Peacemaker!, page 13
From beyond the door of Mengers’s office the sergeant’s snigger was loud in the silence. The major looked up, his face more purple than ever.
‘You’re on a charge, Fraser. Get that door closed properly and empty the office.’
‘Sir!’
The door banged shut and feet scuffled outside, the scraping of Army boots accompanied by laughter. The outer door closed. Mengers hooked a finger inside his stiff collar: it came away sweaty.
‘Those pistols are evidence, Ryker.’
‘Only to a lawman.’
‘I’m holding them until a civilian peace officer can get here.’
‘That might take too long.’
‘For what?’
‘For the trade I’m ready to offer you.’
‘Which is?’
‘You give me my guns back,’ said Ryker, ‘and I’ll show you where Iron Shirt’s camped.’
Austin’s voice was a startled whisper: ‘Christ!’
‘You know where?’ Mengers demanded. ‘How?’
‘I got captured,’ Ryker said, spacing truth with the carefully-prepared lies. ‘The Comanches killed off the Gantry men, but I escaped. I can lead you to the camp.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘THIS IS ALL rather difficult to believe.’ gasped Mengers as Ryker finished his story. ‘We’ve been looking for Iron Shirt for months without spotting any sign of a camp.’
‘Maybe you were looking in the wrong places,’ shrugged the gunslinger. ‘All I know is, the camp’s there. Open to attack.’
The pudgy major indicated the map spread over the wall. ‘Show me.’
‘The hell I will!’ Ryker snapped. ‘Like I told you: this is a trade.’
Mengers’s features folded up into a series of fleshy lines as a frown puckered his brow. He stared at Ryker, then turned his gaze away from the unwavering glare of the dark, angry gunslinger, directing it at the papers spread over his desk.
‘Perhaps I should send a report to Headquarters,’ he murmured. ‘That might be the best thing.’
‘You might also lose the Indians,’ said Ryker, quickly. ‘If they reckon I spotted their camp, they’ll most likely up an’ move.’
Austin followed the gunslinger’s lead. ‘If we can hit them fast enough, we could take them by surprise. Be a real merit point on the score card, sir.’
‘Yes.’ The thought obviously tempted Mengers: it was almost possible to see his mind working as he contemplated the cachet such a move could bring. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
He looked up. ‘Very well. I’ll make this deal you want.’
Ryker allowed the hint of a smile to show on his face. ‘Good.’ he said. ‘You give me back the pistols an’ a written clearance to leave the fort an’ I’ll show you where the camp is.’
Mengers chuckled sourly. ‘Do you honestly expect me to believe you? You’ve already admitted you only came back for those guns. If I give you what you ask, you could pick any location. No, Ryker—you have to prove your point.’
‘I ain’t leadin’ you there until I get the Colts,’ said Ryker stubbornly. ‘No Colts—no deal.’
‘I’ll compromise with you,’ Mengers allowed. ‘If you agree to take Lieutenant Austin to the camp to confirm your claim, then I’ll give you back the guns and a free pass out of Fort Quitman.’
Ryker thought about it for a moment. As before, it was difficult to balance the several weights of his desire. He wanted the Colts, but he didn’t want to take Dick Austin into a trap. He decided to buy himself some time to sort it out in his mind.
‘All right.’ He nodded, producing an ugly grin on Mengers’s face. ‘But on condition you sign a paper now agreein’ to the terms. The Lieutenant can be witness.’
Mengers started to splutter again, and Austin added in: ‘That sounds fair to me, sir. If I think his claim is genuine, then you can return the guns.’
‘Very well.’ Mengers’s reluctance was written clearly all over his face, but the desire for an easy victory and the consequent accolades took precedence over his desire for the fancy pistols. ‘I’ll prepare the document.’
He reached inside his desk, producing a sheet of official paper. He lifted a quill pen and dipped the metal nib into the inkwell, starting to write.
Ryker waited. Mengers bent over the paper, scribbling furiously. Then he blotted the sheet and passed it to the gunslinger.
‘You can read, I presume?’
Ryker nodded and studied the document. The date was at the top, alongside the printed heading: Fort Quitman. Underneath, Mengers had written:
“I, Major Samuel Armstrong Mengers, Commander of Fort Quitman in the Department of Texas, do hereby undertake to deliver to the man John W. Ryker, the two Colt revolvers previously confiscated from the said man, Ryker, in return for him revealing to Lieutenant Richard Austin of the U.S. Army the whereabouts of the camp of the notorious hostile Indian leader known as Iron Shirt. I further undertake to provide the said Ryker with free and clear passage from this military establishment, without hindrance, and to allow him to go free on fulfillment of his part of this agreement.”
It was signed in a flourishing style, beside which the plain signatures of Ryker and Austin looked almost childish. Mengers blotted their marks dry and then folded the document, sealing it with wax into which he pressed the official signet of the United States Army.
‘Does that satisfy you?’
‘I guess.’ Ryker pocketed the paper. ‘Let’s go.’
Maria watched from her doorway, the necklace sparkling in the early sun, as Ryker and Austin, accompanied by Sergeant Hall and two troopers, rode away from the fort. The gunslinger had managed to fetch back his saddlebags and guns without revealing the girl’s complicity in hiding him. He glanced in her direction, smiling as she stroked the gleaming stones about her slender throat. And thought about what the Comanches would do to her if he followed through and opened the gates for Iron Shirt.
Looking at his watch he saw that it was just after ten. The sun was climbing towards its zenith, though a chilly wind blew from the east, prompting the troopers to fasten their coats tight about their necks and ride with faces hunched down against the chests. Austin urged his horse gently forwards, deliberately setting distance between Ryker and himself and the three men behind.
‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘You really know where Iron Shirt’s camped? Or are you just workin’ some angle to get those goddam pistols back?’
Ryker settled his black Stetson tighter on his head and turned up the collar of his coat. He didn’t enjoy lying to Austin—not after what the Lieutenant had risked to help him—but he couldn’t see any other way of retrieving the pistols.
But it wasn’t really a lie when he said, ‘Yeah. Sure I know. I was in the camp.’
Austin shrugged and shook his head. ‘How come they mean so much to you? You in love with guns?’
Ryker grinned. ‘I won those pistols in a fair auction. Wes Gantry damn’ near killed a friend of mine stealin’ them, so I rode a long way to get them back. I come too far to give up now.’
‘Hell!’ grunted Austin. ‘You already got a Colt that ain’t on sale to civilians. Why risk yore life fer two more?’
‘Principle,’ said Ryker, his voice as cold as the wind. ‘I don’t like people takin’ things that belong to me.’
After that they rode in silence, huddled down against the biting teeth of the wind. Sergeant Hall came up and asked for permission to don winter-issue coats. Austin gave it, shrugging into one himself. Ryker made do with his oilskin and a muffler. It wasn’t the same as one of the thick broadcloth Army coats, but it kept out some of the keening breeze.
They made camp as the sun went down beyond the distant bulk of the Sierra Madre, finding a place beneath the overhang of a butte where the wind was broken by the stand of rock and the out-flung walls hid their fire. The troopers brewed coffee and stirred up a mess of tinned beans and salted beef. The food was bad, and the coffee was bitter, but it all helped to stave off the cold. Hall organized a guard rota and the men lucky enough to be allowed sleep huddled down under their blankets, trying to ignore the chill.
Ryker woke at dawn, although the western side of the butte was still in shadow. He rose with his blanket draped around his shoulders and got the fire started again. A shivering sentry murmured a greeting and came to spread his hands above the flames. He seemed torn between curiosity and dislike, the former finally winning.
‘You really know where that goddam injun’s got his wigwams?’
Ryker nodded, pouring water into the coffee pot.
‘An’ you escaped from him?’
Ryker nodded again, setting the pot over the flames.
‘That bastard’s been killin’ white folks fer years. Be real good if we can get him.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ryker. ‘Sure.’
‘But I guess you just want what you can get outta it, eh?’ The trooper stared at the gunslinger. ‘I heard you was a bounty man.’
‘Yeah,’ Ryker repeated. ‘Sure.’
‘Shit!’ The trooper rubbed his hands and picked up his carbine. ‘Goddam civilians.’
The others came awake, either from natural practice or because the odor of brewing coffee intruded on their dreams. Hall was the first, then Austin, then the last soldier. By then, Ryker was shaving, a mug of coffee on the ground beside him.
Austin came over, cradling a mug in his hands and blowing on the steaming brew. ‘How much farther?’
Ryker wiped lather from his face and cleaned the razor. ‘A day. No more. We should be there by nightfall.’
‘Seems odd.’ Austin sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘We’ve had long patrols out this way every once in a while, but there never been no reports of a camp.’
Ryker shrugged. ‘Thought you said Mengers was wary of a fight. Besides, the Comanche move around a lot.’
‘I guess.’ Austin still looked doubtful. ‘It’s kinda funny, just the same.’
‘Goddam funny if you ask me.’ Sergeant Hall joined them, adding a Sir as an afterthought. ‘I’d’ve staked a month’s pay on the fact that there ain’t no injun camp inside o’ four days ride from the fort.’
Ryker folded the razor and set it carefully in the case. Tucked the case in his saddle bags and began to check his Colt. When he spoke, his voice was cold.
‘You callin’ me a liar, Sergeant?’
Hall flushed and wiped a hand across his stubbly chin. For a long moment he stared at the gunslinger. Then: ‘No. I reckon not.’
‘Good,’ said Ryker, his voice harsh. ‘I don’t take to bein’ called that.’
Hall drained his mug and spilled the dregs on the ground. He spat and turned away. Ryker watched him go, allowing his fingers to do the work on the pistol, intent on familiarizing himself with the mechanisms to such an extent that he could strip and refit the gun in the dark. At the same time he thought about the dual role he was playing. And in particular of how he might resolve the problems of loyalty it involved.
Play it by ear, he decided, at least until Mengers returned the guns. After that he could make a firm decision. He stood up, attracted by the smell of bacon and sourdough.
They rode in silence, each man nervously aware of the Indian problem, their eyes scanning the bleak terrain and their progress slowed by the need to find cover wherever possible. In a curious kind of way Ryker hoped that some of Iron Shirt’s wilder bucks might jump them. That, at least, would absolve him of his promise to the Comanche chief and prove to the soldiers that he was not lying. But no attack came, and they continued to traverse the landscape, using the dry washes and gulleys that cut the area to provide shelter from the wind and the chance of watching eyes.
They halted briefly at noonday, then pressed on until the sun was a massive orange disc far away to the west. The prairie was very quiet and high overhead a flight of birds winged southwards. At Ryker’s suggestion they made an early halt and ate dinner while the sun was still showing above the rimrock of the distant hills.
Then he led them forwards, the horses’ hooves muffled with strips of rag, pieces of cloth wound around the bits and the linkages of the harness. It was full dark, a half-moon paling through the cloudy sky, when he called a stop and suggested they continue on foot.
One trooper was left with the horses while the others crept onwards, following Ryker’s lead.
Iron Shirt had shown him the way in to the camp, choosing the route carefully so that it would be possible for the soldiers to get close without anticipating an ambush. They got within a hundred yards before the glow of fires became visible as a faint luminescence against the darker banks of the great depression. Austin whispered for the remaining trooper to stay back as rearguard and bellied forwards after Ryker, Sergeant Hall bringing up the tail.
Behind a stand of wind-scoured sandstone the gunslinger called a halt and pointed down.
Iron Shirt had planned his trap with superb skill.
Clustered around the stream at the center of the depression there were around forty tents. Fires glowed amongst the tipis, outlining seated figures that Ryker guessed were dummies, and the moving shapes of the warriors the Comanche had said he would leave there. Horses were penned in a makeshift corral and a handful of dogs snapped and growled amongst the rawhide tents. The braves moved casually—as though at ease, confident of their safety—and only Ryker noticed that they weaved amongst the tents to give an impression of greater numbers than really existed.
‘Jesus!’ Austin’s whisper was almost lost under the wind. ‘You weren’t kiddin’. That must be Iron Shirt’s camp.’
He stayed watching a few moments longer, then motioned for the others to crawl back along the ravine. No one spoke until they got back to the horses, then the lieutenant whispered orders. They got mounted and walked the big cavalry ponies for a mile before breaking into a canter.
‘What now, sir?’ asked Hall.
‘We get back as fast as we can,’ answered Austin. ‘If we push it, we can make the fort in a day an’ a half. Then we get remounts and come in hard an’ fast. Hit ’em as early as we can.’
‘Yessir!’ Hall’s voice was gleeful. ‘We can really teach them damn’ savages a lesson.’
Austin turned to Ryker. ‘Thanks, Jack. You done us a real favor.’
Yeah, Ryker thought. A real favor.
He said nothing, though, just nodding and settling his hat firmer on his head.
Forgetting caution, they rode at a fast pace throughout the night and the following day, stopping only to rest the animals and grab a hurried meal. By noon the next day they were in sight of Fort Quitman. And Ryker knew how Iron Shirt had managed to elude the Army for so long.
He also knew what it felt like to be a traitor.
Chapter Fourteen
RYKER EXAMINED THE two Colts and set them carefully back inside the rosewood box. The guns, despite the fact they had caused so many deaths, remained unfired—like beautiful objects that men fought over without ever using. He snapped the fastenings of the box closed and read, leisurely, the pass Mengers had prepared. It appeared authentic enough, absolving him from blame for the deaths of the Gantry men and giving him clear passage through the territory commanded by Fort Quitman. It might, he thought, be necessary to get Frank Nolan to add some other documentation when he got back to Tucson. If he got back to Tucson.
‘Thanks.’ He folded the paper and tucked it inside his coat. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
He had decided on a course of action that would satisfy his conscience and still leave him clear to ride away: he had written a letter explaining everything, and left it with Maria. She had promised to hand it to Austin as the attacking force left the garrison. By then Ryker planned to be well clear of Mengers’s wrath.
But the major damned his hopes.
‘The devil you’ll leave, mister!’ The fat officer glared at Ryker. ‘You’re in this too damn’ far now. You’re coming with us.’
As he spoke, the officer snapped his fingers, the motion bringing the carbines of the two soldiers standing either side of the door up to hip level. The sound of the Springfield hammers clicking back emphasized his point and froze Ryker’s anger to sullen acceptance.
‘I don’t trust you, Ryker.’ Mengers stepped out from behind the desk, hooking thumbs into the belt holding in his stomach. ‘I want you where I can see you.’
‘I ain’t no Army scout,’ the gunslinger protested. ‘You got what you wanted. I got what I wanted.’
Mengers smiled and fingered the collar of his uniform. ‘I’m not a colonel yet, so I haven’t got what I want. After we’ve hit Iron Shirt’s camp I’ll feel more confident of those stars. Until then—you stay with us.’
Ryker kept his mouth shut: there wasn’t anything he could say. At least not without getting himself hung. Or gunned down on the spot. So he nodded.
‘I thought you’d see it my way.’ Mengers’s fleshy lips widened into an ugly smile. ‘Corporal, stay with this man. See him equipped and mounted. We leave in one hour.’
Boots and Saddles sounded over the fort, the bugler’s face reddening as he puffed his cheeks to echo the clarion call against the farthest walls. Four squadrons of cavalry swung astride their horses, each man armed with a Colt Single Action Army model, a Springfield carbine; the officers with sabers.
Ryker sat the black stallion with his face living up to the nickname he had collected during his bloody career as a gunslinger: Blackjack Ryker. Mengers was out in front, Ryker and Austin and four other officers lined up together.
Mengers waved his right arm: ‘Forward!’
And the ranks of mounted men swung tidily into line astern.
Ryker saw Maria come running out from her shack, left hand clutching her skirts clear of her ankles, her right waving the letter.
‘Be back in a minute!’
He yanked the reins over, heeling Nero round to a trot that cut across the neat lines. He reached the girl as Austin yelled at him, and leant down to hook his arm about her waist, lifting her clear of the ground to plant a kiss firmly on her lips. At the same time he snatched the letter away.
