Blood Sky at Morning

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.”

“You were here?” she said.

Zak shook his head. “No, but I heard about it.”

“I think we’ve wasted enough time here, Mr. Cody.”

He helped her onto the coach, took his seat beside her. A few minutes later they reached the fort, beyond the pass. It lay in a saddle in the mountains, east of Apache Springs. There were a lot of buildings, some made of adobe, some of stone, others, frame dwellings, made from lumber. A steam pump pulled water from a well. A flagpole stood in the center of the ramada, its banners flapping in the breeze.

“So, this is Fort Bowie,” Colleen said.

“This is the second Fort Bowie. Troops have only been here since ’sixty-nine, so it’s still pretty new.”

He pulled the coach up in front of the corrals and stables. A corporal came out to greet them.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, “welcome to Fort Bowie.” Then he looked at Zak.

“Where’s the regular driver,” the young man asked. “Jenkins?”

“He’s in the coach,” Zak said.

“What’s he doin’ in the coach?” The young man’s face scrunched up in genuine puzzlement.

“Nothing,” Zak said.

“Huh?”

The corporal walked over to the side door and opened it. He jumped back in surprise.

“Holy shit,” he said.

“Mr. Cody,” Colleen said, “will you escort me to meet the post commander?”

“Sure,” Cody said. He spoke to the corporal. “That black horse, rub him down and grain him, will you, soldier?”

“Wh-What about what’s in the coach? Those men are dead, ain’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Shit, I got to report this.”

Zak walked back to his horse, slid the rifle from its scabbard and lifted his saddlebags from behind the cantle. He patted Nox’s withers and walked back to the stunned soldier.

“Can you point out the post commander’s office, son?”

“Over yonder. Where you see the flagpole. He ain’t in, though. Major Willoughby’s acting in his stead. I got to report what’s in that coach.”

“Do it, then,” Zak said.

The corporal ran off toward the guard house, legs pumping, arms flying around in all angles. Zak slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, shifted his rifle to his left hand. He crooked his arm and Colleen slipped her arm in it and they walked toward the large building beyond the parade ground. Soldiers walked here and there, not even mildly curious. Flies buzzed around their heads and the hot sun beat down. The flags flapped on the flagpole, but the air was thick and hot and the breeze brought no cool with it.

A pair of mourning doves whistled overhead, twisting and turning in the air like feathered darts. The sound of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing on iron wafted across the compound. The horses hitched to the coach whickered and swatted at flies with their tails. Two soldiers crossed in front of them. Both looked longingly at Colleen, who returned their smiles and gripped Zak’s arm even tighter.

Two men stood guard at the entrance to the headquarters building. Both wore sergeant’s stripes.

“Miss Colleen O’Hara to see Major Willoughby,” Zak said.

“She can go in,” one of the men said. “You’ll have to show me some papers, sir.”

Zak drew out a leather wallet from his pocket, handed it, open, to the sergeant.

“Yes, sir,” the man snapped, with a salute. He handed the wallet back to Zak.

They entered the building, where more men stood guard, and walked to one seated at a desk.

“What was that all about, Mr. Cody?” Colleen whispered.

“My identification.”

“And you rate a salute? A civilian?”

Zak said nothing.

“Major Willoughby,” Colleen said to the clerk. “I’m Colleen O’Hara and this is Mr. Zak Cody.”

“Yes’m,” the corporal said. “Just one minute.”

He left his desk, opened one half of a double door and went inside. A moment later he returned.

“You can go right in,” he said. His gaze lingered on Cody for a long moment. Colleen noticed it and frowned.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Just who I said I am, Miss O’Hara.”

Major Willoughby was a short, fastidious man, who rose up from behind a desk so neat and polished there was but a single paper atop it. There was a map of the territory on the wall behind the desk and a window that sparkled with sunlight, giving a view of the hills and part of the compound. The desk was flanked by an American flag and one bearing the insignia of the Second Cavalry. A man stood in a far corner, his back turned to the room.

“May I see your papers, Mr. Cody?” Willoughby said. “And good afternoon to you, Miss O’Hara. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Thank you, Major,” she said.

“Please sit down,” Willoughby said to her as he took Zak’s wallet and opened it. Zak stood there, looking at the man whose back was turned to him.

“You’ve got some pay here at the post, Colonel,” Willoughby said. “I think Lieutenant John Welch is the paymaster this month. Check with the quartermaster.”

“I’ve got two of your men outside in the coach,” Zak said. “They were with Miss O’Hara.”

“That would be Sergeant Briggs and Lieutenant Coberly,” the major said. “They were her escorts from Tucson. I wonder why they didn’t report with you, Colonel.”

“Because they’re both dead,” Colleen said. She shot an odd look at Cody. “Mr. Cody killed the driver, a man named Jenkins.”

“What happened?” Willoughby’s face had drained of color. It looked as if he’d swallowed a jar of paste and it had oozed out through his pores.

Colleen looked at Zak, but he said nothing.

“We—We were attacked,” she said. “I think by Apaches. But Mr. Cody doesn’t think they were Apaches.”

“Why did you kill Jenkins?” the major asked.

“Because he was going to kill me,” Zak said “Those soldiers were scalped, sir. I don’t think Apaches take scalps.”

The man in the corner turned around.

“You’re right, Cody. They don’t. Cochise doesn’t anyway, and he’s the main thorn in our sides at the moment.”

“Colonel Cody,” Willoughby said, “shake hands with Tom Jeffords. He’s the authority on Apaches in this neck of the woods.”

The two men shook hands.

“I’ve heard of you, Jeffords,” Zak said. “General Crook thinks very highly of you.”

“I’ve heard of you, too, Cody, and the same holds for what Crook thinks of you.”

“I’d like to see my brother now,” Colleen said.

Willoughby froze. His eyes turned to flint.

Jeffords looked at Colleen, his face softening with an expression of concern. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Miss O’Hara,” Jeffords said. “That’s why I’m here with Major Willoughby. Your brother is missing.”

Zak caught her on the way down as Colleen fell into a deep swoon, her legs collapsing beneath her.

“Damn,” Willoughby said, his voice a raspy whisper. “If it weren’t for the bad news, we wouldn’t have any news at all out here.”

Zak carried Colleen to a chair, looked at Willoughby.

“I’ll get some water,” Jeffords said, and left the room.

“Major,” Zak said. “Don’t call me Colonel. I’m not in the army anymore. You better read those papers in my wallet more carefully.”

“But you carry the rank.”

“Compliments of President Grant and General Crook, sir. But to you, I’m just an ordinary civilian.”

Willoughby gulped and began to read the papers while Zak fanned Colleen’s face. It was the second time she had fainted that day. He wondered that the woman could still go on, and how much more she could take before she’d have to be put in the post infirmary.