Blood Sky at Morning

Chapter 11

Sergeant Leon Curtis bellowed down from the driver’s seat.

“Who’s in charge here?”

Hiram stepped off the porch. Trask stood there, eyeing the three soldiers he saw in the lantern light. Two on the seat, one on horseback. Two horses were on lead ropes behind the coach, unsaddled.

“I’m Hiram Ferguson. That’s one of my coaches you’ve got there.”

“Sergeant Curtis, sir. Returning your coach from Fort Bowie.”

Curtis set the brake, wrapped the reins around the handle, picked up his carbine and started to climb down.

“Where in hell’s my driver, Danny Jenkins?”

Curtis said nothing until his boots touched the ground.

“Inside the coach,” Curtis said. A trooper untied his horse from the back of the coach, led it out, toward the sergeant.

“Jenkins,” Ferguson called. “Danny? Come on out.”

“He can’t hear you no more,” Curtis said.

“Huh?”

“The man in that coach is dead. Been embalmed and everything by the post surgeon.”

“Dead? How? Somebody kill him?”

“Yes sir, somebody sure killed him.”

“Who?” Ferguson asked.

“Man drove the coach into the fort with the lady come to teach the Injun women and children. He shot Jenkins. Said it was self-defense.”

“Damn it, Sergeant, I demand to know who killed my driver.”

“Man name of Cody. Zak Cody.”

Ferguson shook his head. “Who in hell is this Cody? I never heard of him.”

“Well, sir, we sure as hell heard of him. The man has quite a reputation. None of it proved, of course. But I wouldn’t want to go up against him. Your man Jenkins had the drop on him, according to the ladies who heard the story from Miss O’Hara, and this Cody feller shot him plumb dead.”

“Shit,” Ferguson said. He did not look up on the porch where Trask stood. But he could feel Trask’s eyes on his back, burning holes in it.

Curtis pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, handed it to Ferguson.

“What’s this?” Ferguson asked.

“A receipt, sir,” Curtis answered. “For the coach. To show that I delivered it.”

Ferguson held the paper up to the light as Curtis produced a pencil, held it out for him. Ferguson signed the paper and handed it back to the sergeant.

“That all?” Ferguson asked, anxious to open the coach.

“No, sir.” Curtis pulled an envelope from inside his tunic, handed it to Ferguson. “From the acting commandant.”

The packet was sealed with wax, oilcloth folded over. It rattled when Ferguson took it.

Curtis took the reins of his horse, mounted it stiff-necked, his back perfectly straight. He did not salute as he turned his horse, joined the other two soldiers. They rode off toward the town, vanished into the night. When the hoofbeats of their horses faded into the silence of night, Ferguson walked over to the coach and opened the door.

“Damn,” he said, peering through the gloom.

It looked like a package, a bundle. Something wrapped in burlap and bound with twine. He knew what it was. He could smell the decomposing body even through the formaldehyde and the crushed mint leaves in a sack tied around the feet, dangling down from the seat.

“What is it?” Trask asked, not moving from the porch.

“It’s Jenkins. Dead. Embalmed, I guess.”

“Shit,” Trask said as Ferguson turned away, then nodded to Grissom. “Put him somewhere, Lou. We’ll bury him in the morning.”

Ferguson walked back to the porch, climbed the steps. He held the oilcloth packet in his hands, unopened.

“What you got there, Hiram?” Trask asked.

“I don’t know. Something from Fort Bowie, I reckon.”

“Let’s go inside,” Trask said. “Find out what it is.”

They entered the office. O’Hara sat there, staring at them.

“You want me to give him some of that coffee, Hiram?” Cavins said. “It’s ready.”

Ferguson looked at Trask, who nodded. Cavins turned and walked to the stove, lifted the pot and poured steaming coffee into a tin cup. He carried it back to O’Hara as Ferguson broke the seal on the packet, opened it.

He read it while O’Hara blew on the coffee to cool it as Cavins held the cup up to his mouth.

Ferguson read the letter. It was not written on official U.S. Army stationery and it was unsigned. But he knew who had written it.

“What’s it say?” Trask said, eyeing Ferguson.

“Do you know a man named Cody? The one the sergeant said killed Jenkins.”

Trask stiffened. His jaw hardened and a glint sparked in his narrowed eyes.

“I know him.”

“He killed Danny Jenkins, all right, says here, just like the sergeant said. And Cody drove O’Hara’s sis to the fort.”

O’Hara’s eyes widened. Trask glanced at him, then took Ferguson by the arm.

“Outside,” he growled. “We got to talk.”

O’Hara’s face softened as he watched the two men go back outside and stand on the porch, out of earshot. He could hear only a murmur of voices, see their shadowed forms in silhouette.

“What else does it say, Hiram?”

“Read it yourself.”

“Who’s it from?” Trask asked as Ferguson handed him the letter.

“That’s for me to know right now. Someone at the fort.”

“Fine.” Trask read the letter, let out a deep sigh.

“Gives you something to use on O’Hara in there,” Ferguson said, licking his lips. There was still a faint taste of whiskey on them.

“Yeah. I think we’ll find out what we want to know about that map we found on O’Hara.” Trask paused, then handed the letter back to Ferguson. “Want to ask you something, though.”

“Go ahead.”

“How come you don’t want me to burn the information out of O’Hara? You know we’re going to have to kill him.”

“I know,” Ferguson said. “But it’s got to look like Injuns, Apaches, done him in. If he’s got burn marks on him from a hot poker, the army won’t buy it. He’s got to look like he was kilt by Apaches.”

“My way is quicker. Surer.”

“We have to play the hand my way, Ben. Trust me.”

“All right. Let’s see if O’Hara will tell us what we want to know.”

“You going to use his sister?”

“That’s what the letter says.”

Ferguson nodded. He had read the words. “You can tell your prisoner that if he doesn’t divulge what he knows about the enemy, that his sister will forfeit her life after being tortured by savage Indians.” Carefully worded. No names. Formal, stiff. But that was the man’s way, the one who had written the letter. And Ferguson knew that he meant what he said.

“Let’s see what O’Hara has to say about that map,” Ferguson said. “You put it to him about his sister.”

Trask smiled.

The two men walked inside. Ferguson put the letter back in its packet, folded it and stuck it in a back pocket of his trousers.

“Untie O’Hara,” Trask said to Cavins.

“You sure?” Cavins held the cup of coffee suspended above the prisoner.

“Yeah. He’s not going anywhere and I want to talk to the lieutenant. He’s going to need his hands to show me things on that map.”

“I reckon,” Cavins said, “if it’s all right with Mr. Ferguson.”

“Go ahead,” Hiram said.

Trask took the cup from Cavins, watched as he untied O’Hara.

“Can you stand up?” Trask asked. He shoved the tub of water out of the way with his foot.

O’Hara, freed from his bindings, flexed his hands and arms, moved his legs. He stood up on wobbly legs.

“Good,” Trask said. “Feel like talking with me now? You don’t have much choice.”

“I can’t divulge any information pertaining to my military duties.”

“Oh, I think you can, Lieutenant. If your sister’s life is at stake. What’s her name? Colleen? Yes, Colleen. We can see to it that some terrible things happen to her if you don’t play our cards.”

O’Hara’s face drained of color. “You—You have my sister?”

Trask and Ferguson exchanged glances.

“Yeah, we do,” Ferguson said.

Trask smiled at the smooth deception.

“All I want you to do, O’Hara,” he said, “is tell me what those numbers mean on that map. Did you draw it?”

“No, I’m not a cartographer.”

“But you wrote the numbers on it?”

“I might have.”

“Let’s take a look,” Trask said, grabbing O’Hara by the arm and leading him over to the table. He spread the map out, pointed to a spot marked with an X, west of the San Simon River.

O’Hara stared down at the map with its X’s and numerals.

“That spot there, for instance,” Trask said. “You write down them numbers?”

O’Hara drew in a breath, moved his head as if to clear it.

“Yes, I wrote the numbers there.”

“Is that an Apache camp? One of their hidden strongholds?”

“Yes, it is,” O’Hara said tightly, as if the words were being forced out of his mouth.

“What’s this twenty-five mean? Right under the X, and the number under that, ten?”

O’Hara didn’t answer right away.

“Means twenty-five braves. Number under it designates women and children.”

“Can you find this place?’ Trask said.

“Maybe.”

“Well, you’re damned sure going to, O’Hara,” Trask said.

He turned to Ferguson.

“It’s all laid out here, Hiram. All the Apache camps. We could sneak up on ’em and do what the army won’t do, kill every damned one of ’em.”

“I don’t know if we have enough men, Ben.”

“Won’t take many. We pick up the men you got at those relay stations and swoop down on the camps and clean out every nest of rattlesnakes on this here map.”

“Tall order.”

“We have the advantage,” Trask said.

“How’s that?” Ferguson said.

“The Apaches won’t know we’re coming.”

“What if we run into soldiers?”

“We tell ’em we’re a hunting party. They can’t cover all that ground, and they don’t have the map. We do. And O’Hara here is going to lead us right to them.”

“What if they recognize him?” Ferguson asked.

“I can take care of that, Hiram. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him when I get through with him.”

“What do you mean to do, Ben?”

Trask smiled. “Dress him up like one of my Mexicans, put a sombrero and a serape on him, sandals, dye his hair coal black.”

“It might work.”

Trask looked at O’Hara. He touched a finger to his blond hair.

“You’re going to make one hell of a Mexican, Pedro,” Trask said.

Then he laughed as O’Hara’s eyes sparked with anger.

O’Hara shot out an arm, reached for the map on the table.

Trask drove a fist straight into O’Hara’s temple, knocking him to the floor.

“Don’t get up too quick, O’Hara,” Trask said. “Or I’ll give you an even bigger wallop.” To Cavins he said, “Tie the bastard back up until morning. That’s when we’ll do the decorating and turn this soldier into a peon.”

Ferguson shrank away from Trask, sucked in a breath.

He had seen violence before, but Trask really liked it. The man was like a coiled spring, ready to lash out at anyone who stood in his way. Yes, he wanted the Apaches cleared out of the country, but he began to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake in bringing Trask out from Santa Fe. The man had a thirst for blood that was insatiable.

Trask fixed Ferguson with a look.

“Don’t worry, Hiram. The end always justifies the means.”

And there was that smile again on Trask’s face.

It sent shivers up and down Ferguson’s spine.