"Bully! Isn't that saguaro magnificent?" Roosevelt shouted. He had already moved to another window, and stood with his nose pressed against it, the desert sun glinting off his spectacles.
Jenkins rolled his eyes.
Even with Thomas's horse, it took them three hours to climb down from Kitt Peak.
The Tohono O'otam squaw's name was Morning Rain. At first she was in shock, but after Thomas bandaged her leg she became merely uncommunicative. Thomas could get nothing from her, though he tried to get across to her the severity of her position.
"We're talking about the President of the United States," he said. "If this attempt to kill him succeeds, don't you realize what this will mean for your people? This won't free them â it will enslave them. They'll be hunted, along with everyone else who was involved. The United States Army will never quit until every member of your tribe is in chains. This will wipe out your people, even though they weren't responsible."
Morning Rain stared straight ahead, either uncomprehending or unwilling to tell Thomas what he needed to know.
But when they reached the bottom of the trail at the base of Kitt Peak, and found the body of Le-Cato lying in the sun, her reactions changed.
"Grandfather!" she shouted, jumping from the horse. She went to the old man's body and lifted the unseeing head. She began to cry, and then cradled the old chief's head to her breast, rocking back and forth, singing softly.
Thomas watched her, then said, "I have to go."
She said nothing, until he turned his horse to ride off.
"I will tell you," she said suddenly. "I will tell you what you need to know, then I will bring my people back to the reservation, and bury my grandfather. I heard what they said. I heard everything."
Thomas listened, as she told him.
When the band began to warm up down the block, Marshal Murphy came to see Lincoln in his cell. Peering through the bars, he said, "Think I can trust you?"
Lincoln grinned sheepishly.
Murphy said, "President Roosevelt's coming in twenty minutes, and I'd hate for you to miss it. Thing is, you have to promise me you won't try to ride off, or do anything foolish."
"I'd like to see that, Marshal. I promise."
"I'm taking you at your word, Reeves. If you break your promise to me, I guarantee you, you'll be back in this cell for real, on charges."
Mary Murphy and little Joshua appeared in the doorway, and Murphy turned to his son. "This is your chance to redeem yourself, son. I'm putting you in charge of the prisoner, and this time I don't want you to let him out of your sight."
Joshua looked up from the floor. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
Murphy motioned to one of his deputies, who produced the crutches and unlocked the cell.
"Remember what I said," Murphy said to Lincoln as he hobbled past. "This time I mean it."
"Yes, sir," Lincoln said, saluting the Marshal.
Outside, it was like a circus day. The whole city had turned out, and was filling the street in front of the train station, below a podium draped in flags. In front of the podium, the band continued to tune up, playing "Dixie" to a mingling of laughter, hissing, and scattered cheers.
"Mr. Roosevelt is a great man," Mary Murphy said as they walked.
Lincoln looked down at little Josh, who was scowling at him intently.
"I think your son has learned his lesson, ma'am," Lincoln said to Mary Murphy.
"Oh, yes," she answered. "He never makes the same mistake twice, right, Joshua?"
"I got a whoopin' 'cause of you," Josh said to Lincoln, still scowling. He held up a six-gun carved from a piece of wood. "This time I shoot to kill."
But sure enough, on their way up the street, Josh met his friend, Nick, who begged him to come with him.
"We've got a space right up front, where the President's gonna talk!" he said.
Joshua looked up at his mother, pleading.
"It's the best spot in the whole place!" Nick went on. "You'll be able to see the President spit!"
"Aw, Mom . . ." Josh said.
His mother threw up her arms. "All right, Joshua, you can go."
"Great!" He pressed his six-gun into his mother's hand and ran off with his friend.
"Looks like I guard you alone," Mary Murphy said to Lincoln, holding up the gun. "And I warn you, Mr. Reeves,
I
shoot to kill, also."
"Yes, ma'am."
Already, they could hear the distant whistle of the train. Lincoln followed the line of the tracks and there, just crawling into view at the edge of the city, was the President's festooned train, the brightly colored Southern Pacific engine pulling three dark-green coaches. People lining the tracks began to cheer, and, briefly, a figure appeared, leaning from one of the windows in the last car, waving.
"He sure does know how to put on a show," Lincoln said.
Ten minutes later, the streets now swelling with people, the band began to play, a ragged tune that quickly resolved itself into "Hail to the Chief."
In the hotel up the street, Lone Wolf pressed his eye to the Walthers's sight. Ragged strains of music reached him. Below, on the street, his warriors had signaled that the train had stopped. It would not be long. Squinting through the gun sight, Lone Wolf could see the rear platform of the observation car, the door opening slightly, then closing again as a bland, thin man in a suit stepped out. It was not the President, and Lone Wolf's finger eased slightly on the trigger. He was pleased that he had a clear shot to the train. If he chose, he could shoot the President even be-fore he reached the podium and gave his silly speech. But that would not be dramatic. He would wait until the little man was at the height of his glory, giving the white crowd what they had come to see, smiling under his mustache, holding his hands out over the cheering masses. Then Lone Wolf would cut him down, not as a buffalo after all, but a dog.
Lone Wolf smiled to himself, and kept the Walthers steady on the sill of the window.
The crowd pressed forward. Lincoln and Mary Murphy were about halfway up, with a good view, about as good as they thought it would get. But suddenly, a pushing figure appeared in the crowd, Josh and his friend, Nick. They stopped breathless in front of Mary and Lincoln.
"Mom! Mom! The President wants to meet me! And him, too!" Josh said, pointing excitedly at Lincoln.
"What?" Mary Murphy said.
"It's true!" Josh shouted, and his friend, Nick, said, "Yes, it's true!"
Mary looked over the crowd toward the podium, and saw her husband gesturing at her. Beside him was a thin man in a suit, holding a pad of paper.
"Well . . ." Mary Murphy said.
"Come on, Mom! Come on!" Josh said, tugging at her.
They made their way through the crowd, Lincoln cutting a wide swath with his crutches while Mary apologized for making people move. Soon they had reached the front of the podium, and Marshal Murphy was reaching down to help them up onto the stage.
"Roosevelt wants to hold Josh while he's speaking, and introduce Lincoln as a hero of the Indian wars and Abraham Lincoln's namesake," the Marshal said.
"Well, all right," Mary Murphy said, a bit
overcome. Josh was helped up onto the podium, then disappeared, running, into the door of the observation car, while Lincoln was assisted onto the podium.
"Just stand there and look heroic," the thin man in the suit, who then introduced himself as Jenkins, said.
Another man, taller, with a sleepy-looking face but hard eyes, emerged from the observation car and closed the door behind him. From the car emerged a loud bellow, the word, "Bully!"
The tall man leaned over to Jenkins and said, "He'll be out in a minute. He's showing the boy his Indian arrowhead collection."
"Lord," Jenkins said, then he made a motion at the bandleader, who immediately started his people into "Hail to the Chief" again.
The door to the train's observation car opened wide.
There was nothing for a moment.
Then, to wild applause, Roosevelt emerged, smiling widely, striding to the podium with little Josh on his shoulders.
Lone Wolf pressed his eye painfully to the Walthers gun sight. There was much movement on the platform at the back of the train, white men and one black man moving into his view. Then, suddenly, the white man's President appeared, with a child on his shoulders.
To Lone Wolf, it made no difference. His finger poised hard on the trigger, and he moved the rifle smoothly to follow them the few steps to the podium, and stop there, the crosshairs centered on the President's head, and the white child's belly behind it.
The band, at a motion from Jenkins, ceased playing. "American friends!" Roosevelt boomed. "In this great wide country, in this, the greatest of countries, I am
proud
to be with you today!"
The band played a few bars, and the crowd cheered wildly. Roosevelt laughed, looking up at Josh as the boy clapped, balancing himself on the President's shoulders.
Roosevelt waited for the cheers to subside. "Proud, and
happy as
all getdown! And though my home is that big white one in the East, I want to tell you that my heart will
always
be in the West! Because here is where America really made itself. The East, if you think about it, was created by Englishmen and Spaniards. But the West was created by Americans!"
Again the band played a few notes, to wild cheering. Roosevelt, laughing like a child, bounced Josh up and down on his shoulders.
Suddenly the President reached out sideways and pulled Lincoln, who stood a little dazed by what was happening, toward him. Lincoln almost got caught up in his crutches, but moved to stand next to Roosevelt. He felt a strong, thick arm encircle his waist, hold him tight as a cobra.
"How are ya!" Roosevelt whispered, but before Lincoln could answer, the President was already addressing the crowd again, his voice booming out over the street.
"Yes, America is the greatest country God ever put on this earth! And I'd like to introduce to you one of the men who helped create the West, who forged his way through the dangers and hardships, so that wonderful people like you could live and prosper here!"
More blaring music from the band, more cheering. Lincoln found himself smiling, and holding up his hand to wave, as Roosevelt's rock hard grip, behind his back, was urging him to do.
With a sinking feeling Thomas Mullin heard the strains of band music waft over the desert to him. He was still a mile out of Tucson, and feared he was too late. The only chance he had was the fact that Roosevelt might talk for a while. From what Morning Rain had told him, Lone Wolf would seek the dramatic in his act.
Every step of the horse sent pain through Thomas, which he ignored. The ride back toward Tucson had been one of the hardest, fastest, of his life. And the effects of the drug Bill Adams's daughter had given him had not completely worn off. He found himself constantly shaking his head to clear it, his mind wandering off toward dreams. At times he thought the earth was opening up before him, ready to swallow his horse; twice he pulled back on the reins, sure he was at the edge of a precipice. But still he rode on.
When he heard the band stop playing, then heard a cheer from a distant crowd, he shook his head vigorously, spurred his horse on, and, ignoring the pain that shot through him, rode faster.
"Friends!" Roosevelt shouted, gripping Lincoln by the shoulder. "This man is a hero, and all of
you
are heroes, too! For together you have forged the greatest nation on earth! And before I leave you today, I want to pledge to you that all of us,
together,
will continue to build this nation, and add even more greatness, more strength, more courage, to what we already have! The world envies America â and rightly so â God bless you all!"
Lone Wolfs finger drew tightly on the Walthers's trigger. The crowd in front of the train station was cheering wildly, beginning to surge forward. The American President was holding the black man closely with one hand, waving high overhead with his other, smiling broadly. The white child on his shoulders waved, too. This was the moment Lone Wolf had waited for, the President in his glory, his head above his smiling foolish mouth centered in the crosshairs as Lone Wolf pulled his finger back on the trigger â
There was only time for Thomas to react. He tore into the edge of Tucson, spotting the hotel Morning Rain had told him about. Circled around it in the street, trying to look casual, were four Apaches. There was no time to think. The crowd in the near distance was cheering wildly, the band playing loud.
Thomas rode hard into the middle of the street in front of the hotel, jumped from his horse. A momentary shock greeted him â it seemed the ground below him had opened up again, showing a depth of blue sky and clouds, an eagle circling below him. He shook his head as he struck the dust. Time seemed to slow. He drew his gun from its holster, rolled, looked up at the windows on the top floor of the hotel, locating the one that was open. The long slim barrel of a rifle protruded from it. He saw the crouching figure of Lone Wolf behind its gun sight. In his drugged state, Thomas imagined he could hear the rifle go
off.
But it was his own gun firing, and a moment later he saw a puff of smoke from the rifle barrel.