Colonel Thomas Reynolds rode around a bend in the Tuscon-Mesilla road. Ahead on a hill to the west reared the stone ramparts of Fort Bowie. The officer smiled. He looked forward to getting back to the post. First, he would treat himself to a glass of excellent brandy. Then he would have the orderly fill his tub with hot water so he could soak for an hour. It was the very least he deserved, he told himself, after putting up with the heat and the dust and the Chiricahuas.
Colonel Reynolds glanced over his right shoulder at the detachment of Fifth Cavalry clattering up the road behind him. A week ago, when they had left the post, every man had been dressed in a clean, crisp uniform, and every saddle and bridle had practically shone. Now every trooper, every mount, was covered thick with dust. From head to toe, or from mane to tail, they were all a grimy grey.
But that was Arizona for you, Reynolds mused. In all his years he had never seen any country so foreboding. And it wasn’t just the heat or the wind or the dust. It was the land itself, a land so harsh that even the creatures it bred and the vegetation it spawned were nightmares in their own right. Spiders the size of a man’s hand. Snakes with fangs that dripped venom. Lizards that would bite down and never let go. Plants with spikes and barbs and thorns.
Small wonder, Reynolds noted, that the people who called this land home were as hard as the country in which they lived. Never had he met any tribe like the Apaches, and he had served on the Plains for years, dealing often with the Sioux and the Cheyenne and the Arapaho.
Without being obvious about it, Colonel Reynolds shifted to glance at their Apache scout. Klo-sen was a Mescalero. His name, Reynolds had learned, meant ‘Hair Rope,’ and had something to do with the time he had strangled a Mexican soldado with a rope made of human hair.
Once Klo-sen had told Reynolds a little about his upbringing. How he had been trained to stay awake for an entire day without feeling the effects. How as a boy he had often been given water to carry in his mouth and told to run five miles or more without swallowing. How by the time he was a young man he could travel the equivalent of seventy miles in a single day, on foot, without tiring. How he had trained with knife and bow and lance and sling and rifle and war club until he could use them all with superior skill.
What astounded Reynolds the most was the fact that Klo-sen was not unique. To the contrary, the scout was typical of the men of his tribe. Quite average. Which made Reynolds all the more willing to believe the incredible tales of prowess he had heard about warriors who were more than average.
Such as Delgadito, the Chiricahua. The renegade had been a thorn in the Army’s side since before Colonel Reynolds arrived in the Territory. Striking at will, escaping without a trace, these were Delgadito’s hallmarks. It was rightfully claimed that he had slain more Americans and Mexicans than any Apache alive.
And now, to make a bad situation much worse, a white traitor had joined forces with the renegade. Together they were spreading terror from one end of Arizona to the other. Clay Taggart, the White Apache, had to be stopped at all costs. That was the order Reynolds had been given. In no uncertain terms it was made clear that if he did not bring the White Apache to bay soon, his career would suffer accordingly.
So, a week ago, Reynolds had gone to pay Palacio, the chief of the Chiricahuas, another visit. They had smoked and eaten. The wily chief had listened while Reynolds stressed the urgency of the crises. Palacio had promised to do all in his power to help. But Palacio had made promises before, and the White Apache and Delgadito were still at large.
Now Reynolds was on his way back. In his eyes the trip had been a complete waste. He would never have gone if not for the insistent urging of his superiors. Yet they would blame him when no results were forthcoming.
The thud of hooves brought an end to the officer s reverie. Capt. Gerald Forester, a tough veteran of the Apache campaign, came alongside and asked the question uppermost on Reynolds’s mind. “So what now, sir?”
The colonel frowned. “I wish to hell I knew,” he admitted.
Forester was one of the few subordinates whose judgment he trusted. The rest were either green boys fresh out of the academy or borderline derelicts who could not keep their nose out of a bottle. Tm open to any ideas you might have.”
Forester wished that he had one. He respected Reynolds, which was more than could be said of some of the superior officers he had served under, and he would like to help. He knew what was at stake. But the colonel had already tried everything there was to try and nothing had worked. The White Apache had more lives than a cat. “I’ll think on it, sir,” was all he could say.
The road wound up around the hill to the front gate. A sentry in the east guard tower had seen them approaching from a long way off. As a result, the gate was already open and soldiers were lined up on both sides, standing at attention, their carbines held at the Present Arms position.
At the head of the line stood Lieutenant James Petersen. All spit and polish, he was the newest arrival at Fort Bowie and eager to prove his worth. He gave a properly stiff salute as the detachment reined up. It took an effort for him to keep a grin off his face, so pleased was he with his own performance. He couldn’t wait to share the news.
Colonel Reynolds had always been an observant man. He could not help but notice that the corners of the young lieutenant s mouth quirked upward several times as he wearily dismounted. Removing a gauntlet, he brushed dust from his sleeve, returned the salute, and said, “At ease, Petersen. I trust all went well while I was gone?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
Worry stabbed deep into the colonel. He had left the junior officer in charge against his better judgment. There had been no choice. Of the four captains under his command, two had been out on patrol, one had been in Tucson on official business, and he’d had to take Forester with him to help interpret. “What do you mean, Lieutenant?”
Petersen reported in his best clipped voice, as he had been taught at the prestigious military academy he attended. “Deserters, sir. Three of them. Privates Earl Fetterman, James Koch, and William Stillwell did not show up for morning roll-call three days ago. I ordered an immediate search of the post. It was determined that three horses and provisions were missing.”
Reynolds sighed. Desertion was a chronic problem at a number of forts in the Southwest, not just Bowie. The harsh climate, the unforgiving land, the Apaches and Comanches and other hostiles, all made military life a living hell. Some men simply could not take it. “Very well. I’ll send Captain Forester and Klo-sen after them.”
Petersen beamed proudly. “That won’t be necessary, sir. I’ve already dispatched trackers to hunt them down.”
“Oh?” Colonel Reynolds said, puzzled. His other scouts were all off in the Dragoons, so far as he knew. “Did Sieber and the others come back sooner than expected?”
“No, sir,” Lieutenant Petersen said. “I sent the Bowdrie brothers.”
Colonel Reynolds thought his heart had stopped. For a few moments the world around him spun. He heard Captain Forester curse and Sergeant. McKinn’s intake of breath. Steadying himself, he somehow was able to keep his voice calm as he said, “The Bowdrie brothers are not on the military payroll, Lieutenant.”
Petersen knew that something was amiss but he had no idea what. “The Army has hired them in the past. You told me so, yourself. And since they happened to be at the fort when the three troopers skipped, I thought it would be best to temporarily hire their services again.” He paused. “You did tell me that they are three of the best trackers around, didn’t you, sir?”
Captain Forester wanted to throttle the junior officer. Turning away, he clenched both hands and said to no one in particular, “Dear God. It must already be too late.”
“Sir?” Lieutenant Petersen said, glancing from the captain to the colonel. “Since no scouts were available and you were gone, I went by the book. Did I do wrong?”
Reynolds bowed his head. He couldn’t blame the younger man for what had happened. A few weeks ago he had indeed mentioned that the Bowdrie brothers were good trackers, but only in passing. They had been talking about scouts in general, and how few white men could hold their own against the Indians. “I’m, afraid you might have made a grievous mistake, yes.”
Petersen felt the blood drain from his face. The last thing he wanted was to foul up so soon after arriving there. “May I ask how, sir?”
It was Captain Forester who answered. Whirling, he said with great emotion, “The Bowdrie boys are killers, Petersen. Sure, they’re about the best at what they do. Sure, they can track a lizard over hard ground. But they only do it for money. And they have a habit of killing whoever they’re sent after.” He paused to rein in his anger. “We’ve used them in the past, but only when no one else was handy. And we always made it a point to send troopers along with them to keep them in line. Did you send anyone this time?”
“No, sir,” Petersen admitted. “But I did make it clear that they were to bring the three deserters back alive. I stressed that fact several times,” he emphasized, hoping it would count in his favor. “They were not to harm the deserters unless the deserters resisted.”
“We can always hope,” Captain Forester said forlornly.
Almost on cue, the sentry on the northwest guard tower let out with a bellow. “Duty Officer to the main gate! The Bowdries are coming in! With bodies.”
Feeling as if his own body suddenly weighed a ton, Colonel Reynolds turned and stepped to the left so he could see the riders. They were still well off, engulfed in a shimmering haze of heat. Strung out in single file, each buckskin clad figure led another horse over which a body had been draped. Behind the riders trailed a lupine form Reynolds was only too familiar with.
An awful silence had fallen over Fort Bowie. Every last soldier had stopped whatever he was doing to watch and wait. Many wore expressions of horror and loathing. Some betrayed fear, as if afraid the same fate might befall them one day. More showed resentment, and many of them fingered their carbines or pistols.
Lieutenant Petersen was aghast. “They can’t have, sir!” he blurted. “I mean, I gave them very precise orders.”
“Rank means nothing to vermin like the Bowdries,” Captain Forester commented. “And you did give them the perfect excuse.”
“I did, sir?”
“You told them that they could fight back if the deserters resisted. The minute you said that, those poor boys were as good as dead, whether they resisted or not.”
Presently the clomp of hooves heralded the arrival of the three trackers. If they noticed the cold reception, they did not show it. Swinging wide of the detachment, they made straight for the commanding officer.
Colonel Reynolds clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. He would be damned if he would let them see how distraught he was. He would not give them that satisfaction. As they drew near, he tried to remember which one was which.
In the lead, on a mule, rode Clem Bowdrie. He favored a coonskin cap and an old Sharps buffalo gun. He also liked to wear the baggiest buckskins of any man alive. His blue eyes constantly flicked to the right and left and back again, never still for an instant. He was always as wary as a cornered cougar and three times as dangerous.
Next in line came Clell Bowdrie. The man had to be as skinny as a rail. He also had a reputation for being as tough as a grizzly. In addition to a Winchester and a Colt, he went around with a bow and quiver slung over his back. Rumor had it the bow was Cherokee-made. His brown hair hung to the middle of his back and had been fastened at shoulder height with a band of leather.
Last, also on a mule, entered Tick Bowdrie. The man was as rank as a festering sore. He liked to boast that he never, ever bathed, and anyone who came within breathing distance would not see fit to doubt him. Few, though, would have the gall to come right out and tell him that he smelled like a two-footed skunk. Not when he carried the arsenal he did.
Tick wore a pair of Remingtons wedged under his wide brown belt on either side of the big buckle. He had a Bowie on his right hip, a Colt on his left. Crisscrossing his chest were bandoleers, one for the Spencer he always carried, another for the shotgun slung across his back. Jutting from the top of his left boot was the hilt of an Arkansas toothpick. And word had made the rounds that he carried a derringer in the other boot. It was a standing joke that if Tick Bowdrie ever came unhorsed in deep water, he’d sink like a rock before he could draw a breath.
The last member of the killer clan had four paws and a shaggy coat that gave it the look of an unkempt bear. Only it wasn’t a bear. Razor, as the beast was called, was part wolf and part something else. No one knew what the something else might be, but it was safe to say that whatever it had been had to have been as big as a bear and twice as mean.
Clem Bowdrie reined up before Colonel Reynolds. The tracker did not mince words. “We’re here for our money. Fifty dollars each was what was agreed on. We’ll take it in coin money, not that script stuff.”
“Hello to you, too,” Colonel Reynolds said testily. Stepping to the first corpse, he lifted the man’s head by the hair. Despite himself, he recoiled. The mangled face was beyond recognition. “Dear God in heaven. What the hell did you do to him?”
Clem Bowdrie smiled, showing a row of small, white teeth. “Razor.”
There was no need for the man to elaborate. Colonel Reynolds glanced at the beast, which squatted on its haunches a dozen feet away, its tongue lolling, its eyes like pinpoints of infernal fire as it met his gaze and held it. “I suppose all three of them resisted?” he asked icily.
“Sure as shootin’,” Clem replied good-naturedly. “We did our best to take ’em alive, but your soldier boys was powerful determined not to be brought back.”
Captain Forester had gone over to examine the second body. He recognized Private Koch. The huge exit wound between the shoulder blades told him which of the trackers was responsible. Only a Sharps could make a hole that big.
The truth was that Forester had not liked Trooper Koch very much. The New Yorker had done nothing but complain and shirk his duty from the day he arrived. But Koch had been a cavalryman, and Gerald Forester was cavalry through and through. He would gladly give his life for any man in his command. And he could not stand there and keep his mouth shut when one of their own had needlessly died. Before he could stop himself, he muttered, “You’re a damned liar.”
Tick Bowdrie was nearest. He flushed scarlet and snapped, “I heard that, mister. You’d best apologize or you’ll regret the day you ever insulted a Bowdrie.”
Forester took a step back, his right hand inches from his revolver. He knew the Tennessean could get off at least two shots before he cleared leather, but he didn’t care. “Like hell I’ll apologize. I don’t think you tried to take them alive. I doubt you even gave them a chance to defend themselves.”
Tick started to raise the Spencer. Nearly soldiers elevated their carbines. The threat of violence hung heavy in the hot air. And at that tense moment, when frayed nerves were about to snap, Clell Bowdrie laughed.
“Now don’t this beat all! Here my kin and me do you boys in blue a favor, and look at what happens when we carry out our end of the arrangement?” Leaning toward Forester, he smiled, a smile as sinister as the look of a rattler right before it struck. “A man ought to be almighty careful of the words he throws around. If you’ll take a good look at the three we brought back, you’ll see that not a one was shot in the back.”
“That’s right,” Clem threw in, indignant. “Say what you will about us Bowdries, there ain’t a man among you who can accuse us of being no-account bushwhackers.”
Colonel Reynolds had no love for the Bowdries. In fact, he detested them. He would just as soon see their lifeless carcasses being fed on by buzzards as look at them. But he would be a poor excuse for an officer if he allowed blood to be spilled right there in the fort. Taking a stride, he plastered a grin on his face and held up both hands. “Now, now. That will be quite enough. No one is accusing you Bowdries of being bushwhackers. Lieutenant Petersen hired you to do a job, and you did it.” He indicated the headquarters buildings. “If you will be so kind as to report to the adjutant’s office, you will receive your money.” Reynolds lowered his arms. “Then you will promptly leave this post and never set foot in it again so long as I am in command.”
Clem shrugged. “That suits us right fine, Colonel. We should of knowed better than to take work for you blue-bellies. There ain’t a one of you but don’t have a tongue smeared with hog fat, and that’s a born fact.”
Colonel Reynolds was not quite sure he understood the reference to hog fat. Just understanding the tracker’s speech took some doing, since at times Clem’s high-pitched, Southern drawl was thick enough to be cut with a butter knife. And the others were little better. “Let’s just chalk this whole affair up to a tragic mistake and let it go at that,” he suggested.
“Whatever you say, Yankee.” Clem let go of the lead rope and made for the headquarters, the Sharps tilted down so that it covered the troopers he passed. His brother fell into step behind him while the mongrel wolf brought up the rear.
Sergeant Joe McKinn waited until they were out of earshot to say, “Is it me, sir, or do they make your flesh crawl too?”
A majority of the soldiers present were staring at the three Southerners in ill-concealed hatred. Reynolds had to remind himself that the three slain troopers had friends. He would not put it past one of them to open fire. “Attention!” he thundered, and was pleased when they scrambled to obey.
“You heard the man, Private!” Captain Forester bawled at a trooper who did not react fast enough. “When you’re told to snap to, you damn well better!”
The colonel barked orders, dispersing the detachment and directing that the bodies be taken to the hospital for the time being. In the hustle and bustle of soldiers moving off in all directions, he didn’t realize until another minute went by that Lieutenant Petersen was not there.
The junior officer had pivoted on a boot heel and stormed after the Bowdrie brothers. He was beside himself with fury that they had taken advantage of him and made him out to be incompetent in the eyes of his commanding officer and half the command. The trio were dismounting when he reached them. “I want a word with you,” he announced.
Clem Bowdrie looked at him in amusement, which only fueled Petersen’s anger.
“What can we do for you, soldier boy?” the Tennessean asked.
“It’s what you didn’t do that counts,” the lieutenant responded. “I wanted those troopers brought back alive. I made that perfectly clear at the outset. Yet you saw fit to haul them back over a saddle.”
Tick snickered. “We’ve just been all through this with the head of the pack. We don’t hardly need to explain ourselves to no cub.”
Clem laughed and went to turn away.
Something inside of James Petersen snapped. Without thinking, the officer grabbed the tracker’s shoulder and spun the man around. Almost instantly the muzzle of the Sharps was jammed up under his jaw and the hammer clicked back. Tick and Clell also trained their rifles on him. And the wolf crouched, growling deep in its chest, ready to spring.
Lieutenant James Petersen froze. He was a blink of an eye away from dying, and he knew it.
“No man lays a hand on me, mister!” Clem Bowdrie rasped. “Not unless he’s got my permission.”
Tick Bowdrie moved in, his Spencer leveled. “I ought to put one into your gut for that, blue-belly, so you’ll die nice and slow.”
“No one touches Clem,” Clell interjected fiercely. “No one. Not ever.”
Petersen’s mouth was so dry that he could barely speak. He swirled his tongue a few times, then coughed out, “I meant no harm. Lower your guns.”
“Like hell,” Clell said. “Back in the hills we’d kill a man for what you just did.”
A new voice intruded, a voice with the ring of authority. “But you’re not back in Tennessee, Mr. Bowdrie. You’re on my post, and what I say goes. So you will ease up on those hammers right this instant, or so help me God, not one of you will leave Fort Bowie alive. Not even your mongrel.”
Colonel Reynolds had rushed over with Captain Forester, Sergeant McKinn, and half a dozen troopers in tow. He was taking no chances with men like the Bowdries. Six carbines and two pistols were trained on them. All he had to do was snap his fingers and they would be riddled where they stood.
Clem Bowdrie was no fool. His smooth features relaxed and he let the Sharps drop to his side. “Don’t get your britches in an uproar, Colonel. All you have to do is hand over our money and we’ll be out of your hair. And believe me, you’ll never see us here again.”
Reynolds glanced at the two brothers, who were much more reluctant to obey, but did. “I hope you will take this in the spirit in which it is meant,” he said severely, “but nothing could please me more.” He had seldom been more earnest. Reynolds couldn’t wait for them to get off the post and out of his hair where they could do no more harm and cause him no more problems.
Or so the colonel thought.