Storm's Thunder (26 page)

And that's when Harlan spoke.

“Your squad that went missing, they're dead. Tombed up in the cliffs about twenty miles north of Santa Fe, not far from the Grande.”

“Quiet,” Cross said.

The captain held up his hand. “How do you know?”

“I stumbled on it, two, three days ago.”

“Why didn't you tell me in Santa Fe?”

“I didn't piece it all together till this morning. Sorry to tell you it weren't pretty. Your men got massacred good. Them what done it tried to make it look like Apaches, got it almost right too. Just missed a couple things that gave them away.”

“What makes you an authority on the Apache, Diné?” Cross hissed.

“Same authority as you.”

Cross's eyes narrowed. He slapped Two-Trees hard across the face.

“Cross, you touch that man again, my first sergeant has permission to shoot you dead. You hear that, First Sergeant?”

“Loud and clear, Captain.”

“You're threatening a federal agent of the United States. I'll have you brought up on charges.”

“Wouldn't be the first time I flirted with a court-martial,” Oliver shrugged.

“Forget your commission. You'll die in prison.”

Oliver ignored him. He wanted to hear from Two-Trees. He looked right at him and said, “What are you saying, exactly?”

“Men who robbed the train, they killed your missing squad, took everything—their uniforms, horses, rifles, even the standard—just so they could make this whole caper here look like it were them Dazers getting back at the army by stealing its pay.”

“Huh.” Oliver considered that a moment, his brow puzzled. “If their clothes were taken, how do you know they were my men?”

“Yes, do tell, Two-Trees,” Cross incredulous now.

“Because I found this.” Harlan swung his bound arms best he could. Something shiny flipped through the air and landed on the ground. The first sergeant picked it up.

“Brass belt buckle. Standard army issue. Could be anybody's.”

“Flip it over.”

The first sergeant examined the backside, unimpressed. “Wait a minute.” He turned from the waist, letting the sunlight fall across the worn piece of metal in his hands. “Got something scratched into it, a name or something.”

Captain Oliver held out one hand and with the other retrieved a pair of wire-frame spectacles from his vestment. He took the buckle from his sergeant and read what someone had etched into the metal.

“E.W. MT. 5C.” The captain stared at it stone-faced. “M-Troop, Fifth Cav. That's us.”

“E.W.” The sergeant repeating. Then he snapped his fingers. “Why, I'll bet that's little Eddie Wyeth, he's one of the missing.”

“The youngest,” Oliver said. “Seventeen.” He had committed to memory the names, ages and hometowns of each missing solider in his charge.

“This means nothing. He could've picked that up anywhere down there,” Cross thumbing down into the arroyo.

“Maybe.” Oliver flipped the buckle over, holding it more carefully than he had a minute ago. “Maybe not.”

“You disappoint me, Oliver,” Cross throwing up his hands in contempt, “entertaining the raving lies of a man who would say anything to save his neck.” Cross squared his prisoner in front of him and prepared to march him into position. “I've indulged you long enough. You have your investigation. I have mine. Mine is a federal matter, trumping whatever constabulary authority you might have in the territory.”

“I don't think you understand, Cross. Those robbers stole the army's pay.”

“I'm sorry your salary is in the wind. I wish you every success in its retrieval.”

“And I'm telling you that robbing the U. S. Department of War is about as federal as it gets. And this man here,” pointing to Two-Trees, “is a material witness with valuable information and he will be interviewed to find out what he knows.” Oliver then addressed Two-Trees directly. “You could find that spot in the cliffs where my men are buried?”

“I'll lead you to whatever's left of them.”

“Well, Mister Cross, looks like your hanging party's going to have to wait, because Two-Trees stays with us.”

“Absolutely not.” Cross pulled out a pair of handcuffs, slapped one bracelet onto to the prisoner's wrist and the other onto his own. “Come morning this man would be gone with the breeze and neither of us would get what we want out of him. He is in my custody and will remain there.”

“What're you proposing?” Oliver asked.

Jacob Cross, without admitting defeat, took solace that even though the serpent tongue of Two-Trees had staved off the hanging for a day or two at least, that inevitable death just got a little more painful, a little less clean. Piano wire, maybe, instead of rope. And now it would happen in the basement of jail, where no witnesses would complain.

“You will find Two-Trees in the Santa Fe Central Jail. If you haven't made your inquiries in forty-eight hours, I'll assume you've come to your senses.”

“Two-Trees stays alive until he is interviewed. I don't care it takes me a month. And just to make sure you don't get squirrelly in the meantime, First Sergeant Daniels and one of my corporals will be escorting you to Santa Fe, at which time a proper military detail will be installed to guard him.”

“I'm a busy man,” Cross said. “You have a week.”

Oliver correctly sensed he had pushed Cross as far as he would go.

“Fine. A week. And you're taking all of these people back with you,” Oliver indicating the civilians. Cross glanced at the wretched assortment staring back at him.

“I'm not a cab service.”

“Well, how about I just commandeer your whole fucking train? I assure you I have the manpower.”

Cross flicked a bit of dust off his jacket sleeve and squared his bowler. Sharing his coach with injured men, and old women and filthy, whining children—that was about as appealing to him as a cup of cold puke.

“Mister Carter, prepare the train for our guests. I'll take my weapons now, Sergeant.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A sharp turn in the track shatters the veil of thin sleep that for the better part of an hour has had me in and out of the twilight between dream and misery. At one point in the delirium, I was certain that Xenia—Milton Garber's negro housegirl—had emerged from the back of the caboose with a basin of water. She knelt beside me, her neck showing hints of dark bruising beneath a gauzy muffler of white bandage, and proceeded to dab the dust and dried blood from my face with a cool towel until Cross shooed her away. Such are the fever dreams that spring from the depths of exhaustion. I awaken on the floor, chained like a dog to the steel bracket where a seat once stood and has now been removed to accommodate Cross's petty humiliation. I roll my wrist and try to work out the stiffness in my shoulder. With no other cars to balance it, and choked up directly behind the clattering tender car, the caboose bangs along in a deafening racket, a far cry from the weighty smoothness of the Santa Fe.

Sunlight strobes through the windows, the shadows short as the day stretches into afternoon. A blue-gray haze thickens against the rich paneled wood of the ceiling. At the far end of the car, cigar smoke plumes over the seat backs, where a man—his voice heated with emotion—shouts to make his case atop the clanging din of the engine. I recognize the voice as Owens. The crown of a brown bowler and the brim of an sergeant's cap place Cross and Daniels as the recipients of Owens's admonition.

The rest of the car sees little activity. The widow Whitehurst sleeps upright along a central bench, her neck tilted back, mouth slightly open. Both children—little Reggie and the Owens girl—lay sprawled on the bench, their heads resting peaceful in the old woman's lap. A young corporal occupies the seat across from me, his eyes arranged in the military paradox of looking both alert and bored. He sees me wake up, sniffs to himself, and goes back to cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his bayonet.

The seat back in front of me bulges under the weight of its resident. The entire chair creaks as the sitter stirs, his wide, ruddy face peeking around the side to meet my gaze.

“Ah, you're awake,” Spooner says, leaving only one member of our party unaccounted for.

“I don't see George,” I say.

“Enlisted. On the spot.”

“The army took him? He's got a busted leg.”

“Oh, they had the chief surgeon look at him. George of course downplaying the injury like it were hardly a flesh wound. I'd say even with George's bum pin, the army came out ahead in that transaction.”

“He'll make a good soldier.”

“That he will. Hard to say ‘no' when a man of his physical attributes is itching to kill.” The corporal glances over, sniffs again. “I'm consulting with my client,” Spooner challenging.

“What do I give a shit,” the corporal returning to his manicure.

“What's Owens railing on about?” I say.

“He's demanding to be let off at the Harvey House.”

The Harvey House. I'd forgotten we're going to pass right by it. By
her
. She won't leave me alone. The scent of her neck groans against the wall of memory and I push away the pain before the wall buckles and comes crashing down.

“Owens wants to stay close,” Spooner continuing, “in case the army finds his wife and boy. He tried to stay on with the cavalry, but Captain Oliver wasn't interested, not with Owens seeing double and having a little girl counting on him.”

“Owens ain't George.”

“No, sir.” Spooner looks me over, pity on his face, like he wishes he could do something, but I see the gears working behind his eyes. “Harlan, I want you to know, no matter what happens, you are still my client. The question of your ethnicity,” and here his confidence wavers, “diminishes your rights somewhat. I won't be leaving Santa Fe until this whole thing is settled.” I want to tell Spooner that in the end, whatever legality he can muster would only stave off the inevitable for so long. Jacob Cross wants me dead. Every day that I live opens a fresh wound in his belly. Even if by some miracle I earn my freedom, he'd put a bullet in my head before letting me go. He'd say I tried to escape or that I came at him with a knife that he'll drop at my feet. I can't imagine a man hating himself so much that the only solace he can find comes from the suffering of others. And that he does it all under the adopted mantle of the White Man's God speaks of a soul so blackened, vengeance is its only sustaining lifeblood.

“I know you're doing what you can. That was some first-class lawyerin' you was slinging back at the trestle.”

A gracious grin curls his lip. “You should hear me when I've had my coffee.”

The door to the water closet opens behind me and Van Zant steps out, buttoning his fly.

“Break it up,” he growls.

“You're aware of attorney-client privilege?” Spooner says.

“You're gonna be aware of my foot in your ass. Back to your seat.” Ballentine rises with contempt and strides back to the center of the car. Van Zant plops down where he'd been sitting. I close my eyes, hoping the jerky motion can find a rhythm to lull me back to sleep. Maybe there's time for another memory. Maybe time is all I have.

* * *

A short train sneaks up on its port of call without warning or fanfare. A long whistle blast and then a minute later we are full-stopped at the Harvey House. Cross announces we'll be underway in five minutes, just enough time to deposit Owens and let the widow and the children use the W.C.

“I'll grab you a sandwich,” Ballentine over his shoulder as he disembarks, leaving me alone in the dreary gray of late afternoon. I look up through the window at a gunmetal sky. The clouds have moved in.

I hear Cross's voice on the platform, just outside the window, as he joins two men in conversation. “What's the problem, Mister Carter?” Cross says.

“We've been ordered off the road, sir. Tracks need to stay clear for the repair crews. Company's got them heading out to the trestle all through the night.”

Paper crinkles as it passes hands from Carter to Cross. Silence as Cross reads the directive. He scoffs his breath, dismissively.

“Send word that our train is to be allowed passage, by order of the federal government.”

“They can't, sir. The repair trains are already on the line.”

“And how long are we supposed to stand down? I have a prisoner aboard.”

“The last crew should pass through around five in the morning.” This third voice, pinched and officious, I take to be Duquesne, the manager of the Harvey House.

“That's twelve hours from now,” Cross incredulous.

“Sir, it would be our pleasure to accommodate you and your guests here at the Harvey House tonight. We've got comfortable rooms, whatever you require.”

“Unless you have a jail cell, I doubt that.”

“Can't the prisoner stay where he is?” Carter asks.

Cross doesn't answer, his pause long and simmering. “This is entirely unacceptable,” he says, finally. “Tell them to clear the track at once. ”

“This is from company operations, sir. It's not a suggestion.”

“I don't work for your company,” Cross's voice rising.

“I
do
,” Carter says. “I defy that order, and were something to happen to you or anyone else, I'm guilty of murder. And that
is
unacceptable. I'm sorry, sir. But I'm the captain of this rig and I say we're docked.” Cross crunches the paper to a ball, furious, on the brink of cursing beneath his breath.

“We might have a suitable place for your prisoner,” Duquesne brightening. “Our winter pantry. A heavy door, bolts from the outside. No windows. If it can keep animals out, I should think it could keep one man in for a night.”

I hear Cross's measured breathing, a man collecting himself. “Send a telegraph, Mister Carter. This train will depart precisely at one minute past five, tomorrow morning. By order of the President of the United States.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First sergeant, please stay with the prisoner,” Cross says, and then to the manager, “All right, Mister Duquesne, let's see this pantry of yours.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Cross comes back onto the train with Van Zant and the two soldiers.

“Stand up,” Van Zant says. I get to my feet and Van Zant places the musty hood back on my head.

“You're being moved,” Cross says. Van Zant unlocks the chain from the bracket and cuffs my hands behind my back.

“If at any point you feel inclined to take off running, help yourself,” Van Zant soft in my ear. “I been looking to clean out both barrels.”

He shoves me forward, guiding with a hand to my shoulder. We start along the aisle and down the steps to the platform. The cool air swirls up my back and underneath the hood, bringing the sweet smell of impending rain. We cross the platform up the walk toward the side entrance by the W.C. I see the spot in my mind, from above, as I remember it, and wonder if she is up there, watching from her secret vantage on the roof. What would Hannah think, seeing me escorted in like the condemned criminal these men make me to be?

Voices and shuffling feet accompany our entrance into the building. We move down a long hallway, the sounds of the bustling kitchen slow to a crawl as our parade passes by. A door opens, Van Zant's grip on my shoulder tightening as we reach the top of a staircase and begin a slow, measured descent into the damp coolness of the cellar.

I am marched along a concrete floor until Van Zant stops me and removes the hood. A thick wooden door stands open before me, Ballentine beside it. He holds something wrapped in paper.

“All right, in you go,” Van Zant nudging me into the small room.

“Now hold on minute, I insist you unbind his hands.”

“Fuck your mother,” Van Zant says.

“See, here, a man has the right to relieve himself without fouling his hands. We are not animals. Mister Cross, I implore your compliance.”

Cross strides up, inches from Ballentine's face, his probing eyes dismantling the lawyer's veneer.

“Listen to me, fat man. I don't know what you're running from, but I'll find out.”

“You've no quarter to get personal, sir.”

“Mm. My money says you either take it up the ass or you were poking little girls. Whichever it is, you didn't run far enough.” Cross turns away, sneering, his eyes combing the makeshift cell. He nods to Van Zant in the affirmative.

“What about the cans?” Van Zant thumbing to the back wall of the pantry, stacked floor to ceiling with canned goods—fruits and vegetables for the hard winter.

Cross shakes his head. “I've looked at them. He wants to chew through metal to eat a few peaches, what do I care?”

“Turn around,” Van Zant says.

I face the side wall as he undoes the cuffs. A short plank bench, meant to serve as a bed, and a short stool comprise the only furnishings of the windowless cube. A thin, moth-eaten blanket roll sits on the edge of the bench. Van Zant sets a bucket inside the room before stepping out.

“There's your commode.” He moves to shut the door when Ballentine, still rattled, holds up the object wrapped in paper. “Wait, I have a sandwich for him.”

“Check it,” Cross ordering.

Van Zant snatches it from him and tears back the paper. He lifts up the bread, his dirty fingers pawing through the meat. It looks like that barbequed brisket I remember. Again I wonder if Hannah might be behind it. Van Zant licks the sauce from his thumb, “Tasty,” then smashes the messy glob of beef back onto the bread. He drops it into the bucket, glaring at me. “Bon appetite, asshole.”

“Oh, well I never, sir,” Spooner beside himself. Cross steps between them and closes the door himself, enveloping my small world in a curtain of blackness. The bolt slides home, followed by the solid click of a heavy lock. Some last minute discussion accompanies their footsteps back to the stairs. It is agreed that the corporal shall have the first watch, with Van Zant posted as second sentry in the hallway atop the steps—a position he deems more strategic, and I would imagine, more agreeable, with a steady current of young women passing before him.

The corporal returns minutes later, a lighted oil lamp shining his way. He scrapes a chair along the concrete, grumbling as he leans it against the door and flops into it. The pale wash of the lamp brightens the thin strip of dead space between the door and floor. That ribbon of light serves as my only relief from complete darkness. And yet after a while, my eyes adjust. I can make out the edges of the stool and bench, the wall of cans. My ears sharpen, along with the other senses. I eat the sandwich slow, absorbing the sounds and smells of the subterranean confinement.

After about an hour, dinner service begins upstairs, girls' voices eking through the floorboards as they clomp overhead in those awful block shoes. The memory of the first time I saw Hannah—the brush of her skin against mine, the furtive glance as we ducked behind the curtains—play again in my mind like a storybook. Dinner is quiet tonight. I hear the girls complaining about it, what with the train not running, only a few locals who arrive by buggy take advantage of cook's delectable barbeque.

The hours pass into night, the noise from above quieting as service stretches into cleanup and cleanup drifts into preparations for the next day. Hannah would be brushing her hair about now. The pain returns, the wall buckling to the point of breaking. I bury my head in my hands and try to drown out the curse of memory. Why did I have to be brought back here, why give me hope? The torment of that young woman's face, only yards above, floating like an angel.