Jory Sherman: Blood Sky at Morning

“Terask,” Anillo said. “Ben, yes.”

“A bad man,” Zak said. “This is one I hunt. This is a man I would kill.”

“How do you know this was the man who burned Tesoro with hot iron?”

“He did the same to my father,” Zak said. “And then he killed my father.”

“Ah. And why did Terask do this to your father?”

“Gold. My father had gold. Trask wanted it.”

“That is why this man burned Tesoro,” Anillo said.

“Does Tesoro have gold?” Zak asked.

Other Apaches had drifted down to listen. They made a ring around the three men on the ground. One still stood at the top, along with those guarding the ponies. He was standing watch, his head turning in all directions. Like an antelope guarding its herd, Zak thought.

Anillo and Tesoro exchanged glances.

“It is the name of Tesoro. Terask, he think maybe Tesoro has gold.”

“Treasure,” Zak said in English, more to himself than to either Anillo or Tesoro.

Anillo nodded. “Yes. Tesoro. Treasure. He captured Tesoro and he burned him with the iron to make him tell where Apache hides gold.”

Zak knew such rumors had abounded for years, going all the way back to the Conquistadors from Spain who believed there were cities of gold in the New World. Ben Trask would most certainly be interested in such rumors, and probably believed them to be true. There was gold in Apache country. Whether any of the tribes had accumulated some of that gold was a question that had been debated and mulled over for many years.

“Tesoro did not tell him,” Zak said.

“Tesoro does not know.”

“Do the Apaches have gold?” Zak asked.

Anillo’s face did not change expression.

“You ask a question many white men ask.”

“But you do not answer,” Zak said.

“Gold makes white men mad. It is just something that is in the earth, like rock or cactus, like trees or like water. The Apache does not seek gold. If he finds it, he hides it from the white man because he knows the yellow metal makes the white man crazy.”

“Trask did not kill Tesoro. Why?”

“Tesoro was like the snake in the night. He moved so quiet. The white men did not see him. He ran away. He ran for many days. Now he, too, would kill Terask if he sees him.”

“Tesoro,” Zak said, addressing the silent Apache, “do you hunt Trask?”

Tesoro opened his mouth. He made a croaking sound in his throat.

Zak saw that his tongue had been cut out.

“When Tesoro would not tell Terask where the Apache hides the gold, he cut out the tongue of Tesoro,” Anillo said. “The white men got drunk and they laughed. They played with the tongue of Tesoro while Tesoro swallowed his own blood and became the snake that hides in the grass and crawls away in the night.”

“ Quanto lamento lo que ha pasado con Tesoro, ” Zak said. I’m sorry for what happened to Tesoro.

“ No hay de que ,” Anillo said. It is nothing. “Tesoro is strong. One day he will cut the throat of Terask. I will piss in his mouth before that.”

“How do you know the name of Trask, if Tesoro cannot speak?”

“The Mexican you killed. He say the name. Terask was here. He bring horses, supplies, men. We watch. We hear. Trask chase us. He catch Tesoro.”

“Do you know where Trask is?” Zak asked.

Anillo shook his head.

“The little adobe you burned. There are more of these casitas .” He slowly swung his raised arm in a wide sweep to take in all of the country. “They are here and they are there. Terask he goes to them, but he does not stay long. I think he goes to Tucson.”

“You will not go to Tucson,” Zak said.

Anillo shook his head.

“That is a town of the white man. The Apache does not go there. The Chiricahua does not go there.”

“I will go there. I will find Trask. If I take him alive, I will bring him to you. But I do not know where to find you.”

“You bring Terask. We will find you, Cody.”

Zak finished his smoke and stood up. Anillo and Tesoro stood up, too. The three men looked at each other, wordless in their understanding of each other.

“I go now,” Zak said, and turned toward his horse.

“ Vaya con Dios, ” Anillo said.

Zak pulled himself up into the saddle.

He repeated the phrase to Anillo and Tesoro.

As he rode away, he muttered to himself, “I didn’t know the Apache believed in God.”

And he smiled as he said it.

There was a lot he did not know about the Apache.

Chapter 8

Ben Trask poured two fingers of whiskey into Hiram Ferguson’s glass.

“Maybe this will calm your nerves, Hiram,” Trask said. “You’re as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Ferguson’s hands shook as he lifted the glass to his lips. He was almost as big a man as Trask, but he was soft, flabby, with pudgy lips, jowls like a basset hound’s, and at least three chins under a round moon face. Trask was all hard muscle, half a foot taller than Ferguson, with a lean, angular face, and a hooked nose that looked as if it had been carved out of hickory with a hatchet. Wind and sun had burnished his features to a rich brown tan. His pale blue eyes were almost gray, portraying no emotion, like the eyes of a dead fish.

“That’s what you wanted, Hiram, wasn’t it? Get the army to chase out the Chiricahua?”

“Yeah, but we wanted to make ’em mad that the Apaches were killin’ civilians, burnin’ down their homes, rapin’ their women. I never called on you to go after soldiers. Shit almighty, Ben. You done took one giant step. In the wrong direction, to my way of thinkin’.”

“Hiram, you got nowhere with them tactics. Now you got that damned Jeffords smokin’ the peace pipe with Cochise and his whole gang. Then you go to the army mollycoddlin’ every red nigger from the Rio Grande to Santa Fe.”

“They’re even talkin’ about namin’ a fort after them bastards,” Ferguson said.

They were sitting in the Cantina Escobar, not far from Ferguson’s Stage & Freight Company. Most of the men inside were as anti-Apache as Ferguson, including the six Mexicans who had dressed up like Chiricahua and killed the two soldiers.

The others were local ranchers and their hands. Most of these were standing at the long bar, quaffing beer and eating pickled sausages prepared by Antonio Escobar’s wife, Lucinda, who also cooked bistec, frijoles refritos, juevos, papas, puerco, and anything else a hungry man might ask for. The smells from the kitchen were not overpowered by the scent of smoke and whiskey and mescal, tequila and fresh sawdust on the dirt floor hauled in from the nearby lumberyard and sawmill. The tables were small, except for one, which was used by card players and sat in the front corner to make room for all the tables. There was no music on most nights, but sometimes Lucinda’s brother would bring his guitar and sing sad Mexican folksongs on holidays when the cantina was occupied largely by Mexican vaqueros. This was not one of those nights, and the crowd was equally divided between Mexicans and norteamericanos .

“Look, Hiram, you wanted me to bring the army down on the Apaches. That’s why I staged that attack on one of your stages to make it look like the Apaches were on the warpath. By now, that gal has told every woman in that fort about that savage Indian attack.”

“Speakin’ of that, where in hell is Jenkins?” Ferguson asked. “He should have been back from Bowie this afternoon.”

“Who knows?” Trask said. “I’m wondering how you’re doing with O’Hara. You still got him over at the freight yard?”

“So far, he won’t talk.”

“He knows where every Apache camp is from here to the San Simon. Maybe you ought to let me work him over. And while we’re at it, what’s the difference between you kidnapping a cavalry officer and my bunch putting out the lamps on a couple of soldier boys? I’d like a crack at O’Hara. I could make him talk like a damned magpie.”