Ralph Compton Phantom Hill, page 15
“That would be man’s work,” she said. The responsibility fell to Weatherby.
The loud demands and profanity from the prisoner had finally ceased, and he now passed his time sitting mutely in a corner, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
The only conversation Jennings had with him after the Bend hands were released was a single attempt to learn the whereabouts of his elder son. Lester spat in his face.
What gave Coy comfort was the fact that Ira Dalton had improved to the point where he was spending several hours a day sitting in a chair instead of lying in bed. His appetite, as well as his color, had returned, and though his ribs still pained him, his breathing was again normal. With the help of Weatherby and the doctor, he’d even slowly walked over to the livery to give his mule a peppermint stick.
“I’ve got business to tend,” Jennings said to him one afternoon, “but I’ll be returnin’ soon. I hope to see you good as new by the time I get back.”
“When’ll that be, Mr. Jennin’s?”
Standing nearby, April McLean listened for the answer.
“Soon as I’m done,” he said.
Ira seemed satisfied. April wasn’t.
Neither was Weatherby. As Coy and Tracker were leading their horses out of the livery, he stood in the doorway. “I’m not seein’ much in the way of supplies,” he said. “Don’t you reckon it would be a good idea to take a packhorse along?”
“Tracker tells me his preference is to travel light,” Coy said.
As he spoke, Penelope McLean ran toward them. She held a kerchief filled with freshly baked muffins up to Jennings, then one to Tracker. “Mama said to give y’all these,” she said, “and tell you to be safe. She’ll be praying for you, Mr. Jennings. So will I.” She looked up at the Indian. “You too, Mr. Tracker.”
Coy looked toward the doctor’s house where April stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. He tipped his hat. “Tell your mama we’ll be returning soon.”
• • •
There had been little discussion of any specific plan to track down Pete Sinclair. “I never made a trip before where I didn’t know where I was goin’,” Coy said to the Indian. “All I’ve got is what I’m thinkin’ is a starting place. That and a hunch.”
At midday they arrived at Blue Flats. The deserted encampment looked more dismal than it had the last time Jennings saw it. A portion of the sod roof of the old adobe building had collapsed and even with the cover of fresh snow, the stench of the place remained.
Tracker dismounted first and walked slowly among the ruins, circling what was once a fire pit, then kicking at a pile of discarded food cans. He ducked his head at the doorway of the building and walked into the darkened room as Jennings followed. The foul smell was even worse inside and he removed a bandanna from his neck and put it to his face.
In one corner he saw more empty cans and a broken whiskey bottle. There was evidence that a small fire had been built, its smoke leaving a black trace on the crumbling wall. When something shiny caught his eye, he crouched to examine it. It was a small penknife that had been used to cut the top from the fruit cans.
“He was here,” Tracker said.
“That’s what I figured. Most likely his old man sent him here to hide after he near killed Ira. I’m jes’ guessin’, mind you, but sometime soon after he likely headed south.”
Jennings felt certain that it had been Pete Sinclair’s responsibility to recruit the Mexicans who worked for his father. In doing so, he was most likely familiar with the routes that led to the dusty villages south of the Rio Grande.
As they walked outside, Coy pulled a tattered map from his pocket that Doc Matthews had long ago used to find his way to Texas. Snow fell onto it as he held it for Tracker to see. With a gloved finger, Coy traced the most direct route to the border. “You’ll see there are no towns indicated, just open space until one gets much farther to the south,” he said.
“Too much time has passed for tracking,” the Indian said. “We can only head in that direction and hope to find signs of a camp along the way, or meet someone who may have seen your man pass. It will not be easy. Now I think we should move away from this foul place.” Tracker turned to look toward the snow-covered mound where he knew bodies had been buried. “There is evil here,” he said. “I can feel it.”
• • •
Over the course of the next two days, the weather gradually improved. The snow decreased, then ended, leaving only a gray and weeping sky in its place. The terrain was flat, making travel easy. With no sign of creeks or ponds, they stopped occasionally to allow their horses to nibble at the remaining patches of snow.
It was nearing dusk on the third day when they reached a wash that promised some shelter from the cold wind that was certain to blow once night fell. Tracker kicked his horse into a trot as he went ahead to look for a possible spot to camp for the night. He was standing beneath a limestone overhang, gathering wood to start a fire, when Coy and Rodeo arrived.
“Tomorrow,” Tracker said, “the land will change. We will see trees and water and hills. And there will be people who may know of the Sinclair man you seek.”
“You know these parts?”
“When I was a young boy my tribe hunted in the place I speak of. We lived in peace until the white settlers began to arrive and the soldiers forced us to move to the north.”
Jennings detected bitterness in his companion’s voice, and he asked no more questions.
Soon the campfire was blazing, and Coy warmed his hands above the flames. “If Doc’s map is to be believed, there should be a town we’re likely to see sometime after noon tomorrow. With luck we’ll soon be eatin’ food a bit more tasty than jerky and hard biscuits.”
As Tracker spread his bedroll next to the fire, he offered no response.
Jennings shook his head as he walked away to gather more wood. “Might even find someone who’s of a mind to have a conversation,” he muttered.
The Indian’s description had not done the landscape justice. As they rode in silence the following day, the stark flatlands abruptly turned to rolling hills and stands of towering cedars. They forded several clear streams that had been fed by the snowfall and rode past occasional cabins sitting on the edges of plowed fields. Once they even passed close enough to a homestead for playing children to wave and a dog to bark.
That afternoon, as they reached the crest of a hill and emerged from the shadows of a cedar break, they saw the town in the distance. Jennings squinted toward the horizon and counted several buildings. Smoke was rising lazily from chimneys. “If Sinclair traveled this way,” he said, “it’s likely he took himself a brief rest in a place like this one we’re approachin’.”
Tracker nodded. “And if it’s got itself a saloon, that’s the first place he would have headed.”
Despite the fact that the snow and rains had left the main street muddy and almost impassable, the town was impressive. It was clean, its buildings whitewashed, the wooden sidewalks swept clean. As they rode in, they passed a town square with a marketplace, a bandstand, and a slow-flowing fountain sculpted from limestone. Despite the cold, children were playing in front of a small schoolhouse. There was a church, a general store, and a livery far more impressive than Giles Weatherby’s. In the middle of town was a building with a signboard above its door welcoming customers to the Encina Saloon.
It was a town, Jennings thought, like what Phantom Hill aspired to be.
“We’ll tend first things first,” Coy said as they tethered their horses to the hitch rail. “I’ve got money enough for us to have a hot meal, then one drink.”
Inside, they were greeted by a stout man wearing a white apron. His hair was white, as was his beard. He spoke with a thick German accent. “You fellas passing through?”
“And mighty hungry,” Coy said.
“Then you’ve arrived at the right place. Today I have been roasting venison and have an ample supply of boiled vegetables. And there’s corn bread on top of the stove. The weather seems to have kept some of my customers away, so I’ll be serving sizable portions.”
“And do you have coffee?” Coy said.
“Boiling as we speak.”
Jennings reached into his pocket for one of his few remaining gold pieces. “In that case, we’ll enjoy your hospitality while having our meal.”
The old German briefly cast a wary eye toward Tracker. “Well . . . ain’t many customers in here. Guess he can come in. Make yourselves at home,” he said. “Warm by the fireplace and I’ll return with your coffee. Will that be two cups you’re needing?”
Tracker removed his hat and held up two fingers.
Steam was still rising from the cups as their host set them on the table a minute later.
“What’s this town called?” Jennings said.
“You saw it displayed on the sign outside. We’re known as Encina, though lately there’s been some talk of changing the name to Uvalde, to do honor to some Mexican general whose claim to fame I can’t at the moment recall.”
He launched into a brief history of the town. “After the war, a man known as Reading Wood Black, a person of some wealth and forward thinking, came to greatly admire this region and filed claim to the land on which the town now sits. He hired a surveyor from San Antonio—a man of German background, I’m told—to plot the settlement and, with the help of some well-financed investors, commenced to build. Soon German immigrants like myself were arriving in Galveston and being told this place would remind them of home. You’ll find that most who live here are of German heritage. Some never even bothered to learn English.
“Should you plan to remain for a while, I think you’ll see it’s a fine town. I’m told we’ll even soon have a stagecoach stopping through. Then, perhaps, a post office.”
“We’d admire to learn more about your fine town,” Jennings said, “but for now something out in your kitchen smells mighty good.”
“Of course, of course. My apologies for going on so. I’ll bring your plates right away.”
He didn’t say another word until they had finished their meals and had more coffee.
“Would you also be the tender of the bar?” Jennings said.
“That I would. What is your pleasure?”
When he returned with two whiskies, Jennings invited him to sit with them. The proprietor again began extolling the virtues of Encina. He talked of the goats and cattle being raised on small nearby ranches, of the plentiful pecan orchards and a special brand of honey called huajillo that bee-keeping locals produced. The nearby Leona River, he said, yielded catfish, bass, and sunfish to even the worst fishermen.
“But I must apologize,” he said. “I sound like a salesman trying to convince you to purchase land and settle here. Truth is, I tend to ramble at times.” He extended a meaty hand across the table. “Name’s Frog Penny, by the way.”
Jennings introduced himself, then Tracker. “Our purpose for bein’ here,” he said, “is to find someone who might recently have passed this way. A big fella with a lot of thick black hair. I doubt you would recall him as a pleasant individual. Name’s Pete Sinclair.”
Penny leaned back. “If it’s the man who passed through a few weeks back, maybe a bit longer—I’m terrible at remembering times; it comes with growing old—the word pleasant most certainly would not be proper to describe him. He was here for only a few days and it’s my memory that he never drew a sober breath. Sat at this exact same table most of the time, bragging about how a ranch he owned up north was larger than this entire county. I’ll not repeat the unsavory words he used to describe our town. And he tried to pick a fight with just about everyone who walked through the door. I figure he was about as mean a man as I’ve seen in some time.”
“Was there fightin’?” Coy asked.
“No, none I was aware of. Not in here, at least. The people of Encina are peace-loving. They were even against the war, particularly what the Confederates were attempting. If you were to ask around, you would find that most people here felt sympathy for the Union.”
Jennings shrugged. “Tell me more about this fella I’m thinkin’ was Sinclair.”
“I’m being God’s honest truthful,” Penny said, “when I say he struck me as a bit touched in the head. So I finally alerted our sheriff to his presence. He came and firmly informed the man it was time he was on his way.”
“You don’t recall him givin’ his name?”
“No. And last I saw of him he was on his horse, drunk as a papa skunk, riding out of town. And all I could say was good riddance and don’t come back.”
“Which way was he headed?”
“Probably toward the border,” Penny said. “Just like that rowdy bunch of Mexicans who passed through not long after he did.”
Jennings shot a glance in Tracker’s direction. The Indian gave a slight nod.
“And what’s your recollection of them?”
“Oh, they were a rough-looking bunch. Smelled as if they hadn’t bathed in ages. There was half a dozen of them and only one spoke any English so far as I could tell. Had they stayed much longer, I’d have likely been obliged to notify the sheriff about them as well. Fortunately they had little money, so they were on their way after a single glass of beer each.”
“The one who spoke English,” Jennings said. “What was his name called?”
Penny rubbed his hands to his beard, thinking. “It was unusual, not the sort of name one would expect of a Mexican.” He began to laugh. “But, then, whoever heard of someone being named Uvalde before? Or Penny, for that matter.”
He was rambling again, and Jennings’s patience was reaching an end. He took a long breath before speaking. “Could it be his name was Blanca? Armando Blanca?”
“That sounds about right,” Penny said. “Yes, sir, I think that’s what it was. And before you ask, I don’t recall him being the pleasant sort either.”
• • •
An hour later, as they rode from town, Jennings chuckled. “That man greatly admires the sound of his own voice,” he said. “And his town.”
He was surprised when Tracker responded, “Your Phantom Hill could have used the wisdom of the man he called Reading Black,” he said.
Coy laughed. “More important than that, it wouldn’t hurt none for Phantom Hill to have this kind of scenery. Seems the Good Lord paid special attention when he set about creatin’ this part of Texas.”
• • •
Late the following day the landscape had changed back to flat grassland. There were few trees except for bushy mesquites. They rode past large patches of cacti and through dry, rocky creek beds.
“My fathers tell of a time when many buffalo roamed this land,” Tracker said. “They provided the tribe with food and their skins were used for teepees and coats to be worn in weather like this. Their dung made hot campfires, and their bones were valuable for making tools and weapons. But then the white hunters came with their rifles. . . .”
Jennings had heard the stories of the white hunters who killed off huge herds, skinning their hides to be sold, leaving the carcasses to rot and be scavenged by wolves, coyotes, and buzzards. In time, the only remaining buffalo had migrated far to the northern plains, leaving this part of Texas barren of the food tribes had depended on for generations.
“It was a highly unfair thing my people did,” Jennings said.
Tracker turned to Coy, surprised by the observation. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it was.”
Though the subject was unpleasant, Jennings was glad that Tracker was finally talking. He wanted to know more about this man who had remained behind to accompany him.
“Ain’t none of my business,” he said, “but I figure it unlikely your real name’s Tracker.”
“It is the name given me by Will Bagbee and I accept it.”
“But . . .”
Tracker continued. “As a young man, I was called Windrunner. I was the swiftest in our tribe. I never lost a footrace, not even to the fastest ponies. I once chased a deer for almost a mile before catching him. I intended to slit his throat and return him to the village for a feast. But because he ran so swiftly and with such grace, I chose to set him free.
“But that was long ago, before my youth was gone. Today, I am an old man and can only chase slowly, with my eyes and my ears.”
“How is it you speak better English than me? And what caused you to become a tracker for Bagbee and his crew?”
“Tracking is something I have always done well,” he said. “I did not wish to spend my life on a reservation in the Indian Territory, so I accepted Bagbee’s offer of a job. It was his boss, a man called Colonel Swindle, who sent me to a white man’s school to learn your language.”
For several miles the two rode in silence.
• • •
With a full moon high in a cloudless sky, they broke camp well before dawn. As they rode, they chewed on the last of the biscuits they’d purchased before leaving Frog Penny’s eatery. Both agreed that the German’s cooking didn’t compare to Miss Mindy’s.
“It ain’t likely Blanca knows Sinclair’s whereabouts,” Coy said, “but if we can speak with him he might have a notion where we should be lookin’.”
Armando Blanca was not easy to find. After crossing the Rio Grande into Mexico, Jennings and Tracker visited several downtrodden villages along the border, asking if anyone might know the man they were seeking. They were met by silence, menacing stares, and the unspoken message that neither gringos nor Indians were welcome.
It was a young goatherd, watching his animals drink at the river’s edge, who pointed them in the right direction. He spoke no English and Jennings’s Spanish was limited to only a few words. “Donde esta Senor Blanca?” he said.
The youngster smiled and nodded. “Sí, Senor Blanca,” he said. “Muy malo hombre.” He spoke with obvious admiration. Then he pointed south, toward yet another village.
