The final thumps of the beater-heads against the frame drums had sounded a quarter of an hour before. Now, in an isolated canyon on the Tierra Brava Desert, the Ghost Dance of the Guerras Apaches had come to an end after a grueling twelve hours. The participants — both men and women — were already leaving the site to get back to their wickiups.
In the back of the ravine, the new dawn had yet to emerge over the horizon as the Prophet, Pasimo the medicine man, Pontaro and Halkon sat on the ground with legs crossed. The Prophet’s voice was hoarse after hours of singing the ghost dance chant throughout the night.
“Two of the men were drunk yesterday,” he said angrily. “They made fools of themselves.”
Halkon said, “They are staked out by the Crazy Coyote Oasis. I am sure the nearness of the shade and water is unpleasant while the sun beats down on them.” As Apaches, the miscreants would be able to deal with the pain. It would be the disgrace of their punishment that tormented them.
The Prophet nodded. “Do not release them until past mid-day.”
“Their women sit by the men and wail at their humiliation,” Halkon said.
“That is good,” the Prophet replied. “The second coming of the Messiah can be delayed by the misconduct of such wrongdoers. The Great Life Giver expects all warriors to be pure and clean in all things.” He turned to Pontaro. “We need more rifles. How soon can those two white fools obtain some for us?”
“It is difficult for them,” Pontaro said. “They must pay money for rifles and bullets.”
Halkon spoke up. “Will not the ghost warriors come to life with weapons?”
“Their weapons will be old,” the Prophet replied. “The new rifles hold many bullets.”
“I do not understand,” Halkon said. “If the ghost warriors cannot be killed, what difference does that make?”
The Prophet, who had noticed a streak of stubbornness in the former warrior, scowled. “Do not argue with me nor ask me to explain things. I know what is best. The Great Life Giver lets me know what to do. When you squabble with me, you anger him. He wants rifles for us. He wants more horses for us.”
Pasimo the medicine man was in agreement. “If it is easy for us to help the messiah, then the Great Life Giver will think we are lazy and indolent, thus he will consider us unworthy.”
The Prophet appreciated the support, but he was also worried. He had deduced early that Pasimo had a little influence on the Guerras warriors.
Pontaro declared, “I will make the two white fools get us more rifles and ammunition.” He added, “Perhaps if I killed one of them it would hurry the other to obey us.”
The Prophet shook his head. “Not now. But later we will give them a slow death in front of the tribe.”
Pontaro asked, “After we kill all the whites, will we kill the Mexicans too?”
“They are ancient foes of all Apaches,” the Prophet said. “The Great Life Giver wants to save them for last.”
“What about our other enemies the Tijones?”
“The Tijones did not fight hard enough against the whites. They surrendered and are doomed to die for their cowardice.” He took a deep breath. “That is all we will discuss now.”
The exhaustion of the night-long ceremony began to settle on them, and they wearily got to their feet to return to the village.
Before leaving Fort Stryker, Captain Matt Hawkins had instructed Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley to draw tarpaulins and folding tent poles from the post quartermaster. This equipment was to be used to shelter men and horses from the sun in desert bivouacs.
Now Hawkins, Ludlow and Deputy United States Marshal Dennis O’Rourke led the small column of scouts along the Cuerdando River. The waterway bordered the edge of the Tierra Brava Desert, its coolness holding back any encroachment from the arid land. Green grass and brush grew out a half mile before slowly succumbing to the fury of the sun and bone-dry atmosphere where it endeavored to spread.
Hawkins spoke to O’Rourke. “Did you see any Apaches you knew when you went to the Guerras reservation?”
O’Rourke shook head. “I expected to, but there wasn’t hardly any of ‘em nearby. The agent — a feller by the name of John Larimer — said they’d been keeping to theirselves lately. But I know for sure I’d recognize ol’ Pontaro if I was to see him.”
“I remember him,” Hawkins said. “A pretty good scout, if I remember right.”
“That he was,” O’Rourke agreed. “I suppose when we make a call on the Tijones we’ll see a couple of old pals.” He pointed toward the southwest. “I think I can make out some buildings. They’re kind of blurry from the sun reflecting off the ground.”
Hawkins looked but saw nothing. “It could be a mirage caused by heat waves. That’s a pretty common in the desert.”
“I sure ain’t forgot that!” O’Rourke declared.
Ludlow pulled out his binoculars and stood in the stirrups. After adjusting the focus, he announced, “Yeah! That’s the ranch all right.”
Hawkins eased his horse toward their destination, and the others followed his lead. Ten minutes later the ranch house, bunk house, barn and corrals were easy to see. Loud yelling could be heard coming from one of the corrals.
O’Rourke grinned. “There’s a bunch of crazy cowboys breaking in horses.”
“Yeah,” Hawkins agreed. “I never got over here while I was stationed at Fort Stryker. How about you?”
“Nope. The onliest officers and soljers that visited this place was the quartermaster and stable sergeant to pick out remounts. I seen the rancher Denton one or two times when he visited Fort Stryker.”
“I might have glanced at him too. I can’t remember.”
The commotion at the corral was subdued as soon as the cowboys noticed the visitors’ arrival. They were astounded at the sight of the scouts. They watched with unabashed curiosity as the column rode up to the ranch house.
Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke dismounted, wrapping the reins of their horses over the hitching rack. They went up on the porch and knocked on the door. The summons was answered by a young Mexican woman. She frowned at the unexpected callers. “Que buscan, señores?”
Hawkins recalled some of his limited knowledge of the Spanish language. “Dónde, Señor Denton?”
O’Rourke with his memory more recent, correctly asked, “Dónde está su patron, señorita?”
“Está al granero,” she replied, pointing.
The three looked in the direction she indicated, assuming she was directing them to the barn. They walked across the ranch yard and entered the building. A tall, slender man was standing next to a forge watching a Mexican blacksmith shoe a horse. He turned at the entrance of the strangers, noting army uniforms and the badge worn by O’Rourke.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I take it you’re Mr. Denton?”
“That I am. J.K. Denton.”
“We’re here to look into the theft of your horses,” Hawkins asked. “We’d like to find out as much as we can about the incident.”
Denton frowned. “So at last something is going to be done, huh?”
Hawkins took offense at the tone of his voice. “I was ordered out here all the way from the Indian Territory. So, yeah. Something is going to be done.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Denton said, calming down. “I’m not complaining, but I lost a good horseman and friend when the thieves killed Luis Cordoba.”
Ludlow wanted to defuse the situation. “We’re here for a complete investigation, Mr. Denton. The Army is stretched a bit thin along the border. We intend to do a thorough job. But we need some information to get us started.”
“There ain’t a hell of a lot to say about it,” Denton replied. “I figger Injuns done it, since they sneaked up on Luis. When he stood night guard, he was always alert. But he wouldn’t’ve been able to hear Apaches. They kilt him, opened up the gate and run off the herd.”
“You’re pretty sure it was Injuns, and those Injuns was Apache, huh?” O’Rourke asked.
“Sure,” Denton said. “Their horses wasn’t shod and the closest Injuns around here is the Tijones.”
Hawkins interjected. “I understand the dead Mexican was killed outright, but his body wasn’t cut up.”
“That was strange all right,” Denton admitted. “I figger they didn’t want to waste any time. And why’d they steal horses? They got no use for ‘em unless they’re going on the warpath.”
A thought occurred to Hawkins. “Maybe they’re planning raids on the Guerras.”
Denton nodded. “That could be a possibility. Yeah! If they’re looking for a fight, that’s where they’d go all right.”
“I think our next stop will be a visit to the Tijones,” Hawkins said.
“I hope you find my horses,” Denton said.
“If we do, you’ll get ‘em back,” O’Rourke stated. “I promise you that, Mr. Denton.”
The officers and marshal left the barn with Denton walking beside them. When he saw the scouts, he stopped. “I’ll be godamned to hell!”
Ludlow quickly spoke up. “They’re enlisted as soldiers in the Army. It’s a new policy.”
Denton repeated, “I’ll be godamned to hell!”
Hezekiah Woodward and the salesman Archie Garfield sat at a table in the rear of the former’s dry goods store. It was early evening and Mildred Woodward had gone home to fix supper.
Archie, wishing they could have met in the local saloon, bemoaned having a religious teetotaler storekeeper for a customer. “Looky here, Hezekiah, I can’t get you no more cheap Henry rifles. How’s come you won’t settle for Winchesters?”
“The customers got them Henrys and don’t want another brand or caliber or nothing.”
Archie chuckled. “You ain’t selling them to the Dalton Gang, are you?”
“They was pretty bad shot up at Coffeyville, Kansas a short time ago,” Hezekiah reminded him. “Surely you can find me some Henry rifles, Archie. There must be a lot of ‘em for sale.”
“Yeah! There’s a lot of ‘em for sale, but not cheap second-hand ones that are available by the dozen. It’d take me a year of traveling around to pick up fifty used Henry rifles The bunch I got for you was confiscated over a long period of time by the sheriff in Santa Fe, New Mexico.” He paused a moment. “Why don’t you order some from the factory?”
“It’d be too expensive.”
“Can’t them customers come up with some cash money for you?”
“Nope,” Hezekiah replied.
Archie snorted. “If you ain’t buying for the Dalton gang it must be for some other bunch on the owlhoot trail, Hezekiah. You got me worried about you.”
“You’ll find out about it sooner or later, Archie. And it’ll be grand. That is if you ain’t too much of a sinner.”
“I been one hell of a sinner, Hezekiah.”
“Repent, Archie. You’d best repent.”
Archie grinned. “T’aint likely, Hezekiah.