Peacemaker!, page 9
Mengers was short and plump, his fair hair thinning over a sun-pinked scalp. His uniform was immaculate, the dark blue of the jacket contrasting with the pale blue of his small eyes. He glanced up as the trooper nearest the door handle opened the office and announced the visitors. Motioned to the chairs set before his desk, and returned his gaze to the papers spread before him. Two wooden trays flanked the desk, one marked Out, the other In, Mengers scribbled a note on the document he was studying and blotted it carefully on the leather pad that occupied the center of the desk. Then he folded the paper and heated wax over a small spirit lamp, sealing the document and stamping it with his signet ring before adding it to the pile in the right-hand tray.
Only then did he look up.
‘Lieutenant?’
Austin came to his feet, heels clicking together as he snapped off a parade ground salute. The movement lifted dust from his clothes, and Mengers flapped a hand before his face.
The Apache pumped harder on the treadle wheel, speeding up the fan.
‘You’re a disgrace, Lieutenant!’ Mengers voice was harsh; crotchety as an old woman’s.
‘Yessir! Sorry sir!’ Austin lowered himself back into the chair as the major waved his hand again. ‘But I thought I’d best report straight in.’
He explained about meeting Ryker and the gunslinger’s report of the homestead. Major Mengers nodded, then turned to Ryker.
‘You see any Indians, mister?’
‘No.’ Ryker shook his head. ‘But there’s a lotta sign. Mostly Apache headed south, but also Comanche. The folks I saw were about three days dead.’
Mengers nodded. ‘I’d best prepare a report. Meanwhile, I’m sure we can find you a place to sleep. You’re welcome to stay over, of course.’
‘Thanks.’ Ryker took his cue from Austin and stood up. ‘I appreciate that.’
Mengers mumbled a reply that got lost in the new report.
‘Drink or bath?’ Austin waited until they were well clear of the major’s office. ‘Or do you want to eat?’
‘That order, I reckon,’ said Ryker. ‘Just now a drink would sit well.’
They went over to the sutler’s where Austin called for a bottle of whiskey and two mugs of beer. About half the troop was there, muttering in low tones that fell away to whispers as the officer came in. Ryker could feel the dissatisfaction hanging like cobwebs in the warm air. Something was badly wrong with Fort Quitman, but he decided it was none of his business and consequently chose not to mention it.
Lieutenant Austin did it for him.
‘If you are plannin’ to move on,’ he said, ‘ride careful. Iron Shirt knows damn’ well that Mengers ain’t gonna do much except write reports, so he’s out an’ runnin’ all over the country.’
‘It’s a long way south for Comanche,’ Ryker suggested. ‘How come you’re havin’ so much trouble?’
‘Word spreads.’ Austin filled their glasses. ‘Come the fall, the Apaches start movin’ down into Mexico. They go mostly without fuss. That’s why Mengers got the command—we don’t have too much to do except chase Mexican bandits or the odd bunch of broncos. I guess Washington needed somewhere to put the major an’ this godforsaken hole seemed the most likely place. Trouble is, Iron Shirt got it in his head to raid the Apaches. Then he realized the Army wasn’t doin’ much so he started raidin’ anything around. Mengers is too goddam scared to mount a full campaign, an’ that leaves the Indians the whole field.’
He shrugged bitterly, and Ryker sensed a deeper resentment than that of a field officer for an incompetent commander.
‘How come he’s called Iron Shirt?’ he asked.
Austin drained his glass before replying. ‘He got hold of some old armor. Spanish stuff, I guess. When he fights, he wears a goddam breastplate an’ helmet. Bullets just bounce off, which gives him big magic with his people.’
‘Sounds like you know him,’ murmured Ryker.
‘He killed my folks.’ Austin drained his glass again. ‘They had a spread on the north fork of the Tres Picos, up on the Staked Plains. I was off at military academy. Until I got word about what happened.’ Ryker tilted the bottle. ‘Iron Shirt done it. He was boastin’ about how he’d clear the Plains of all the whites with his magic, then when the war come along it looked like he was fillin’ out his promise. Since then he’s been ridin’ high.’
‘The war’s near eight years over,’ said Ryker, doubtfully. ‘That sounds like a long time for one war chief to last.’
‘He’s tricky.’ Austin smiled cynically. ‘His armor protects him from bullets an’ he plans well. Mostly hits where he ain’t expected, and then picks targets he knows he can take.’
The red-headed officer set his glass down and stretched his shoulders.
‘Hell! I been tellin’ you my life story. Let’s get a bath an’ then grab some food. I’ve been sleepin’ out the last week.’
‘Sure.’ Ryker stood up. ‘I know how you feel.’
The central block of buildings was backed by a mess hall and a bathhouse. The tubs were designed to accommodate cavalry patrols—all at the same time—but the Army managed to organize a more or less constant supply of hot water. Even though it did get used several times over. Ryker climbed into the grey-surfaced water and sighed with content as the heat eased into his body. The whip marks on his wrist and neck still burned some, but the sheer pleasure of stretching full length in a tub more than made up for that slight discomfort. He allowed the heat to loosen the kinks then lathered himself from head to toes with gritty Army-issue soap. A separate room held cold water showers: buckets filled by a system of pumps that could be upended by pulling on a rope. Ryker emptied five over his body before walking out to accept the roughly-textured towel the corporal on duty offered him.
It was dark by the time he got dressed again, and Austin was waiting for him in the mess hall.
The food was Army standard: filling, but tasteless. It gave a man strength without reminding him there were finer things in life. Ryker ate it greedily, then accepted Austin’s offer of some more drinks and a bed for the night.
The next day, he decided, he was heading out. Over a month had passed since he left Ruby in Tucson, and he had no idea whether she was alive or dead. Most of Jonathan Gantry’s money was still intact and he wanted to give it to the woman along with his assurance that he had fulfilled his promise to kill Wes Gantry. What might happen after that, he didn’t know, nor cared to contemplate. His thinking was based on a day-to-day pattern. Had to be, given his profession. Existence was an almost animalistic thing where Ryker was concerned: one bounty leading to another, so that there was little time for reflection or regret. The memories of the men he had killed did not disturb his sleep: they pitted their skills against his. And so far he had won. That was enough. At least for him.
He slept soundly. His belly was filled; he had enjoyed the luxury of a bath; his clothes were reasonably clean. Most important of all, his guns were clean and shooting true. In the morning he would ride away, leaving Fort Quitman to sort out its own problems—they were not his.
He was in the bath-house, shaving, when the corporal came to fetch him.
‘Major Mengers’s compliments, Mr. Ryker, and will you please attend his office now.’
Ryker turned a lathered face to the corporal.
‘I’ll attend the major after I finished shaving. He wants to speak with me before that, you go tell him to come down here.’
‘He said now, Mr. Ryker.’
‘And I said later? The gunslinger wondered what would happen to a civilian who used a razor on an Army man. ‘Tell him to boil some coffee.’
The corporal spluttered and thought about it. Then he decided the best course of action was to report things as they were. He saluted and spun on his heel.
Ryker finished shaving. Dressed. And sauntered over to Mengers’s office.
The balding major was red in the face, but his anger wasn’t what disturbed Ryker.
The three men lounging about the office disturbed him a whole lot more.
One was the tall cowboy he had guessed to be Gantry’s foreman, the one he recalled was named Chuck. The other two were shorter, but only slightly less impressive. One wore a Colt’s Navy model on the right side of his belt, the slight bulge on the left shifting his shirt just enough to show the outline of a derringer tucked into his pants. He was young. Clean-shaven and looking neat despite what must have been a hard ride. Where Chuck’s face was pock-marked, his was fresh. And his green eyes shone bright with the lust for killing.
The third man was the most dangerous. Ryker saw that in the first instant he looked at the trio.
He was about thirty, stubble covering his chin, and a flat-brimmed hat tilted over his forehead so that his upper face was in shadow. He wore better clothes than the others: no work-shirt or denims, but a soft linen shirt and black pants covered by tight-fitting leather chaps. The butts of matched Colt Dragoons jutted from the holsters either side of his belt, pointing forwards. Which meant that he either favored a showy cross-draw or could use either pistol with equal skill.
Ryker recognized a killer like himself.
‘There’s a serious charge been laid against you, Ryker.’ The tone of the major’s voice emphasized the absence of the Mister. ‘I have papers here that prove Mr. Bowdry is the foreman of the Big G ranch and thus empowered to act on behalf of the owner, Mr. Jonathan Gantry.’
‘So?’ Ryker shrugged and helped himself to coffee. ‘How’s that affect the Army?’
‘A warrant has been issued for your arrest.’ Mengers ignored the coffee as he studied the paper. ‘It appears you stole two pistols from Mr. Gantry’s son and subsequently killed the boy. You also killed two men he had with him.’
‘Sure,’ Ryker said. ‘Is that all?’
‘No!’ Mengers’s face got redder. ‘I require an answer to these charges.’
‘Wesley Gantry stole two Colt pistols from me in Tucson,’ said Ryker. ‘He sneaked in an’ pistol-whipped me. He also damn’ near killed a girl called Ruby Turner. I set out good money for those guns, so I went after him. His father gave me one thousand dollars to cover the whole thing. On the way back, Wes ambushed me. I killed two men defending my life. One was a Mexican called Pedro, the other was a cowhand called Zach Telford. I shot Wes Gantry in a place called Elisaria. That was in front of witnesses who can swear it was a fair fight. Unless Gantry’s bought them off.’
‘That doesn’t clear the matter,’ said Mengers. ‘I think I should see these pistols. Don’t you?’
‘The hell you should!’ Ryker’s temper boiled up and burst over. ‘Gantry’s a goddam liar!’
His hand moved instinctively towards his gun.
He saw the others move towards their weapons and knew that he could beat them. That he was faster.
Then a rifle butt slammed against his skull and he pitched down into a great pool of whirling blackness that was fragmented with light and sucked his mind away so that everything was gone.
Chapter Ten
RYKER OPENED HIS eyes.
Pain intruded on his senses and he shut his lids tight, struggling mentally to itemize the various sources. His head was the starting point—filled with a dull throbbing that seemed to burst at regular intervals over the nerve endings of his brain. His belly pained him in a secondary rhythm, while his wrists and ankles offered a minor counterpoint to the orchestration of discomfort.
He gritted his teeth and risked opening his eyes a second time.
Blackness met his gaze. Then he realized it was a blackness that stemmed from shadow and pain, rather than blindness or a bandage. He tried to stand up. Found it was impossible. He closed his eyes again, waiting for the pain to go away.
‘He’s wakin’ up, Chuck.’
Ryker heard the voice without recognizing it. Some kind of swaying motion made him feel sick. He fought it as long as he could then opened his mouth and let the vomit come.
‘He’s awake all right.’ This time he knew the voice. It was from the past. He remembered: Chuck Bowdry, the big, pock-marked foreman of Gantry’s ranch. ‘Hold up afore he chokes hisself.’
The movement stopped and Ryker realized he was lashed face-down over the saddle of his own horse. Outside the fort, because he could now see pale splashes of bile soaking into the ground, and make out the paleness of his hands tied under the horse’s belly.
‘Wouldn’t do fer that to happen. Don’t reckon ole John Gantry would take kindly to him chokin’ hisself. Ole John wants that pleasure danglin’ before his own eyes.’
There was a dry chuckle, like a piece of mesquite getting crushed. ‘Goddam shame that soldier boy give him the butt. I was kinda hopin’ to draw on him. Word is, he’s good.’
‘Trouble with you, Zeb.’ The voice was young, pitched up high from excitement and triumph. ‘You always gotta prove you’re the best.’
‘I am.’ This voice was older. ‘I just got me a yen to add John W. Ryker to the tally.’
‘Forget it.’ Ryker recognized Chuck Bowdry’s voice. ‘Mr. Gantry hired you to bring him in. It’s up to Mr. Gantry what happens to him.’
Ryker spat vomit and croaked. ‘Give me some water, then. An’ let me down.’
‘Zeb! Billy!’ Chuck Bowdry’s voice was now firm with authority. ‘You cover me.’
‘You ain’t gonna take him off the saddle?’ Billy sounded surprised.
‘We got about six days before we reach the ranch,’ answered the foreman. ‘I wouldn’t tie a dog up that long.’
Ryker couldn’t see much of what was happening because a noose was looped around his neck, holding his head down against his wrists, the tail running under the black stallion’s belly to wrap about his feet. It was around noon, judging by the shadows and the heat on his back. And the three men he had seen in Major Mengers’s office were spaced around him. After the butt-stroking and the gut-jarring ride, it was difficult for him to think clearly, but memories and sights began to slot together to complete a picture that was further detailed by the conversation.
Chuck Bowdry was a Gantry man: he worked for John Gantry with no questions asked and any duties undertaken. But he retained some kind of conscience. That was evidenced by the gentle way in which he cut Ryker loose and eased the gunslinger clear of the saddle.
Ryker slumped deliberately in his arms, forcing the big man to lower him to the ground where he could rest and study the others.
The one called Zeb was the hardcase with the crosshung Dragoons. Billy was the kid with the Colt’s Navy and the derringer. Ryker guessed they were both hired in to find him and bring him back.
Bowdry tossed him a canteen.
He drank greedily, first swilling the tepid water about his mouth to clear the aftertaste of sickness, then drinking to offset the dehydration of a morning’s ride in the warm sun.
‘Now what?’ he asked. ‘Where you taking me?’
Bowdry tossed him his hat. He caught it, checking the distance Zeb and Billy kept from him.
‘You killed Wes.’ Bowdry’s voice was flat, almost as though he did not care about that shooting. ‘Mr. Gantry sent me to find you.’
‘And?’ Ryker prompted. ‘The killing was a fair fight.’
‘And bring you back to be hung.’ Bowdry sounded almost ashamed. ‘That’s my job.’
‘What happened with the Army?’ Ryker asked, buying some time to let his head clear. ‘How’d you work that?’
Bowdry touched the Starr holstered on his belt. ‘That major heard about them fancy Colts and agreed to let you go so long as he could keep the evidence.’
Ryker sat up, capping the water-bottle. ‘You mean Mengers traded me for a pair of new pistols?’
‘Catches on fast, don’t he?’ chuckled Billy. ‘I reckon he should be proud: lot o’ men get killed fer a whole lot less.’
‘Shut up!’ Bowdry glared at the youngster, his irritation making the scars on his face stand out redly. ‘Get him back on the horse. Zeb an’ me’ll cover him.’
Ryker was still feeling shaky, and with a Starr and two Dragoons pointed his way there wasn’t an awful lot he could do about arguing. He allowed Billy to haul him upright and climbed on to the saddle. Bowdry supervised the re-arrangement of the ties: a short loop connecting Ryker’s ankles to each stirrup, then running under the stallion’s belly; a double twist to fasten his hands to the saddle horn; then one more loop, set this time on a running noose, about his neck so that the rope connected him to the bridle. The overall result was that he was fastened irrevocably to the horse. If he tried to gallop away he would choke himself to death as soon as the big, black head began to move. He couldn’t roll clear because of the fastenings about his wrists and ankles. And he couldn’t touch either of the Remington derringers still hidden in his boot and belt.
He wondered what had happened to his other guns.
As Zeb and Billy came up alongside him he saw: Zeb had the Colt poking out of his saddlebag and the Sharps canted across his saddle; Billy was carrying the Winchester. Ryker pressed his arms against his jacket, feeling the bulk of the various cartridges stowed there. He assessed the three men, remembering Bowdry’s comment about taking six days to reach the Gantry spread. The foreman was honest and solid, devoted to his employer and willing to kill on his behalf if necessary. But Ryker opined he would prefer not.
He might watch a hanging because his boss said it was all right, but he wasn’t any kind of a gunfighter.
Zeb and Billy were different. The older man was a hardened killer with that manic edge to his mind that prompted him to prove he was the best. And put his life on the line just to bolster his own ego. He was the kind of man who might push a fight in order to prove he was whatever he fancied himself—the fastest or the strongest. Whatever. Billy—the younger one—was a disciple of the same school. He hadn’t yet grown up to the real meaning of killing, but he was working on it. He wanted to be like Zeb, which made him the most dangerous in a way.
Chuck Bowdry would avoid a gunfight because he knew he wasn’t a pistoleer: he was a working cow boss, following orders. Zeb might push a fight to prove his skill, confident of his expertise and anxious to build his reputation—and thus increase the size of the bounties he was offered. Billy was just anxious to prove his gun was faster than the next man’s.
