Kitt Peak (12 page)

Deciding not to wait and see, he urged the horse forward, out of the hollow, and turned it down the steep slope toward the plain below. Then he would ride a mile or so south, skirting the Injuns' path, then head at top speed toward the mining camp.

Again, something scratched above him on the rocks. A shape loomed up.

"What the — " Reney said, as a dark mass of feathers rose on the rock shelf above him, raised giant wings, then swooped down.

His curse was swallowed by the night, and even the Indian riders did not hear his single muffled scream as the thing covered and overwhelmed him.

Thomas awoke to the face of someone he didn't recognize, a white woman with hair pulled back away from her face bending over him. She had kind blue eyes.

"Feel better?" she asked.

"Who -

"Don't talk," the white woman said. She held a cloth in her hand, and she dabbed at his face with it. Thomas felt soothing coolness. The woman took the cloth away, dabbed it in a dish of water on a table next to the bed, and patted at him again. Only when Thomas tried to move any part of his face did he feel tightness and discomfort.

"I'm Mary, the Marshal's wife," the woman said, before he could speak again. "Your friend is in the other bedroom. Dr. Leonard set his broken leg. He's had a bit of a fever, but he'll be fine."

Thomas, feeling suddenly confined, tried to raise himself up on his elbow, but lay back with a groan.

The woman frowned, put her cloth down. "Don't do that again. You were beat up pretty badly, Lieutenant. Is it all right if I call you that? Your friend Lincoln keeps calling you that in his delirium."

Thomas frowned, then nodded.

"I've got some soup on the kettle, I can get you some if you'd like."

Thomas nodded again. "Thank you," he tried to say, but the words came out garbled.

"Your lips are swollen," the woman said. She put the cloth down in the dish, turned, and left the room.

Thomas heard other noises. He was in a room which would normally be bright, with a large window next to the bed, now covered by a sheet. There was flowered wallpaper on the walls, shelves of knick-knacks, tiny potted cactus plants. A shelf of books lined the far wall.

A child's voice grew loud. Thomas turned toward the doorway to see a boy of four or five staring at him, eyes wide.

"The beat-up man is alive!" the boy exclaimed.

Thomas frowned at him. The boy turned and ran under the woman's arm as she re-turned, bearing a tray.

"Joshua, don't bother the Lieutenant!" she called after him. She added, "And your friends can't come in and look!"

"He's awake! He's alive!" the boy's retreating voice cried. Then Thomas heard the bang of a screen door.

"I'll try to keep him away from you," the woman said. She put the tray down on the table, started to spoon some of the soup out of a bowl so Thomas could eat it.

"I'll do that," Thomas said in a slur, having had enough of the nursing already, raising himself up on his elbows and staying there this time.

The woman hurriedly put the soup spoon down, reached out to help him.
"I
told you, you shouldn't — "

"Please," Thomas said, trying not to sound testy. He let the woman help him sit up, put a pillow behind his head.

The world momentarily spun, settled back into place.

"Lord . . ." Thomas muttered, hearing the word come out garbled.

"Your friend told me you were stubborn," the woman said disapprovingly.

Thomas found he could stay where he was without blacking out.

The woman lifted the tray, put it on his lap. When she tried to lift the soup spoon to his lips, Thomas reached out to take it from her.

"Please, I can…"

"All right!" the woman said. She put the spoon down, threw up her hands. "If you need anything, call me," she said. "I'll be out front."

Trying to sound grateful, Thomas mumbled out, "Thank you. . ."

The woman left the room, shaking her head.

On the second try, Thomas managed to get some of the soup to his mouth. His hands, his arms, didn't want to work. He felt as if his body had been rolled over by a heavy rock.

"Lord . . ."

The soup was good, though. Soon Thomas had regained some control over his limbs. He took a deep breath. His ribs hurt, too. Forsen had done a job on him, after all.

Outside the window, he heard children's whispering voices.

"He's in there, Nicky," one said. "He's right in there — and he's alive!"

"No way," another urgent whispering voice answered. "You made it all up, Joshua."

Wincing with the pain in his ribs, Thomas leaned over to the window and threw the shade up. He was met by two startled young faces.

He growled, making a face, then laughed as the two boys tore off away from the house.

"Can't be feeling too badly if you're up to scaring children," an amused voice said behind him.

He turned in bed to see Murphy in the doorway.

"Hello, Marshal," Thomas said.

Murphy said, "If it helps any, I've put a warrant out on Forsen. I've had him in here before. I'm sure when I get him again, he'll tell me who the other two with him were —that's the kind of man he is."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Murphy said. "Because when you hear what I have to say next, you won't think so kindly of me. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave off looking for Bill Adams's daughter. In fact, I'm going to have to ask you to stay here in Tucson till you feel better, then leave the area altogether."

Thomas gave Murphy a level look.

"I'm not real happy about it, but that's the way things are, Mr. Mullin. I've got my plate full with the President coming. I can't afford to have anything mar that. Call it a political thing, if you want."

"In other words," Thomas said, beginning to feel his mouth say the words the way they were supposed to sound, "you were ordered by Washington to get rid of me."

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Mullin," Murphy said. "The truth is, I was told by the President's advance men to make sure there was no trouble in the area with the Papagos.

They want a nice uneventful visit, something tidy and politically safe for the papers to talk about. And you've been stirring up too many hornets in the few days you've been here. Reeves told us about Bartow. We went out and got his body yesterday."

Thomas's mouth hurt but he talked anyway. "Did you know, Marshal, that someone at the Ranger Mining Company has been illegally selling arsenic to the Papagos? That's what produced the toxic effect we saw on Bill Adams's face. Bartow's, too."

Murphy got a pinched look. "I didn't know that."

"There's a lot more you don't know, Marshal."

"Such as?"

"Nothing I can say for sure, yet. What you have to do is give me more time."

Murphy sighed heavily. "I can't do that, Mr. Mullin. Like I said, when you're better, you'll have to leave." He wouldn't meet Thomas's eyes. "And I'm sorry, Mr. Mullin, I truly am."

Thomas rested the remainder of the day. Joshua and his young friend, Nicky, came back to mildly taunt him, and he played their game, growling at them whenever their faces rose above the windowsill outside. The one time he tried to rise on his own, he became dizzy and weak.

Mary Murphy came in at suppertime to feed him again. He hungrily ate what she offered. He could feel his body craving nourishment. After the meal, he fell back, exhausted, and slept.

During the night, he awoke, watching the moon rise. It was weakening, a thinning crescent.

Thomas lay back, letting bits of evidence wash over him. He had a lot of pieces, but they seemed to fit into different puzzles.

What would Holmes do?

Thomas knew what Holmes would do. He would conclude, logically, that there was only one puzzle, and one set of pieces. There were murders in the Boboquivari Mountains, specifically Kitt Peak. There was possibly Apache action. There was the illicit sale of arsenic to the Tohono O'otam. There was the mystery of Bill Adams, and his daughter. . . .

Wincing with the pain of movement, Thomas sat up, reached into his jacket at the end of the bed, and removed the letter from Bill Adams, opened it, and looked at it. He had previously dismissed it as having given up all its secrets.

She's all I have,
Bill
Adams had written,
and I don't want a terrible thing to happen.

Thomas stared at the letter.

I don't want a terrible thing to happen.

Sherlock Holmes had said, "When you have eliminated the impossible, all that remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Bill Adams had not said he didn't want a terrible thing to happen to his daughter.

He'd said, simply, he didn't want a terrible thing to
happen.

"Damn," Thomas said, eliminating the impossible, and suddenly knowing where Adams's daughter was.

Thomas rose painfully and dressed. His clothes had been folded neatly on a chair at the end of the bed, along with this sidearm.

Bending to pull his boots on, Thomas nearly cried out at the pain but gritted his teeth and continued with the job. Then he stole out of the room, seeking the front door of the house.

On the couch in the parlor, the long form of Lincoln Reeves lay stretched out. His bandaged and splinted leg was propped over the far arm of the sofa. The young man snored loudly, and Thomas shook his head as he passed.

He eased open the front door and passed out into the night.

His horse was tied on the side of the house, still packed with provisions. His rifle was
missing, though. Thomas checked his sixgun in the moonlight, rifled through his saddlebags until he found a box of cartridges, and moved it up where it would be in reach.

After two wincing attempts, he managed to climb up into the saddle and pull the reins around.

In an hour of slow riding, he had left Tucson behind, heading for the mountains.

The eagle waited for the white man.

Tomorrow night would be another night of sacrifice, as the moon dropped toward new. The eagle was ready for that. It knew that tomorrow night's would be the last sacrifice, because, soon, the eagle would have what it wanted. The Tohono O'otam would soon be strong and fly like the eagle, proud and brave. No one would call them Papagos — bean people — again.

And now, the white man came. He knew the path well, and sauntered up it singing, alone. The white man could not see in the darkness, by the light of the moon, like the eagle could, and so carried a lantern to guide him.

The eagle waited, prayed, looked at the sky.

Soon the white man had arrived, tying his donkey off on a stunted cottonwood, and coming the rest of the way alone. He carried the long box under his arm. The eagle fluttered its wings, looked at the box.

"So," the white man said, stopping a few feet away, below the rock shelf the eagle sat
on. He put his lantern down and smiled, his face sickly yellow.

The eagle said nothing.

The white man shook his head and laughed. "You're really something, you know that? You want this, or not?"

The eagle nodded.

"Can't you speak? Hey, I'll tell you what. You say something, I'll let you have this for free. Deal?"

The eagle said nothing, and the white man threw back his head and laughed.

"Safe bet, heh?"

Again the eagle was silent, and the white man laughed.

"Well, time for business." The white man put down the box at his feet. He drew out a leather satchel tied to his waist, held it out. "Like I said, this is the last delivery you're going to get of this. That prying darkie somehow found out about it. Frawley at the mining camp don't want to mess with it anymore. He barely got out with this. From now on, whatever they have they keep for mining use, with strict records. Bastards don't want to go to jail."

The white man looked at the eagle, laughed.

"What's the matter, you sad?" He dropped the satchel on the ground, reached down, flipped open the lid on the box. "Don't be,
look at this. It's what you wanted, right? Ordered it from New York myself. It's German. Best in the world."

The white man closed the box, slid it toward the eagle with the toe of his boot.

"Well? You got what I need?"

The eagle fluttered its wings, remained where it was.

The white man's face clouded.

"Hey, you don't pay, you don't buy." He reached down to retrieve the box. The eagle rose on its wings, dropped down upon the white man.

"Hey!" the white man shouted. The box fell to the side. The white man held his arms up to protect himself, then fell back. "What the hell you doing? You know who you're messing with?"

The white man fumbled his gun out of his holster as the eagle's claw came down across his hand, cutting it.