Storm's Thunder (25 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Jacob Cross began counting backward from one hundred, silently, in his mind.... 99 . . . 98 . . . 97. How long would it take, really, three minutes? He could endure a lecture from this traitorous, rebel blowhard for that long. Think of the good it would engender, letting this traumatized and concussed band of stragglers feel satisfaction that they had done all they could to save a life, even a life as wretched as that godless savage writhing at the end of a rope in a slow, agonizing chokehold. . . . 86 . . . 85 . . . 84. At zero he would carry out the sentence of death exactly as he planned, throwing the mongrel fugitive over the cliff just to hear his neck snap. Cross had earned that. And if Two-Trees happened to die in the meantime, while this Dixie barrister salted air with his infernal stalling, Cross was fine with that. Until then he would allow only passing snippets of the lawyer's diatribe to pierce his concentration.

“Furthermore, jurisprudence of the Territory would dictate the compelling principle of
ex injuria jus non oritur
.” . . . 77 . . . 76 . . . 75.

As the greasy Southerner slung his words—my, could the fat man talk. And talk. And talk—Cross played a game with himself.
What put you on that train in the first place, fat man?

Cross looked into Ballentine's eyes—even though the lawyer was doing everything he could not to return the gaze. (That right there told him plenty.) The eyes don't lie. Not to Cross, anyway.
You're too old and soft to find fortune with your hands,
Cross thought.
But you strike me as smart enough to know that turning a profit from the legal trade in the lawless caldron of the frontier would be tough going. Why walk away from the wealthy East, with its friendly courtrooms and clients who pay their bills on time? You're running from something,
Cross said to himself,
something that stinks. A scandal.
Cross knew he'd hit pay dirt. He had that feeling he gets—deep in his belly—when he's found the truth. Cross didn't have the whole picture yet. That would come later. But he knew for certain, that at the soiled, vulgar bottom of the story—Ballentine's cock had been the problem.... 49 . . . 48 . . . 47.

Cross looked over to Van Zant and was pleased that the Dutchman seemed to be getting the hang of the rope.
Hang of the rope
. Cross fought off a smile. He'd have to remember that one. Van Zant kept active tension on the rope, adjusting to the fugitive's gyrations, but not letting him choke out either, not just yet. Two-Trees slumped, exhausted. Van Zant let him rest a moment before tightening the rope ever so gingerly. Van Zant checked to see if his boss was watching and, receiving the approval that he wanted, kept the dance going.... 33 . . . 32 . . . 31.

Oh honestly, fat man. Do you think I'm this stupid?
The lawyer had steered off into an anecdote about fishing with the Attorney General.

“I said to Brewster, I said, ‘Ben, if you're calling that a catfish, then I'm calling Atlanta the nation's capital.'”

Cross had heard enough, and upped the speed of his counting, blowing through the twenties in a single breath. . . . 19 . . . 18 . . . 17. But then something in the wind made the hairs on his neck stiffen. He stopped his count, spinning on his heels, and peered out, in disgust, at the broad plain to the south.

“Get him up!” Cross snapped, charging to the mongrel and lifting—by his own considerable power—the man to his feet.

“Sir, I have not yet reached my summation.”

Cross ignored the lawyer and said to Van Zant, “The army. An entire bloody cavalry troop, looks like. Let's get this done now.”

Van Zant looked out over the cliff and saw the formations, dark squares of horse and rider, advancing like thunderheads across the desert.

“The army's coming!” Reggie breaking from the old woman and dashing toward the edge.

“They're still off a ways,” Van Zant dropping the rope and helping Cross get the half-breed into position. “A mile or more, I'd say.”

“Say, how 'bout we see what the army's got to say 'bout this?” Owens stepping forward, his daughter in his arms.

“You're pulling a fast one, and you know it,” George fuming.

Cross had no interest in opinions other than his own. All the authorization he required was folded in his pocket. What he did not want was delay, or bureaucracy, or the slow-drip of stilted thought that eked from the brain of the United States Army. He was above all that, beholden only to the highest authority there is.

“Tie it off!” Cross demanding. Van Zant cleated the tail end of the rope to the pylon.

“I got too much slack, hang on.” Van Zant looped the excess around the base knot as fast as he could.

“Leave it,” Cross hissing through gritted teeth. “Harlan Two-Trees, I sentence you to die. May God have mercy on your soul.” Cross lowered his hips, ready to drive the prisoner back and over the edge.

“Don't do it—you can't—please stop,” all protesting voices bled into one. Harlan pushed his weight back into Cross, fighting to the end, enraging the man in brown.

“I said die, you son of a bitch!”

A rifle boomed behind them—frightfully close—the civilians screaming as they dropped to the ground. The shot splintered the wood pylon inches above Van Zant's hands, the Dutchman stumbling backward, the knot unspooling itself as he falls on his backside. A horse nickers, hooves gobbling up the short distance as two riders—soldiers on horseback—arriving like phantoms from the train side—descend on Cross, rifles cocked and steady.

“Hands in the air,” the corporal commanding. “Where I can see 'em.”

Scouts
, Cross thought.
Fucking scouts
.

The second soldier, a buck private, halted his horse next to Van Zant, covering the Dutchman, but also the handful of cowering civilians, arms held high.

“I am a federal officer. This man is my prisoner,” Cross said.

“And I said get your hands off him and in the air.”

Jacob Cross looked into the eyes of the low-ranking officer peering down a barrel at him and could smell the arrogance, the false sense of security the man-child took in his uniform.

He could taste strict adherence to orders and could feel in his bones that attempting to reason with the unreasonable would most certainly get him shot. Cross let go of the half-breed and raised his hands.

“This man is a murderer and a fugitive.”

“So says you,” Owens yelling from his belly. But even the hint of confusion was enough for the corporal. And Cross knew it.

“Ain't nobody hanging nobody 'less the captain say so.”

Cross let out a sigh of frustration. He had no doubt that this would all work out in his favor. The half-breed will hang, and hang today, so help him God. No, the thing that really chaffed Jacob Cross was that two white soldiers—schoolboys—had managed to sneak up on him. There was just no way.

And then a third scout appeared from behind the train—dark-skinned, riding bareback—and Cross understood.
There we go, that makes sense.
Cross pegged him for Warm Spring Apache. The native was hanging back, as instructed, so as not to upset the White People, but no doubt it had been his talents that wended the path up the rocky hillside. The scout's cavalry uniform—a loose interpretation of army standards, supplemented with feathers—involved no trousers at all, only a breechcloth.

“I think you better get your captain, then,” Cross said.

The corporal addressed the Apache in clear words. “Get Captain Oliver.” The Warm Spring Apache nodded that he understood. He weaved his horse around and rode off.

Then Cross added, “And I hope all your scouts have proper documentation.”

* * *

U.S. Army Captain Terrence Oliver wanted answers from one person at a time. Talking over one another, he made quite clear, was not an option. Oliver had driven his full troop—nearly two hundred men—over eighty miles of high desert through the night to get here. That meant travelling light and lean—something Oliver did better than any commander in the Plains Cavalry. No wagons, pack mules only. His orders were to locate the missing Santa Fe (he'd done that), appraise the situation, and act accordingly.

Appraisal and action.

This was the appraisal phase. And he wanted it over as quickly as possible. Because his course of action had been clear for the last hour—hunt down the deserting sonsabitches who did this and drop the hammer of justice. But this business with a hanging, this was a sideshow.

* * *

His first sergeant returned to him with a list of names and began to read. As Oliver listened, he matched each name with the face of the participant. The federal agent, Cross, checked out, as did his goon. The private train crew that brought them verified that that they'd shoved out from Lamy around four this morning.

“These folks here were passengers,” the sergeant said, gesturing to the ragtag civilians being tended to by the troop's medical officer. “They claim they're the only survivors. So far our men ain't found nothing to say otherwise.”

Oliver gazed out from the cliffside, surveying the scope of the wreckage. The entire landscape crawled with army blue—soldiers lining up and tagging the dead bodies as best they could.

“What about this sniper I keep hearing about?”

“Nothing yet, sir. But we got sharpshooters of our own fanned out across the ridge in case he shows himself. I have two recon teams working down from the top of the rim. Two more spiraling up from the bottom. If he's in this bowl, we'll find him.”

“Captain, if I may have my identification and my sidearm back, please.”

Oliver looked down at the heavy gold emblem in his hands. Special Agent–Department of Indian Affairs. This man Cross appeared to be who he says he is, but that didn't mean Oliver was going to let him run roughshod over his investigation. As far as Oliver was concerned, they both worked for the same government. The captain handed the badge to his first sergeant.

“Give him back his shield. Hold onto his gun for now.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant striding toward Cross. He came back holding an envelope.

“What's that?”

“It's a letter of authorization,” Cross answering a question not directed at him. Good hearing on Cross, Oliver noticed.

“Read it,” Oliver said. The first sergeant removed the letter and unfolded the parchment.

“‘To whom it may concern,'” he began. “‘Please accord my special agent, Jacob Cross, every consideration and accommodation necessary in the execution of his duties to this office and to the United States of America.'”

“Unless it's signed by the Secretary of War, I don't see how it changes much.”

“‘Sincerely yours, Grover Cleveland, President of the States.'”

“Do mind your thumbprints, sergeant,” Cross concerned about the letter's handing. “The president's ink tends to smudge.”

* * *

“Who is this condemned man, anyway?” Oliver asked, and before the sergeant could speak, four people, including Cross, drew in breath to answer. Oliver shot up his gloved palm, silencing all but the man he had addressed.

“Apparently,” the sergeant checking his notepad for accuracy, “he's a Navajo half-breed name of Harlan Two-Trees.”

“How do I know that name?”

“Well, I can't verify this, sir. But what the lawyer Ballentine and that fella Owens are saying, this Two-Trees is the same Navajo what helped bring down the Snowman last summer.”

“I'll be damned, that's it.” Captain Oliver nudged his Appaloosa toward the prisoner, who sat on the ground, arms shackled behind him, but his hooded head held upright, like he'd been listening. “Remove his hood.” Cross thought about protesting, but a solider whisked the hood off before he could get a word out. “And the blindfold,” Oliver added. The man called Harlan Two-Trees—his flesh damp and red-faced from the close, hot air beneath the cloth—looked up at him and nodded, like they knew each other.

“Captain,” Two-Trees said. Indeed they did know each other, at least by sight. Oliver recognized him immediately as the man who'd been accosted on the street outside that man's house in Santa Fe. He saw him again that night, at the Blue Duck.

“Well, I'll be. Trouble sure has a way of finding you, doesn't it, Two-Trees?”

“That it does,” Cross answering again. “I'm sorry we've taken up your time, Captain. I know you have a lot of work to do. I'll conclude my business and get out of your way.”

“You're just itching to swing that poor boy, aren't you? What he done, got you so hot under the collar?”

Cross turned, and for the first time, leveled a withering gaze on Captain Oliver. “Tell me your third general order, Captain?”

“What?” Oliver not sure he heard him right.

“Your third general order. Let's hear it.”

“I don't need to explain military business to you, Cross.”

“My point precisely, Captain. This is a matter of Indian Affairs. I have neither the time nor the liberty to divulge the particulars of this fugitive's case. I suggest you tend to your office and I'll tend to mine. Now if you'll please return my sidearm and release my deputy, we can all return to our sworn duties.”

Captain Terrence Oliver did not normally care enough about strangers to hate them, but everything about Jacob Cross—from his rattlesnake eyes to his letter from Grover Fucking Cleveland—made his stomach turn.

“I pity you, Cross. You have no scope of what's really important out here. The resources you burned tracking down one sad kid, I could run my troop for a month. Go ahead and hang him if that's what you want. Do it, and get the hell out of my territory.” Oliver turned his horse and eased it forward.