Kitt Peak (9 page)

Thomas backed away, and the litter carriers bore the body away.

"Okay if we leave now, chief?" Bartow said. Through the entire ceremony he had stood smiling, chewing on his jerky.

"Yes," Thomas said.

They camped outside the village, but still in reservation territory. Bartow was no longer afraid of Kitt Peak. It loomed behind them. Just before sundown Bartow left, and returned with another prairie dog, which Lincoln looked forward to ravenously.

By the time they ate it was late, and after the long day Thomas and Lincoln turned in. They left Bartow sitting by the fire, humming, still talking as he finished his own meal.

In the middle of the night, Thomas awoke. The fire was low, but still lit. Something was wrong. He counted the outline of horses.

There were only two.

He rose and walked to where Lincoln lay sleeping. Bartow was nowhere to be seen. His bedroll had been packed; his horse was gone.

By the fire, Thomas found Bartow's plate, with a scatter of animal bones on it. They were in the same pattern they had been when Bartow had gotten so upset the night before.

"Trooper Reeves!" Thomas called. He didn't wait for Lincoln to scramble out of sleep before setting off himself into the darkness, gun drawn.

They found Bartow two hours later. He had been heading back to Tucson; his horse stood near his body, huffing impatiently, and waiting to be led. Bartow was face up, staring at the stars, head thrown back. As they got closer, Thomas could see the pulled back rictal look of fear on the man's face.

"That's the way Sergeant Adams looked," Reeves said.

"Yes," Thomas said. He examined the body. There were marks of a struggle, claw marks on the arms and hands. Thomas crawled close to Bartow's face, brought his nose down to the dead man's mouth, and sniffed.

"Lieutenant — " Lincoln said in distaste.

"Quiet, Trooper." He continued to sniff, then, to Lincoln's disbelief, put his finger into Bartow's mouth and scraped against his teeth. He then brought the finger close to his nose and sniffed.

"All right," Thomas said, getting up. He strode back to his horse, pulled his bedroll down, and rolled it out.

"You take the first watch, Trooper," he said to Reeves, then promptly lay down, and rolled himself up.

Shaking his head at Thomas's antics, Lincoln unslung his rifle, crouched in the shadows near the newly made camp, and looked to the stars for four hours before Thomas Mullin awoke, alert and bright-eyed, to take his place.

With pride, Lone Wolf watched as a representative of the last of the Six Tribes approached his camp. The rider halted below, looked up, and held his staff of feathers high overhead in greeting. In answer, Lone Wolf raised his hand high in salute.

Lowering his staff, the rider continued to climb his horse up the steep path to the top of the bluff.

Content, Lone Wolf turned back to the Council. The other members had been fed, and were now smoking. Curling Smoke was telling a story to keep them amused. Lone Wolf had grudging admiration for the old man; Curling Smoke had, at least according to himself, been in nearly every major war party of the past fifty years, including the last one of Geronimo. According to Curling Smoke, Geronimo had been a good chief who had merely grown too tired to fight, and now allowed himself to be shown in circuses and newspaper photos. Once that had happened, Curling Smoke said, some of the greatness had bled out of Geronimo, like the blood from a slain deer. Curling Smoke and Geronimo were nearly the same age, and still Curling Smoke fought on. The implication was clear.

Lone Wolf half-listened to the old man's rambling story about a raid on a fort while he waited impatiently for the new emissary to arrive. This day would prove him triumphant as a chief. No one had been able to call a war council in nearly five years. The white man's reservations were full and seemingly secure. Only up north, in what the white men referred to as Canada, were any war parties, and small ones at that, operating anymore.

It was as if the Apache tribes had given birth only to women, fit to do women's work.

But all that might change. Lone Wolf was no fool. He had studied the campaigns of Geronimo and of Victorio, and, most recently, Pretorio. They had all failed for one reason alone. The white man's army had been close by, and great in numbers. With white man's schooling in the reservation, Lone Wolf had learned how to read maps and books. His teachers did not notice that the only books and maps he was really interested in were concerned with the so-called Indian Wars. He had studied well, and began to form his own plan when he was fifteen.

That was five years ago, just as Pretorio was being quickly beaten and sent back to his reservation in New Mexico. Those had been bad times for the Apache. Throughout all the tribes, an unspoken feeling of defeat had descended. The white man seemed to sense this, and his iron grip had relaxed. The forts to the west had been strengthened, and those here in Arizona, and east into New Mexico and Texas had been weakened. Fort Davis, in Texas, which Pretorio had attempted to attack, had been closed, and the dreaded Buffalo Soldiers dispersed. All along the middle West, the white man had relaxed, secure in his telegraph lines, his federal marshals, his farmers, his towns of merchants and shopkeepers.

This Lone Wolf had waited for. Patiently, and with the outward appearance of docility, he had learned and waited for this moment.
 
And now there would be great war again.
 
But this time it would be different. For Lone Wolf would win. He would not fight a war of numbers, but of stealth. Conquest would be foolish. Lone Wolf was well aware of the might of the United States of America, and knew that any attack on those farmers, or shopkeepers, or the white man's precious railroad would bring swift and terrible retribution. Lone Wolf would not be a flaming sword in the side of the United States, but rather a sharp thorn. He would not fight the Army. He would, instead, strike one terrible blow, one sharp thrust of the thorn, that would at once hurt the white race mightily and provide a rallying point for
all
the Indian tribes from west to east. And soon he, Lone Wolf, would be the greatest chief of them all, rallying a hundred thousand braves throughout all of the United States, a force too mighty for the white man's army to conquer.

Perhaps an alliance with Mexico, or Spain, would follow. The United States would reel from the blow the mighty Lone Wolf would strike.

If only the final piece of his plan would fall into place . . .

"And the white men cowered behind their wagons," Curling Smoke was saying behind him, "and waited for their deaths to come. And come they did." Lone Wolf turned to see Curling Smoke address White Deer, the representative of the Mescalero tribe, and Pretorio's only descendent. "And you will enjoy this, White Deer. For when we went in later to take scalps, the three soldiers who had been accompanying the caravan were Buffalo Soldiers, their black faces twisted in painful death."

White Deer nodded.

Lone Wolf turned back to face the valley below as the new representative topped the rise.

For a moment, all was silent. Lone Wolf knew the Council behind him was watching him, waiting for his reaction. This was a pivotal time. The new representative halted his horse, and looked at Lone Wolf. Lone Wolf stared back hard.

Suddenly, Lone Wolf raised his hands in greeting.

"Welcome, brother."

At first reluctant, the new representative breathed deeply and raised his feather stick in greeting.

"Thank you, brother," the new one said. "I bring greetings from the Tohono O'otam, who have sent me here as their representative. The eagle has flown high, in many dreams, and has told us that this is what we must do."

The rider dismounted, and Lone Wolf strode forward, and embraced him.

"It is good that you have come, Le-Cato. It is good that the Keeper of the Smoke of the Tohono O'otam has brought his people into this great undertaking."

The old man stiffened, then embraced Lone Wolf.

"The eagle has told us to make it so," he said, with sadness, and suddenly the embrace was a genuine one.

Lincoln woke up groggy the next morning. For a moment he didn't know where he was, and called out to Matty to make breakfast, because he couldn't smell her coffee as he usually did. He wondered if little Washington was outside playing, because his son usually came to wake him up if he overslept. There were chores to be done, seed to plant

"Get up, Trooper," Thomas Mullin's voice said. Now Lincoln knew where he was. He groaned. A large part of him wished he was back in Birmingham, getting ready for a normal day with his family.

Lincoln rose up on his elbows. Lieutenant Mullin was bent over a small fire near the body of Bartow. For a moment, Lincoln thought the old man was building a funeral pyre for the half-breed, but Thomas was actually ignoring the body, and had a leather kit bag open, tiny instruments spread carefully on the flap. The Lieutenant was holding a glass tube, examining it carefully, swirling the yellowish contents around as he held it out over the small flame.

"Wha— "

"Be quiet, please, Trooper," Lieutenant Mullin said patiently. The man's eyes were glued to the glass tube. The liquid within was growing clearer, losing its yellowish tint.

"Hmm," Thomas said, and suddenly he lost all interest in the glass tube, dumped its contents out into the fire, cleaned the tube, and stored it away with its instruments.

"What was that, sir?" Lincoln asked.

"A reagent kit," Thomas replied, tucking the leather kit into his saddlebag. "I was doing something
I
should have done two days ago, after we examined Bill Adams's body. A crude Marsh test. It was foolish of me to take that doctor's word, though I'm sure it wasn't his fault."

"What wasn't his fault?"

"Hmm?" Thomas looked as though he had been thinking. "Nothing, Trooper. Nothing we can do anything about now, at least." He pulled his mess kit from his saddlebag, drew out coffee and biscuits. "Hungry?"

"Yes," Reeves said. "But can't you tell me — "

"Later, Trooper," Thomas said.

They ate, packed, then buried Bartow's body. Thomas
marked the shallow grave, so
that Marshal Murphy would be able to find it, then tied Bartow's horse behind his own. Bartow's saddlebags were filled with beef jerky and little else. Thomas held a piece out to Lincoln. "Care for a chew?"

Lincoln made a face. "No."

Thomas shrugged, pulled a strip for himself, and mounted his horse.

"Where to, Lieutenant?" Lincoln asked.

Thomas looked at the young man, as if surprised he had asked the question. "We have to visit a mining company," he said, staving off any further questions by reining his horse around and setting off at a fast pace.

Half Moon.

Again, the eagle awaited. Below, the long trek up to the eagle's promontory had begun, and already the eagle could hear the wails and moans of those coming. The eagle could not yet make out the girl to be sacrificed, but had no doubt that the sacrifice had been brought. The Tohono O'otam would not dare to ignore the eagle's demands.

The night was dark, deep, and high. A good night for flying. The eagle imagined soaring above the clouds on this night, touching the stars, brushing the robes of the god of heaven. The wind against the eagle's face would be cold and bracing, and the power in the eagle's wings would course throughout its body, making it quiver with strength —

"God of the sky and clouds, we have come."

The voice was different; in the near darkness, the eagle could not make out the face, but this was not the Keeper of the Smoke.

The eagle raised its wings, let them flutter down.

"Le-Cato, the Keeper of the Smoke, is not
here," the voice said. "He has gone to the Council of the Tribes, as you commanded." The voice trembled. "He has gone to make the war bond you wished."

So! This was what the eagle had wanted, and it had come true.

"We hope you are pleased," the trembling voice continued. The eagle could now make out the bowed head of Leaping Deer, one of the council members of the Tohono O'otam.

The eagle waited silently.

Leaping Deer turned to the group of wailing women behind him and drew a slight figure out. It was a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen. She stood shaking, eyes wide, staring at the eagle.

"Great bird," Leaping Deer said, "I pray to you. This is my daughter, who has been chosen to be with you." The man's trembling voice broke. "I beseech you! Do not take her. Your wishes have been granted. Have you not promised that the sacrifices will end when you have what you want? Soon you will have it!"

When the eagle was silent, Leaping Deer shouted, "She is all I have! Do not take her from me, I will do your bidding for a thousand days and a thousand more!"

The eagle fluttered its wings, let them fall. The wailing women wailed louder, moved back, leaving Leaping Deer and his daughter alone.

"No!" Leaping Deer shouted, as the eagle raised its wings to strike. The council member drew his shaking daughter to him, turned, and began to make his way hurriedly down the mountain path after the old women.