AZUL HID THE marks of his entry and climbed back through the gap in the roof. He replaced the turves and then gathered up his bedroll, getting back inside the bunkhouse without being noticed.
He stretched on the narrow bed, ignoring the sour odor of the small room as he thought about the night’s events. Braddock was obviously planning to trade guns and ammunition to the renegade Indians hiding in the hills. And for some reason of his own, he wanted to use a stranger to deliver the message that they were ready for collection. The half-breed wondered why, without bothering over the legal question.
It mattered little to him whether the Sioux got guns, or not. Although he felt a kind of disinterested sympathy with the tribes opposing the steady encroachment of the white men, his main concern was for his lost horse. If taking the trader’s message to Long Lance would help regain him the animal, then he would deliver the message as best he could. And return to claim the reward Braddock had hinted at. What went on between the Army and the hostiles was not his concern.
He waited until he could hear other people moving outside, then rose and went into the saloon.
As yet there was no sign of Bartholomew or Rachel, so he drank some coffee and accepted the bacon and eggs the Indian woman set before him.
After a while the trader appeared.
‘I got some provisions ready,’ he said. ‘Threw in a coupla boxes of shells, too. You can pick a gun on the way out. Choose your own mount from the remuda.’
Azul nodded. ‘What about the sign?’
‘Give you that when you leave,’ grunted Braddock. ‘How long you gonna be?’
Azul pushed his plate away and wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Now?’
‘Fine.’ Braddock stood up, his head barely reaching to Azul’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
He led the way to the trading section of the room, where the half-breed selected a Winchester rifle that matched his lost weapon. As they stepped on to the porch, Azul began to thumb cartridges into the loading gate.
The day was warming up, the sky brightening to a promise of summer heat. The river gate of the trading post had been opened, and inside the stockade there was a swell of Indians the half-breed had not seen the day before. Braddock hurried him round the central square to the corrals. Two men waited there. They had the look of hardcases, narrowed eyes never staying in one place very long, but shifting constantly around the post. They held carbines cradled in their arms, forefingers resting inside the trigger guards. On the ground between them was a saddle and a bulky pack.
‘Which you want?’ asked Braddock, pointing to the mustangs inside the fence. ‘Just point.’
Azul checked the animals, finally selecting a sand-colored pony that looked stronger and faster than the others.
‘Good choice,’ Braddock acknowledged. ‘Mort, go cut him out.’
One of the hardcases set his carbine down against the fence and hooked a rope clear of the gate. Azul waited until he had the mustang cut out from the herd and then checked the animal over. It was sound as his eyes had told him: he got it saddled and fixed the sack of provisions in back.
Braddock ushered him aside, reaching into his coat to produce a cloth-wrapped bundle. Loosing the cord that fastened the package, he showed Azul a ragged bunch of eagle feathers fastened to a tattered red cloth.
‘Soon as you spot the eagle rock.’ he said, ‘fasten this somewhere it can be seen. That’ll get you through. The Sioux’ll most like pick you up along the way. Show them the sign, an’ they’ll take you in to Long Lance. You give him the message, then come back here. By then I might have news of your horse.’
‘Yeah.’ Azul took the bundle of feathers and cloth and stowed it in his saddlebag. ‘I’ll expect that.’ Without waiting for a reply, he mounted and turned the pony towards the gate.
The mustang was skittish as its hooves struck the timbers of the wharf, but Azul held it in check until they reached the ramp leading down to the ferry. Then he dismounted and walked the pony on to the flat-bottom river craft, waiting as the man at the prow hauled on the rope to drag the vessel over to the far bank.
There was a trail ridden into the grass on the far side, heading north-east. Azul followed it, holding the mustang to a steady, mile-eating canter. He halted at noon to eat, then rode on along the line of the hills, scanning the tree-covered slopes for sign of the pass. The country was all rolling meadows and small stands of timber, dogwood and cherry trees interspersed with creosote and the low thicket of berry bushes.
By sun’s set he had not found the pass, and so made camp in a group of alders set on a small mound that commanded a view of the surrounding country. He kept a cold camp, chewing on the dried meat Braddock had put in the sack as the mustang cropped contentedly on the luxuriant foliage.
The next morning he rose at dawn, rolling in the dew-wet grass until he was washed clean as though in running water. He ate his breakfast naked, letting the rising sun dry him, then saddled the mustang and moved on to the north-east.
He found the pass around noon.
It would have been easy to miss it, for the trees covering the slopes were thick and dark, matching the shadow of the canyon’s mouth. It was the oddly shaped rock that caught his eye, the sunlight slanting down over the upper rim so that the outstanding boulder was lit from above. The rock was part of the original core of the hills, weathered by time and rain and wind, but still standing, shaped by the elements into a craggy overhang that from below looked like an eagle’s beak.
The pass itself was narrow, thrusting through the hills in a thin cut that was flanked on either side by heavy stands of tall pines. It ran for a mile before opening out on to a secondary valley where a gigantic blasted pine stood alone, bare branches blackened by fire. Azul came through with his rifle canted against his hip, the bundle of cloth and feathers tied to the muzzle.
Where the valley spread in a wide vee-shape running from north to south, there was a small stream. The far walls were heavy with trees, the bottom thick with grass. Off to the north there was a solitary hill. It stood alone, like a gigantic anthill, all black in the afternoon sun.
Azul turned towards it as he caught the faint signs of watching riders on the slope above.
He kept his rifle high, letting the breeze blowing down the valley flutter the feathers and cloth about the barrel. He followed the slope down to the stream, then turned north in the direction of the hill.
After a while five horsemen descended over the grass and fell into line behind him.
They were dark haired, the shoulder-length strands caught into braids, or fastened back beneath headbands of fur and shells. Two carried ancient single shot Henry carbines; the others, lances.
Azul went on riding. Not looking to the sides, just moving up the valley.
Five more riders came out from the trees, four moving to flank him on either side, the last shifting to a position in front. All had feathers in their hair, but the rider ahead wore a full bonnet, the circlet of black-tip feathers dancing as he rode, light coruscating off the red dye beneath the darker points and the beadwork of his headband. He carried a lance.
Gradually they increased their pace, closing in on the half-breed so that his own mount picked up the excitement and began to move faster. Azul let the animal choose its own speed, and soon he was going at a fast canter, following the Indian in the bonnet who never looked back or altered his steady lope.
The surrounding riders took their lead from him. As he gathered speed, so did they, pressing in on all sides, so that Azul was surrounded by the bobbing heads of the mustangs and the waving hair of the Indians. No one spoke until the leader whooped a high, shrill cry and heeled his pony to a gallop. Then the men on either side whipped their ponies up, and one behind prodded a lance against the tail of Azul’s mount, as all began to yell.
The mustang squealed and kicked back as it lifted to a run.
Azul adjusted to the new pace, driving his heels against the pony’s flanks so that he began to crowd in on the man ahead. The Indian’s pony sensed the proximity of the other mustangs and squealed nervously. The war-bonneted Indian still didn’t look back, but he rode faster so that the whole group thundered up the valley towards the dark hill.
They reached the foot with Azul’s pony snapping hair from the tail of the animal in front. The leader swung off to the side, leading the way through a narrow avenue of overgrown pines where the others were forced into single file. The avenue curved up and round the flank of the hill, devolving on a wide bowl where tents covered the grass.
Abruptly, still testing, the Sioux dragged his pony round, spinning it on its hind legs so that it swung back to face the half-breed.
Azul yanked his reins back, jamming his feet into the stirrups as the sand mustang slumped its hindquarters down and skidded to a halt.
The nostrils of the two animals touched, and the Indian’s mount snorted, prancing away. The rider smiled, vaulting clear of the pad saddle with his lance as pivot.
‘You ride good,’ he said, his voice guttural as he found his way around the English words. ‘I am Long Lance.’