Ghost Warrior (3 page)

Z
ak heard the pitiful bleating not long after he entered a small canyon where the tracks had led him. Narbona had driven off a dozen sheep after killing the Delacruz husband and wife. That much, the tracks had shown. Now they told another story. Before entering the canyon, the shod horses veered off to the south. The separation, evidently, had been prearranged. None of the horses had stopped. It was a case of the white men veering off while the Navajos continued on into the foothills. The sheep went with the Indians. The white men rode off together. Zak followed the Navajo and sheep tracks.

Not many sheep for a raider, Zak thought.

Now, in late afternoon, he heard sheep where no sheep should be.

He rounded a bend and saw them. The sheep were all bunched together, bleating like lost souls. They started to run when they saw Zak and Nox, all of them moving at once. They ran only a short distance, still bunched up, and stood there, all of them staring at him and pleading to be rescued.

It was plain to Zak that the raiding party had stopped there in that small bowl in the canyon. He took his time deciphering the maze of tracks—
horse and sheep, white men and Indians. Yes, Narbona had felt safe in that place, but he had posted lookouts or guards at the east entrance and, from the dried-blood pools and the pair of fleecy hides, had butchered two sheep.

He found a crumpled-up wad of paper and thin cardboard that told Zak what brand of store-boughts at least one of the white men smoked. He picked it up, smoothed it out, and read the label: P
IEDMONT
. He discarded the empty pack and climbed back on his horse. He estimated that the raiding party had spent less than an hour there. He was somewhat surprised that Narbona had left ten sheep alive. Did he expect someone to find them and retrieve them? Did he want to leave such a bold trail, at least to that point?

The more he studied the behavior of Narbona and the others in his party, the more puzzled Zak became.

He took one last look at the frightened sheep and vowed to drive them out of the canyon on his return trip. They would suffer a horrible death by starvation if he did not do this. The sheep were lost and could not be expected to find their way back to the ranch from whence they had come.

He rode on, more slowly than before, scanning the rimrock, studying the tracks. Narbona seemed in no hurry, but Zak was convinced that the man had a destination. The canyon petered out, opening up onto a broad sandy wash, and he found himself on a small ridge in a maze of ridges, a foothill region that was rugged and exposed. A dangerous place if men were stationed on the high reaches watching Narbona's back trail.

The small highway of tracks exploded from single file to a burst of individual hoofprints that spread out, fanlike, in a dozen directions. Once away from the sandy wash, the individual tracks vanished on the myriad of small ridges that fanned out from that place. Not one man or a dozen could follow such a dispersion of horses without ending up lost, crazy, or shot dead. Narbona knew that country, Zak decided, and so did the men who rode with him.

For all practical purposes, the entire band of thieves and assassins had vanished into thin air.

Zak turned his horse, ventured back into the small canyon, back to where the sheep were bunched together in fear of the unknown. As he rode, he wondered about the soldiers, who, back in the 1840s, had ventured into the Jemez looking for Navajos to round up and put on reservations. They had hauled mountain howitzers and field guns over treacherous terrain, and the Navajos had melted into the mountains and become like smoke, most never to be found.

He drove the sheep back out onto the plain, herding them slowly, cutting back and forth to guide them, keep them from scattering in all directions. Nox became a sheepdog, and the horse didn't like it. Neither did the sheep.

He left them as close to Gregorio's ranch as he could and then doubled back to pick up the tracks of the two white men, known to him only as Ralph and Pete. Their tracks were easy to follow, even though they were now over twenty hours old. They went south, then turned east. Eventually, the two men had reached a well-traveled road that paral
leled the Rio Grande. Cart tracks, mules, burros, and horses made it difficult to sort out the hoof marks of the two men. Zak almost lost them in a maze of deer tracks and other animal tracks where Pete and Ralph had left the road and headed for the river across rocky and uneven ground.

The tracks led to a ford in a wide part of the river. The water was shallow in places, but Nox slipped into deep water at one point and had to swim back to a place where his hooves could touch the hard bottom. He climbed out, dripping wet, and shook himself before they could proceed further. It took Zak a few minutes to find the tracks of the two white men again.

Zak lost the tracks of the two men again when they joined a road that was seeing heavy traffic. Men riding on carts pulled by burros, boys on mules and men on horseback, people on foot, all seemed to be going in one direction: toward Santa Fe. A few miles from the city Zak stopped to rest Nox and study the maze of tracks. He could not find those made by the men he had been following. He was well off the road, gazing at the Sangre de Cristos, when he saw a dust cloud to the north. The sun was falling away in the western sky by then, the almost cloudless sky painted a vivid cobalt blue. Few people passed by, but the cloud of dust drew closer and closer. Then the dust lessened and he was about to resume riding toward Santa Fe when he saw the dark horses emerge from the dust. They stopped and he saw a sharp glint of sunlight. It looked as if someone had brought a telescope up and was ranging with it, swinging it slowly back and forth to scan the landscape.

A few moments later, as he rode slowly toward the advancing men on horseback, Zak saw the blue uniforms, the yellow stripes on trouser legs, the shine of boots and brass. No guidon, he noticed. But cavalry troopers, four or five men riding, single file, straight toward him.

As they drew closer Zak saw that the horses were shiny with sweat and the uniforms caked with dust. The road suddenly emptied of all traffic. Zak kept on his course, but an uneasy feeling began to grow in him. Where had all the people gone? Why had the horses been at a gallop and then suddenly taken to a walk?

The horses broke into a gallop again. Zak felt his throat go dry. His mouth tasted of copper as the ripping hooves stirred up dust that grew like clouds and took on the colors of the land, tinted cinnamon and rust, lavender and a fine gold turned to mist. He turned Nox onto a side road to get out of the way, and heard a shout.

“You there. Halt. You on the black horse.”

He reined in Nox and turned to face the oncoming riders.

There were only four of them, a second lieutenant, a sergeant, and two corporals.

They reined up within ten yards of where Zak was sitting his horse, the sun beaming on his sun-browned face and glistening on Nox's hide like polished ebony.

As soon as they halted, the enlisted men drew Spencer carbines from their rifle scabbards and aimed them at Zak. The lieutenant drew his pistol. Then the men fanned out so that they were all aiming weapons at him from various directions.

Zak did not move.

“Hands in the air,” the lieutenant said.

“Why?”

“You heard me. Put up those hands or we'll shoot you right out of the saddle.”

There was no mistaking the man's belligerence. He was young, with that fresh-faced look of a boy who has suddenly grown into manhood but does not have to shave every day. The sergeant was older, perhaps thirty or so, and the corporals both looked like schoolboys.

“All right,” Zak said, and slowly raised both hands. He turned the palms outward to show that he had no weapon in either hand.

“Corporal Mead,” the lieutenant said, “you and Corporal Davis relieve that man of his weapons.”

“Yes, sir,” the two young corporals said. They spurred their horses and rode toward Zak, their rifles leveled at him.

“I hope those rifles are on safety,” Zak said when the troopers halted on either side of him.

“Shut up,” the lieutenant ordered.

The corporals did as they were ordered. One took Zak's rifle; the other lifted his pistol from its holster. They turned their horses and rode back, Zak's weapons in their awkward hands.

The lieutenant and the sergeant rode up close.

“State your name and your business, mister,” the lieutenant said.

“What's this all about, Lieutenant?”

“I'll ask the questions here.”

“May I lower my hands?” Zak said.

“Easy. Real easy, mister.”

Zak lowered his hands, folded them over his
saddle horn. He could smell the sweat-fear on the lieutenant's body. He saw the uncertainty in his eyes, the nervousness rippling through the meat of his legs and the tendons in his arms, the slight tremor in the hand that held the pistol. This was no battle-hardened cavalryman, but a man more at home on an army post than out in the field.

“The name's Zak Cody.”

“What's your business?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“What's that mean?” snapped the lieutenant.

“It means I cannot tell you my business, Lieutenant. It's my business, and no other's.”

“I don't like your answer.”

“Take it or leave it,” Zak said.

“Sergeant, I want this man's hands cuffed. He'll be in irons by nightfall.”

The sergeant didn't move, but continued to stare at Zak with a curious intensity.

“Sergeant Bullard,” the lieutenant barked.

“Sir, beggin' your pardon, sir, but I heard that name Cody before. And I heard the name Zak Cody more'n once.”

“What do you mean, Bullard?”

“I mean, I think this man's army. In some way.”

Bullard spoke in a halting, awkward meter, as if he were trying to figure out something he didn't quite understand.

“Army?” The lieutenant's face bore a puzzled look.

“Kind of. Yes, sir.”

“Cody, do you know what the sergeant's talking about?”

“Not exactly,” Zak said.

“Are you in the army, mister? What are you, a deserter?”

“No, I'm not a deserter. And, strictly speaking, I'm not in the U.S. Army anymore.”

“This is a lot of doubletalk as far as I'm concerned.” The lieutenant's eyes sparked with anger. “Mister, I want straight answers and I want them now.”

“Sir, I believe this man Cody once worked for General Crook. I think he still does, but not so's he can talk about it. Just what I heard from others.”

“Barracks gossip, Sergeant.”

“No, sir. From other officers, some who served with Crook and fought with him. It's some kind of secret. Ain't nobody supposed to know about Zak Cody. I think he still carries a commission.”

“Is that so, Cody?” The lieutenant's tone had changed ever so slightly.

“Is what so?” Zak said.

“That you are a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army? Under secret orders?”

Zak smiled.

“Well, now, if this was so, Lieutenant, and I told you, it wouldn't be a secret any more, would it?”

“Give me some kind of answer or I'll be forced to clap you in handcuffs.”

“Straight or crooked?” Zak asked.

“What?”

“The answer you want, Lieutenant.”

“I want proof of who you are and if you have rank I want to know what it is.”

Zak skewered the lieutenant with a hard look. The corporals looked like a couple of kids about to see a school whipping but not sure who was going
to get it. Sergeant Bullard's jaw tightened and he lowered the barrel of his rifle. It was almost like a salute, or a sign of surrender. He put a hand to his throat and stroked the stubble underneath. He looked as if he wanted to be anyplace other than where he was now.

The lieutenant swallowed and his face began to pale. He drew in a breath and let it out again through his nostrils. He looked as if he was going to be sick.

“You come close, Lieutenant,” Zak said. “Just you, and put that pistol back in your holster. Ride real close and ride real slow.”

There was no mistaking the authority in Zak's voice.

It carried all the weight and shine of a cavalry sword, and every uniformed man there knew it. For a long moment it seemed as if all four soldiers were in shock, frozen in place on a deserted plain, immobile as statues in a Wild West museum.

T
he lieutenant hesitated, but only for a second or two.

Then he holstered his pistol, closed the flap on his holster. He ticked blunt spurs into his horse's flanks and moved up close to Zak, a querulous look on his face.

“And I'll have your name, Lieutenant,” Zak said.

“I'm Second Lieutenant Harvey Walsh,” he rasped.

“Lean close to me so I can whisper in your ear, Walsh,” Zak said.

Walsh did as he was told, a sheepish look on his face, as if it were covered in boiled oatmeal.

Zak put his mouth close to Walsh's ear.

“I carry the rank of colonel,” Zak said. “I'm under secret orders from President Grant and General Crook. That's all you need to know right now, Walsh. And keep this information to yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” Walsh breathed. “I mean, yes, Colonel.”

“Not a word, now.”

“No, sir.”

Zak sat up straight in his saddle.

“Now,” he said, in his normal speaking voice,
“I'll have my rifle and pistol returned to me, Lieutenant Walsh.”

“Sergeant Bullard, see to it that Co—Mr. Cody's rifle and pistol are returned to him. Posthaste.”

“Yes, sir,” Bullard said and turned to the corporals. Both rode forward. One handed the rifle to Zak, the other his pistol. Zak slid the Winchester back in its boot and holstered his pistol.

“Now, Mr. Walsh,” Zak said, “tell me why you stopped me and used force.”

Walsh reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small metal mirror. The mirror had a cross cut into it. He held it up until it caught the sun's rays, flashed a light toward the foothills. He moved the mirror so that its beams struck a high point on one of the hills. A moment later there was a series of answering flashes.

“We have a detail on the other side of the river,” Walsh said. “They watched you driving some sheep and grew suspicious. They watched you cross the river and head this way. I rode to intercept you.”

“Fair enough,” Zak said. “Tell those troops that all is well.”

Walsh worked the mirror and flashed the troops on the hill. They flashed back and Walsh slid the mirror back in his pocket.

“What were you doing with those sheep?” Walsh asked.

“A long story. Call me Zak. I'll call you Harvey.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And no ‘sirs.'”

“No sir.” Walsh gulped air down his throat. “I mean…”

“I know what you mean, Harvey. Now, who's over there in the hills, the signaler?”

“Captain Jeffrey Vickers. We've been splitting up patrols, trying to cover both sides of the Rio Grande.”

“What's the assignment?”

“Reports of theft. Cattle, sheep, and the like. People come into the Presidio to complain and we're trying to find out who's stealing all that stock.”

“And who do you think is stealing the stock, Harvey?”

“It doesn't make much sense. The farmers and ranchers are saying it's Navajos. The Mexicans are superstitious. They report they're being raided by a ghost warrior. Captain Vickers was assigned to track down the rustlers and put those rumors to rest.”

“Ghost warrior?” Zak said. He realized that the sun would soon set and Vickers would no longer be able to use the signaling mirror. But Harvey could still get a message off. He held up his hand and measured the distance between the sun and the tops of the Sangre de Cristos. Two fingers' distance. That meant the sun would disappear in about a half an hour. Fifteen minutes to a finger.

“Yes, that's right.”

“Harvey, I want you to flash Captain Vickers and tell him to stay put. Tell him we'll join him shortly after nightfall.”

“Sir, I mean, Zak, I can't do that. I have orders….”

“I'm countermanding those orders. It's very important that I talk to Vickers before he makes another move.”

“Well, I guess. Since you outrank me. It's highly irregular, though.”

“All right, Harvey,” Zak said. “Flash Vickers to hold his position.”

Walsh took out his signaling mirror and began to flash the far hills. Zak read the message while he looked at the sergeant and the other two men. The two corporals couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, and they looked as green as any raw recruit.

When Walsh finished sending the message, they both stared at the hills. Walsh reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his telescope. He aimed it where he thought Vickers was encamped. Zak saw some flashes, but they were so quick and small he couldn't read them with accuracy.

“Did you get his reply?” Zak asked.

“Yes. He just said he was breaking camp.”

“Is that all?”

“That's all he said.”

Zak saw no more flashes from the Vickers camp. He said nothing for several seconds as he regarded the two enlisted men wearing corporal chevrons. Bullard was reaching into his pocket for something. A moment later he pulled out a package of store-bought cigarettes. He took one out and struck a match, lit it. Then he put the package back in his pocket.

“Harvey,” Zak said, “I want to send a message to your commanding officer. He at the Presidio?”

“Yes, he is. Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Loomis.”

“Got paper and pencil?”

“Of course. I keep field notes, Zak. I was going to turn them in to Colonel Loomis tonight.”

Zak watched the sun sinking toward the horizon. The ermine peaks of the Sangre de Cristo gleamed with a pristine brilliance, as if someone had drenched the granite with fresh whitewash. His heart was sinking with the sun. Why was Vickers breaking camp? Was he returning to Santa Fe? Not likely. He had seen something or suspected something and was going on the march. And it was late in the day to mount an expedition in that rugged country.

Walsh produced his notebook and a pencil. He opened the book to a blank sheet and held the pencil, hovering, just above the page.

“Take this down,” Zak said. “Crossing Rio Grande to join forces with Captain Vickers. Do not send more troops to investigate Navajo rustlers until further notice.”

“Is that the entire message? Colonel Loomis will throw a fit.”

“Sign your name per Colonel Zak Cody, then date it and note the time of day. Send both corporals to the Presidio with that message, and make sure they deliver it to Loomis in person.”

Walsh signed the document, tore it out of the book, folded it, and beckoned to the two corporals. “Mead and Davis, take this message to the Presidio of Santa Fe. Deliver it to Colonel Loomis posthaste.”

“Then, stay there,” Zak added.

“Yes.”

“Both of us?” Mead asked.

“Both of you. Quick.” Walsh handed the folded note to Mead. Both men saluted. Mead put the message in his pocket and both men rode off toward Santa Fe.

“You still going back to the hills, Zak?” Walsh asked. “There's only three of us and that's dangerous country over there.”

“Three will be enough,” Zak said. Then he added, “I hope.”

“May I ask what your intentions are?” Walsh said.

“I'm going to try and head off Captain Vickers and his men before they ride right into a trap,” Zak said.

“What trap?”

The sound of the galloping horses faded away in the evening air. Spools of dust fanned out and turned to a fine scrim that looked like a golden mist in the sunlight.

Zak didn't answer right away. He rode over to Sergeant Bullard and took the cigarette out of his hand, then gave it back to him.

“Piedmont?” Zak said.

“Yes, sir. Fine smokes. Want one?”

“No. Where do you buy those? On the post?”

Bullard laughed.

“No, sir. I get those at Biederman's Saloon and General Store. Only place in Santa Fe you can buy 'em.”

“You'll have to take me there, one of these days,” Zak said.

“Be glad to, sir.”

“No more ‘sirs,' Sergeant. Just call me Zak. As
far as you're concerned, unless I give you a military order, I'm a civilian.”

“Yes, sir. I mean…”

“Good enough,” Zak said, then turned to Walsh. “What was your question, Harvey?”

“You mentioned a trap. What trap?”

“I don't know,” Zak said. “How are you and Bullard fixed for provisions?”

“We're just about out of hardtack and jerky. We were heading back to the Presidio when we caught up with you.”

“We might have to live off the land for a few days. You up to it?”

“I don't know. You mean rabbits and squirrels?”

“Maybe lizards and rattlesnakes.”

Walsh's face drained of color and he swallowed another gulp of New Mexican air.

Bullard suppressed a chuckle.

“Let's get to it,” Zak said, turning his horse. The two soldiers flanked him and they rode back toward the river and the ford where Zak had crossed.

Zak held the flat of his hand up to the western horizon again. One finger.

Fifteen minutes of daylight left.

But he knew the trail, and the moon would be almost full. He'd find Vickers if he could, if not that night, then early in the morning.

He hoped he wouldn't be too late.