TY HORN PICKED up the bottle and pointed towards the rear of the saloon. The poker game was starting up again now that the excitement had ended, but he shook his head when the players invited him to come back in.
‘No thanks, gentlemen. I got me some business to discuss right now, though I’ll be happy to accommodate you tonight.’
He set the bottle down on the table farthest from the players and picked up his winnings. Intrigued, Azul settled into a chair and let Horn fill his glass again. He waited as the man in the grey suit poured himself a measure and stared at the amber liquid with the fierce concentration of one trying to choose his words carefully. The indecision surprised Azul: Horn didn’t seem the kind of man to entertain many doubts.
Finally Horn looked up, grinned, and took a long swallow.
‘You said you were half Apache, Mr. Gunn.’ Azul nodded. ‘I guess that means you know the country pretty well.’
Azul shrugged. ‘I know it well enough. Man has to if he’s to stay alive.’
‘And being half Indian, you’d know the tribes.’
‘Some.’ Azul sipped his drink, wondering where the conversation was leading. ‘No one knows them all. I know the Apache, some Yaqui, but the rancherias move around enough to stay mostly hidden.’
‘But you know the country,’ insisted Horn. ‘You know where the tribes might be.’
Azul shrugged again. ‘I could likely find the Chiricahua, the Mimbreño and Jicarilla, too; the Ojo Caliente are easy to find, so are the White Mountain bands. If they let you.’
‘They’re mostly in Arizona and New Mexico, aren’t they?’ Horn asked cautiously.
‘Sure. Spread across from the Mogollons to the Pecos River, near enough. But there’s groups down into Mexico and some as far north as the Chuscas.’
‘How about Texas?’ Horn topped both glasses. ‘Any there?’
Azul shook his head. ‘Texas is Comanche country. The only Apaches you’ll meet oil the plains will be a raiding party looking for Comanche horses.’
‘But surely the Kiowa live in Texas, too,’ said Horn. ‘At least that’s what I heard.’
‘You heard right.’ Azul set his glass down untouched. ‘Mostly north of the Canadian. How come you’re so interested in the tribes?’
‘Personal reasons.’ Horn stared at his glass. ‘Like I said: there’s someone I want to find.’
‘A captive?’ Azul felt he knew the answer even before Horn nodded. ‘Then your best chance is the Army. They keep records of any whites found. Ask them.’
‘I did,’ grunted Horn. ‘They’ve got no records.’
‘Maybe you should tell me the whole story,’ said Azul. ‘Right now we’re just talking circles.’
‘You’re right,’ murmured Horn, ‘I’m sorry. It’s knowing where to start.’
‘Try the beginning,’ grunted Azul, waiting.
Horn emptied his glass, topped it, and pushed the bottle towards the half-breed. Azul shook his head.
‘I come from Mississippi, Mr. Gunn. I own several businesses in Jackson and more in Vicksburg. They took me a long time to build up; twenty years ago all I had was one store, but I understand money and I made it work for me. I still do, only it’s not the same anymore.’ He paused, sorting out his words. ‘My parents died in a hotel fire, leaving me in charge of my sister. Eliza was a child then. A headstrong child who ran off and married a man called Amos Marker. He was a no-account farmer with no money and too much pride. They had a child. A boy they christened Jebediah after my father. A girl, too, little Mary.
‘Marker’s farm failed and he sold up. I wanted them to come into business with me, but Amos was too mule-proud for that. He decided to head west and try his hand at ranching. They disappeared somewhere west of the Red River, at least that was the last sighting of them.’
‘How long ago was all this?’ Azul demanded.
‘A space over twenty years,’ murmured Horn. ‘Be twenty years and three months since I watched them leave.’
‘And you want to hire me to find them?’ Azul was incredulous. ‘You left it a mite late, didn’t you?’
‘I was angry.’ Horn looked embarrassed. ‘I thought Eliza would come to her senses and ask me for help. By the time I got around to any real worrying the war was coming up. I joined Beauregard, then rode under Jeff Davis’s command. Time we surrendered, it was 1865 and I had a whole passel of work to get the business back on its feet. Soon as I got some cash together, I began to make enquiries. I found out that Amos had bought title to some land near the Canadian that never did get settled. Folks said they’d seen the family heading west with a guide called Henneker, only no one’s seen Henneker since.’
‘Nor likely to,’ said Azul. Then, softening the blow: ‘Horn, d’you realize what you’re asking? This all happened twenty years past, Your folks are dead, or taken in by the tribes. They wouldn’t know you if they was alive still. Hell! The kids’ll be Indians with children of their own.’
Horn poured more whiskey and then reached inside his jacket, tugging out a square section of folded cloth. Very carefully, he set it down on the dirty table and pulled the fastenings loose. Flipping the cloth aside, he lifted a small, flat box out and opened the lid. Nestling on a bed of velvet was an oval miniature. The paint was fading, dried by the sun and chipped across the front as though it had been struck by something sharp. Horn held the thing out to Azul. Up close it was possible—just—to make out the features of a demure, dark-haired woman with full lips and Horn’s nose. The reverse was tarnished gold, a faint inscription etched into the worn metal.
It read: Tyrone, with all a mother’s love.
‘Mother gave that to me,’ said Horn. ‘When Eliza told me she was leaving, we exchanged pieces. I have the counterpart back in my room.’
‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ grunted Azul. ‘Where’d you get it?’
‘As I said, I started enquiries. I hired the Pinkerton Agency to find them: they found this. It was taken from the body of a Kiowa killed by the Army near the Salt Fork of the Brazos. He was one of a group of hostiles hunted out of Fort Brigg when the Kiowa cut up the peace talks. He must have got it from Eliza.’
‘Or another Kiowa, or maybe a Comanche. Or a Cheyenne. Or an Osage. Could’ve been from an Apache or a Zuni even.’ Azul shook his head. ‘Horn, it’s nothing to go on.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Horn quickly, fueling his own hope as he tried to convince Azul. ‘Two things, in fact. The scout they used—Henneker—carried a Sharps buffalo gun. The Army says there’s a Kiowa war chief uses the same weapon.’
Azul sniffed. ‘So? Might’ve come from anywhere. It don’t mean any more than the painting.’
‘But not many Indians carry Sharps carbines, do they?’ Horn was getting excited now. ‘And then there’s the other thing. Little Mary was nearly two when they left. I bought a doll for her birthday—gave it to Eliza to take along. A big doll, it was, made of china, with real hair stuck to the head.’
He broke off, gulping his drink as though the liquor could stoke his conviction.
‘It’s been found! I got word from a trader up on the Canadian, a man called Futterman. He said a Kiowa brought the doll in and tried to sell it for whiskey. Someone the Pinkertons used had been by the post and told Futterman about the doll and the rest, so he got word to me. That was four months back.’
‘You spoken to him?’ Azul asked, humoring the man. ‘How come you’re in Dragonsville when Futterman’s one hundred miles north?’
Horn looked embarrassed again. ‘I’m not a Westerner, Mr. Gunn. I’m a businessman. Married now, though I can’t have kids of my own. I had to come this way on business. I’ll ride up there if I can, but right now I want to hire someone like you to check it out for me. I’d be lost dealing with Indians: I need someone who knows the country and the tribes and can look after himself.’
‘For a thousand dollars,’ murmured Azul. ‘That was what you said.’
Horn nodded. ‘Sure! I’ll pay you a hundred on account and Stake you for the journey. If you can find any of them I’ll give you the full thousand.’
Azul thought about it. One thousand dollars was a lot of money, and with Nolan deadi he was loose of any clear objective. He had no particular place to go, nor anyone he cared to see. Even if he failed to locate the missing family—and he held no hope of success for the mission—Horn’s hundred would tide him over. If the man was willing to pay that kind of money after twenty years, the sensible thing was to take it and run. Head down into Mexico, or cut west to the Mogollons and live easy for a spell.
But that sense of honor that had prompted him to ride after the killers of his people down all the long, dusty trails of the Southwest, stopped him from thinking long about tricking the man. If he agreed, he would carry out the hunt as best he could.
But first, there were things Horn needed to understand.
‘Listen,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m willing to try it, but I have to tell you some things first. You most likely won’t want to hear them, but they got to be said. After, you make your choice.’
‘Go ahead.’ Horn began to smile. ‘Tell me.’
‘Twenty years is a long time. If your sister came out here way back then, she’s pretty sure to be dead now. If it was Kiowa that hit them, her husband got killed straight off. The scout, too. They wouldn’t leave white men alive. How old was your sister?’
‘Eliza?’ Horn thought for a moment. ‘Why, she’d have been about nineteen then. I told her she was too young to wed.’
Azul snorted. ‘Indian women have as many babies as they can by then. Your sister’s dead, Mr. Horn. If she wasn’t killed in the raid, then the Kiowa took her out on the sand and raped her. If that didn’t kill her, they did it after. When they were finished. Or they left her on the plains, which amounts to the same thing. Whatever tokens your Eastern detectives found got picked up along with the other stuff on the wagon.’
Horn choked on his whiskey and his face assumed the same color as his hair. He swallowed hard, his big hands knitting into fists, knuckles gleaming white as he dug the nails into his palms and fought the blank truth of the situation.
‘That still leaves the children, Mr. Gunn. Jeb was scarce three years old then, little Mary was two. Be no reason to kill them.’
Azul grinned. ‘No? It depends on what the Kiowa were after. If it was a vengeance raid, they’d most like kill everyone. Women and children same as the men. If it was just a hunting party, then they might take the women alive. Trouble is, it would depend how far they were from their camp and how much the tribe needed women. To breed from, Mr. Horn.’
Horn turned a paler shade of grey and filled his glass with shaky hands.
‘From what you told,’ continued Azul, remorselessly, ‘they were some ways south, into Comanche country and close on Apache land. That’d mean they’d kill anyone who couldn’t travel easy. A little girl doesn’t travel easy, Mr. Horn. Especially not a little white girl who’s just lost her mother. She cries. That means she dies.’
‘Oh my God!’ Horn gulped, wiping a hand over his face. ‘Leave me some hope.’
‘Truth is more valuable,’ grunted Azul. ‘Out here it’s something you need to stay alive. Hope’s poor charity when you got no faith in what you can do on your own. That’s truth, Mr. Horn. That’s the difference between living and dying. Something I learned early.’
‘So they’re all dead?’ Horn pressed his hands to his face, rubbing at his eyes. They were big hands, soft and with neat-cut nails. Businessman’s hands. ‘There’s no hope?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Horn jumped on the brief sentence like a hungry trout leaping at a hook, forgetting the pain in the need to grasp the morsel hiding the barbs.
‘So there is a chance?’
‘For the boy,’ murmured Azul. ‘For him at best. He was what? Three? Young enough to forget about being white and grow up as a Kiowa. They might’ve taken him if they wanted warriors.’
‘Little Jeb could be alive?’ Horn looked up from between his spread fingers. ‘Just him? That’d be better than none. If I could find little Jeb again I’d feel happy.’
He swallowed hard. ‘Me and Ruth can’t have children, you see. She’s a fine woman, but there’s something wrong. With me, I think. Ruth loves kids and we planned on four. Didn’t work out that way, so I got even more excited about finding Eliza’s brood. If you can find little Jeb, Mr. Gunn, you’ll make me real happy.’
‘He won’t be little Jeb any more,’ said Azul coldly, trying to make the words sink in through Horn’s enthusiasm. ‘He’ll be about twenty years old. A full- blood Kiowa. He’ll have a squaw and kids of his own. Maybe several squaws. He’ll have scalps hung up on his lodgepole and scars on his body. He’ll have paint on his face and smell of grease and blood. He won’t be little Jeb any more, Mr. Horn.’
Deliberately, he emphasized the words, trying to force the Easterner to realize the true situation.
Horn just shook his head and shoved the miniature over to Azul. Blinded by tears, his hand struck Azul’s glass, toppling it over so that whiskey spilled across the paint. Azul lifted the tiny medallion and wiped it on his shirt. The scalloped edge picked up a droplet of Jance Baldry’s blood that hung between the curves like a bright, dying jewel.
Azul blew it away. The blood flickered for a moment in the dim light, then plopped down into the sawdust. It landed just ahead of a large, black beetle that was scurrying through the stained dust. The beetle paused, its antennae twitching as it sensed the vibration. Then it darted on. Found the blood and rolled the globule neatly into a ball, shoving it ahead until it felt safe from the feet of the men.
After that, it began to drink.
‘Find him,’ moaned Horn. ‘Just try to do that. Show him the painting if you can. Or send word to me. I’ll come and speak to him. Just do that. Please?’
‘Alright.’ Azul nodded, picking up the miniature and tucking it inside his vest. ‘Why not?’