, we can settle it now.”

Gandy’s glass eye reflected the moonlight and became a coldly sinister orb. He ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair, scratched at his stubbled jaw, then let his long arm fall to his side.

“You’re a regular Texas twister when you’re on the prod, younker,” he said. “Abbot told me about your wife. I had me a wife once. Comanches killed her, took her breasts for medicine bags. I been killing ’em back ever since. We be who we be, I reckon, and that’s the size of it.” He yawned. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know I wasn’t a bastard for no reason at all. My slate’s been writ on, too.”

Ben hesitated a moment, uncertain how to reply to the Ranger’s casual revelation. At last he realized there were no adequate words. So he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Think Clay left us any coffee?”

Snake Eye shrugged. “Reckon we could go find out.”

The two men started back to camp. They kept to a deer trail that threaded its way through the barrier of lechugilla cactus. Coyotes howled in the night, their chorus a lost and mournful sound interrupted by the echoing roar of a panther. Death prowled the dark hills. It stalked on four legs. And on two.

In Blanco Pass, between McQueen’s campsite and Cordero Canyon, Tomas Zavala ignored the deepening shadows of night and went about his usual routine. He’d watered and grazed his horse and prepared himself a meal. Zavala was not a man easily spooked, even when camping alone in these ancient mountains. Someone had needed to stay behind and keep watch for any sign of pursuit. Blanco Pass was ideally situated, about a day and a half from Cordero Canyon. With a spring-fed creek for fresh water, a lean-to nestled back in a grove of scrub oaks for shelter and concealment, and enough food for a week, what more could a man ask for? Zavala sighed. He had volunteered to stay behind because he had no wife or family to greet him in the lair of El Tigre, not like Chico or Hector. They were fortunate; both had taken wives, and Hector even had two children.

Zavala wrapped another helping of frijoles in a tortilla and filled a cup with the coffee he had brewed. The campfire popped and crackled and cast a cheery glow. He took a bite of the tortilla and chased it down with the black, bitter coffee. Food to warm his belly, and afterward… he glanced at the bottle of tequila in his saddlebag and grinned. Now all he needed was a willing señorita to crawl beneath his blanket and keep him warm throughout these cool, high-country nights. Well, a man couldn’t have everything. He scratched at his scarred left ear, the legacy of a brawl in a cantina up on the Rio Seco in Chihuahua. A pretty señorita too free with her kisses had cost Zavala a piece of his ear and, after the gunsmoke cleared to reveal a jealous lover laying dead, had left him an outlaw with a price on his head and wanted by the Federales. Don Luis Cordero had given him food, tequila, a fine horse, and a place to live. Tomas Zavala was a man of simple wants and simple loyalty. With the death of El Tigre, he had simply shifted his devotion to Anabel Cordero. It was easier to follow than to lead. In San Antonio, Zavala had been fearful of capture. But here in the Sierra Madre, he was master of his fate. Despite Anabel’s sense of caution, Tomas was certain the Rangers wouldn’t cross the border. And even if they did, no damn gringo was going to find Cordero Canyon.

Tomas finished his meal and brought his plate and coffeepot to the source of the creek, where the water bubbled up out of the earth beneath a ledge of volcanic stone at the base of a cliff. The creek never reached more than a couple of feet deep before playing out about a quarter of a mile down the canyon.