Shadow River (7 page)

Keeping an eye on the soldiers, Sam rose behind the tied panther, his knife in hand. The panther had been hanging there motionless. Yet, when her drooping eyes opened and she saw Sam's face not more than a foot from hers, she showed her fangs in a low hiss and tensed her claws in her rope bindings.

Sam ducked away quickly, knowing the soldiers had heard her. But as he peeped around the tree, he saw them only look her way, then fall back into talking and drinking. Sam waited for a moment before attempting to cut the panther loose. This had not been one of the best ideas he'd ever had. But he was here now, and had already gone this far.
All right, here we go,
he told himself. As he started creeping back up a fork in the tree's trunk, he heard gunfire break out in the distance, in the direction of the other three outlaws.

The soldiers, hearing the gunfire, scrambled to their feet and began buttoning their tunics as if that was them doing their part. Sam watched them all hurry to an open gap in the wall and stand looking in the direction of the battle. Even the rifleman guarding the Apache left his position and ran to the others. The Apache prisoners sat stone-faced, staring straight ahead, as if none of this mattered to them.

Hurriedly, Sam rose with the knife and cut through the rope circling the tree, holding the panther's right front and rear paws stretched out. As soon as the rope went slack, the cat swung her freed paws back and forth as if searching for Sam, her big claws bared, ready to slice open anything that got close. As the wounded bleeding cat sensed her freedom at hand, she found a new burst of energy and swung about wildly on her left paws.

Sam quickly sliced the rope drawn around the tree holding the cat's left fore and rear paws. As soon as he cut the rope, he dived backward into the ditch. But he saw the cat hit the ground and catch herself and look all around, crouched on all fours. Blood dripped from her wounded side. But she was free, and wasting no time. Each of her four paws had a two-foot length of cut rope hanging from them.

Given her new resurgence of strength, Sam knew her next move would be to leap up onto the wall and bound along it and disappear off onto the hillside into the night, ropes and all. Yet, in the flicker of a second, it dawned on him how crazy this cat had acted from the very start.

“Oh no,” he said, seeing the big cat had spun and stood staring at him huddled there in the shallow ditch. At the gap in the wall, the soldiers had heard the cat squall out. They turned, guns in hand, just in time to see her spring forward onto Sam and roll and wallow atop him down in the ditch.

Sam had just enough time to draw his Colt as she hit him. But in spite of her wounds, her rage was so sudden and intense, his knife flew from his hand in one direction and his Colt in the other. The cat was weakened enough by its ordeal that Sam managed to get his hands around its throat and hold it back, but it did him little good. The long, sharp fangs didn't reach his face, his neck, his jugular vein, but the claws slashed at his chest, at his shoulders.

Across the campsite three soldiers raised their rifles as one and fired. The shots missed the cat, but the roar of explosions and the impact of bullets knocking chunks of stone from the wall caused the cat to leap away and up atop the wall. By the time the soldiers fired again, Sam heard the cat breaking through the vine bed and vanishing into the darkness.

The Apache prisoners still sat watching stone-faced as Sam struggled to his feet, his hands raised high, four red slashes of the cat's claws stretched across his bare chest. Blood ran down from the claw marks. Rifles turned and trained onto him, their barrels already smoking. He froze in place, seeing the other soldiers also raise and aim their rifles.

“Tenga su fuego!”
a soldier shouted, ordering them to hold their fire. But one rifle shot exploded anyway just as he finished his words.
“Tenga su fuego, embecile!”
he repeated, staring hard at the bungling soldier. He started forward cautiously toward Sam, a long saber in hand. Beyond the walls in the distance, Sam heard the battle raging in the ruins farther downhill. He only hoped Burke had lain low as he told him to do. He glanced all around as the soldier drew closer, the saber rising slowly, pointing at him, glistening in the firelight.

“Who are you, hombre?”
he asked in stiff English, “and why do you come to disturb our entertainment?”

Clyde Burke lay hidden among the rocks on the stretch of terrace where Burke told Sam he would wait. He'd heard the gunfire coming from the direction of the other gunman camped inside the walls of the lower ruins. He also heard the commotion and gunfire from the other side of the wall in front of him. He knew nothing else to do for the time being but lie low, hoping Sam would get back so they could get out of here. The longer he waited, the less likely he thought that was going to happen.

Damn it, Jones!

He stayed buried down in the rocks as the gunfire waned from the lower ruins. When the sound of hoofbeats rumbled up a trail and stopped inside the wall in front of him, he poked his head up for a second for a look-see, then ducked back down quickly when he saw horsemen come out from behind the wall and ride almost straight toward him.

There was no way he was going to get up in the light of a full moon and make a run for it.
Huh-uh.
Not now,
he warned himself. He'd waited too long. All running would do now is get him a back full of Mexican bullets. He lay frozen, almost as if pretending the hoofbeats closing in around him had nothing to do with him. He hugged his and Sam's rifle against his chest and lay with his eyes squeezed shut. But he winced and snapped his eyes open when the closing hooves stopped and a voice called out to him.

“You in there, come out,” a
federale
's voice demanded in clear but broken English.

Burke waited, tense, silent.

“So, you are not in there, eh, hombre?” the voice called out with almost a dark laugh. “In that case, I will have my men start shooting until we decide you are dead.” A pause; then the voice said to the circled riflemen, “Ready, aim—”

“No hablo español,”
Burke called out in a shaky voice. But the
federale
leader was having none of it.

“—fire,” he shouted.

“Wait!” said Burke. “Here I am, see?” He stood up with his hands high and empty.

“Step out, keep your hands high,” a
federale
captain demanded.

Looking Burke up and down, a sergeant sitting his horse beside the captain gestured for two men to step down and take Burke prisoner. As the men dismounted, the sergeant leaned a little in his saddle.

“You see,
Capitán
, I said there would be more out here. These gringo pistoleros are everywhere—like flies.”

“What were you and your amigo doing out here?” the captain demanded as the soldiers lowered Burke's hand behind his back and quickly bound them together with a strip of rawhide tethering.

“Believe it or not,
Señor Capitán
,”
Burke said, getting his nerve back, “I was just out taking a stroll, the night being such as it is.” He rolled his eyes toward the purple starlit sky.

“Alone, eh?” said the stocky sergeant, swinging down from his saddle. He stood with his face only inches from Burke's.

“Sergeant, he has two rifles down here,” said one of the two riflemen who'd bound Burke's hands. He held up the two rifles from among the rocks.

“Ah,” said the sergeant. “The other one belongs to the man they captured inside.” He gazed back at Burke as he spoke over his shoulder to the captain. “These men are all a part of the rebel forces. They support our enemies.”

“These men . . . ?”
said Burke, as if in surprise. “It's just my pal and me here. Like I told you, we were out taking a stroll—”

“Shut up your lies, idiot!” the sergeant bellowed, cutting Burke off with a hard fist to his belly. Burke's knees buckled from the blow. He almost sank to the rocky ground, but the two soldiers caught him, held him up until he collected himself and stood swaying in place.

“We know there are more than the two of you,” the captain called down to Burke from his saddle. “We found the rest of your band of pistoleros camped farther down. My patrol brings the survivor up to us even as I sit here speaking.”

“Survivor?”
said Burke. This time he really was surprised. “You mean there's only one man left alive?” His voice was weak and strained from the hard blow to his gut.

“You do not ask us the questions, gringo. We ask you,” said the sergeant.

“Sergeant Bolado,” said one of the soldiers still mounted, “here comes the patrol now.” He pointed out toward a shadowy line of riders topping into sight on a narrow trail up from the lower ruins.

“Good,” the sergeant said, staring into Burke's eyes. “Soon we will know the truth.” He turned to the two soldiers. “Rope this one and walk him up to the camp. Let him and his amigo see each other, so they will both know that all is lost.”

All is lost?

In spite of the pain throbbing in Burke's stomach, he stifled a chuckle and shook his head. “Sergeant, if you don't mind me saying so, you're making a whole lot more of this—”

His words stopped short as the sergeant launched another hard blow to his stomach.

“Every time this one opens his mouth, hit him again for me,” he ordered the soldiers. He gestured a hand. “Now get him out of my sight.”

The soldiers shoved Burke roughly over to their horses. One took down a lariat, uncoiled it and looped one end of it around Burke's waist. Burke made it a point to keep his mouth shut as the soldiers stepped atop their horses and turned them toward the approaching patrol as both parties of riders spotted each other.

When the two parties joined at the top of a rocky rise, Burke saw a body draped over a horse in the moonlight; he recognized his horse and the others led by one of the soldiers. He caught a glimpse of someone riding slumped in the saddle, his hands tied behind him, two soldiers flanking him. But Burke couldn't make out the face in the pale grainy light. He lowered his head and stood waiting, wondering what sort of plan his pard Jones would have for getting them out of here.

•   •   •

Sam stood across the campsite from the stony-eyed Apache warriors, his chest bleeding from the panther's claw marks, a short welt on the side of his head from one of the soldiers' rifle barrels. A soldier stood in front of him, a rifle in his hands at port arms, ready to crack Sam in the head or shoot him if need be. Luckily, when the soldiers had tied Sam's hands, they tied them in front of him rather than behind his back. He wasn't sure how long that would last, noting that the six Apache prisoners' hands were all tied behind them. A long rope ran behind their backs, through each man's tied wrists, keeping them roped together.

Sam and the warriors stared at each other. The young warrior Sam had given water to a month earlier leaned near the older warrior seated beside him. Sam saw the young warrior gesture first toward the tree where the cat had been hanging, then toward the wall where the cat had escaped. The two warriors sat almost expressionless, yet Sam could see they had just shared a joke at his expense. He glared at them.

When the captain's patrol rode into the camp, both Sam and the Indians turned and watched them intently. Sam saw Burke stumbling along in front of them at the end of the rope. He saw Boyd Childers' body draped over a horse's back. On horseback he saw Stanley Black, his severed hat brim once again drooping down below his eyes. As the soldiers at the campsite looked at Black, they laughed among themselves. The front brim of Black's hat lay sagging just under his nose. It rose and fell slightly with each breath he took.

An angry look from Black caused one of the soldiers to shove him from his saddle and goad and probe him toward Sam with his rifle barrel. Another soldier shoved Burke over beside Sam. Burke cursed at them over his shoulder as he staggered forward across the campsite, his wrists tied behind his back. Seeing Sam standing there, his wrists bound in front of him, he stopped and eyed Sam up and down.

“All right, Jones, how come you're getting such favored treatment?” he asked Sam as he stopped and stood close beside him.

“Just special, I guess,” Sam said quietly. “Where's Montana?”

“He must've got away,” said Black, his sagging hat brim drooped below his eyes. “Leastwise I haven't seen his body.”

“Good for him,” Sam said.

“No talk,” the young soldier said.

Burke and Black ignored him. Both of them scrutinized the claw marks on Sam's chest and shoulders.

“I see you found the cat,” Burke whispered. “Was she happy to see you?”

“It's a long story,” said Sam. “But no, not real happy.”

“No talk,” the guard repeated. He took a threatening step forward.

Burke gave the guard a hard, cold stare.

“Don't go getting your drawers in a knot,” he said calmly. “It would be a bad mistake, you thinking we can't take that rifle of yours and shove it—”

The seasoned gunman stopped and rocked back a step as the soldier's rifle butt gave him a quick short stab to his chest. Burke staggered but managed to stay upright. He continued giving the young soldier his hard, cold stare.

“Take it easy, Clyde,” Sam whispered, even as he stared at the soldier. “We're going to need all our strength here.”

Burke settled down and let out a tight breath.

“Lucky for you I'm in a good mood tonight,” he said to the soldier.

As he talked, other soldiers strung a rope along behind their backs the way they'd done with their Apache prisoners. Yet in Sam's case the rope ran around the front of him and between his tied wrists. In a moment the captain walked up and stood in front of Sam. Sergeant Bolado stood at the captain's side. Two riflemen flanked them. Sam noted that his own bone-handled Colt stood in the sergeant's waist sash. He'd have to keep watch on the Colt and whose hand it wandered into, having learned that guns had a way of traveling full circle here in this desert badlands.

“So,” said the captain to the sergeant, “this is you, the man who decided to fight the loco panther who lives here?” He stared curiously at Sam and grinned, noting the claw marks and blood.

“
Sí
, Capitán Flores, he is the one,” said Sergeant Bolado.

With a gloved hand, the captain flipped up the loose shredded shirt cloth hanging down Sam's bloody chest.

“How did that go for you, gringo?” the captain asked Sam, stifling a cruel smirk.

“I didn't come here to get into a fight with the panther,” Sam said calmly. “I came here to see if you were Apache warriors camped up here.”

“Oh?” the captain said. “Then why is it that you slip into our camp?” He gestured toward the hackberry tree where the tortured cat had been hanging. “Why do you set the panther free, so that she can inflict more injuries on my men?”

Set the panther free?

Even Burke and Black leaned forward a little and gave Sam a curious look when they heard the captain's question.

“I didn't come here to set her free,” Sam said. “I came here to see what was wrong with her. I was concerned. We heard her squalling all the way down the hillside.”

The captain and the sergeant stared at each other. The captain laughed and looked all around at his gathered men.

“This one goes looking for panthers in the night. He is concerned!” He grinned openly and spread his gloved hands in an understanding gesture.

The men chuffed and laughed.

After a moment, when the captain stopped laughing, the sergeant settled the men with a raised hand as three more mounted soldiers rode into the camp and stepped down from their horses.

“
Capitán
, I sent for Corporal Valiente from the ranks,” he said to the captain. “He has arrived.”

“Ah, good,” said the captain. “Now we will find out if these men are wandering around in our desert like mindless ones do, or if they are rebel supporters and arms dealers.” He gave Sam a dark piercing stare.

The three newly arrived soldiers walked over to the captain and stood beside him. One of them wore a corporal's uniform and had his left arm in a sling. He stared at Sam for a moment.

“These two I do not know,
mi Capitán
,” he said to the captain, gesturing at Burke and Stanley Black. He gave Black's drooping hat brim a curious glance. Then he looked back at Sam and said with certainty, “But this one was with the wagon that carried the guns to the rebels.”

“Are you certain of this, Corporal Valiente?” the sergeant asked.

“
Sí
, I am certain, Sergeant,” said the corporal. “I stood this close to him before the Apache attacked and killed all of our soldiers. He delivered the guns and ammunition to our enemies and took the gold for the rifles.”

“That will be all, Corporal,” said the captain. He turned to Sam as the corporal walked away.

“Too bad for you,” the captain said to Sam, shaking his head slowly. To Burke and Black he said, “And it is too bad for the two of you as well, for being with this one.”

Burke swallowed a dry knot in his throat and looked at Sam, then back at the captain.

“I would not go so far as to say we're
with him
,
Capitán
,” he said somberly. “It's more like we come across him out here on the sand flats and just sort of happened to be going the same—”

“Shut up,” the sergeant snapped at Burke. “You do yourself no good to lie. You will still hang.”

“He's telling the truth, Sergeant,” Sam put in. “They had no part in the rifle deal. Neither did I, the truth be known.”

“The
truth be known
?” the captain repeated. “Then you deny what Corporal Valiente tells me—what he has seen with his own two eyes? Perhaps you will say you have never seen him before?”

“I've seen him before,” Sam admitted, recalling the corporal from over a month ago when he was arrested for gunrunning. “He rode with a captain named Silvero.”

“Yes, a very good amigo to me, Capitán Silvero,” said Captain Flores. “May his immortal soul rest in peace. He was killed by these murdering Apache.” He slid a dark glance to the stone-faced Indian prisoners who sat staring at them. “For which they will hang.” He looked back pointedly at Sam. “It is Capitán Silvero's death, and that of his men, and the selling of firearms to the rebels that brings me out here,
investigating,
in this blasted devil's inferno.”