The gallows tree, p.11
The Gallows Tree, page 11
part #5 of Breed Series
Lobo indicated that Azul should walk with him for a spell, and the half-breed followed on, interested.
‘I like what this blue-coat says,’ muttered Lobo. ‘I trust him.’
‘But there is something else that troubles you,’ Azul said. ‘Will you tell me what it is?’
‘There was a warrior hanged from a pine tree south of Two Bits,’ grunted Lobo. ‘His name was Mexican Pony. When we went looking for him, we found him buried. Do you know how that happened?’
Azul explained briefly, mentioning the men involved.
‘The fat man is already dead,’ said Lobo Loco, ‘but what of the others?’
‘I killed one,’ answered Azul. ‘I fed him his own whiskey until it burst his heart and he died.’
Lobo Loco laughed. ‘That is good. It fits a man to die by his own trade. But the others?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Azul. ‘The blue-coat officer, Simms, has placed guards in the town, but it would not hurt to send a few men out to look around the hills.’
Lobo grunted his assent and called Cruz over. He barked orders to the young man and waited until he was gone to carry them out before turning back to Azul.
‘You had better stay with the pinda-lick-oyi,’ he said. ‘They may get nervous with all my wild Apache braves around, and it would be a pity if these talks got spoiled because some blue-coat soldier got frightened and began firing. I shall come back in the morning, and we’ll talk again then.’
Azul nodded his agreement and waited until Lobo Loco was gone into the gathering shadows. There had to be a path up from the meadow, because he saw the bronco chief up on the rimrock, waving, then heard the clatter of hooves on stone, fading away as the horses moved down off the rim towards the hidden basin holding the camp.
He turned back to the white bivouac, pleased with the day’s work.
Dempster and Brooke found a cave fifteen feet above the stretch of grass where their horses were picketed. The grass was well covered by a shroud of pinon and cedar trees, but they preferred not to take any risks. So far they hadn’t been spotted, and if some roving Apache located the animals, at least the men would have a fair chance to defend themselves from inside the cave.
They made a cold camp and began to talk about their next move.
‘We could ride clear,’ said Dempster. ‘We got the money, and I guess that by now Henry is either long gone or dead. It’d be the most sensible thing: these damn’ mountains are crawling with heathen savages.’
‘Shit, Nat.’ Brooke’s voice was a low, angry rumble. ‘You forgotten Deborah so easy? You want to just set her aside an’ ride away? Like she never existed?’
‘Dammit, Jody,’ complained the bearded man, ‘you know I don’t want that. You know what she meant to me. I was just suggesting another course of action, that was all.’
‘Yeah,’ grunted Brooke, ‘maybe. I’m seein’ this through, though. With you or on my own. Either way, I’m gonna foul up them peace talks.’ He made peace sound like a dirty word. ‘On behalf o’ Deborah an’ the kids, an’ what the Apache took away from me. I owe them that.’
‘Sure, Jody,’ mumbled Dempster, settling down into his blanket. ‘We’ll head on in the morning, just like we planned.’
He rolled over and began to snore, leaving his brother-in-law staring out from the cave towards the plain. Two Bits was out there somewhere, though Brooke couldn’t see the place in the darkness and was content, anyway, to let his mind drift back into the ever-present past.
Deborah: she was the starting point. As pretty a girl as a man could hope to see. Hair like ripe corn and a body lithe as a willow tree, filled out in all the right places and eager to be used. The spread up on the Yellowstone had been good until the Crow raided south and wiped them out. They might have started up again, but hitting back at the Indians seemed the most important thing. Deborah had argued against him joining up, but he hadn’t listened to her. Just signed the papers and used what little money he got from the sale of the spread to settle her comfortably in New Mexico.
Santa Cobre: that was the next milestone. He hadn’t wanted to go there, preferred to stay north and strike back at the Crow. But the Army didn’t take personal likes into account; a man went where he was sent, and Jody Brooke was good at fighting Indians, so he got sent south.
It was different country and different Indians, but a man could learn to handle himself anywhere if he had the will. And Jody Brooke had the will: he enjoyed killing Indians. Crow, Sioux, Cheyenne, Apache. They were all painted with the same red brush. All deserved to die. It was like Sheridan had said, the only good Indian was a dead one. The sooner they were all dead, the better. He had concentrated himself on that aim.
Kept on concentrating even when Deborah said she wanted to get out and take the two boys with her because she couldn’t stand his single-minded hate any more. He’d put it down to the New Mexican sun and the boredom of garrison life. It was difficult, being married to a sergeant, he admitted that. But he’d tried for officer training. Might even have won the gold stripes if the Mimbreños hadn’t come past the fort on their way to Mexico. That was more than Jody Brooke could resist: a passing band of nine Indians confident of riding south unhindered.
Coley and James had agreed to go with him when he sneaked the horses past the gates and took off after the Apache raiding party. All three men had carried shotguns in addition to their Army-issue Springfield carbines and .45 Colt’s Cavalry model handguns.
And at a range of ten feet a shotgun does terrible damage.
It was purely amazing that enough of the sleeping Apaches had lived to kill Coley and James, even as he triggered .45 shells into their bodies. But they had, and Sergeant Brooke had been forced to ride back to Santa Cobre with two dead men and nine scalps. He’d been busted down to trooper and docked a full week’s pay for the massacre, which just went to show that Indians weren’t worth a damn, dead or alive.
Three weeks after a bunch of maybe forty Mimbreños had hit Santa Cobre and wiped out every living thing in sight. Deborah, Jaimey and Ian amongst them. Brooke was out on patrol at the time, and it never occurred to him that the Mimbreños might be hitting back against what he had done. It just felt like one more raid by the dirty Indians who didn’t know anything more than killing.
Afterwards he devoted himself to dealing the same hand: find and kill. It felt like he had only the one way. Nat had been turned right over by the prospect of joining in. He was hurt as Jody by the death of his sister, and came out to Two Bits fast as the Wells, Fargo stage could bring him when he heard. He’d devoted most of his preaching time to stirring up feelings against the Apache, and when they built the deal with Marsh and Brandon, it had seemed like the ideal opportunity to set up a wholesale massacre of the Indians.
Now the damn’ half-breed Simms had brought in looked to queer the whole thing.
Brooke cursed and spat the chewed-over butt of his cigar onto the floor of the cave.
They should reach the broncos tomorrow. Reach them and spoil the treaty talk.
That was a promise.
Chapter Twelve
MORNING BROUGHT THE threat of rain in a wide bank of storm heads that came rolling in from the west.
The clouds burst as Brooke was saddling the horses, lashing rain against the ground as though some gigantic bucket was being emptied over the darkened land. Brooke swore and dragged his slicker about him, running back to the cave where Dempster was brewing coffee. They squatted, watching the rain, for almost an hour, then decided to push on. The downfall was easing off as they left the cave and, even though it was uncomfortable, the water would at least obliterate their tracks.
They headed upwards, following narrow trails high into the Mogollons. Brooke took the lead, steering a path that would bring them out above and eastwards of the bronco camp.
Around mid-morning they encountered two of Lobo Loco’s scouts.
The Apaches came out from behind a cluster of rocks, facing the white men as they reined in their horses, Winchesters pointed at the intruders. Brooke lifted his arms, letting his slicker fall open so that the scouts could see the Army shirt.
‘Soy Sargento Brooke,’ he called in bad Spanish. ‘Quiero hablar con mi teniente. Es importante. Muy importante.’
‘We will take you to the teniente,’ answered the closest Apache. ‘You must give us your guns first.’
‘Sure,’ smiled Brooke. ‘Here.’
He reached over with his left hand and drew the Spencer from the scabbard alongside his saddle. He held the carbine forwards of the trigger guard so the Indian could see he would not use it, and gentled his horse towards the Apache. Beside him, Dempster followed suit.
The first Indian leaned sideways to take the renegade sergeant’s weapon. And Brooke heeled his mount savagely, urging it to a sudden, side-springing jump. At the same time he swung the carbine up and across, stretching out to slam his right hand against the stock. The Spencer moved in a short, sharp arc that ended against the Apache’s jaw. The Indian’s head thudded back and Brooke reversed his swing, ramming the muzzle of the Spencer viciously into the warrior’s throat.
The Apache squeezed off one shot, but that flew wild and the detonation was lost in the susurration of the rain. He rocked back on his pony as he fought to suck air into lungs cut off by the rupture of his windpipe. Brooke swung the carbine again, smashing the barrel hard against the Indian’s temple, knocking him to the ground.
Dempster was slower, and the warrior on his side blew a bullet through the fluttering cloth of his storm coat before the big man grabbed him and tugged him off the mustang. They fell together, Dempster’s arms wrapped tight around the Apache, pinning him as the preacher’s bulk smashed down onto him. Dempster lifted both arms, interlacing his fingers as though getting ready to pray, and brought his elbows down into the Apache’s face. Bones boke under the force of the blow and the Apache slumped still, but Dempster hit him three more times before he was satisfied.
They dragged the bodies over behind the rocks, hurriedly piling loose stone over the remains. Then Brooke slit the throats of both the mustangs, leaving the animals off to either side of the trail.
After that they continued on their way.
Near noon, they approached the bronco camp. Brooke knifed a guard and took a careful look at the basin. When he was satisfied that the peace talks were going on somewhere else, he crawled back to Dempster and outlined a plan.
‘There’s a meadow a few miles over to the north. I reckon they might have picked that fer the parley. Anyway, it’s our best bet. We’ll lead the horses round an’ hide ’em out someplace, then move in on foot.’
‘Can we escape?’ asked Dempster. ‘I’ll go along with you, but you’re the expert here.’
‘Sure.’ Brooke’s face was contorted by an ugly smile. ‘If they’re where I reckon, we can sneak up on the rim an’ pick off the leaders. That should be enough to get a fight started. The Apache will kill off the troopers, an’ there’s a war goin’. Meanwhile, we head back to the animals an’ hightail-it outta here to spend all that money.’
‘It makes sense,’ agreed Dempster. ‘So long as you’re confident we can get away.’
‘Sure I’m confident,’ grunted Brooke. ‘Let’s go.’
The talks were put off, by mutual consent, until the rain ended. They began again after noon when the storm heads had rolled away to the south and the sun was drying a shimmering haze of moisture from the grass. Food had been sent over to the troopers and when they were finished eating, Lobo Loco appeared again.
‘There must be cattle sent to the rancherias,’ he demanded. ‘The number agreed, and all healthy.’
‘It will be done,’ said Simms. ‘I give you my word. There will be a new factor appointed, and I shall make sure he is honest.’
‘Flour and salt, too.’
‘As we agreed.’
‘And bullets, for hunting.’
‘Those, too.’
‘We keep our guns. Let that be understood.’
‘You will need them to hunt. If I have your word, all this will be done.’
‘It sounds very easy, but can you promise that your word will be enough?’
‘The word is that of the Army,’ said Simms. ‘I have been trusted to find you and talk peace with you. What I say will be done.’
‘It is good,’ nodded Lobo Loco. ‘I think that we might have an answer here.’
‘I hope so,’ said Simms gravely. ‘It would be sad if the big guns were brought in here to kill you all.’
‘And me,’ said Lobo Loco, ‘what about me? And the others you call bronco Apache? Will you punish us for fighting?’
‘No,’ answered the lieutenant, ‘because you fought when you saw wrong being done. I shall explain that to my chiefs and they will understand. If you will promise that the raiding is ended now, then we can make peace and all the things I have promised will be done.’
‘Good.’ said Lobo. ‘Let it be that way.’
They continued to talk, discussing the details of the treaty, as the sun climbed across the sky, filling the meadow with brilliant light. There was a palpable easing of tension, and white men and Apaches began to mingle. They examined one another’s weapons with the interest of professional fighting men, the Apaches impressed mostly by the quality of the Colt and Remington handguns the troopers carried, the soldiers amazed that Indians should own Winchesters and Spencers superior to the standard-issue Springfield carbine used by the cavalry.
Only Azul held apart from the relaxed intermingling. He still felt the unease that had plagued him on the ride up. Something was wrong. He felt it. But what it was, he could not say, knew only that it was there, lurking like the tail end of a bad dream about the edges of his mind.
Brooke and Dempster took a guard apiece, using their knives to kill the look-outs silently as they slipped up onto the rim.
They bellied over to the edge of the northern bluff, looking down into the meadow over the sights of their guns. Brooke still carried the seven-shot Spencer, Dempster a long-barrel Winchester.
Their targets were outlined clear by the brilliant sun.
Lobo Loco was hunkered down on a spread blanket facing Lieutenant Simms. Old Julio was squatted alongside, but Cruz was on his feet, talking with Corporal Fraser. Azul was seated on Simms’ left, his face troubled.
‘I’ll take Simms an’ the half-breed,’ grunted Brooke. ‘You hit the Apache talkin’ to Simms. That’s Lobo Loco hisself. After him, get the young one. Then we get out. Fast.’
‘Right,’ whispered the preacher. ‘Let’s get it done.’
The first shot ripped through the damp air like a peal of thunder. It echoed around the hills so that it was hard to pinpoint the exact location of the sound. Its destination was easier to identify.
Lieutenant Simms cried out, jerking back as his left arm flew out to the side. He fell backwards, moaning as he rolled onto the wounded arm. Blood showed dark against the color of his shirt and his arm looked to be broken.
Azul powered sideways as the shot sounded. He saw dirt fly up from the ground where he had been sitting and looked up at the rimrock.
He was in time to catch the third flash.
The second spun Lobo Loco forwards and .round, tumbling him over so that he sprawled across Simms, the blood spilling from his mouth dripping down over the lieutenant’s face.
Old Julio started to stand up. Then grunted and pitched forwards with the back of his skull blown apart. The blood looked very red on the silvery hair.
Cruz moved almost as fast as Azul. He hurled himself to the side, rolling over and over on the grass until he was close to the meadow’s edge.
Azul came up on his knees, levering the Winchester with automatic precision as he blasted shots upwards at the rimrock. All around him there was the sound of firing. Indians and cavalrymen were firing blind at the cliffs, their shots answered by the hidden marksmen. The Apache guards began to join in, and Azul saw that a wild shoot-out was starting.
He sprang to his feet, moving fast across the grass.
A single glance was sufficient to tell him that Old Julio was dead. Lobo Loco was alive. Just. The bullet had gone in under his left shoulder, exiting through his chest where a gaping hole pumped blood out over Simms’ uniform. The lieutenant was still alive, his left arm broken and useless, nervous shock stilling him under Lobo’s body.
Azul dragged the Apache off Simms, cradling the broken body in his arms.
‘Listen,’ he said urgently, ‘you must speak to your people. They will start killing the troopers soon, and if you don’t tell them to stop there will be a war.’
‘Help me up,’ grunted Lobo Loco. ‘Get me on my feet so that I can talk to them.’
Azul put both arms around Lobo’s chest, ignoring the blood that stained his own shirt as he hauled the Chiricahua to an upright position. Lieutenant Simms came out of shock as Lobo stood up. He looked around with pain-filled eyes and saw the Apache supported by Azul. Holding onto his broken arm, he rolled over and lifted to his feet, standing beside Lobo Loco.
The Apache grinned. ‘We’ll talk together, teniente. It would be a pity to see these days wasted.’
‘Thanks,’ grunted Simms. ‘Let’s stop it before a war starts.’
The firing from the rimrock had stopped, but Apaches and troopers were both blasting bullets wild at the cliffs. Both groups had come together, the white men huddled in a defensive square as the broncos eyed them warily.
Lobo Loco pushed Azul aside with a casual smile and stepped out to where all his people could see him. He raised both arms high above his head, motioning for the guns to be set aside.
‘Listen to me,’ he called, ‘and put down your guns. The pinda-lick-oyi soldiers had nothing to do with this. It was the others. I am dying, but I am still your chief, and I tell you to listen to the blue-coat officer, the teniente. And to Azul, who is my brother. They will speak the truth and when you hear them, you can know that they speak straight.’
