Cougar Tracks, page 15
They picked up a four-man tent from the supply hut and continued on their way. Barkley was still prickly on the subject of McQueen. ‘I did not like that little son of a bitch,’ he said twice to them.
No one answered. They pitched the tent, watered their horses at a pond, and picketed them out to graze.
Cougar had tossed his bedroll into the tent and started to spread it out when the popping sounds of guns being fired startled him and, snatching up his Spencer, he rushed out of the tent. Other men were dashing helter-skelter toward the sounds. They emanated from the dry wash, and there they came upon Fiddler banging away with practice shots from both pistols. Men cursed and turned back toward their activities, but Cougar stayed to watch.
He had heard stories about men shooting that way, but he had always taken them with a pinch of salt. As much as he had been around he had never seen a real fast-draw man or a man who could do equal damage with either hand. Now he was seeing it as he watched Fiddler. It was uncanny, was what it was. Both guns banging away, and if the kid missed a single one of the tin cans he had set up to shoot at, Cougar didn’t see it.
When Fiddler had to quit to reload, Cougar slid down the sandy bluff to join the blond man in the river bottom.
Fiddler turned and grinned, slapping the loading gate on his right-hand revolver shut before he holstered it.
‘Well?’ the kid asked, a hint of approval-seeking in his voice.
‘Good shooting,’ Cougar acknowledged.
‘No better than “good”?’
‘You know how good you are, Fiddler – why ask me?’ Cougar replied.
The kid shrugged. ‘One day this talent just came to me, you know? Hell, I’d been shooting all my life, but something special came to me. Something other men don’t have. I don’t think about pulling the hammers back, Gordon. I don’t think about aiming half the time. It just happens when I cut loose … I don’t really think I can miss. Ever.’
Just keep on thinking that, kid, Cougar thought. We all miss.
He looked up as they both heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats and then looked quickly away and down, his heart rapping heavily against his ribcage.
Solon Reineke! He and that little popinjay in the blue uniform were just above them on their mounts. Reineke’s eyes slid across Cougar, narrowing in puzzlement. It was the look we give someone when we run across them in a place they have no business being. For just a moment recognition seemed to flash in his eyes, but all Reineke said was:
‘We don’t shoot in camp. Are you new here?’
‘Brand new,’ Fiddler answered, hands on his hips, confident smile on his lips.
‘All right, then – but no more of that, soldier,’ Reineke told him, and then, after the briefest hesitation as he seemed to consider Cougar again, he turned his horse and the two men rode out of camp toward the south, a body of six men falling in behind them.
‘Who was that?’ Fiddler asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Cougar lied. ‘Must be one of the bosses.’
Cougar wiped his damp palms on his trouser legs. His mouth was dry. He felt that he had been only a hair’s breadth from death. When would something in the back of Reineke’s mind nudge realization? Something had to be done and it had to be done now. He meant to dog Reineke’s trail and wait for his chance.
Without seeming to be in a hurry, Cougar said goodbye to Fiddler, walked back to where the buckskin was picketed and led it to the tent, where he saddled up.
Barkley came out and watched in silence, saying only, ‘I thought you’d be tired of riding by now.’
‘I’m tired of this camp already, that’s all. I’m not good at sitting around. I’m going to take a look around and maybe bring back some venison for us, with any luck.’
‘Me,’ Barkley said, stroking his beard, ‘I’m going to sleep. I figure we’ll all be doing enough riding soon.’
‘I hope you’re right about that,’ Cougar said, swinging aboard the buckskin. ‘Me, I get fidgety when there’s too much waiting to do.’
Cougar trailed out slowly, but he was still close enough to Reineke and his bunch that someone in the camp called out, ‘Kind of lagging, aren’t you?’ as he passed.
Cougar grinned. ‘I’ll catch up. There’s plenty of time.’
Then he picked the buckskin up into a trot and started following Reineke’s tracks. That was in itself a dangerous game, but it seemed unlikely that they would be looking for someone from their own camp to follow them out on to the desert. Once in open country, tracking without being detected would be much more difficult. But then, Cougar didn’t need to ride on their heels to follow them.
He already knew where they were headed: toward the White Mountains and General Crook’s camp. There was absolutely nothing else in that direction. What Solon Reineke’s plan was he had no idea, but that did not matter either – he had Reineke as good as in his sights now.
Cougar was so intent on his quarry that he never saw the lone rider fall in behind him and begin to follow along.
Cougar kept his distance from the men riding ahead of him. He wouldn’t make any sort of move until dusk if he decided to do it then. He was now curious as to what Solon Reineke was really up to. Could he accomplish more by maintaining his distance? Cougar didn’t know. He only knew that the desert was long and the day hot, a few sullen white clouds drifting aimlessly across the Arizona skies, occasionally staining him with their shadows as the big buckskin horse paced out effortlessly across the red-sand plateau.
The mesas appeared like a barrier reef lined up against the western skies. Still, here and there, Cougar passed ponds formed by the recent rain, and in these the rushes were already greening, and around them circled deer and coyotes, cougar and badgers ignoring one another. Only water mattered to each of them just then.
Still, as the sun rose higher, the small company of soldiers headed by Solon Reineke filed across the desert bleakness.
And still behind Cougar, undetected, the lone rider followed in his hoofprints. The long desert after the rain was flooded with brief, frantic life: new flowers, fresh water, new green budding things.
Soon it would be flooded with the blood of sudden death.
SIXTEEN
Dusk came early, a deep, velvet presence across the fading land. The soldiers led by Reineke set up camp, and from the shadows of the twilight, the hunter watched them. Now, he thought, was the time to take Reineke. Just now.
Cougar half-lifted himself from behind the screening brush where he had sheltered and glanced back into the arroyo where he had tied his buckskin horse, and when he did, from out of nowhere the man’s body flung itself through the dusky light and collided roughly with his.
He felt the slap of muscles against him, saw the wild eyes and the deadly flash of steel. Cougar’s fending arm came up as he was being driven backward, and he slammed his elbow forward into the man’s throat. The attacker choked and buckled up, but still he slashed out at Cougar with his hunting knife. Cougar kicked him away, his boot landing solidly against the man’s belly, and he rolled aside, coming to his feet as he reached for his own bowie, slipping it from the sheath at the back of his belt.
Still neither man had made a sound beyond the grunts of effort, the panting as their lungs strained for breath. Cougar knew the job had to be done quickly and silently – Reineke’s camp was within easy earshot and he couldn’t afford to stir it up. He could not allow the Apache to destroy his stalking game.
The Indian came in and Cougar slapped the man’s knife hand away, backheeling him at the same time so that the Apache fell on his back, the breath rushing out of him.
Then Cougar was on the Indian warrior like a big cat mauling. The point of his bowie was already at the Apache’s throat when a small curse escaped his throat and he involuntarily held back on the deadly thrust.
Damn it all. It was Fox Ring!
Quiet Star’s husband.… Images flashed through his mind: teaching the doe-eyed girl to read; her shyly handing him the medallion he still wore; her kicking and scratching as he took her back to the reservation; her eyes glowing when she watched him secretly; the heat of her anger that day that she believed General Crook had provided the reservation Indians with bad meals.
‘Damn all!’ Cougar muttered. This was the man Quiet Star loved, the man she had married. Now, angry and incapacitated, Fox Ring was watching Cougar with savage eyes, waiting for the thrust of the big man’s knife.
Cougar still did not move. His great muscles were locked in indecision. Finally, angrily, he reversed his grip on the knife and slammed the butt of the handle against the side of Fox Ring’s temple, and the Apache sagged into silent unconsciousness, groaning as he fell.
It wasn’t much of a sound, that muffled groan, but it seemed to catch the attention of the men in Solon Reineke’s camp. Cougar saw two of them come to their feet and reach for their holstered pistols.
‘What was that?’ It was Reineke who spoke. Now they were alerted, damn all. Cougar looked toward them through the twilight gloom in frustration. Then he slid down into the arroyo to work his way toward his horse. Behind him someone spoke again.
‘Better take a look up there.’
Cougar heard men breaking through the brush toward the ridge where Fox Ring lay. He swung aboard the buckskin, but did not start the horse immediately away. He could hear more sounds of a furious, rapid search and then someone announced, ‘Damn! It’s Fox Ring, Solon!’
‘Who could have …?’ someone asked and then Reineke spoke again.
‘I know who it was,’ he said. ‘Goddammit, he’s out here. I thought it was him I saw. Now I know. He’s here and he’s tracking.’
Cougar turned his horse carefully and walked it across the muffling sand of the arroyo bottom. They would not come searching for him in the darkness. This he knew. Reineke was not that stupid.
The game had changed. Now each knew the other one was here, ready to do harm on sight. Now, Cougar decided, he would have to take a different tack. He was away, merged with the shadows, but before he was completely gone, he heard Solon’s whispery voice speaking across the distance between them: ‘I know who it was.’ Then, even more softly, he added, ‘Damn you, Cougar. Damn you to hell, big man.’
Suddenly the fort was there. It was nothing much to see across the distances; a small log structure with two blockhouses staining the desert with shadow, sharpened palisades and a limp flag on its pole. Despite its unprepossessing aspect, it was a comfort to Ellen White. They had been seeing Indians all too frequently, their intentions always in doubt. Usually there were only small bands, and sometimes only a hint of their presence on the horizon where their signal smoke rose, but she had not forgotten the sight of her father’s mutilated body and knew well that something similar, if not worse, could happen to the three of them as well.
Dallas McGee had given a whoop when he had first spotted the fort and said, ‘Finally!’ with obvious relief.
‘What do you care?’ D’Arcy had asked. ‘You won’t be there long enough for it to matter.’
‘One night in a bunk will suit me,’ Dallas answered. ‘Don’t tell me that you’re riding right back out, Calvin?’
‘I have to once the girl is settled,’ D’Arcy answered grimly and again Ellen realized that there was much more going on than she had been made privy to.
‘That means I am too, I guess,’ McGee grumbled. His dream of a night in an army cot, safe from the hazards of a desert camp under a roof, had just gone up in smoke.
They passed through the main gate under the close scrutiny of the guards and crossed the yard toward the commanding officer’s office. The fort, Ellen noticed, was crowded not only with soldiers, but with settlers’ wagons and ‘blanket’ Indians who had come there for more protection as times grew more perilous beyond the gates.
All three of them swung down in front of the headquarters building and, stamping the dirt from his boots, dusting his jeans as best he could, D’Arcy entered, Ellen and Dallas McGee electing to wait outside, standing in the shade beneath the awning above the porch.
The first sergeant was unfamiliar to D’Arcy. He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up over thick, wiry-haired forearms, his flushed face sagged into a bulldog expression. In the corner a duty corporal shuffled papers, absently glancing at D’Arcy.
‘What do you want?’ the sergeant asked tiredly.
‘I want to see the acting CO, whoever that might be.’
‘He ain’t here.’
‘Where is he?’
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. He was one of those career soldiers who feels only contempt for civilians, whoever they were. ‘I don’t know. In his quarters, maybe.’
‘Look,’ D’Arcy said, feeling the heat rise in his face, ‘this is very important, Sergeant.’
‘I know – everything is important. Any time someone walks in here it’s important … to them,’ the sergeant answered indifferendy.
‘I need to find General Crook and fast,’ Calvin D’Arcy told him.
‘I can’t help you.’
‘Damn you!’ D’Arcy’s temper broke loose. ‘You tell me where the acting CO is or when you expect him back, and tell me now, or—’
The door opened behind D’Arcy at that point and he swiveled his head to see the captain enter through the door, framed by bright sunlight from outside. The sergeant had begun to rise from behind his desk. D’Arcy and the officer stared at each other for a moment.
‘Pointer?’ D’Arcy asked in surprise.
The captain grinned in response. ‘Calvin D’Arcy, well, damn my eyes!’
The captain stepped forward and the two men shook hands. The sergeant asked uncertainly, with a shadow of belligerence in his voice, ‘Do you know this man, sir?’
‘I sure do,’ Captain Pointer answered. ‘One of the damndest scouts we ever had around here, and a hell raiser of the first order.’
‘Not as much of one as Lieutenant Pointer was in those days,’ D’Arcy pointed out. Pointer had gained a bar on his epaulets and a few pounds around the waist, but he looked much the same as he had in those earlier times.
‘Those were all unfounded rumors!’ Pointer laughed. ‘What in the world brings you back out here, D’Arcy?’
‘Can we talk in your office, sir?’ D’Arcy inquired, nodding toward the closed office door.
‘It’s that important?’ the officer asked, eyes narrowing.
‘It’s that important, sir.’
Pointer shrugged. ‘All right. Come on in, Calvin.’
He led the way into a darkly furnished office with crossed sabers and a flag on the wall. Behind a leather-topped desk, Pointer settled into a chair. The brass sign on the desk in front of him read, ‘General George Crook, Commander’. The captain gestured D’Arcy to a chair and he too sat, placing his hat on his crossed knee.
‘What is it then, Calvin?’ the captain asked, glancing at the closed door to the office.
‘I’ve got to get to Crook.’
Pointer smiled thinly, pondered it and then shook his head. ‘I can’t reveal his position, not even to you. You know how the general feels about security.’
‘Yes, sir. I know very well.’ D’Arcy leaned forward intently, ‘But this is more important than even the general’s need for security, Pointer.’ He reached into his shirt pocket then and took out the letter wrapped in oilskin. He handed the letter to the doubtful young officer. ‘This man wants me to find Crook, Captain Pointer.’
Pointer read the letter and then reread it, his eyebrows drawing together in astonishment. ‘What’s this about, D’Arcy?’
‘That, I can’t tell even you, sir.’
‘Fine, the two us of with orders not to reveal information – mine from Crook, yours from President Grant himself. What are we to do?’
‘I could track the general myself, sir, but it would take far too long. This is extremely urgent.’
Captain Pointer sighed through his mouth and tapped his fingers on Crook’s desk. Finally he asked, ‘Can you tell me what is at stake here, D’Arcy?’
‘Everything, sir,’ was D’Arcy’s answer.
It was a full minute before Pointer came to his decision and answered, ‘All right, I’ll show you his line of travel and bivouac sites.’ He stood, his face revealing lingering uncertainty, and went to a map hanging on the wall. ‘He planned to follow the White River, ascend to Pinetop, and by means of Silver Creek to Cottonwood. That’s here,’ he said, tapping the map, ‘if it is not familiar to you. It’s there that he expects to find Fox Ring’s home camp. If you were to ride due south you should be able to reach it as soon if not sooner than the general. But it’s a bad ride, D’Arcy.’
‘I know it. I’ve been that way before. But it’s a ride I have to make, sir.’
‘Can you make it, Calvin?’ the officer asked. His eyes went to D’Arcy’s arm, which hung limply by his side. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but it’s obvious that your arm is just about useless.’
‘I can ride with one arm,’ D’Arcy said defensively and the captain nodded thoughtfully.
‘If you say so. All I can say,’ he told the scout with some trepidation, ‘is that this had damned well better be as important as you’re making out. Any interference could cause Crook’s entire plan to capture Fox Ring to go wrong. He would not be happy with me. With us. You could get yourself chewed out in a way you never dreamed possible; I could get my tail court-martialed for having given the general’s plan up.’
‘It’s important enough to risk all,’ D’Arcy assured him, ‘even if Fox Ring escapes. That will seem a very minor defeat in the face of the overall picture.’
‘I hope to God you’re right,’ Pointer said.
‘Sir?’ D’Arcy asked, changing subjects. ‘Is the general’s wife still on post?’
‘No, she has gone East to stay with relatives for the time being. Why do you ask?’
‘You sir – are you still married?’
