The ghost dance ended at dawn. As the exhausted participants headed back toward the reservation, the Prophet and the medicine man Pasimo sat down at a small campfire. Within a few minutes the warriors Halkon and Kuchiyo joined them. All four were weary from partaking in the ceremony — especially old Pasimo — and they fed their faded energy by munching on pinto beans rolled in corn tortillas.
Halkon, however, was not eating. He gazed into the flames for a few moments, then raised his eyes to the Prophet. “Where is the messiah?”
The Prophet was taken aback by the impatient tone of Halkon’s voice. “The messiah is wherever the Great Life Giver wants him to be.”
Kuchiyo was also edgy. “When do the ghost warriors join us?”
The Prophet frowned. “They will appear when the Great Life Giver desires. Only he knows the exact time to send the messiah to summon them.”
“We have had many ghost dances,” Halkon complained. “Two or three every seven days. How much longer must we have these ceremonies? Many of our people are growing weary. It is becoming monotonous and interferes with everyday activities.”
Pasimo was upset with his younger tribal brothers. “You must be respectful! You will know the messiah is back on this earth when you see him.”
Halkon was not satisfied with the remarks. “We have repeating rifles and horses. We can begin the war now!”
The Prophet glared at the warrior. “Beware! The Great Life Giver can also take life away! All he must do is wave a hand at an impudent man to kill him.”
Halkon resented the implied threat. “If we begin our holy war early, perhaps we will suffer losses at first. But as soon as the messiah arrives with the ghost warriors the latest Guerras dead will also be resurrected!”
Now the Prophet’s temper snapped. “You are an ignorant man! How dare you question the wisdom of the Great Life Giver. He made this world you live in. And now he will save it for you. And he commands to do nothing until he sends the messiah.”
Halkon stood up. “I am going back to my wickiup.”
“I too,” Kuchiyo remarked.
The pair strode to the canyon exit and turned toward the reservation where their wives waited for them. The Prophet took a last bite of his beans and tortilla and chewed thoughtfully. “I sense difficulties where those two are concerned. Do you think they might gather some eager young men and take the horses and the rifles and go to war before all is ready?”
Pasimo slowly nodded his head. “They are Guerras warriors, wise Prophet. That is my reply to your question.”
The Prophet showed a fierce scowl. “May the Great Life Giver strike them dead forever if they begin fighting too soon.”
The first dull light of the day was drifting onto the desert country when Kawa and Istee came to an abrupt halt in their scouting patrol. They smelled horses. They immediately informed Captain Matt Hawkins, and he sent them forward to check out the odor. When they returned, the two Apaches reported the scent was coming from a canyon not far away.
Hawkins said, “We’d better get over there and see what’s what.”
Sergeant Eagle Heart was ordered to prepare the detachment for a fight. Michael Strongbow, at the rear of the formation, looked forward to a battle.
The small expedition carefully approached the site. They snuck up to the edge of the canyon and looked down. There was dried horse dung scattered across the sandy floor. A small stream flowed down the length the far wall before disappearing into a stand of boulders. The ashes of many cook fires were visible behind the windbreak of prickly brush and palo verde trees. It was easy to discern that it hadn’t been very long since the place was abandoned.
Hawkins led the way to the bottom, and the Indians quickly spread out, searching for clues of who had been there and how long ago.
Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke stood in the center of the large ravine. “Well,” the captain said. “The sons of bitches have moved the stolen horses to another location.” He took a deep breath. “That’s a bad sign.”
“It sure as hell is,” O’Rourke agreed.
Istee came walking up with a shard of clay that was part of a broken jug. “See this! It has Guerras medicine pictures painted on it.”
Hawkins took the hunk of kiln-cured clay. “Yeah. It’s Guerras all right. There’s our proof they were the ones who stole the horses.”
O’Rourke was pleased. “On the other hand, this will save us a hell of a lot of trouble. We won’t have to hunt for the animals now. We can go to the reservation and demand that the thieves be turned over to us.”
Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley was confused. “Why don’t we follow the trail to where the horses have been moved? We can take prisoners and drive the animals back to Fort Stryker.”
“Protocol,” Hawkins replied. “We aren’t allowed to make arrests or take possession of any animals or goods without the cooperation and permission of the reservation agent.”
“Right,” O’Rourke stated. “And since I’m a deputy United States marshal I have the authority to demand help from the agent when it comes to arresting lawless Injuns.”
“What about Kawa and Istee?” Ludlow asked. “They’re deadly enemies of the Guerras. Surely they shouldn’t reveal their presence to their worst adversaries.”
The pair of Tijones Apaches took notice of their names being mentioned.
“Kawa and Istee can fill their canteens here and go back where we bivouacked yesterday,” Hawkins answered. He turned and looked for Sergeant Eagle Heart who was getting the horses watered. “Sergeant! Ready the men to resume the march.”
Kawa and Istee led their horses over to the stream and let the animals drink while they filled their water containers. Both were relieved they wouldn’t be required to go with the detachment. Their present companions didn’t number enough to stop the Guerras killing them slowly over fires.
Hawkins took a direct route to the Guerras Indian Reservation. They arrived in the afternoon, riding directly to the agency store. The scouts remained in their saddles while the two officers and marshal dismounted.
The Apaches loitering in the vicinity came over to inspect the strange sight of uniformed Indians. The reception was the same it had been at the Tijones Reservation. The local inhabitants recognized the similarity in race, but noted there was something very different about these fellow aborigines.
“Hawkins! O’Rourke!” someone yelled out.
The two turned to see Pontaro walking up to them. O’Rourke grinned. “Hello, old friend. I’ve been wanting to find you.”
Pontaro gave him a quizzical look. “You not soljer no more?”
“Nope. I’m a marshal and live in Hope Wells.”
The Apache turned his attention to Hawkins, noting the shoulder straps on his uniform. “You no more sergeant?”
“That’s right,” Hawkins replied. He wasted no time in saying, “We’re looking for horse thieves here. We know they’re Guerras.”
Pontaro shook his head. “No horse thieves here.”
“What about the ghost dance?”
It took the Apache a great effort to hide his angry surprise at the query. “No Ghost Dance here!”
Hawkins knew he would get no cooperation from the former scout. “Maybe I’ll come see you later.”
Hawkins led the way into the store with Ludlow and O’Rourke behind him. A man stocking some shelves with cooking utensils, turned at their entrance. He nodded to them. “Hello, Marshal O’Rourke.”
“Hello, Mr. Larimer. These here fellers are Captain Hawkins and Lieutenant Dooley of the U.S. Army.”
“So I see,” John Larimer said, offering his hand. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
O’Rourke continued. “I’m here to place some horse thieves under arrest for rustling herds near Fort Stryker. We have solid evidence they’re Injuns living here on the reservation.”
Larimer was surprised. “I haven’t seen any evidence of horses other than those legally possessed by the tribe.”
Hawkins stepped forward. “They have recently moved the stolen animals from the first place they hid them out on the Tierra Brava. Now we know for sure it was Guerras warriors who committed the crime. We want them turned over to us.”
“I don’t know if I can help you or not, Captain. If I make an investigation, I’ll find no culprits. The robbers certainly are not going to step forward and admit their guilt and their fellow tribesmen will not reveal who they are.”
Hawkins was not deterred. “Over in Fort Sill and Fort Lone Wolf in the Indian Territory, we handled situations like this by denying rations and other goods. It was a cruel thing to do, but eventually, the culprits stepped forward to keep their families and friends from unnecessary suffering.”
“I don’t think that will work with Apaches, Captain.”
“It might take longer, but the results will be the same,” Hawkins argued. “Frankly, I don’t think Apaches are as intelligent as Kiowas and Comanches.”
“They’ve survived for eons in the worst environment on this continent,” Larimer said. “Believe me, that takes intelligence.”
“I fought Apaches for a few years,” Hawkins replied. “I’m not saying they’re dumb; just stubborn and brave as wolves. Death doesn’t frighten them.”
“I perceive them much differently than you,” Larimer insisted. “However, by Federal law, I am required to honor your request. I shall make a sincere attempt to seek out any horse thieves among the tribe.”
“I appreciate that,” Hawkins said. “By the way; are you aware your Apaches have been practicing the Ghost Dance Religion?”
“Oh…so that’s why the people have been acting so strange lately.”
“I’d say so,” Hawkins stated. “We had one such event at Fort Sill in ‘90. Even some over-religious whites thought it meant the return of Jesus Christ and the less educated ones feared the Ghost Dance would achieve its aims of all whites being killed. Sitting Bull himself was the leader of that movement. But he ended up being accused as a charlatan. That pretty much brought the event to a close.”
Ludlow Dooley couldn’t remain silent any longer. “Have you seen a leader around here?”
“Not a leader,” Hawkins corrected. “A prophet. Have you discovered one preaching to the people?”
“If one of the tribe is acting as a priest or something, I’m not aware of it,” Larimer replied. “And if a stranger has come onto the reservation, he’s avoiding making contact with me.”
O’Rourke considered the interview over. “All right, Mr. Larimer. Do your best. We’ll be back to check things out with you. Me and the officers are going over to Hope Wells for a spell.”
Hawkins said, “I’d like for my detachment of Indian Scouts to bivouac near here. With your permission, of course.”
Larimer walked over to a window and looked out at the uniformed Kiowas and Comanches. “I’ve heard of the U.S. Scouts but this my first chance to see any. Mmm! Mighty imposing fellows, I must say.” He returned to the shelves. “They are welcome to stay here, of course.”
“Thanks,” Hawkins said. “They’ll go with us to get a good feed for their horses. Then I’ll bring ‘em back here.
“Well, boys,” O’Rourke said to Hawkins and Ludlow, “I’ll take you into the great metropolis of Hope Wells, Arizona Territory.” He paused. “It’s got a pretty damn good saloon.”
Hawkins grinned. “Lead the way, Marshal!”
After riding into town and leaving the scouts at the local livery to treat the horses to a good feed of oats, Hawkins, Ludlow and O’Rourke went to the marshal’s office to pick up the his mail. From there they walked over to Sheriff Dan Martin’s jail. O’Rourke introduced him to Hawkins and Ludlow.
The sheriff shook hands with the two officers, then turned his attention to the marshal. “I take it you delivered your whiskey-peddling prisoner to Fort Stryker.”
“Sure did,” O’Rourke acknowledged. “Now I’m trailing after Guerras horse thieves with Mack and Ludlow. We have their detachment of Injun scouts with us.”
“Well,” Martin said, “I’d like to help you with them horse thieves, but I got no jurisdiction on the reservation.”
“I understand, Dan. But it might be a good idea if you kept an eye on the place ‘til I get back. There’s some weird going-ons out there.”
Martin was concerned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“We don’t know,” O’Rourke admitted. He nodded to Hawkins and Ludlow. “It’s time for a drink or two.”
He led the two army officers out of the office and across the street to a building with a false front. A sign below the second floor identified it as THE DESSERT VIEW SALOON.
Ludlow quickly noted the misspelling. “Does the owner mean you can see sweets after a few drinks?”
O’Rourke laughed. “He means ‘desert.’ He can’t spell right but he serves good liquor.”
The three walked in and caught the immediate attention of a half-dozen imbibers. O’Rourke knew most and was greeted respectfully with questions about the whiskey peddler he had arrested. The marshal informed them the man was solidly locked away in the Fort Stryker guardhouse.
O’Rourke purchased a bottle of rye whiskey and picked up three glasses before leading his companions to a back table. As they settled down, he spoke apologetically. “There used to be saloon gals — soiled doves — working in here, but the ladies of the local church raised so much hell, they was told to leave town.”
The information disappointed Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley. The young officer still vividly recalled his dalliance with a prostitute during his first mission with the detachment. He pulled the cork from the bottle and filled the glasses.
O’Rourke shuffled through his mail, noting it was all wanted posters. “I’ll be glad when I get transferred to a bigger town. That’s where an honest marshal can find some bad men to arrest and shoot.”
Ludlow took a sip of his libation. “You mean arrest or shoot, don’t you, Dennis?”
O’Rourke shook his head. “Nope. I mean arrest and shoot. And make a hell of a lot more money too.”
They were interrupted by a man who approached their table, holding a bottle of bourbon. “Howdy, soljers. I just wanted to make your acquaintance. I served in the Army as a young feller back fifteen years ago. I was at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri as a supply clerk. Rank of corporal.”
“Well, sit down,” O’Rourke invited. “Any old soldier is welcome here. I recently retired as a sergeant major. This is Captain Hawkins who was once an honest sergeant. And this young feller is Lieutenant Dooley.”
The stranger shoved his bottle out in the center of the table, indicating he would share it. “My name’s Archie Garfield. Traveling peddler by trade.” He nodded to Hawkins. “So what brings the U.S. of A. Army to Hope Wells, Cap’n?”
“Just checking up on things.”
Ludlow asked, “What kind of merchandise do you sell, Mr. Garfield?”
“Clothing, shoes, knickknacks, that sort of thing,” Garfield answered. “My customer here is Hezekiah Woodward the owner of the dry goods store just down the street.”
Ludlow commented, “There’s always a demand for those sorts of items.”
“Yeah,” Garfield said. “The only time he ordered anything different was when he bought fifty Henry repeating rifles.”
Hawkins looked up. “What’d he want with fifty?”
“It was a special deal I’d gotten up in Santa Fe,” Garfield explained. “The rifles was kind of old and used and I got a good price on ‘em. Hezekiah is the pastor of the local church. He prob’ly sold ‘em to fellers in his parish for hunting.”
After a few more drinks and conversation, O’Rourke corked his bottle and stood up. “Well, duty calls.”
Garfield was interested. “Anything special going on?”
Hawkins interjected, “Just the usual routine matters. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Garfield.”
“The pleasure is mutual, gentlemen,” the peddler said, pouring himself another drink from his own bottle.
The officers and marshal left the bar to join the scouts at the livery.