Storm's Thunder (11 page)

“What's the rumpus, Seamus?” a rail-thin man in spectacles asking over his beer suds. “Those fellas lose the way to Fort Wingate?”

“Captain Oliver's got a job to do, same as the rest of us, Marvin.”

“Well, drinking's part of soldiering, but he didn't seem too interested in that, so what's he up to, I wonder?” Marvin not letting it drift.

“Some Dazers run off. A whole squad of 'em!” Kep Wilder unable to contain his newfound gossip.

“Dammit to hell, Kep. I swear if ya don't stop your muckraking that's the last pint you'll get out of me and you can do your drinking down with the Norwegians.”

“Jeez, Seamus. It ain't like it's a secret. Man said the squad's been on the loose nearly two weeks now. I don't see why we gotta be all tight-lipped.”

“Two weeks, you say?” Marvin producing from his jacket a nickel tablet and pencil stub that reveal him for that most meddlesome creature, a newspaper man.

“Now here you go, trying to get your name in the papers based on privileged information.”

“Well, it ain't privileged to me, now Seamus. I can't help what happens to cross my own ears just by sitting here on the by and by.”

“Point of order, he's correct on that,” Spooner muttering for my benefit alone, the lawyer justifiably wary of jumping into an argument so far removed—in miles and mentality—from the cozy sanity of a Virginia courthouse. Still, I would come to learn that a man who enjoys hearing his own voice as much as Shelby J. Ballentine, can hardly contain himself at the first opportunity for oration.

“That captain's a good man,” Seamus says. “I needn't be getting on his bad side on account of your gabbing like me granny.”

“Y'all talkin' 'bout that missing regiment?” says another man, an ironworker, judging by his scorched fingers, jumping into this conversation, now that the sharp thinness of the singer's voice has squandered any goodwill her womanly curves might have earned her.

“We were just deciding there's nothing to be talking about, Tom,” Seamus says firm.

“Not what I hear,” the man continuing. “My wife's sister's husband works down at the Western Union. Says the wires been buzzing all day about the regiment gone rogue. Bunch of Hundred Dazers, they was.”

“It weren't a regiment,” Kep correcting him. “It were a squad. That's about a dozen or so. And the prevailing perception is they have probably run off for Mexico, based on the direction of their tracks.”

“They were out of Fort Defiance, then?” Marvin asks.

“No, Fort Wingate, hence the assumption of Mexico.” Kep Wilder, his chest puffed like a peacock, enjoys being the man with the knowledge.

* * *

“Oh, the hell with it, then,” Seamus giving up on attempt at secrecy. “The cat's so far outta the bag, you might well as hang a feckin' sign on the door.”

“It's certainly nothing new,” the newspaper man editorializing now; it didn't take long for him to get there. “Historically the Dazers have not proved the most reliable soldiers by a long shot.”

I feel Spooner's elbow nudge my arm. “I suppose I should know what a Dazer is, but I confess my ignorance.”

The newspaper man overhears and wastes no time in launching into an explanation, but I turn my attention inward. I knew what the Hundred Dazers were. Everyone on the frontier did—men who conscript themselves to the army for a hundred days, the briefest term of enlistment currently available. Some consider it that last desperate measure of employment. Other men seek out the short-term duty until something better comes along, like a cattle drive, or farm that's hiring up for harvest. But the majority of Dazers are running from something—women, the law, hungry children, or sometimes just boredom. Although this particular quest for adventure usually snakebites the pursuer, as the true meaning of boredom takes on new, unfathomable depths among the garrisoned regiments of the U.S. Army. With the Indians mostly crushed and reservationed, there proves little diversion for the young soldier, beyond rotgut whiskey and endless drilling back and forth upon the parade ground. The monotony has driven many men to madness. And those unfortunate enough to come across an infected whore soon share their boredom with the agony of pissing fire and the lunacy of a worm-eaten brain.

Upon digesting the information, the lawyer scrunches his face in wonder. “I would imagine buckling oneself into a wooly blue blouse every morning would make even Mexico seem like a viable alternative.” It is a straight dig at the U.S. Army and I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but none of the others appear to catch it.

“Well, you can never predict what a bunch of crazy Dazers will get themselves up to,” Kep says.

“The
Crazy Dazers
,” the newspaperman repeating, sucking the marrow out of every word. “Now that's got quite a ring to it.”

“There you go, Kep, gone and got your name quoted in papers,” Seamus snapping his towel onto the bar. “And you, Marvin, got yourself a headline for the afternoon edition.”

“It's Kep, with an E,” Kep wagging a finger toward Marvin, “and Wilder. W-I-L-D—”

A man's shoulder brushes against my own. Enough weight propels the shove to know that it is no accident. Turning, I catch only a wide-shouldered figure lumbering slow away from me. His head cocks, revealing the reddish whiskers similar to that what has plagued me all day. “No Bluecoat's gonna save you this time, Injun.” I feel my hand going toward the thirty-two as the man twists his neck back to make sure his words landed. Rising, the thirty-two palmed for easy use, I watch him filter through the crowd and back toward the far wall where he reclaims his seat next to Lem. I could kill them both from where I stand and have four bullets left for any comers who objected. The fire of the whiskey—already in full flame—stokes up against the newfound rage at this man's spineless threat.

And what would happen, if I acted? Drink has taken down far nobler men than me in a flutter of vengeance. I am leaving town in the morning with a first-class ticket and the finest stallion in the Territory. Santa Fe can have the rest.

I stow the pistol, square my hat and leave without saying a word.

CHAPTER NINE

Cross let himself through the picket gate on Palace Street, Van Zant a step behind him. The two men took note of the well-tended garden, but forewent discussion as they glided silently up the front steps and made their way to the door. Cross raised a hand to knock, and as his gloved knuckle touched wood, the door creaked open. Then he saw gouged bits of exposed wood along the edge. Three heavy locks jutted from the door, their bolts extending out into nothingness. The men drew their weapons.

“Somebody pushed in,” Van Zant clutching the stubbier of the two shotguns he carried. “Them locks held up. It's the wood that give out.”

Cross concurred with a nod and stepped inside, his pistol leading the way. On the floor of the foyer, a discarded crowbar confirmed the forced entry. The trail of blood leading to Garber's body confirmed murder.

* * *

Van Zant fell in behind him as Cross looked to his right. There, in the office, lay Milton Garber, flat on his back in a pool of thickening crimson, his torso cratered with rifle shot. The door of his empty safe hung open above him, like a laughing maw. Cross felt Van Zant press forward.

“No,” blocking him with an arm. “Don't foul the blood.” Cross reached down, undid his boots, and slipped out of them. Van Zant watched as the little man entered the office, his stocking feet so light upon the ground he nearly floated. A deep, trancelike calm overtook Cross, but his eyes fired with simmering energy. Van Zant had seen this before—he never got tired of seeing it—Cross transporting himself to the exact moment of confrontation.

“They knew he kept money here,” Cross waving his hand over the safe. “Even though this Christ-killer pretended otherwise.” Cross knelt down and inspected Garber's left temple, where a reddened lump had swollen over his eye. “A rifle butt to the forehead, that got his attention. And even then, the Jew held tight to his money.” Cross moved down to Garber's hand, two of the digits broken at unnatural angles. “They had to break his fingers.” His eyes combing further, Cross discovered the Derringer, half submerged in the congealing puddle of blood around Garber's body. He picked up the tiny pistol and brought it—dripping—to his nose. He sniffed both barrels separately.

“Wrong sort of iron for a rifle fight,” Van Zant said.

“Yes, but effective at close range. He managed to get off both rounds, didn't he?” Cross's eyes danced about the room and then settled, locking on a spot on the wall behind Van Zant. “There.” He pointed at a small hole in the wallpaper. “A clean miss.” Van Zant turned and squinted at the bullet hole.

“What about the second shot? You think it hit the robber?”

Cross considered it. “If it did, it just made him angry.”

“Way the Shylock's been worked over, I reckon the man who shot him showed up angry.”

“Two men,” Cross correcting. He stepped to the window and drew back the curtain. Light filled the room. He turned his attention to the floor and studied the patchwork of bloody smears—fragments of footprints—crisscrossing in some unintelligible hieroglyph that Cross deciphered with his eyes. He began nodding to himself, confident of the narrative forming in his mind. The floor told a story. “Two large men, nearly equal in size. Brothers, perhaps? The first one stood here and wore ordinary flat soles—indoor shoes—mostly likely a clerk or an office worker. But the second man wore riding boots.” Cross followed the markings toward the body, then stopped abruptly, his brow furrowed. “No, riding
boot
.”

“You telling me the sum'bitch come in here to rob the joint with only one shoe?”

“Indeed I am, his right shoe, to be exact. Because if my hypothesis is correct, Mister Van Zant, our killer . . .” Cross eased himself down on all fours and stared back at the trail, his eyes only inches above the floor, “is
hobbled
. His left leg resides in some sort of cast.” Cross pointed to a series of wide, square-like patterns that appeared every few feet.

“Well, I'll be dipped in donkey shit.”

“I'd prefer you weren't. And if I'm not mistaken . . . yes.” Cross rose and waved his finger at a small, circular splotch, no wider than a half dollar. “Our man gets about with the aid of a crutch, or cane.”

Van Zant's mouth hung open. Yet his amazement was cut short by the approach of rapid footsteps up the front porch. A man bounded into the house. Van Zant leveled his shotgun at the office door, Cross's forty poised similar. And then the arriving man turned the corner and saw the guns pointed at him. He screamed, his feet flying from under him as he fell backward onto the seat of his pants.

“Don't shoot! I'm the law!” his voice was young and wracked with fear.

“What is your business here, constable?” Cross flashed his credential and stowed it again, before the boy had time to make sense of it. The young lawman wore a city constable's uniform, void of any rank or commendation. Cross pegged him as a recent hire.

“Well, we know there was a shooting. Folks heard it.”

“Why are you here alone?”

“Captain's on his way. And the others. Who are you fellas?”

“Who we are is, we're the ones who don't need to fucking explain ourselves.” Van Zant growled.

“Deputy, every paper in the office is to be boxed and labeled for my personal inspection. Is that understood?” Cross stowed his pistol.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“But first, tell your captain to round up every doctor in the city. Somewhere in Santa Fe there's a surgeon who recently set a broken left leg.” Cross stamped his way back into his boots, and was about to admonish the constable for not yet departing when a heavy thud echoed from an upper floor. The men looked to the ceiling.

Cross's pistol was out again. He took the stairs two at a time, followed by Van Zant. The boy policeman fumbled out his revolver and brought up the rear. At the second floor landing Cross stopped—motioning the others to do the same—and listened. A door at the end of the hall stood partly open, and on the floor leading to it, the faintest whisper of blood-stained footprints told Cross all he needed to know. The men crept down the hall, the occasional groan of a floorboard the only betrayal of their advance. The constable—terrified beyond his wits—noticed how the two strangers communicated with only their eyes or a hand signal or a slight nod of the head. At the door, he observed the larger man slip ahead of his partner, taking point with the twelve gauge, as Cross pushed open the door and scanned the room.

It was a bedroom—Garber's—Cross gathered. A man's suit hung next to the four-poster. A twist of bedding lay in violent disarray atop the mattress. Van Zant stood in the center of the room, rotating with the shotgun toward all four corners. Then he checked behind the bed. And then under it. But there was nothing. Cross inhaled deeply from the doorway. The air sat heavy with sweat and sex. By the looks of the bed, the sex had been taken, not given. And then Cross's eyes fell on a second door. A closet.

Three guns turned in unison, leveling at the closet, as if a cornered shooter hiding within might, at any moment, decide to go out blazing. Cross issued silent instruction—he would aim high, Van Zant center. The young constable was to shoot low. He was now part of it, whether he liked it or not. Despite the pounding in his chest, he liked it very much. And it was a hell of a lot better than being the man in the closet. The boy dropped to one knee and rested the barrel on his crossed forearm, like he'd been taught. Cross sidestepped to the near wall and brought up the pistol. He raised his left hand and held up three fingers. Then two. Then one. Then—

A sob. A weak, little cry—and then a sniffle—eked from the closet. It was no sound of a killer. Cross slinked forward and yanked open the door.

* * *

Xenia—Garber's maid—knelt trembling on the closet floor, naked and violated. Her attackers had not been gentle. She clutched at her throat, and with tears streaking her swollen face, tried to speak, but her face contorted with pain and no sound came from her.

“Out of the way,” Cross leaping to his feet. He shucked the folded quilt from the bed board and, unfurling it, brought it softly down around the woman. He knelt down and took her in his arms. She slackened in his embrace, her hand coming away from her throat and opening. A small crucifix—noting more than a pair of sticks crudely wrapped with twine—fell from her fingers. Cross saw it. His eyes filled with tears.

“Dear child,” Cross wiping the sweat from her brow. “It's all right now.” She lay back into him, her breath labored from exhaustion and from the damage to her windpipe. The man's choking fingers had left deep contusions on her throat, blood-shotting her eyes. Her dark skin had blued to near blackness from the beating. And there was blood around her mouth and seeping through the quilt on both sides of her below the waist. The boy turned away, unable to watch. Even Van Zant looked down. “Fetch that surgeon, boy. Tell him to bring laudanum.”

The policeman bounded from the room and down the stairs. Cross cradled the girl's head and she closed her eyes. “Fear not, child. The men who did this cannot hide from God. Nor can they hide from me.”