Chapter Ten

 

 

Fort Bowie was in a state of excitement. That much was obvious as Ender and Peyote rode back in through the fort gateway.

The southerly sirocco had picked up again and flurries of dust blew across the parade ground in blustery waves that sent oddments of litter scattering.

Teams of mules and saddle ponies were being herded through the whirling clouds and men in uniform half hidden by the dust storms scurried everywhere carrying equipment. A photographer stood in the center of the parade ground, his tripod before him and his head under a flapping black sheet as he tried vainly to focus on the activity in the blasting wind. The tents were gone from the parade ground and it was apparent the fort was packing up for some kind of military action.

Curious, Ender and Peyote rode through the maelstrom of wind over towards the headquarters offices. A red-faced Sergeant Giltrap stood sweating before the office porch as he shouted out orders to a squad of men lined up before him.

“There you are!” he called as he squinted against the wind and saw the two. “Get in here, the Major will have words with you.” He tugged at Ender’s arm as he dismounted and whispered into his ear. “Did you get your little matter settled?” he asked.

“It’s done,” Ender said simply.

“Good on you, boy. Now get along inside there, the Major’s all of a tizzy as it is. He’s been asking for you.”

Ender turned and looked up questioningly at Peyote who still sat astride his horse.

“I will go to the reservation,” said the Indian. “I will bring news to the People of Common Dog and how his spirit and his sisters’ shall rest in peace now their killers are no more. You have done well, En-da.”

With that, he kneed his pony and rode off slowly to vanish in the clouds of blown dust flying across the busy parade ground.

Ender was tired and his body ached, he stood watching the departing Indian for a moment before climbing the porch steps with a long sigh. It was done, that was for sure. But at what cost? Many men had lost their lives so the balance of his brand of justice could be satisfied. Not least, the instigator of it all, Common Dog. He slapped at the dust on his clothes then pushed open the office door letting a sudden gust slam it back on its hinges.

Inside he found a group of three men who started at the sound and turned away quickly from a large wall map of the Territory they had been studying.

“Ah,” said Major Bowmont as Ender entered. “About time Smith and shut that damned door, will you? Where the devil have you been? We’re to be on the move. Brigadier General Crook is making a major push against the hostiles and we need every man.” He waved a hand at the sober looking figure wearing a goatee beard that stood next to him and introduced the man as Ender pushed the door shut. “I don’t know if you know Mister Seiber, Chief Scout for the General.”

“Maybe not,” said Seiber coming forward, his hand outstretched. “But I have heard of you, Ender Smith. They say you’re next to none as a scout.” There was still a slight German edge distinctive in his voice, almost lost now over the years since his immigrant arrival as a child but still there nonetheless. His eyes were sharply incisive as they appraised Ender but they showed genuine pleasure at the meeting.

“Sure,” said Ender, taking the offered hand. “Who ain’t heard of Al Seiber?”

Seiber chuckled. “Don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. Look here, Ender, I’d like you to meet Tom Horn,” he introduced his mustached companion, a handsome smiling fellow in his mid-twenties with an early receding hairline and a quiff of hair remaining across his brow. Horn was casually leaning back against Giltrap’s desk and toying with a braid of horsehair. “I’m kind of showing him the ropes,” Seiber explained.

“Tom,” said Ender with a grin. “Ain’t seen you in a while. Last I heard you was either being a sheriff or a bank robber I ain’t sure which.”

Horn smiled back. “Good to see you again, Ender.” He held a devil-may-care twinkle in his eye and raised an appreciative eyebrow in Ender’s directions before toying with his rope-braiding again.

“Well,” said Ender. “This is a fine meeting. Must be something big on the way, what’s happening Major?”

“We’re after Geronimo. He’s broken out of the San Carlos reservation with the sons of both Cochise and Mangas Colorado. The General wants all water holes along the border patrolled and he’s out now scouting around Apache Pass on that damned mule he favors, why the man will not accept a regulation cavalry beast, is beyond me. But then rank has its privileges I suppose and we must bend to the General’s ways. He wants Apache scouts in companies of twenty-five men enlisted, with a civilian in charge of each. That will be Mister Seiber, Horn and yourself.”

“The old chief got himself a little too much illegal tiswin inside him,” explained Tom Horn with a laugh. “Seems he feared he was about to get arrested and so he lit out.”

“ ‘Bear Coat’ will bring him in,” promised Seiber. “Geronimo trusts the General. This ain’t no general uprising more just a policing matter to my way of thinking. Geronimo will make for the Sierra Madre’s and we’ll follow close but the Mex military will cut him off. We’ll have him boxed in soon enough.”

“When do we leave?” asked Ender.

“Tomorrow, early,” said the Major.

“Good, I can get a few hours sleep beforehand then.”

“And it appears you need it,” said Horn. “What you been up to Ender? You look kind of wasted.”

“Just laying my family to rest,” Ender said soberly.

There was an embarrassed silence.

“Mister Smith had his family murdered and property destroyed by renegades,” the Major explained. “I guess you had Indian rituals to attend and that will account for your absence, Smith.”

“Something like that,” Ender answered evasively.

“Say, I’m real sorry to hear that, Ender,” said Horn, with an expression of concern. “What say we take a glass of something before you retire? Might help you sleep some.”

“Kind of you, I think I’d like that.”

Seiber drew himself up, “Well, if we’re finished here I believe I’ll join these two, if it’s alright with you, Major?”

“You men go ahead,” said Bowmont. “I have plenty to attend to before we leave. Stay sober for the morrow though.”

The three trooped out of the office and stood for a moment on the porch watching the wind whipped parade ground.

“What’s the truth of it?” asked Horn quietly. “There’s no way you’ve been standing at a graveside. Looks to me like you’ve been burying somebody alright, but not your own.”

Ender sighed, “Had to be done, Tom. They cut up my girls real bad before they burned me out.”

Horn nodded. “I hear you. One of those affairs, was it?”

“Plain mean,” was all Ender said.

“Well, I don’t know what you boys are on about,” Seiber cut in. “And maybe I shouldn’t ask but lets go wet our whistles before the river runs dry. This dust is like to make my throat dryer than a dead dog’s bones.”

They stepped out from the cover of the porch and made to go down the steps when a voice called out loudly above the wind.

“Which one of you is Ender Smith?”

Through the gusting dust three figures appeared, the center one, a tall man, his hat tied down under his square chin by a scarf and dressed in a slicker that billowed in the wind as he stepped forward. His two companions stood tensely alongside, their hat brims flapping. One of them carried a Winchester and had a bandana wrapped around his lower face against the blow. The other wore a stern face and kept his hat on tight with a leather lace and a fancy silver dangle.

“Who wants to know?” Ender answered.

“The name’s Emmett Crawford. I’ve been sent up here by Mister Able Quinlan, seems he has complaint against this Smith fellow.”

Ender heard Horn curse beside him. “Ear-Man Emmett! Damn his eyes! You know this fellow Ender.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Professional gunsel. One mean son-of-a-bitch, likes to count coup by taking the ears of his victims.”

Crawford pointed a long finger at Ender. “Are you Smith?” he asked.

“You got no need for this,” Ender answered. “Quinlan’s dead, him and that bitch wife of his.”

“Sorry boy,” said Crawford. “He’s paid me good money to see you permanently retired. Wouldn’t do for customers to know I don’t keep up my end of a bargain.”

Flurries of dust blew along the ground under Crawford’s slicker and for a moment it appeared as if he was legless and floating in the air, the fish skin flying like batwings about him. Behind him the two other men stood rigidly waiting, saying nothing their attention firmly fixed on Ender.

The parade ground behind was still alive with soldiery but they were busy fighting the howling gale and paid little attention to the six men and they scurried past with their heads bowed down against the stinging wind.

“You other men stand away,” ordered Crawford. “I have no remit to take your hides.”

“Seems you have a mighty high opinion of yourself,” said Seiber abruptly. “Like you’re somebody who can tell folks when and where to go.”

Crawford shrugged. “Stay if you will,” he said. “There’ll be lead flying soon enough and if you’ve a passion for an early grave, mister, well, hell, it’s your choice.”

“I don’t like your tone, fella,” added Tom Horn. “Seems to me you’re a man with no manners.”

“Look fellows,” pleaded Ender. “This ain’t your fight, there’s no need….”

“I’m head scout here,” Seiber cut him off curtly. “And you’re under my command. I take that as a responsibility and besides, this ass here is irritating me no end.”

“Well,” shouted Crawford. “You fellows going to keep warbling on or draw your irons and make a show of it?”

The six men drew simultaneously.

The barrage of shooting smacked out above the sound of the wind and soldiers behind scurried for safety or quickly lay flat where they were on the parade ground.

Horn was a slick gunman and the more professional shootist of the three and his target was bowled over the instant he drew, Horn fanned his revolver in a quick tattoo and pumped three shots into the man before the fellow had cocked hammer. As he went down the lace broke on his chinstrap and his hat was whipped away along the ground by the wind.

Seiber took his time, quickly moving to stand side-on as if in a duel and then straightening his pistol before him for an accurate shot. His opponent, the bandana-covered individual raised his Winchester to the waist and fired before Seiger but he was hurried and his aim was awry. Seiger coolly placed a slug neatly into the bandana and the man dropped to his knees, gagging with both hands clutching at his throat.

Ender fired at the same time as Crawford, his shot tore a rent in the flapping slicker and missed. Crawford was unlucky also as a gust of wind blew grit into his face and his bullet sped past Ender’s cheek. Ender cocked and fired again, this time plucking the shoulder from Crawford’s slicker. The gunman answered with a bullet that nicked Ender’s left arm and burned like a hot poker as it flashed by.

Ender dropped to the ground, letting the wind envelope him in dust and obscuring him from Crawford who fired wildly in the prone figure’s direction amongst the dust clouds. His bullets raised explosions around Ender, who lifted his pistol in both hands and from his flat position neatly drilled Crawford under the lower jaw, lifting the back of his skull from the top of his head and blowing the crown of his hat apart.

Getting to his feet, Ender watched Seiger calmly stroll over to the still gasping man he had shot through the mouth and who was still on his knees. Placing his pistol barrel with precision against the man’s forehead, Seiger shot him dead as carefully as he might finish a lame horse.

“Lord!” Horn grinned at Ender. “I thought you were going to undress that fellow you hit his damned coat so many times.”

Ender sniffed. “I never was one much for six-gun play, that’s why I prefer the shotgun.”

“Might we get that drink now?” asked Seiger, strolling back to them.

“Sure,” said Horn. “As long as Ender don’t have any more distractions in line for us.”

“Gentlemen!” a voice cried behind them. “Gentlemen, please a moment.”

It was the photographer, his tripod and bellows camera in one hand and black cloth flapping in the other. He came up to them his eyes squinting against the wind.

“Help you, mister?” asked Horn.

“Please, a photograph to memorize this occasion. I tell you, I have never seen such a sight as that gunfight before. Usually I am only in time to picture the dead propped in their boxes but never the victorious duelists. Allow me to immortalize you all.”

“Immortalize us!” Horn laughed loudly, plainly amused by such a notion. “Hell! Mister, nobody’s going remember any the one of us. We’re just poor scouting fellows lost in Arizona dust who ain’t going to be noted a jot for doing diddly in future times.”

With that the three turned their backs on the photographer and made their way over to the Sutlers Store to quench their thirst.