HE SPENT THAT night in the Sioux camp, moving out at dawn on the gray stallion. The saddle Braddock had given him was transferred from the sand mustang, for Lame Bear had ridden the pad saddle favored by the Indians, and Long Lance rode with him as far as the eagle-beaked rock.
He made good time, passing one night on the trail before reaching the river soon after noon the following day. When he shouted, the ferry was hauled over the water and he led the stallion on board. The two men manning the ropes asked no questions and he rode off, heading straight for the saloon.
As yet he was not sure what he planned to do. He believed that Long Lance had never seen the missing bars of silver, but thought it unlikely that Lame Bear would have failed to recognize their value. It seemed equally unlikely that the Sioux could have lost them on the journey south: he had reached the hidden camp with three ponies in tow and said nothing – according to Long Lance – of any trouble along the way. Except the one run-in with Father Bartholomew.
That was the trouble – everything seemed to point to the preacher and his daughter. They had scared off the Indian when he was about to scalp Azul, and for most of the next day the half-breed had lain unconscious in the wagon. They were the only humans he had seen – with the exception of the ambushers – inside of five days. That made them the only ones who could have taken the silver.
But if that was the case, he mused, why save his life? It made no sense to save him, then steal from him. And Josiah Bartholomew had seemed a true man of God, honest and upright, firm in his purpose and totally devoted to his chosen calling.
Something old Sees-Both-Ways had once said came into his mind:
It is hard to look into a man’s soul, for it is a thing easily hidden. A man’s tongue may tell you one thing while his soul plans another. It is as well to walk with caution until you know a man to be your friend, for sometimes it is those who claim your friendship who seek to slip the knife between your ribs.
He decided to investigate the Bartholomew wagon.
The riverside gate opened and he rode into the trading post. There were fewer Indians present, but the guards along the walls seemed to have increased, and an air of suppressed tension gripped the place. He dismounted outside the main building and hitched the gray to the rail.
A handful of men were drinking in the saloon, but there was no sign of Braddock. Levi had a glass filled before he reached the bar.
‘On the house, mister. Reckon you earned it.’
‘How come?’ Azul was aware of the curious glances coming his way.
‘Shit!’ Levi poured himself a drink. ‘Last two fellers Braddock sent out never got back.’
‘He gave me a pass sign.’ Azul tipped the whiskey down his throat. ‘It worked.’
‘Caleb an’ Jimmy had them signs, too,’ grunted Levi. ‘But they still didn’t make it back.’
‘Luck, I guess.’ Azul shrugged.
‘Squawman’s luck.’ The voice came from behind him, whiskey-thick. ‘Injuns wouldn’t kill their own.’
Levi’s watery eyes flickered past Azul’s shoulder. The half-breed ignored the taunt, pushing his glass forwards for a refill.
‘Where’s Braddock?’
Before the barkeep could answer, the same voice replied for him: ‘Gone to talk with yore friends, squawman. Most like fixin’ hisself a plump little injun girl to warm his bed.’
Someone else sniggered. Azul set his glass down and turned around. There were five men in the place, ranged in a staggered line before the counter of the trading section. Three were simply watching, sharing a bottle as they waited to see what would happen. The other two were seated directly across from Azul, dressed in dirty buckskins and broadcloth. One was a small, weaselly man, his yellow eyes set in a squint and his unshaven jaw stretched by an anticipatory grin. His companion was a huge man, all beard and barrel chest. A battered Stetson with a ragged feather tucked into the brim covered a mass of tangled, greasy black hair. They both wore Colts, and the larger of the two had a skinning knife sheathed on his belt.
‘Could be he’ll buy yore momma,’ he smirked. ‘Or maybe yore sister.’
‘You got a big mouth.’ Azul’s voice was cold, harsh with anger. ‘Best close it, before it’s done for you.’
‘Not by you.’ The man stood up. It was like watching a grizzly emerge from its lair. ‘Not by no squawman’s bastard.’
‘No guns.’ Levi’s voice was shrill with fear. ‘Braddock don’t want no gunplay. Not now.’
He backed his words with a scattergun. Azul didn’t need to turn to identify the menacing double click of the hammers going back.
‘Never figgered to use a gun,’ rumbled the giant. ‘Won’t need a knife either. Not on a squawman’s leavings.’
He reached under the overhang of his belly to unbuckle his gunbelt, dropping the rig on to the table. His sidekick went on sniggering, his mouth opening wide so that Azul could see the stump where his tongue had been cut out. The half-breed pulled his own belt loose, reaching behind him to set it on the bar.
‘Loser pays fer any damage,’ said Levi quickly.
‘Hope Braddock paid you good, half-breed.’
As he said it, the giant came forwards in a rush, arms spreading to clutch Azul against his chest.
Chiricahua-trained, the half-breed held his ground until the man was almost on him. Then – as the ham hock-like arms began to close – he ducked and pivoted to the side. He swung under the outthrust hands, balancing on his left foot as his right slammed hard against the bearded man’s knee. The giant grunted and twisted off balance, his own momentum slamming him into the bar. He clutched the planking, struggling to stay on his feet. Azul kicked him again, in the same place. This time the giant yelped with pain and went all the way down, his chin clipping the edge of the counter.
‘Five dollars on the half breed!’ someone yelled. ‘Ten on Zeb,’ came the answer.
Azul backed away, unwilling to risk closing with the gigantic man until he was more certain of his speed.
Zeb lurched to his feet, pig eyes glaring red with fury. Where his chin had struck the bar, a thin trickle of blood ran into his beard.
‘Gonna kill you fer that.’
Again he launched a sudden attack, springing forwards with a speed that belied his massive weight. This time, however, he was more cautious, circling round to back Azul towards the far wall. The half-breed cat-footed backwards until he sensed the wall behind him. Zeb grinned and came in fast, hands bunched into fists that windmilled the air before him. Azul bent at the knees, then powered directly backwards. He struck the wall and bounced off, legs lifting together to drive out straight in front.
The double kick landed in the center of the spread of Zeb’s gut. The giant’s forward rush drove him on to Azul’s feet so that for a moment the half-breed was pinned between his attacker and the wall. He spread his arms, holding himself in position as the other’s face went red where flesh showed through the hair, then he straightened his legs, hurling Zeb away.
The giant snorted like a winded bull, and tottered, clutching at his belly.
Azul dropped to his feet, moving in fast. His right arm lashed out, fist pulping against Zeb’s nose. The bearded man gasped, puffing twin streamers of crimson mucous from his nostrils. Azul feinted to the right, then kicked out again. This time he was fractionally too slow, a deadly shade too confident of his own speed. Zeb recovered fast. As the half-breed’s foot touched his knee he dropped both hands on to the ankle.
Abruptly, Azul felt himself yanked forwards and up. His shoulders struck the floor as fingers like steel clamps dug into his leg. He kicked out with his free foot, but Zeb was already twisting away, pivoting back to swing the half-breed round in a circle. He had little skill in wrestling, relying on strength and speed rather than technique, and now his intention was obvious. Azul felt his body lifted clear of the floor. Felt himself swung round in a dizzying curve. He bent his head forwards, cradling both arms around his skull. His wrists hit the front of the bar, then an elbow cannoned against a chair. The healing bruises left by Lame Bear’s attack flushed into painful new life, and then he was flying free across the room.
He went limp just before his hurtling body crashed into a table, careening off into a tangle of overturned chairs. Bright lights sparked across his eyes and he felt splinters cut into his shoulders. Unthinking, acting now on pure reflex, he rolled to the side. From somewhere close by he could hear Zeb’s heavy breathing and the crash of chairs as the big man fought through the wreckage to get at him. He shook his head, struggling to his feet. And saw Zeb closing in.
The giant whooped gleefully, assuming an easy target as he reached for Azul. The half-breed was still stunned and dizzy, but instinct warned him to stay clear of the massive arms and he folded into a dive, powering at Zeb’s legs.
The move took the bearded man by surprise. Azul’s arms wrapped around his knees and the force of the half-breed’s body tipped him off balance. Azul rolled again, taking Zeb with him. The giant crashed on his side as the half-breed writhed clear, slamming both feet against his chest. Zeb grunted. Azul kicked again, this time aiming for the belly. Zeb gasped, face purpling, and heaved on to his stomach. Azul climbed unsteadily to his feet, shifting position to straddle the fallen man. He folded at the knees, lifting his moccasins clear of the floor so that both knees smashed into Zeb’s back. This time the giant screamed. Azul reached down, grabbing a double handful of matted hair. He snatched the head back, then rammed it down, pounding the face against the floor. Zeb moaned, struggling to wriggle clear. Azul went on pounding until the movement ceased. Blood began to ooze from beneath Zeb’s head.
Azul released his grip and stood up. Levi was standing at the end of the bar, the shotgun forgotten as he watched the end of the fight. The other three onlookers were staring wide-eyed, the man who had bet on the half-breed grinning. Zeb’s mute companion was glaring at Azul, right hand sunk in his hip pocket. His yellow-tinged eyes were narrowed down and his mouth was set in a thin, ugly line.
His hand came out from the pocket with something glinting in the fist. There was a faint click as he pressed the button of a switchblade and four inches of honed steel sprang into view. His hand lifted up, the knife cupped in the palm.
Levi shouted, ‘Look out!’
But Azul had already seen the danger and was reacting in the only way he knew how. He bent sideways, right hand dropping to the throwing knife still sheathed inside his moccasin.
The mute’s arm came down, the switchblade flashing clear of his hand. At the same time, Azul’s arm lifted up and out in an underhand throw. The switchblade cut air no more than half an inch from his neck. His own steel was lost in the blur of its movement. Then again in the flesh of the mute’s shoulder. It struck on the right side, the razor-sharp blade sinking deep into the soft part between clavicle and shoulder joint, just to the side of the armpit.
The mute vented a high-pitched, gargling scream, stumbling against a table that tipped under his weight. He fell to the floor, still screaming as his descent rammed the hilt against the planks and drove the knife all the way through. The tip emerged bloody from the back of his dirty shirt, and a dark stain began to spread over the material.
Levi picked up the shotgun. ‘It was a fair fight,’ he yelled, asserting his authority now that the immediate threat of danger was gone. ‘Now you get the hell outta here.’
Azul went over to the mute and tugged the blade clear. He wiped it clean on the front of the man’s shirt, then hauled him to his feet.
‘Next time I’ll kill you,’ he snarled. ‘Now do like the man says.’
‘Wait!’ Levi came out from behind the bar. ‘I got about ten dollars’ worth of damage here.’
He jammed the scattergun against the weasel-faced man’s belly and held out his hand. The yellow eyes got even more squinted as they stared at the twin barrels. As best he could with his left hand, he fumbled inside his pants, coming up with a fistful of dollars. Levi reached over to extract the ten, then backed off.
‘Now haul that bastard out to his horse. And don’t come back.’
Zeb was beginning to come round and with Levi still riding shotgun his companion got him on his feet, aided by the other drinkers. His face was a bloody mask, the nose broken and his lips cut on the edges of shattered teeth. His thick, black beard had taken on a reddish hue, and one eye was closed under a puffy swell of purpled flesh. Unprotesting, he let himself be led outside, where he was bundled unceremoniously astride his horse.
The smaller man mounted up, turning in his saddle to glare back at Azul. Someone passed him Zeb’s gunbelt, and he draped it around his saddle horn. Then, his eyes still venomous, he pointed at Zeb and at his own chest, touched the gun and extended a finger in Azul’s direction.
‘I’ll remember.’ The half-breed’s voice was cold. ‘I’ll watch my back.’
Weasel-face spat and turned his pony towards the gate. Zeb followed behind, his bulk curiously deflated. Azul went back into the saloon. The Indian woman was straightening the furniture.
‘Watch them two.’ Levi stowed the shotgun behind the bar and poured fresh drinks. ‘Zeb’s bad enough, but Joe’s worse. That wasn’t no idle threat he made.’
‘I been threatened before,’ Azul shrugged, ‘but I’m still around.’
‘Just a friendly warning. Maybe they’ll move on.’
‘Yeah.’ Azul emptied his glass, shaking his head when Levi offered the bottle again. ‘I still want to see Braddock.’
‘He ain’t around.’ The barkeep began to polish glasses. ‘Lit out soon after you left.’
‘When’s he due back?’
Levi spread his hands in a vague gesture. ‘Hard to tell. Tomorrow, maybe. Day after at the latest.’
‘How about the preacher?’ Azul asked. ‘Bartholomew and his daughter?’
‘Damnedest thing, that.’ Again the barkeep gestured. ‘Usually they stay around a week or so, tryin’ to convert the injuns. This time they upped an’ went after just a few days. Rode out the same time as Braddock.’
Azul felt his doubts begin to coalesce into a hard, firm knot of suspicion.
‘Which way were they headed?’
‘I’m just the barkeep, friend.’ Levi went back to his glasses. ‘I don’t ride herd on every wanderin’ pilgrim comes through here. They left is all I know. Braddock could maybe tell you.’
‘Only he’s not here.’ Azul turned away, pacing down the room to the door.
‘Never figgered him to be so friendly with the sky-rider,’ Levi grunted, to no one in particular. ‘Maybe he’s lookin’ fer the Truth.’
Azul went back to the river gate, but all the guards there could tell him was that the wagon had crossed over along with Braddock, then turned south and east. Nothing had been said about the Bartholomews’ direction or destination.
The half-breed returned to his horse, pondering his next move. The wagon had a start of at least three days, which put it anywhere within around sixty to seventy miles of the trading post. Even allowing for the greater speed of the gray stallion, that gave the preacher and his ugly daughter a whole lot of territory to hide in, territory that was unfamiliar to Azul. Pursuing them with nothing more than a vague direction could too easily set him on the wrong trail, and consequently allow them even more time in which to get lost. Waiting, he decided, was his only course: maybe Braddock would know where they were headed. He went back to the saloon.
‘You stayin’ over?’ Levi asked. ‘Want a room again?’
Azul shook his head. ‘Sooner sleep outside.’
‘Yore choice.’ The barkeep shook his head now, in surprise. ‘Put yore horse up in the corral. Braddock said it’d be all right.’
Azul led the gray over to the corral and turned the animal loose. He forked hay from a pile by the fence and checked that the water trough was full, then he stacked his saddle in the tack room and went back to the main building. He was suddenly aware that he was hungry.
The Indian woman brought him food and a pot of coffee, and he settled down to eating with the slow deliberation of a man with time on his hands.
It passed slowly, for now he was waiting with no definite end in sight. Given a firm objective – the arrival of an enemy, or the passing of a deer he was hunting – he could have remained immobile for an indefinite period, waiting with the stoic patience instilled by his Chiricahua upbringing. But now he was restless, not even sure that Braddock would know where the wagon had gone. Not certain when the trader would return. He had no wish to remain in the malodorous saloon, despite Levi’s repeated offers of whiskey or the invitation to join the card game that had started. He had only a vague idea of the intricacies of poker, and no desire to lose what little money he still had. Instead, he wandered through the trading post, confirming his original impression of a fort.
Cutting down the grassy alley where he had spent the first night, he found two armed guards posted outside the windowless store house containing the guns. They greeted him in a friendly enough fashion, but made it obvious that his presence near the building was not exactly welcome. He wandered back to the corral and passed more time grooming the stallion.
As dusk settled in he returned again to the saloon and ate another meal. Then he went back to the corral and spread his blanket on the grass inside the fence. The gray horse snickered a greeting, coming over to rub its velvety muzzle against his face before wandering away to crop contentedly as the last of the light faded and a big yellow moon rose above the walls.
It was a still, clear night, the sky empty of cloud so that all the stars showed, glittering like silver beads sewn to blue-black cloth. The outlines of the men on the catwalks and guard towers were solid shadows against the darkness, their boots thudding faintly on the wood. Occasionally one would light a cigarette or pipe, the brief flare of a match illuminating a face. A faint rumble of sound came from the saloon, but after a while that died away and there were only the noises made by the horses and the guards. Off in the hills a nightjar screeched, and somewhere a wolf loosed a wailing, lonesome cry.
Azul slept.
He woke just before dawn, in the gray, silent time when night fights its last battle with the day. The air was chill, a mist drifting up from the river so that the trading post was wreathed in ethereal shadow. Climbing to his feet he shook out his blanket and walked over to the pump. No lights showed in the buildings and so he stripped naked, climbing into the trough to bathe. The myth of the grease-encrusted red man was a concoction of the pinda-lick-oyi who had not taken time to learn the ways of the Indians. Most of the tribes cleansed themselves as often as was possible, using whatever water might be available. Some Indians retained an odor as a result of diet, or the clothes they wore; but in the same way, the white men smelled different, and often dirtier.
He climbed from the trough and used his blanket to dry himself, spreading the woolen material over the corral fence as the sun rose, breaking up the mist. He dressed and checked over his guns, idly watching the post come slowly to life.
As he sauntered towards the saloon, anticipating breakfast, he saw Braddock ride in from the direction of the river.
The trader was wrapped in a heavy broadcloth coat, his blank eyes red-rimmed and his shoulders sagging as though from a long journey. Behind him came a flatbed wagon, its cargo hidden beneath a carefully-tied canvas. Two men followed in the rear, Winchester carbines canted against their saddles.
Without thinking, Azul ducked into the shadow of the saloon’s porch, watching as Braddock led the way around the buildings to the store houses behind.
‘Get it unloaded fast an’ quiet.’ The trader’s voice carried in the stillness. ‘Fewer folks know about it, the better.’
‘Real gold mine, eh?’ grinned an outrider.
‘We sure struck it rich,’ chuckled Braddock. ‘But it’s more like a silver mine.’