Authors: Lucia St. Clair Robson
Ghost Warrior (34 page)
“Guess what Colonel West is claiming,” he said.
“That Red Sleeves rushed the guards, and they shot him in self-defense.” Rafe slipped the bridle over Othello's head.
“That's right. He also says the army captured the old man in a bloody battle.”
Rafe remembered Joseph's Walker's plan to use Red Sleeves to get them safely through Doubtful Pass. What was it that Scottish poet said about the best laid plans? Rafe grinned at Conners.
“And now your hostage is about as useful to you as a three-legged mule.”
“You're just right all around this morning, Collins.”
“You could prop him up and tie him on his horse,” said Rafe, looking deadly solemn. “Maybe you could fool his men long enough to get through the pass.”
“We might, if'n the chief had a head.”
“What?”
“Surgeon Sturgeon cut it off.” Like everyone else, the sentry enjoyed saying the surgeon's name.
Rafe and Caesar found Sturgeon watching the kettle boil. Red Sleeves' face looked up at Rafe from the roiling water, like some monstrous practical joke. The cook was not happy with the use of his kettle, but Dr. Sturgeon seemed pleased with his prize.
“I plan to send the skull to O. S. Fowler, the eminent phrenologist,” he said. “I would venture to say that he has never seen a specimen of such herculean proportions.”
“What is a friend-ologist, suh?” Caesar, too, could not stop staring into the big black kettle. He was disoriented by Red Sleeves's head in a place where a hunk of salt pork should be. He expected to see onions and potatoes bobbing around it.
The doctor looked pleased to be asked. “Phrenology is the study of human behavior as it relates to areas of the skull. By measuring irregularities on the surface of a person's head, the bumps and hollows, a skilled practitioner can predict the development of such traits as combativeness, amativeness, philoprogenitiveness ⦔
In spite of his misgivings, Rafe smiled to himself. He didn't know the meaning of
amativeness
or
philoprogenitiveness,
but he was familiar with phrenology. During the war, he had overheard the officers' discussions of the subject. He remembered a captain quoting John Quincy Adams, something to the effect that he did not see how two phrenologists could look each other in the face without laughing.
amativeness
or
philoprogenitiveness,
but he was familiar with phrenology. During the war, he had overheard the officers' discussions of the subject. He remembered a captain quoting John Quincy Adams, something to the effect that he did not see how two phrenologists could look each other in the face without laughing.
When the Apaches get wind of this, Rafe thought, all hell will break loose, but when it does, how will anyone be able to distinguish it from the present situation?
Rafe, Caesar, and Dr. Sturgeon watched the soldiers prepare to march out. One of them carried a white flag.
“What're they up to?” But Rafe could guess. It was the only sensible thing to do, given the circumstances.
“He's going to use the white flag to get close to the men who are waiting for Red Sleeves, then bushwhack them.” The doctor verified Rafe's suspicions. “General Carleton has a surefire plan to annihilate Apaches and Navajos. He'll lure them into coming in for talks and presents. Those who surrender he will move to a reserve somewhere far from civilized society. He says he will subjugate them or destroy them. He's enlisted Kit Carson to take hostilities to any who resist.”
Rafe had only met Carson once, in a card game in Santa Fe, but he knew his reputation. Carson was the man for the job. Even so, the words “surefire plan,” roused Rafe's old friend, foreboding. He wondered why no one else seemed to notice that a plan based on massacring groups of Apaches who came in to talk peace could not convince the others to surrender.
If they did agree to go to a reservation, forcing the Navajos and the Apaches to live together would never work. They had warred against each other for centuries. Kit Carson might be able to subdue them, but even he could not persuade them to get along.
Rafe wondered if the army made special efforts to promote stupidity in its officers, or did promotion to higher rank engender it?
HOLDING UP THE SKY
T
he two miners stood in the doorway of the tent that served as the officers' mess. Rafe had seen them earlier at the sutler's store, buying strychnine. They had held it up and announced. “Gonna mix this with cornmeal and use it to bait some red-bellied rats, boys.” The boys had cheered.
he two miners stood in the doorway of the tent that served as the officers' mess. Rafe had seen them earlier at the sutler's store, buying strychnine. They had held it up and announced. “Gonna mix this with cornmeal and use it to bait some red-bellied rats, boys.” The boys had cheered.
Now the more bearlike of the two held a shilling shocker, a small book of the sort that sold for one bit, about twelve and a half cents. On the cover, a yellow-maned giant in a fringed leather shirt wrestled with a snarling Indian wearing a Comanche's bison-horn headdress and brandishing a Sioux tomahawk. A cluster of blond scalps dangled like a line of fish from the Indian's belt.
The title read,
Kit Carson Battles the Apache Menace
. The book's current owner stared at the man sitting at the table with Rafe and Caesar. Then he studied the cover again. He and his companion, who bore a striking resemblance to a ferret, held a whispered conference that carried to the back of the tent.
Kit Carson Battles the Apache Menace
. The book's current owner stared at the man sitting at the table with Rafe and Caesar. Then he studied the cover again. He and his companion, who bore a striking resemblance to a ferret, held a whispered conference that carried to the back of the tent.
“I tell you he is,” said the ferret.
“He ain't,” said the bear.
“Ask him.”
“I hain't makin' no dad-blamed fool of myse'f.”
Finally, they sauntered to the barrel that served Rafe, Caesar, and Col. Kit Carson as a table.
“'Scuse me, mister.” Ferret fixed his attention on Carson. “A feller tole me you was at the scrape with those 'Paches over yonder on Turkey Creek.”
“I was.”
Ferret flashed an I-told-you-so look at Bear. “And how many of the red rascals did ya kill thar?”
“Nary a one.”
“How come?”
“I mizzled.”
“Mizzled?” asked Bear.
“Mizzled sartin.”
“He departed suddenly,” Ferret translated. “With nor muss nor fuss,” he added.
“You ran away?” Bear claim-jumped the I-told-you-so look.
“Hell, yes,” said Kit Carson. “They was a chance of red gallinippers lookin' fierce as two cents, so I skeedaddled.”
“And was Colonel Kit Carson there?”
“I won't lie to you. He war.”
“Cracky!” Bear lit up. “Is he as all-fired brave as they say?”
“I h'yar tell he is some punkins.”
The two men waited for the stories. Everyone who knew Kit Carson had stories, but Kit continued sawing at a chunk of beef with his bowie knife and seemed disinclined to elaborate.
Ferret glanced at Bear. “Reckon we won't occupy any more of your time, mister.”
“Good day to you, then,” mumbled Kit around the mouthful of beef.
The two left with Bear singing, “âMy partner, he laid down and died. I had no blankets, so I took his hide.'”
Rafe figured they would have been more disappointed if they'd learned that this really was Kit Carson. Carson was small and compact, maybe a few years past fifty. He had sunken cheeks, a drooping mustache, and thin, graying hair retreating from the bulge of his broad forehead. He had a bookish look, but he couldn't write, and he couldn't read the outlandish stories printed about him.
“Then that story about you killing ten Apaches ain't true, Marse Kit?” asked Caesar.
Carson shook his head. “I jist told the 'Pache how the
world was wagging and that the jig was up. They held a caucus and voted to adjourn the proceedings.”
world was wagging and that the jig was up. They held a caucus and voted to adjourn the proceedings.”
Rafe had heard a different account from a man who'd been there. Even adjusting for the usual windage of exaggeration, it was a thriller. Fifty or sixty Apaches had approached Kit and seventeen militamen. They were yelling like banshees and flaunting their weapons when Kit walked out in front of his party.
The witness said Carson had seemed to elevate and expand. His eyes took fire. He drew a line in the dirt with the toe of his shoe and, in Apache, invited them to cross it and die. They declined.
Carson was affable and talkative until the conversation turned to his own exploits. Those he dismissed with the wave of a hand as slender as a woman's. As Col. Carson's guests at the mess, Caesar and Rafe had joined him in disposing of bubble-and-squeak, a heap of boiled beef, cabbage, and potatoes. Caesar and Rafe had just arrived with the supply train, and they were avoiding the chaos of distribution day on the reservation here at Bosque Redondo.
Kit Carson had a lot on his mind, so he added two glasses of whiskey to the menu. Maybe he had a lot on his conscience, too. Kit Carson was a conundrum. He was honest, fair, and good-natured. He admired and sympathized with Indians, but he fought them anyway, and he did it more effectively than anyone else. A conscience was an inconvenience for any soldier, but it was a lethal liability for an Indian fighter.
Rafe felt a nipping at the heels of his own conscience when he thought of the paltry amount of corn and beef that he and the other freighters had hauled in. That wasn't his fault, but he still felt guilt by association with a government that would starve the people it had promised to feed. He knew there would not be nearly enough to provide for the eight thousand Navajos that Kit Carson had recently brought to join the five hundred Mescalero Apaches here.
The sound of voices grew outside. Mescaleros and Navajos were gathering at the building where the rations and
blankets were distributed, and where Dr. Michael Steck had set up a temporary office. The general hum was punctuated by shouts in the Apache and Navajo dialects, and in Spanish and English as soldiers tried to restore order.
blankets were distributed, and where Dr. Michael Steck had set up a temporary office. The general hum was punctuated by shouts in the Apache and Navajo dialects, and in Spanish and English as soldiers tried to restore order.
“A reg'lar pandemonium of breech-rags and red bellies, hain't it?” Kit sighed and drained the last of the whiskey.
Caesar headed for the wagon yard. Rafe and Kit waded into the resentment and anger. Outnumbered, the Mescaleros stood on a slope a hundred yards away while the Navajos crowded around the door of Dr. Steck's office. The two groups traded insults and accusations of thievery, murder, abduction, slander, depravity, and, worst of all in their view, mendacity.
Under General Carleton's orders, Carson had waged war on the Navajos through the summer and fall of 1864, but he had disobeyed the general's directive to kill every Indian he found. The general held with the common aphorism that nits made lice, but Carson hadn't fallen into the habit of murdering women and children. Instead, he burned the Navajos' orchards and fields and slaughtered their sheep and cattle. By winter, destitute, frozen, and starving, they had surrendered. Scores of Navajos had died on that terrible march through the bitter winter. Regret kindled in Kit's eyes whenever the subject came up.
For all that, they had learned that Carson kept his word, which was something no other white man except Dr. Steck would do. They believed he would try to help them as best he could. They were right, but their current affliction was beyond his ability to remedy.
When the Confederate troops fled the territory, they left behind three soldiers with smallpox. All three died, but not before they spread the disease to the Union-army. The army spread it to the Navajos.
Now many of them carried their sick kin on makeshift litters. They called out
“Ka'-san, Ka'-san,”
and pleaded with him to help them. With sorrow in his gray eyes, Kit pushed through the crowd. He was finding that the burden of peace could be as heavy as war.
“Ka'-san, Ka'-san,”
and pleaded with him to help them. With sorrow in his gray eyes, Kit pushed through the crowd. He was finding that the burden of peace could be as heavy as war.
The hideous sores that covered the sick Navajos' faces repulsed and frightened Rafe, and he followed close on Carson's heels when he went inside. They stood in the cheerful heat of the cast-iron sibley stove while Dr. Steck and General Carleton carried on their argument as though they were alone.
“There was no need for you to come here,” Carleton thundered.
“I wanted to see the inhuman conditions for myself.”
“I am seeing to their welfare. I have sent to Santa Fe for a teacher to school them.”
“The Navajos need medicine, not someone to teach them the ABC's.”
“The Navajos have contracted. smallpox from the soldiers because their women fornicate with them.”
“No matter what the cause, hundreds are dying, and many of them are innocent children.”
“I've taken care of the problem.”
Dr. Steck looked hopeful. Maybe Carleton had included the cowpox vaccine in this current shipment. “How?”
“I sent orders for them to throw the corpses into the river.”
“But the Apaches are camped downstream from them.”
“The Apaches should have thought of that when they were stealing everything on four hooves.”
“The Mescaleros have been the least troublesome of the Apache tribe. They were poised at the brink of starvation. They ate whatever stock they stole.” Steck was heating to a cherry-red state of eloquence on the subject. “If all the Indians were Spartans, they could not bear up against the relentless tide of gold seekers. The white man has disrupted their ancient means of subsistence.”
“You know very well that their ancient means of subsistence has always been thievery. âFor the thief should make full restitution; if he have nothing, then he shall be sold for his theft.' Exodus, chapter twenty-two, verse three.”
Kit raised one eyebrow and glanced at Rafe. They both knew about the shady deals Carelton had been hatching with men like Joseph Reddeford Walker and his crowd. If they
weren't outright thievery, they were close enough. Rafe reckoned Carleton could never be sold as punishment for any thefts though. Not even those who agreed with his policies would give two cents for the man himself.
weren't outright thievery, they were close enough. Rafe reckoned Carleton could never be sold as punishment for any thefts though. Not even those who agreed with his policies would give two cents for the man himself.
Carleton turned to Rafe and Kit. “Unload the provisions quickly.” He started for the door. “Dr. Steck is going back to Santa Fe with you.”
Â
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THE RAIDING PARTY DIDN'T HAVE TO FIND A WIDE CLEFT IN which to bury Skinny's remains. A narrow one accomodated him. Fights Without Arrows, Flies In His Stew, Ears So Big, Chato, and the others wrapped him in his blanket. They lowered his slender frame, his weapons, and all his belongings into the crack in the basalt.
The rancher and his vaqueros had put up more of a fight for his horses than the warriors expected. A bullet had made a neat hole above the ridge of Skinny's nose. The bullet's exit from the back of his skull had not been so neat.
Fights Without Arrows delivered the news to Skinny's wives. The smoke from his burning lodge and possessions lingered like a pall over the village. The wailing went on for days.
Victorio had depended on Skinny's advice. Now he couldn't even talk with Red Sleeves about the troubles besetting their people. Red Sleeves and his men had gone to Pinos Altos more than two years ago, and they had not come back. His son, Mangas, was leading his band in the absence of a better candidate.
Mangas was good-natured and strong, but he lacked the boldness and cunning of Red Sleeves. Mangas visited often at Victorio's fire, brooding about the disappearance of his father. Many of his people had sought shelter with relatives in Victorio's and Loco's villages. They were hungry, cold, and disheartened.
The world had always harbored dangers for The People, but it had become more perilous than even the oldest ones could remember. A gang of Pale Eyes had attacked Loco's
village while its inhabitants slept, and had killed mostly women and children. They had taken scalps. They had knocked out their victims' teeth and sliced off body parts. Mexican traders from Alamosa said the Pale Eyes didn't even collect a bounty for the hair. They took it as souvenirs.
village while its inhabitants slept, and had killed mostly women and children. They had taken scalps. They had knocked out their victims' teeth and sliced off body parts. Mexican traders from Alamosa said the Pale Eyes didn't even collect a bounty for the hair. They took it as souvenirs.
The Warm Springs people depended on Lozen's powers to warn them of approaching enemies, but they still lived like hunted creatures. No longer could they enjoy a big blaze and storytelling in the open air. Now twenty or so of them huddled close to the small fire built in a cave. Lozen sat between Grandmother and Daughter, and she held three-year-old Wah-sin-ton on her lap. She rested her chin on his head, closed her eyes, and listened.
He Makes Them Laugh had invited them here. He knew that second to food, laughter was the best remedy for hunger. Tonight he wore his favorite headdress, a skunk's pelt with the tail hanging down the back of his neck and the stuffed head perched over his forehead. Stands Alone had sewn on two black seeds as eyes. Sometimes when speaking, He Makes Them Laugh would barely move his lips. He had convinced the younger children that the skunk could talk.
“Coyote was going along ⦔ He began with the familiar phrase and the children came to attention. Stories about Trickster Coyote always made them laugh. “He came to a tall, dead pine tree, reaching up into the sky. A fat lizard sat on the trunk. Coyote looked up at him and said, âI only eat fat. Come down here so I can gobble you up.'
“Lizard said, âOld Man, the sky is about to fall on us. I have to hold up this tree because it's supporting the sky.'
“âI don't believe you.' Coyote put his two front paws as high on the tree trunk as he could, but he couldn't reach Lizard. âLook up,' said Lizard. âYou'll see what I mean.'
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