Ghost Warrior (7 page)

R
andy stood at Zak's feet, nudging the sole of Zak's boot with his toe. Zak awoke immediately, threw off his blanket, and sat up. It was still dark, but Zak knew that it was close to dawn. The chill breath of a breeze blew at his face, seeped through his clothing to his skin. He grabbed his rifle and stood, adjusting his eyes to the moonlit darkness, the star sheen gleaming like liquid metal on the bill of Bullard's cap.

“Report,” Zak whispered. Sometimes the military in him came to the forefront. This was one of those times, he realized.

“Sir, I didn't know how far sound could travel at night. Out here, I mean. This is a good outpost. I heard riders way off.”

“Any of them come close?”

“No, but I heard activity. Couldn't tell exactly where the noises was comin' from, but I heard a lot of horses. Goin' west, up into the hills where we was yesterday. Up to that Navajo camp.”

“Did you eat?”

“I sure did, Zak. Gnawed through hardtack and jerky, gobbled down a cup of rancid beans.”

Zak suppressed a laugh.

“How long ago did you hear the horses?”

“A while after I took over your watch. Maybe an hour later. Sounded like they was all strung out.”

“No talk?”

“Didn't hear none.”

“So, the Navajos and Sergeant Dominguez went somewhere and came back. A raid?”

“Maybe,” Bullard said.

“Might be safe for us to ride down to the valley and see what Captain Vickers has to say.”

“You're the boss, Zak.”

“I'll ride down first, then give a whistle if it's clear. You wait up here. You hear anything, you give me a whistle.”

Zak rode down to the flat. He dismounted, put his ear to the ground. He heard nothing. He whistled, then climbed back up in the saddle.

He waited for Bullard to join him, then rode to the east, following the easiest path through hills and mounds, stopping every so often to listen. It was still cool and there was a slight breeze blowing down from the mountains at their backs. The horses were frisky and stepped out well on the volcanic dust, their hooves landing solid on the hardpan. They would leave tracks, Zak knew, but that was unavoidable. It was still full dark, but he could feel the dawn flexing its muscles just below the horizon. He wanted to get back to the old camp before the sun rose high enough to strike them full in their faces. They rode out of the jumble of hills and he knew they were making good time on the downhill ride to the valley.

The moon paled to a ghost and the stars faded in a sky filling with light. Dawn broke across a
rusty horizon that opened up like a wound, gushing blood, gold, and silver onto the far cloudbanks. The cool freshets of air from the mountains retreated as the heat advanced across the majestic land, stagelit to life with a suddenness that took a man's breath away.

Zak pulled the brim of his hat down and lowered his head into its shade. He touched the beard stubble on his chin and rubbed the short hairs so that it sounded like sandpaper gliding across a chunk of wood. They came onto the plain and the tracks of unshod horses stood out like dimples in a pudding. Tracks from the west revealed a shod horse among them. But there were tracks going the other way, too, and Zak felt something tighten in the back of his brain, the worm of a thought inching up as he saw the return tracks, those heading back up into the wild reaches. These were threaded with shod horses, horses carrying little weight, hieroglyphs of iron hooves in the dirt and sand.

Bullard saw the stirred-up earth, but did not decipher the scrawled tracks that were etched in the earthen tablet.

“Lots of tracks,” Bullard said. “Wonder if the boys chased them Injuns off. Looks like they was prowlin' close to where we had our camp.”

“It's worse than that, Randy,” Zak said. There were steel bands in his stomach and they tightened down on his gut as if some hand was wrapping them around an iron barrel.

In the distance Zak saw the smoke from Santa Fe, tendrils rising into the bluing sky, fanning out as they reached the upper air lofts. Below, the valley was still in shadow, a dim jumble of rocks and
cactus, thin sentinels of ocotillo, and the coarse brown rust of centuries. Beyond, the river turned to a multicolored sash that flexed like a snake swallowing its young.

“I think I see that bunch of rocks where we camped,” Bullard said.

They rode over a moil of horse tracks and Zak felt something catch in his chest, as if a force was squeezing his heart.

“You don't get it, do you, Randy?” Zak said.

“Get what?”

“You see any horses down there? Any sign of life?”

Randy stood up in his stirrups as if he were riding a jumper.

“Well, no, not yet,” he said.

“Better brace yourself. You might not like what you see on the other side of those rocks.”

The two rode down and circled the rocks. Bullard gasped when he saw the naked bodies sprawled on the ground like broken dolls. His horse snorted and backed down on its haunches. Zak rode up and gazed down on the dead men.

Each man had been stripped of his clothes and boots. There were no rifles, no pistols. Even their bedrolls were gone.

Corporal Larry Mead and Corporal Stu Davis had their throats cut, their genitals stuffed in their open mouths. Lieutenant Walsh had been shot in the back. His throat was slit from ear to ear and he lay on his side, his eyes closed.

Bullard made a sound and when Zak turned to look at him, the sergeant was leaning to one side, vomiting a mixture of hardtack gruel and bits of
dried beef onto the ground. His horse sidled away from the vomit, sidestepping as if he were on parade.

Zak tried to put the pieces together. It was not difficult to reconstruct what had happened.

But he wanted to make sure. He dismounted and walked over the blood-soaked ground, looking at the impressions their blankets had left, the smoothness of the earth with ripples and folds made by cloth and the weight of the men. He saw that Kelso and Deming also had been stripped of their clothes and weapons. There were brass shells lying about and he left them where they lay, but marked their positions. He sorted through the boot tracks and the moccasin tracks. He traveled back through time, uncovering everything, pulling up the evidence layer by layer until a picture began to form in his mind.

Bullard was still retching, but had dismounted. He was doubled over, the reins still in his hand.

Zak counted the bodies for the fourth time.

There were two men missing.

One of them was Sergeant Dominguez. Zak deduced that he had shot Walsh and the two corporals as they slept, then rode up into the hills to get the Navajos, bring them back down to attack the campsite, steal the horses, strip the dead of their clothing and weapons.

Bullard stood up, wiped his mouth. He dropped the reins and walked over to Zak.

“They're all dead, ain't they?”

“No, not all of them. Two are still alive.”

Bullard swept the scene with a penetrating gaze.

“They all look dead to me,” he said.

“These men are dead. Two are not.”

“Yeah, Naldo ain't here. But we know where he is. Or where he went, that damned traitor.”

“Captain Vickers is not here, either,” Zak said.

Bullard looked at the obscene bodies of the dead men again. He squinched his eyes shut, then opened them. They were brimming with tears.

“No, he ain't here, is he?”

“We can scout around, waste our time,” Zak said. “But I think Vickers wasn't here when all this happened.”

“Where was he?”

“I don't know. Maybe riding off by himself, planning to move camp. No, he wasn't here—or he would be dead. I think he saw what happened, though. Or he came back after Dominguez left and saw his men lying dead here.”

“Then, you think he took off after Naldo?”

“No. I think he knew something was very wrong and he pointed his horse toward Santa Fe.”

“Sounds like Vickers.”

“A man doing his duty. The way he sees it.”

“Yeah, that would be Cap'n Vickers.”

“I think we'll find him at the Presidio, reporting this massacre to Colonel Loomis.”

“I think you might be right, Zak.”

“You finished upchucking, Randy?”

“I'm empty as a gourd.”

“Then let's get out of here, head for Santa Fe. We should be there by noon if we hurry.”

The sun was up, blazing full bore across the land. They rode with the molten light square in their faces, putting their horses to the gallop on good ground, varying their pace. They crossed the
river and headed for the town, which lay like something constructed from a dream, a village made of adobe and surrounded by hills and the ghosts of dead men, past and present.

In their wake, up in the rocks, the flies and the worms were busy reclaiming human flesh, reducing what had once been strong men to swollen caricatures soon to be lost from time and history.

Zak thought of them as he rode, and thought of the puzzle that had become so complex. He wondered if he, or anyone, could ever break the code.

Was there a solution to this particular enigma?

There were no answers yet.

There were only more questions, and each one burned like a hot coal in the furnace of Zak's mind. And deep down, beyond his reach, beyond his comprehension, something else was being forged in that furnace.

Hatred. A hatred for men who had no regard for life.

And hatred was a dangerous state of mind for a man. Hatred could cloud a man's judgment, blind him to reason.

Still, Zak could not push it back down, that hatred. It was focused not on the traitor, Dominguez. He was a mere pawn. Instead, the man Zak hated was some kind of ghost, a warrior that should never have been resurrected from the grave.

That man was Narbona.

L
ieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Loomis towered over Captain Jeffrey Vickers. The two men together looked like figures in a recruiting picture for the United States Cavalry. Vickers had shaved, bathed, and donned a fresh, newly pressed uniform, and Loomis was spit and polish all the way, a West Pointer complete with swagger stick and a constant drum roll at the back of his strict military mind.

Loomis read the document Zak had handed him. He and Vickers stood next to the large cherrywood desk in the commandant's office, both stiff as twelve-inch whipsawed boards.

“I was about to issue an arrest order for you, Cody. Captain Vickers expressed the opinion that you might have been a party to inciting the Navajos along the Rio Grande, inciting them to murder and rob our great citizens.”

“I believe I was mistaken,” Vickers said. “When I saw Sergeant Dominguez murder my boys, then ride off into the hills, I thought he was joining Cody and Bullard. Those two were gone by the time I awoke that morning. I was riding down to the river when I heard the shots. I saw Dominguez
ride off. When I saw the dead troopers I knew I had to ride here and get help.”

“Cody,” Loomis said, “this whole business is highly irregular. You don't wear a uniform. You do not report to any local superior officer. What am I to make of you? I have a wagon outside ready to go and pick up those dead troopers under Captain Vickers' command, and you're telling me not to take my troops to the field and kill or arrest those responsible.”

“I believe, Colonel,” Zak said, “that that is exactly why those soldiers were murdered. I also believe that the Navajo predations along the Rio Grande are part of that same scheme: to draw the army out into the field so that they can be slaughtered.”

“Slaughtered? These are fighting men under my command here at Fort Marcy, and you're talking about a few renegade Navajos running around in small bands, disrupting the lives of innocent ranchers and farmers.”

Sergeant Bullard stood at rigid attention just behind Zak, beads of sweat bleeding from the creases in his forehead. He cleared his throat in a loud rasp of air and both Vickers and Loomis stared at him as if he had just let out an explosive fart. Vickers frowned. Loomis crinkled his nose like a curious dog on the scent.

“Did you have something to say, Sergeant?” Loomis said.

“Well, sir, if you want to hear what I got to say.”

“Speak up, man. Does your information pertain to the subject at hand?”

It took Bullard a second or two to digest and simplify the colonel's question.

“Maybe, sir,” he said. “Me'n Zak, I mean Colonel Cody, was up in that country, lookin' down at that Navajo camp. They ain't no way to get in there after 'em without losin' a lot of men.”

“Explain yourself, Sergeant,” Loomis said.

“Well, sir, the whole country is all jumbled up, with hundreds of hills and canyons runnin' ever' whichaway, and so many places for Injuns to hide and such. You go in there with cavalry and you'd be ridin' right into a death trap.”

Loomis turned his attention to Zak.

“That so, Cody?” Loomis, although he was out-ranked, still treated Zak like a civilian. The tone and the address was not lost on Zak, but he ignored it.

“It's a labyrinth in the Jemez, sir,” he said with deliberate politeness. “I think there's more than one village in there. We saw only one, but I saw things there that led me to believe there are more just like it. And I counted fifty braves. Actually, it was what I didn't see that leads me to that conclusion.”

“What do you mean by that, Cody—what you didn't see?”

“I didn't see a lot of horses, for one thing. I saw women and children, for another. It was not a war camp. But there were a lot of canyons feeding into it. It looked like the hub of a wheel, with spokes going out in all directions.”

“How long did you observe this Navajo camp, Cody? Two minutes? Three? Five?”

“Less than five, probably.”

Bullard cleared his throat again, but Loomis ignored him.

Loomis walked over to the window and looked out at the adobe blockhouse, the earthworks. Fort Marcy had been closed for some time and was just newly reopened. It was very near the Presidio, and was a conglomeration of adobe earthworks surrounded by a dry moat. Loomis was there on temporary duty until the government appointed a permanent commandant. He had hated the Presidio, and in spite of all the fort's homeliness, he was glad to have a place that was separate from the local government, the palace, and all the strings attached.

He turned and walked over to stand in front of Zak.

“You make a lot of assumptions on very little evidence, Cody.”

“Yes, sir.”

Loomis handed the document with Zak's assignment written on it back to him.

“According to this, you outrank me. But, I'm in charge of Fort Marcy and all the troops consigned to this post. Do you understand that?”

“I do, sir,” Zak said.

Loomis walked back over to stand beside his desk, next to Vickers.

“Just so we understand each other. My duty is to go after renegades, Indian or white, to protect this city and this state.”

Loomis paused, expecting some kind of response from Zak. Zak stood there, with no expression on his unshaven face. Sunlight streamed through the windows, but it was still cool inside the thick walls
of the office. The sounds of marching men droned in the background, and a blacksmith's hammer clanged against an iron anvil. A horse whickered and men rattled leather traces as they lined up horses in harness just below Loomis's window.

“Just what is it you want me to do, Cody? In line with your assignment only, that is.”

“Sir, I'd like a week to do some detective work here in Santa Fe. I would ask that you not take troops into the field until I have more information about what you might be facing if you go after the Navajos.”

“A week? Out of the question.” Loomis's voice was stern. “It'll take a day or so to get those dead troopers back here and buried with full military honors. Then I intend to take up the pursuit of this band of renegade Indians. I'll give you two days.”

“Three,” Zak said. “And do you remember the name of the Navajo leader I gave you earlier?”

“Yes, and as you suggested, I did some checking. Narbona, the Navajo who fought against Colonel Washington and Major Carson, was in his eighties back in forty-nine. He's long dead. So the man you say is leading these outlaws is an imposter.”

“I'm sure he is, sir, since the Navajos never use the name of a dead man, or even say it aloud or in their thoughts after he is buried. But…”

“But what?”

“I think the Navajos might believe that the old Narbona, the one who died back in the fifties, has come back to life. They might believe this Narbona has returned to lead his people to victory, to reclaim former Navajo land.”

“That's preposterous,” Loomis said.

“But likely,” Zak said.

Vickers looked as if he had been kicked square in the balls. His face drained of color and his neck veins swelled out until his skin crawled with blue worms.

“Three days,” Loomis said. “I'll give you three days. May I ask what you intend to do in Santa Fe, what course your investigation will take?”

“I'm not at liberty to say, Colonel.”

“Not at liberty to say? Sir, I demand you tell me what you plan to do in Santa Fe.”

“Don't force me to pull rank on you, Colonel.” Zak's jaw tightened and there was a ripple of flesh along his jawline. His eyes turned to hard flint and he skewered Loomis with the intensity of his gaze.

“Why, I ought to have you clapped in irons and thrown in the guardhouse for that remark.”

“Nevertheless, sir, I do not want the details of my mission here to leak out. And I have one more request.”

“And what is that, Mr. Cody?” Loomis was fighting to control his rage. He flexed his fingers and did everything he could not to ball them up into fists.

“I'll need a man to come with me. A cavalryman. But he must wear civilian clothes.”

“Why, take Sergeant Bullard with you. Hell, you've already made a damned conscript of him.”

“No, not Sergeant Bullard, although he's a brave and capable soldier. The man I need is one who will respect my rank, take orders, and later go into the field with full knowledge of what he's up against. I need a man who can command troops, an officer.”

“I can't assign one of my officers to you for a mission I know nothing about, Cody.”

“Sir, I'm not asking you,” Zak said. “I'm telling you. I know who I want and I expect you to order that man to serve with me for those three critical days.”

Loomis seemed about to have a fit of apoplexy. Vickers continued to scowl with all the facial movement of a cigar-store Indian. He was wooden and stiff, but it was plain that he half enjoyed seeing his commandant's feet put to the fire.

“Damn you, Cody. You're pushing your luck here. I could still have you thrown in the guardhouse.”

“You could, and I'm sure you'd hear from General Crook or President Grant, either of whom would cheerfully strip you of all rank and consign you to hard labor at Fort Leavenworth.”

“That sounds like a damned threat to me, Cody.”

“It's good advice, Colonel. But take it any way you want to.”

“An officer? You want an officer to go, ah, undercover with you? For three days only?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I'd have to go over the roster, see who might be suited for such an unusual assignment.”

“No, Colonel,” Zak said, “you don't have to do that. I know the man I want.”

All of the breath seemed to go out of Loomis. He still stood straight and tall, but he seemed unable to draw a breath or let one out.

“Well, who the hell is it?” Loomis said when he was able to get breath back in his lungs to push out the words.

“Captain Vickers.”

“Me?” Vickers said.

“Yes, you,” Zak said. “I trust you and I know you're the man who will use the information we obtain most wisely.”

“Why, why…” Loomis spluttered.

“No arguments, Colonel Loomis,” Zak said. “I'm the man they told you about at West Point.”

“Huh, what's that? What do you mean, Cody?”

“That's Colonel Cody to you, sir. And I'm your superior officer.”

Loomis looked like a man whirling on a spit over an open fire.

“Come on, Jeff,” Zak said. “You and I have some work to do.”

Vickers looked at Loomis.

“Oh, go on, Captain. Both of you, all three of you, get the hell out of here. Three days, Colonel Cody. Three days.”

Loomis didn't shout, but he wanted to. Now his hands
did
ball up into fists, and sweat streamed over his face like the squeezings from a sour lemon.

Bullard saluted as Zak and Vickers left the room, their boots drumming on the thin hardwood floor.

“Sergeant,” Loomis said. “Dismissed. Get a shave and take a bath before the stableman sweeps you out with the other horseshit.”

“Yes, sir,” Bullard said. He saluted and marched out of the room, leaving Colonel Loomis to ponder his own sanity and think fondly of a desk job back in Washington, D.C.