Jory Sherman: Blood Sky at Morning

“You don’t want to think about that,” he said.

He rippled the reins across the backs of the horses and they stepped out.

She didn’t speak to him again until after they had passed Apache Springs.

“You know who I am,” she said. “You know my name.”

He said nothing.

“I don’t know yours.”

“No.”

“Do you mind telling me who you are? What is your name?”

“Cody.”

“Just Cody?”

“Zak Cody.”

“Zachary?”

“No, just Zak.”

She spelled it: “Z-A-C-H?”

“No. Z-A-K. My father couldn’t spell too well.”

“Cody,” she said. “I’ve heard that name before. Somewhere. From my brother Ted, I think. Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s odd. I’m sure he’s mentioned you. It’ll come to me in a minute.”

“It’s not important,” he said.

“It is to me.”

“Why?”

“It might tell me who you really are. You don’t talk much.”

“When I have something to say, I talk.”

“You’re not in the army.”

“No.”

“But you were.”

“I was.”

“Ah, that’s at least something.”

“Is it?”

“Why, yes. It explains why you’re going to Fort Bowie.”

“Does it?”

“Well, I would think so.”

Cody said nothing. A cloud passed below the sun, throwing a shadow over the trail. They both listened to the creak and clank of the coach as it rumbled through rough, rocky country that was almost flat and seemingly endless, with only cactus and mesquite to break the monotony.

Cody did not know why Colleen’s brother might have mentioned his name, and it wasn’t important. But if Ted O’Hara knew who he was, then some of his past might come out and he couldn’t help that. A man carried his past with him. It followed him like a shadow.

“General Crook,” she said.

“What?” Cody said.

“Were you with General Crook?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I remember now. Ted said you saved Crook’s life once. Is that true?”

Cody shrugged. “Who knows about such things?” he said. “I won’t claim credit for such.”

But she looked at him with different eyes now, as she recalled what her brother had said once, when speaking with other officers. Zak Cody, she decided, was no ordinary man. From the tone of Ted’s voice, from the obvious respect and admiration implied by what he’d said, Zak Cody was almost a legend. But that was all she knew about him.

And, she wanted to know more.

Much more.

Chapter 3

Colonel Crook did not see the Paiutes. The red man rose up off the ground, his naked body covered with earth, and crept up behind him, a war club raised over his head ready to brain the officer. Zak appeared out of nowhere, just as Crook turned and saw the Paiute. Silent as a wraith, Zak grabbed the Indian by the hair, pulled his head back and sliced his neck open with a knife, letting the lifeblood flow until the Indian went limp in his arms, his chest and legs shining red with blood. The kill was quick and merciless, and Crook felt a shiver course up his spine.

The memory of that day had come unbidden, dredged up by Colleen. Zak shook it off, but he knew it would come back. It always did.

He knew she was looking at him, trying to figure him out, perhaps trying to remember all that her brother had said about him. That’s the way people were. They all wanted to know your past, as if that was the key to knowing who a man was now. He was not the same man who had fought alongside Crook in his battle with the Paiutes. A lot of water had gone under the bridge since then. But he also knew he was forever bound to General George Crook, as Crook was bound to him.

Over the beige land they rode with their grisly cargo. Low hills, studded with rocks and cactus, appeared on their flanks, looking like ancient ruins, rubble from once majestic cities that rose above the land, then crumbled to dirt and broken stone.

Zak stopped the coach at Apache Springs.

“You might want to drink,” he said. “I’m going to water the horses. This is the only water hereabouts.”

“Yes,” she said. “I am thirsty. And I want to stretch my legs.”

He unhitched the horses, leading them one by one to the crystal clear stream to drink. The others, left behind, whickered in anticipation. Colleen cupped her hands, dipped them in the water where it emerged from the rocks, and slaked her thirst. Then she walked over to the oak trees that bordered the stream and took some shade beneath the leafy branches.

Hills rose up on both sides of the long basin that sequestered the sparkling spring. It was a peaceful place, an oasis in the harsh desert where yucca bloomed like miniature minarets. There was cholla, too, beautiful, delicate, and dangerous, prickly pear that the Mexicans called nopal , and there, too, grew stool and agave.

“What’s that I hear?” Colleen said as Zak led Nox to the stream. “Over there, in the hills.”

“Probably Fort Bowie,” he said.

“We’re that close and you stopped to water the horses?”

“Yes’m.”

“We could have watered them at the fort.”

“Yeah. Now we don’t have to.”

She walked over to him, stood in the glaring sun. “With those men in there, you stopped, took all this time.”

“They’re not going anywhere, ma’am.”

“No, but they—they’re…”

“I don’t want a lot of chores to do when we get to the fort.”

“Just what is your business at the fort?” There was a demanding tone in her voice.

“Personal.”

“I hardly think an army post is the place to conduct personal business.”

Nox finished drinking and Zak started walking back to the coach, leading the horse with the reins.

“Ma’am, out here, the army serves as the eyes and ears of the public. They generally know who comes and who goes.”

“So, you’re looking for someone.”

“I’m going to ask about someone, yes.”

“I don’t think it’s your place to use the army for your own personal agenda, Mr. Cody. But I expect they’ll tell you that at Fort Bowie.”

He hitched Nox to the coach. They could hear voices from the fort. They floated on the vagrant breezes, wafting here and there, fragments of loud conversations that made no sense. A Gambel’s quail, sitting atop a yucca some distance from them, piped its call, as if serving notice of its presence to any who would hear. A Mexican jay answered the call with harsh whenks from its throat, scolding the quail with its plumed topknot.

“Yes’m,” he said, without protest.

“You’re a strange man, Zak Cody,” she said. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

“Easy decision, then.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to make anything of me. I’m what I am. Accept it or reject it.”

“Well, so you do have a mind after all,” she said.

Zak said nothing. He drew a deep breath and looked around at the ruins of the old fort. There wasn’t much left. Wind and rain and neglect had pretty much wiped out all traces of the original Fort Bowie. The desert took back everything that was left to it. That’s one thing he liked about the desert. It treated civilization harshly. People passed through it at their own risk.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, following his gaze.

“The fort used to be here,” he said. “Do you know the story?”

“No.”

“There was a big fight here, back in ’sixty-two, during the War Between the States. Chiricahua Apaches and United States troops.”

“I didn’t know that. What happened?”

“It was July, and Captain Tom Roberts got ambushed here. Chiricahuas. He was coming from California to fight the Confederate invasion of New Mexico. He lined up his mountain howitzers and blasted the Apaches. Scared hell out of them.”