CUCHILLO RESTED AS the heat of morning rose In the shady law office and cells, feeling the last remnants of pain drain out of him. But he did not sleep, because there had been enough of that the previous evening and night.
The foul cells were side by side along the rear of the building, with no windows in the solid timber walls. He was the sole prisoner.
As he lay on his side on the cot, he could see the entire law office, which was furnished with a large roll-top desk against a side wall, three chairs, a safe, a rack of rifles, a cold pot-bellied stove, and a bulletin board hung with wanted posters. The door that opened onto the plaza had a glass panel in its top half, and there was a large, many-paned window on either side of it. Thus, by lengthening the focus of his eyes, Cuchillo could see out onto the plaza and even across it, in through the open gates of the fort.
From time to time, as Benteen gave an account of the capture to Gruber, a face would appear at the window to peer inside: sometimes, there were a whole group of curious observers. But a scowling look from the lawman was always enough to send the rubbernecks scurrying away.
The railroad worker transferred to sentry duty gave a full and honest account of what had occurred at the end of the defile, stressing Cuchillo’s co-operative attitude and reporting the protestations of Rebecca Trotter.
Wearing a constant scowl, Gruber made copious notes, Then, after curtly dismissing Benteen, he swung his swivel chair and looked into Cuchillo’s cell, picking up the golden knife and toying with it.
‘So you’re Pinner’s Indian, uh?’ he asked rhetorically. Then, when this failed to draw a response, his voice became a snarl. ‘Answer me, Injun—or I’ll smash up the only good hand you got!’
‘Due process of law allows that?’ Cuchillo asked,
Gruber stiffened, and seemed on the point of lunging out of the chair. But he brought his anger under control. ‘Due process of law allows me to question suspects, Injun. There’s leeway in the matter of how I get the answers.’
Cuchillo did not fear this White Eyes any more than he had feared others who had held him a helpless captive. But he was aware that Gruber could make imprisonment more intolerable than it already was—if he was so minded.
‘I am called that,’ he allowed with a low sigh. ‘My name is Cuchillo Oro.’
‘Golden Knife,’ Gruber translated absently, turning the cinquedea this way and that in his gnarled, stubby-fingered hands. ‘Last I heard about you, that snot-nosed Army officer almost finished you. Fort Ryan, wasn’t it?’
‘We met at Fort Ryan,’ Cuchillo answered tautly, drawing from the back of his mind a starkly etched memory of a vicious battle within a battle. ‘I might have died, or Pinner might have died. Both of us still live.’
Gruber showed dark-stained teeth in a cruel grin. ‘Reckon pretty soon that’ll be changed in your case, Injun.’
‘There have been other occasions since Fort Ryan,’ Cuchillo said gravely, appearing not to have heard Gruber’s comment. ‘Perhaps there will be more.’
The lawman laughed shortly. ‘Reckon you got good reason to sound so goddam uncertain about that, Injun.’
‘A man who lives without hope never suffers the torment of regret,’ Cuchillo replied, coining yet another of the aphorisms he was wont to voice from time to time.
Gruber tossed the ornate knife negligently on his desk. ‘So I ain’t up to date on all the news. Fill me in, Injun. How come you thrown in with that bunch of renegades been hittin’ the railroad? Heard you was a loner.’
Cuchillo realized he had nothing to lose by telling Tyler Bend’s sheriff of the recent events that had led up to his appearing on the north trail driving the buckboard. And only scorn to win when the story was told and disbelieved. Short of a miracle happening, his life was already forfeit.
But then he shook his head, almost imperceptibly. For, as Gruber waited with mounting impatience for a response to the inquiry, Cuchillo realized that his reward for the truth could be far worse than scorn. For the lawman might choose to believe him—and demand to know where John Colt and his braves were camped.
And despite the treachery of the Chiricahua chief toward the Mimbreños, he was still an Apache—while Gruber and the other citizens of Tyler Bend were White Eyes. Cuchillo’s loyalties were clear in such a case—but he would suffer untold agonies should they be put to the test.
So he lied—telling a simple story of traveling a great distance on foot before coming across the loose-roaming cavalry mount with its military saddle and accouterments. And spoke the truth only from the time, shortly after sunrise, when he had galloped around the butte and been shot at by Mrs. Trotter.
Gruber recognized the falsehood of most of what Cuchillo spoke, or perhaps had elected to disbelieve him from the outset. Whichever, his impatience increased still more as he listened.
‘That it?’ he growled as the door of his office was slammed open.
‘Sheriff Gruber, what has this man done that is wrong?’
The man who strode into the office was tall and thin, with a pale, hollow-cheeked face dominated by a pair of coal-black eyes. About thirty, he had a neat mustache and slicked-down black hair. He carried a blue derby hat in his shaking hands and was otherwise dressed in a gray city suit with a stiff-collared white shirt and black necktie. His freshly shaved face was sheened with sweat.
‘You didn’t knock on the damn door, Trotter!’ Gruber snarled. ‘But you can shut it behind you, goddammit!’
‘I asked you a question,’ the newcomer insisted, but complied with the impolite request.
Gruber sniffed and nodded. ‘Your wife gonna be okay?’
Trotter crossed to the line of cells and peered through the bars at Cuchillo, who was still calmly taking his ease along the cot. There was ambivalence in the newcomer’s dark eyes now. ‘She’ll need rest and quiet,’ he retorted, turning to glower again at the lawman. ‘But it could have been much worse had this Apache not brought her back to town.’
‘Mrs. Trotter was warned about goin’ out to the Whipple Farm after yesterday’s killin’s,’ Gruber reminded Trotter, his tone lower but still irate.
Trotter gripped his hat tighter, and this stopped the trembling of his hands. That is neither here nor there in this respect,’ he argued, matching the lawman’s efforts to control his temper. ‘Rebecca has told me of all that happened. My wife admits she made a mistake.’ He turned to look at Cuchillo again. For just long enough to say: ‘She asks me to apologize to you, Indian. And to thank you on behalf of herself and our daughter,’ Then he returned his attention to Gruber. ‘You have obviously made the same mistake that Emily did. And I demand that you—’
Gruber came out of his chair fast and advanced only two paces. But Trotter retreated by the same amount.
‘That’s right, Trotter!’ the lawman snarled. ‘You back off from me. A lot of men died out at the east camp yesterday. You saw them, and when you did, for a while there you hated Injuns as much as I do. Now you wanna be all sweetness and friggin’ light to the first stinkin’ savage that don’t act like the stinkin’ savage they all are.’
His voice rose to the volume of ranting, and Trotter started to shake again.
‘And that’s all it is, mister! An act. This stinkin’ savage was ridin’ a horse that belonged to one of them snot-nose soldier boys that was killed. And he’s just told me that the one lousy horse wandered better than ten miles off while the rest stayed right where they was hitched. You just look at him, mister. While you was shovelin’ him that sorry shit. So
you seen he’s one big stinkin’ savage. And you’ve heard Frank Peabody’s account of how the Injun that heads up the troublemakin’ bunch is bigger than any ‘Pache he ever did see before.’
Gruber paused for breath, and to wipe away the saliva of anger that had run down his chin. Then went on, lowering his voice without reducing the power of the words. ‘So this Injun stays right where he is until Peabody gets in from the east camp.’
As if exhausted by the diatribe, the lawman back-stepped and sank into the swivel chair. Trotter drew in a deep breath, glared at Gruber, then turned his head to look into the cell again. Abruptly struck by a thought, he turned his attention back to Gruber,
‘If he took part in yesterday’s massacre, Sheriff, why would he come to Tyler Bend with the stolen horse?’
The lawman sighed and then nodded as he struck a match on his thumbnail and lit a short cigar stub. ‘Maybe there’s a sneaky Apache reason for that, Mr. Trotter,’ he said softly. ‘Tom Benteen’s got that same thing on his mind. And it bothers me a little, too. Reason I ain’t leaned heavy on the Injun yet. Have to give it some more thought if Peabody don’t identify him. It might just be the horse got loose and roamed that far.’
‘You won’t do anything while I ride out and bring Frank Peabody back to town?’ Trotter asked anxiously.
‘Won’t do a thing that’d give me any sleepless nights, mister.’ Gruber replied evenly as the smartly dressed railroad man moved to the door.
Trotter halted with his hand on the knob, a grave frown on his thin face. ‘That is a meaningless promise, Sheriff. Since the prisoner is an Indian and—’
‘Go get your foreman, mister!’ Gruber snarled. ‘The prisoner’s in custody of a man who respects the law.’
Trotter hesitated, nodded, then: ‘I apologize. Will you object if my wife’s housekeeper sends in a meal for the Indian?’
‘Do what you damn well please.’
The visitor shot an embarrassed glance toward Cuchillo, then went hurriedly out onto the plaza.
‘Seems your friend Hedges ain’t the only white man hereabouts likes Apaches,’ the scowling sheriff growled as he swung his chair to face the cells again.
‘John Hedges is in this town?’ Cuchillo responded quickly, folding up into a sitting position and unable to conceal a glint of pleasure in his eyes.
Gruber showed a cruel smile, dropped his cigar to the floorboards and ground out its fire under his heel. ‘Like to see him, uh?’
From the lawman’s taunting expression and tone, Cuchillo considered there was scant chance of such a privilege being allowed. So he stretched out on his back again, the hope fading from his lacerated face as he resumed his contemplation of the unpainted ceiling. ‘A man in prison may ask for the world, for there is no way to place bars around his imagination.’
‘Seems your buddy ran out of smart-ass Injuns to spout learnin’ to. In this piece of Injun country anyhow. On account ain’t none of the savages about to show up around Tyler Bend since the raids started.’ He paused, to give Cuchillo time to comment. Then: ‘Ain’t you gonna ask about your buddy, Injun?’
‘You will say what you have to say, White Eyes. A man does not help to wield the weapons of torture that assault him.’
Gruber laughed. ‘Guess we’ll soon have the Chinks spoutin’ that kinda fancy talk. That’s what Hedges is at now. Teachin’ proper English to the Chinks the railroad people are using for the heavy work.’
Cuchillo remained unmoving on the cot, and his face did not change out of its impassive set. But he sensed a stir of fresh hope, while still being suspicious of the tough lawman’s motives.
‘Anyway, your buddy’s got himself a kinda schoolhouse up beyond the south ridge. In an old silver mine. Reckons the Chinks learn easier up there away from the noise of the town.’
As the morning grew older, Tyler Bend had become noisy—most of the more raucous sounds emanating from the railroad depot And the air, which seemed to get hotter by the second, was now tainted with the twin smells of woodsmoke and steam from locomotives and other machines.
‘Lives up there in the old mine, too. On account of him being an Injun lover and me being the opposite. Lots of other folks hereabouts are same as me since the raids started. So a man like Hedges, he ain’t welcome in Tyler Bend. Not no way he ain’t.’
There was venom in Gruber’s voice, but then he brought his emotions under control, and his tone became flat again.
‘But I reckon he’ll come down from his bolt hole to see you, Injun. Soon as I saw that bum hand of yours and I knew who you was, I sent a young feller up to the south ridge to bring that Injun lover.’
Cuchillo sat up again, but slowly this time, and he made no effort to conceal his feelings. Gruber scowled in response to the suspicion he saw in the dark eyes of the Apache.
‘I know Injuns,’ the lawman said before the prisoner could pose a question, ‘Known ‘em all my life, which is how come I hate you and your kind so much. You wanna know why I sent word to John Hedges and I’ll tell you somethin’ if he’s set on not tellin’ you.’
He paused to light another cigar. A fresh one this time. And spoke out of a cloud of blue tobacco smoke as he continued.
‘You heard what I told the chief engineer of the railroad, Injun. His foreman’s the only feller around here that’s seen the leader of the renegades and lived. But even if Frank Peabody says you ain’t the big ‘Pache he saw, that don’t change my problem about whether to believe your story or not. You understand me, Injun?’
‘My own trouble clouds my mind,’ Cuchillo answered, watching out through the window to catch a first glimpse of his friend on the plaza. ‘But does not blind it to all else.’
Gruber nodded. ‘I ain’t about to just turn you loose without checkin’ your story. And I figure to check it with the help of your Injun-lovin’ buddy.’
He came out of the chair, showed another of his cruel smiles, and strode to the door. A Chinese woman of great age was waiting outside, holding a tray covered with a cloth. Gruber opened the door and jerked a thumb toward the cells. Head bent, the woman entered, shuffled across the law office, and stooped to place the tray on the floor. Then she pushed it under the barred door of the cell, turned, and shuffled out again. She did not speak.
‘Now I’d only have to talk about leanin’ on her kind to get told the truth,’ Gruber said, standing on the threshold of the open doorway with his back to the office. ‘But Injuns—they don’t listen to that kinda reasonin’.’
He stepped out onto the plaza then, and closed the door behind him, to stand casual guard in the shade of the small porch.
Cuchillo did not feel hungry, but experience had taught him to accept nourishing food whenever it was available—for he could seldom be sure when or where he would get his next meal. So he picked up the tray and sat on the side of the cot to remove the cloth. And allowed himself an ironic smile when he saw the two fried eggs—for it was Mrs. Trotter’s wish to obtain hard-to-get hen’s eggs that was responsible for his present predicament. In addition to the eggs, there were thick slices of hot ham, some beans, and three pieces of toasted fresh-baked bread.
As he ate the late breakfast, Cuchillo constantly glanced toward the sun-bright plaza beyond the solid figure of Gruber. But there was no pleasure in his anticipation of seeing John Hedges, for he knew that whatever the lawman had in mind, it was evil.
A train pulled out across the plaza, heading east and hauling flatcars heavily laden with supplies to rebuild the ravaged construction camp. The law office vibrated as black wood-smoke and gray steam found entrance through the cracks around the door and windows. Then, as the billowing vapor cleared from the plaza, two riders reined their mounts to a halt in front of the law office and swung to the ground. One was the young man Gruber had been whispering to while Cuchillo was hustled into the cell. The other was an anxious-looking John Hedges.
The only White Eyes Cuchillo Oro called friend was a small man, more than twice the Apache’s age, who had once been flabby and weak, his teaching profession requiring a keen brain with no necessity for physical strength. But he had changed much since Cuchillo was launched by vicious circumstances onto the vengeance path of a renegade. For due in no small measure to the actions of the Apache, the White Eyes schoolteacher had become something of an outcast. And a weakling could not survive the privations that such a condition imposed.
In his late forties, Hedges was only five feet two inches tall. But the build that had once been weighty with excess flesh was now sparse and commanded a wiry strength. Below the thinning hair that was almost all gray, his once nondescript face now showed a strength of character to complement his physical power. The lean flesh was burnished by exposure to weather and scored with the lines of suffering. The clear blue eyes were bright and unafraid, and there was determination—even a hint of aggression—in the set of the thin mouthline and jut of the jaw. So that the anxiety he showed as he listened to the words of the scowling Gruber was merely a surface response, thinly layered over the basic hardness.
He was dressed in a stained, torn, and patched city suit, open-necked denim shirt, and a derby hat, all gray.
Gruber took charge of his weak-looking, underfed horse and gestured for his messenger to accompany him as he moved away from the front of the law office. Then, with a sigh, John Hedges pushed open the door and stepped inside.
‘Aren’t you ever going to learn to stay out of trouble, you crazy Apache?’ he asked with a strange mixture of humor and gravity in his tone and expression.
Cuchillo’s face was set in solemn lines as he rose from the cot. ‘Would you have had me leave a white woman and her young child to die in the wilderness, John Hedges?’
Now the humor left the white man as he approached the cell. He nodded. ‘The man sent to bring me told me what happened. It would be better for you if you were entirely bad, Cuchillo.’
‘There are some things within a man, whatever the color of his skin, that nothing can change.’ He clasped the hand that was thrust through the bars at him. ‘It was not I who sent for you. And although I am pleased to see you again, I fear it is not good for either of us that you are here’.
Hedges disengaged from the handshake, took off his hat, and moved to sink into Gruber’s swivel chair. He sighed. ‘Tell me the worst, Cuchillo.’
The tall Apache nodded, maintaining his stance at the cell door. ‘As you once told me, John, a trouble shared is a trouble halved. But I am sad there is never joy to speak of between us.’
The only joy you’ll ever experience will be if you succeed in killing Captain Pinner. And you know I won’t share in that, Cuchillo.’
‘Two wrongs do not make a right.’
Hedges smiled faintly. ‘It’s a pity you don’t remember many other things I tried to teach you.’
‘I remember everything, John. And perhaps one day I will live every part of my life by your rules.’ Now he expressed a flicker of humor. ‘But did you not also tell me that rules are made to be broken sometimes?’
‘Broken,’ Hedges allowed gruffly. ‘Not smashed to smithereens!’
Cuchillo brightened his smile. ‘But you have come to help me pick up the pieces once again?’
A shrug. ‘What have I got to lose?’
Cuchillo became grave-faced. ‘Your life, John. Which is very dear to me.’
Hedges scowled. ‘Seems where you’re concerned, it’s worth only a penny—and a bad one at that.’
The Apache expressed puzzlement, and his friend, grinned. ‘It’s just that whenever you’re in a jam, I keep turning up.’