Jory Sherman: Blood Sky at Morning

“Why?”

“Ted has been working with me, under orders from high up, Crook, in fact. He has information about Cochise and other Apache leaders I’ve been talking to. It’s not just chance that he was picked out from that night camp and taken hostage. Someone wants the information he has in that Irish head of his.”

“Will O’Hara tell what he knows?”

“Not unless he’s tortured beyond endurance. And even then, I think he’d die before he divulged what he knows. He’s trying as much as I to bring the Apaches to the peace tent.”

“What exactly does O’Hara know?” Zak asked.

“He knows where all the secret camps of the Apache are. He’s been to them. With me.”

“Did Willoughby know this when he sent O’Hara out on patrol?”

“I think so. He had to know.”

“So, do you think Willoughby deliberately sent O’Hara out so that he could be kidnapped?”

There was a silence between the two men. Jeffords squared his hat again. He looked off toward the horseless coach and let out a deep expulsion of breath.

“I hate to think that,” he said. “But Willoughby, on his way out here from Tucson, spent time in Vail and Tucson, meeting with the towns people. They could have gotten to him, persuaded him toward their point of view.”

“And what is that?” Zak asked.

“That the Apaches do not want peace and that they can’t be trusted. That the U.S. Army should wipe them out like they would a bunch of rattlesnakes. Bernard holds to that view as well, I fear.”

“Have you heard talk of a man named Ben Trask?” Zak said.

“Trask. From Taos?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait a minute. There was a man killed in Taos, in ’sixty-nine, I think. His name was Cody. Related?”

“My father. Russell Cody. Trask murdered him. And it was ’sixty-eight. I’ve been tracking him for a good three years.”

“Cochise spoke of this man,” Jeffords said.

“He did? When?”

“At least a year ago. Cochise’s band was accused of wiping out several families, murdering them, burning down their houses. Cochise said a man named Trask was responsible.”

“So, Trask has been out here for some time.”

“You might learn more in Tucson, or Vail. Cochise tracked him to those two towns after coming across those depredations he was accused of.”

Zak’s mind filled with thoughts of his father and how he had died at the hand of Ben Trask. Russell Cody had come to Taos to live out his remaining years. When the beaver gave out and the fur trade collapsed, he took his money and bought a ranch in South Dakota, raised cattle and wheat. He drove cattle up from Texas, sold them for good prices, saved his profits. He sold his ranch, moved to Taos, and made even more money as a trader, selling silver in the East and hauling back goods to sell in Santa Fe and Taos.

Cody’s father had been trading for gold, as well. He had not trusted the banks, so kept his hoard hidden. Trask had tortured Russell to learn the hiding place, then, after getting the gold, he killed Russell in a most brutal way, mutilating his body, leaving him for the wolves, the coyotes, and the buzzards. Zak envisioned a similar fate for Ted O’Hara if Trask was behind his kidnapping.

“So, I guess I can’t trust Willoughby,” Zak said.

“If I were you, Cody, I wouldn’t trust anybody on this post. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Thanks, Tom. You’ve been a big help to me.”

“What are you going to do, Cody? You can’t go after these men all alone. They’re dead serious and determined to achieve their goals at any cost.”

“Desperate men make mistakes,” Zak said. “I’ll ride to Tucson, see what I can find out. If nothing, I’ll go to Vail.”

“Dangerous places for someone seeking information about the men behind this scheme to wipe out the Apache.”

“Then that’s where I have to go. What about you?”

“Right now I’m the only white man who can talk with the Apaches, try to bring peace to this region. I’ll talk to that patrol when they come in, see what I can find out about Ted’s disappearance.”

“If I find out anything, I’ll get word to you, here at Bowie.”

“Fair enough.”

The two men shook hands and walked back to the coach. Willoughby had been staring at them, a scowl on his face. He turned away when they both looked at him.

Zak walked over to Colleen, who had been talking to some of the women.

“I’m going to try and find your brother, Colleen. Just don’t tell anyone about it.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday. You take care. Hold on to hope.”

“Do you know where Ted is?”

“I’m going to find out. Take care.”

He turned and walked up to a soldier.

“Can you direct me to the paymaster’s office?” Zak asked.

The soldier pointed to a building.

A half hour later Zak rode out of Fort Bowie, into the setting sun. He felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. He was glad to be away from Willoughby.

But he kept a wary eye on his backtrail, and he bypassed Apache Springs. He took to open country and felt right at home.

Chapter 5

The tracks were still fresh, clearly visible even in the hazy light of dusk, when Zak’s shadow stretched long across the land. It was a place to start. Perhaps this trail would lead him to where he wanted to go, and perhaps it would cross other trails of interest to him.

The clouds in the western sky, long thin loaves, were bronzed, and rays of gossamer light shone like sprayed columns from beneath the horizon. A roadrunner dashed across the unshod pony tracks, legs working like high-speed darning needles. It disappeared among red and golden rocks that were turning to ash on the eastern side. Zak followed the tracks on a northwesterly course, studying them as he rode, wondering about the riders until, after a mile or two, he determined that his hunch had been correct. They were not Apaches.

He found cigarette stubs tossed to one side, barely visible in the fading light. These were hand-rolled. Later, he reined up when he spotted a crumpled piece of paper on the ground. He dismounted, picked it up, and smoothed it out. It was a label from a package of pipe tobacco. The name stamped on the paper was PIEDMONT PIPE TOBACCO.

“Careless,” he said to himself. “Or sloppy.” He tucked the paper into his pocket and climbed back into the saddle. He did not know who he was following, but he knew damned well the riders were not Apaches.

When it grew too dark to see clearly, he began looking for a place to throw down his bedroll and spend the night. He found a spot partially hidden by stool, chaparral, mesquite, and yucca, rimmed by prickly pear. There was grain in his saddlebags for Nox, and he would chew on jerky and hardtack and make no fire.

He dismounted, hobbled Nox, fed him half a hatful of grain. As he walked around, his spurs went jing jing, and he took them off, preserving the silence of evening, allowing him to hear any sounds foreign to that place. He ate and watched the sky turn to ash in the west, felt the cool breeze on his face, sniffed the aroma of the desert’s faint perfume as if it were a living, breathing thing that sighed like a pleasured woman.

It was full dark when Zak lay down on his bedroll, unholstered pistol by his side, within easy reach. Bats plied the air, scooping up flying insects, their wings whispering as they passed overhead. A multitude of stars glistened and winked like the lights of a distant town, their sparkles made more brilliant by the inky backdrop of deep space. The moon had not yet risen when he closed his eyes and thought about his father and how he had met his gruesome death.

Ben Trask had used a fireplace poker to burn Russell’s flesh. He had stripped off his prisoner’s shirt and pants, applied the red hot iron to his arms and chest. Then he had touched the poker to his father’s testicles, as his men looked on and laughed at Russell’s screams. When he had found out what he wanted to know, Trask made sure that Russell died a slow death.