Kitt Peak (7 page)

Thomas picked it up, examined it, and brought it close to his nose.

"So," he said, looking sadly down at the body of his friend.

He let the fire burn down as he packed.

It was after sunrise when he was ready to head out, the two blanketed bodies lashed to his horse as he led it back toward where he had left the note for Lincoln Reeves. With any luck, young Reeves would already be on his way out, which would save Thomas from the long ride back. Though, even if he had to walk the entire way, he would have plenty to occupy his mind.

So engrossed was he in thought, then, that he didn't see Lincoln Reeves until the young man was nearly upon him.

"Lieutenant!" Lincoln called, stopping to hail Thomas from his saddle a quarter mile away. "Hey, Lieutenant!"

Thomas noted how Reeves kept shifting on his mount, and was able to pull himself up from his cognition long enough to laugh to himself. It was good to see his young Watson again.

He only wished it had been under happier circumstances.

"The problem," Murphy said, "is not that I don't believe you. I do. But as far as the law is concerned, the case is closed."

Thomas said, "If you don't mind my saying, Marshal, that's one hell of a way for law to work. There are two murders here, plain and simple, and you're telling me there's nothing you can do?"

They were in the Tucson City morgue, the first Thomas or Lincoln had ever been in. The room was in the basement of the hospital, little more than an underground storage room. Gas lamps flickered on the walls; one half of the room was filled with discarded hospital equipment, surplus gurneys, and instrument cases that looked as if they dated back to the War Between the States. The other half of the room displayed four rickety tables, a crude overhead electric light that flickered and then went out when Marshal Murphy attempted to turn it on, and a few white sheets piled in one corner. The ceiling was low and hollow; upstairs they could hear the comings and goings of nurses, and doctors going about their business.

"I didn't say there's nothing I can do. I just said that
officially
there's nothing I can do."

"I see," Thomas said. He turned to Lincoln, who stood back in the shadows, away from the twin tables holding the bodies. "Just like the Army, eh, Trooper Reeves?"

"Yes, sir," Lincoln said, a sick smile crawling over his features.

"What's the matter, Trooper? Don't you like it down here?"

"No, sir," Reeves said truthfully.

"Why not?"

"Reminds me of places my grandmother told me about. The Underground Railroad. She took me to one, once. "

"Hmmm," Thomas said. He turned back to Murphy. "So what can you do,
unofficially?"

Murphy smiled slightly. "As far as the government is concerned, this is an Indian problem. And a Papagos Indian problem, which makes it even less important to Washington. The Papagos, to put it mildly, got fleeced years ago. Their lands have been systematically stripped away from them. Papagos, as you know, means "bean people." They don't like to call themselves that. They call themselves "The People," Tohono O'otam. They're peaceful, weavers and farmers. They've never been on the warpath, as far as I know. That's why I find it hard to believe what this Kohono-si told you. The Papagos would never rise up. I've got someone out looking for this Kohono-si now. And as for this eagle business — "Murphy shrugged.

"You don't believe it?" Thomas asked.

"It's not a matter of believing, Mr. Mullin. The Papagos believe all kinds of things. They believe the earth is alive. They believe the sun and moon are alive, that plants and animals can talk." Murphy took a deep breath. "This eagle thing has always been part of their culture. The eagle is something like their head god. He flies highest, he lives on the highest peak, he sees all, that kind of thing. To tell you the truth, I've had reports out of the Papagos reservation for a while now about deaths from some sort of eagle, but even when I tried to find out what was going on on my own, the Papagos wouldn't talk to me. There was a reservation man out there from Washington a couple of months ago, and he found out nothing either. Not that he tried. The point is, it's their own business."

"Even if someone's murdering people?"

"Frankly, yes." Murphy stretched up tall; his red hair nearly brushed the ceiling. "It's their own business. They have a council of old men, and what they call a Keeper of the Smoke. These people believe dreams control their lives and destinies. And unless they specifically asked for my help, they can't have it.

"All right," Thomas said. His face had a determined look.

"Now hold on," Murphy said. "I know what you've got in mind, and I'm going to help you all I can. Your friend Adams here told me all about that bulldog streak in you. I just want to lay down some ground rules."

"You honestly don't believe Bill Adams was murdered?"

Again Murphy stretched up, sighed. "No. I believe he went up there looking for his daughter, and that he sat with the council, and that the Keeper of the Smoke gave him peyote, and that he drank himself to death. You heard Dr. Leonard upstairs say it could happen."

"Could
happen."

Murphy looked frustrated. His hand brushed the table on which the autopsied body of Bill Adams lay, and he pulled his hand away.
"Did
happen. You were here, you heard the doctor, you saw him sign the death certificate. Leonard knows his stuff, he's seen this happen a few times before, to Papagos."

"And Tahini?"

"Tahini was murdered. But like I said, it's none of our business. Even if Bill Adams murdered him, which I don't think happened."

"Someone murdered him, Marshal, and logic tells me that someone murdered Bill Adams, too."

Murphy said nothing for a moment, then said, "I'll do all I can from my end, Mr. Mullin.
If
you agree to my ground rules. I want you to let me know what you're up to. I'm going to give you a letter of introduction in case you need it. It'll legitimize you, especially with some of the white people around here. I don't want you to go out to the Papagos reservation alone. There's a man here I trust, he'll go with you. And I want you to promise not to stir up a hornets' nest out there. I've got my hands full with the President coming. Find Adams's daughter if you want to. And
. . ."
Murphy paused.

"Yes, Marshal?" Thomas asked.

Murphy looked at the back wall. "If you find out Adams was murdered after all, let me handle it."

Thomas held out his hand, and Murphy took it.

"Done," Thomas said.

The man Murphy had picked to go with them turned out to be a half-breed named Bartow. He was short, wiry, and unshaved; and besides his constant talking, and an annoying preference for beef jerky, which he gnawed on insistently, he seemed to have no bad habits. Whenever he smiled, which was often, he showed brown teeth, with a few obvious gaps.

"Never did know a full-breed with half a lick of sense," he said, spitting. They were already an hour out of Tucson, which receded into a pleasant bowl-like haze behind them. "You take your normal Tohono O'otam, he'll sit in the sun with his eyes closed all day, dreaming of nothing. His crops'll fail, the rain could come and beat down on his head, he'll just stay on sittin'. My mammy tol' me these people were fruity, and I believed my mammy. Even before they had likker, they were crazy people. Few times I saw my daddy that's what he was doin', sitting out there in the sun and rain."

Bartow smiled, put his jerky in his mouth and tore off a chew. "Yep"

"That'll be enough," Thomas said. "You think maybe you'd like to scout on ahead, find us a good place to camp tonight?"

"Hell, that place you to!' me about afore sounds good enough to me. `Circle of the Saguaro,' they call it here. Don't you like it no more?"

Thomas sighed. "How about going on
past
it, finding us another place? This way we can ride into the reservation tomorrow, early."

Bartow considered for a short moment. "Heck, if you want, chief. I could do that." He smiled again, tore off another bite of jerky.

With relief, Thomas said, "Please."

Bartow smiled, kicked his horse, and rode ahead.

"Whew!" Lincoln Reeves said, when the man was out of earshot. "I thought he'd never be quiet."

"He never would have. I knew a man like him at Fort Davis, before you were there. Bill Adams called him Gummy, since he was always moving his gums. From Louisiana, old slave family. I think his folks put him in the Army so they wouldn't have to listen to him anymore."

Lincoln grinned.

The older man turned to him. "So what are your thoughts about all this, Trooper?"

"Well," Reeves said, "I think the Papagos are in the middle of something bad, and those white folks back in Tucson either don't care or don't know how bad it can be."

Thomas nodded solemnly. "That's very good thinking. Have you imagined what it would be like if there was an Indian war out here now?"

"I don't want to, Lieutenant."

Thomas was about to scold the young man for calling him by his Army title, but decided he didn't mind it so much. Maybe he was getting soft and old, after all. "Let me paint a picture for you, then. They'd be totally unprepared. The nearest Army garrison is ten days' ride. There are still enough Apaches in the mountains out here, and still enough of them that remember Pretorio and Victorio before him, that there'd be a lot of blood on the ground before it was over. These white people out here think the Indian Wars are over. I don't know if they'll ever be over, until Washington has finally succeeded in destroying all the culture these people have. If the Papagos rise with the Apaches to fight, and have a strong leader, I think they could
go on into Tucson itself."

Reeves whistled.

"Can you imagine that, Trooper?" Thomas said. "Can you imagine that fine new city, with
its wide streets, cathedrals, and university, trying to fend off an Indian raid with its police force and whatever shopkeepers Marshal Murphy could get together? These white people are babies, Trooper. There'd be blood everywhere. The fact that the Army would crush the Apaches once they got here is irrelevant. There would be a lot of damage in those few days between the telegram going out and the garrison arriving."

"Why didn't you tell Murphy this?"

"Because he wouldn't have believed me. I was playing a game back there, Trooper. Murphy is a good man, but he's a white man and as a white man he could only let me go so far in trusting me. He wouldn't want a Negro telling him his business, no matter how good a man he is. He has the force of a dominant culture behind him. Let's be cold about it, Trooper. Do you think if Bill Adams hadn't been white, the marshal would have let us come out here to risk our hides to find his killer?"

Lincoln was silent.

"Do you?" Thomas pursued.

Lincoln said, "Back home, my farm isn't my own. There's a white man in Birmingham who owns the land, the horses, the house, everything. He owns half of what I produce. Sometimes, Lieutenant, I think the Emanci
pation Proclamation and the Thirteenth Amendment are just pieces of paper."

Thomas laughed grimly. "They are, Trooper. When I got out of the Army I saw just how true that is. We have to be very careful in this world. Do you remember what I once told you, what my friend Ames in the War Between the States told me? 'Hold what you have very tight, and it will not get away.' Do you remember what happened to Ames, Trooper?"

Lincoln was silent.

"You remember all right," Thomas said. "His white captain kept sending him out on the worst missions, until a bullet finally found him." Thomas was about as angry as Reeves had ever seen him. "That's us, Trooper. We always get the worst missions."

They caught up with Bartow late in the afternoon. To their surprise, the half-breed had already set up a comfortable camp, and was lounging with his bedroll rolled at his back against a rock, chewing at a huge piece of jerky. Thomas found himself liking this man, despite his bad habits. Though he said he had never been in the Army, he had Army written all over him. He was disciplined and neat. Thomas liked that.

If only he could cut out the man's tongue . . .

"Howdy, boys!" Bartow said in greeting. "Been waiting on you for hours. Hungry?"

Thomas began to say no, fearing the man would hold out his ragged jerky, but instead Bartow got up and went over to a robustly smoldering fire. Over it, on a stick spit, was a roasting piece of meat.

"What is that?" Lincoln asked.

Bartow smiled. "What do you think?" Lincoln examined the small carcass. "Rabbit?"

Bartow laughed. "Heck, no! Ain't no rabbits out here!" He turned to Thomas. "Care to guess, chief?"

"It's prairie dog," Thomas said simply. The lines of the cooking body were unmistakable. "Yep!" Bartow laughed.