Doomsday Rider

Six

The corporal conferred with Crook behind a closed door for several minutes, then reappeared, his eyes guarded, and ushered Sieber and Fletcher into the office.

Gen. George Crook was somewhere in his middle forties, a couple of inches over six feet, spare, athletic, and sinewy. His eyes were blue-gray and he wore his fair hair cropped close to his skull, his only vanity a full beard parted into two forks at the point of his chin.

He sat behind a rough-hewn desk made by a carpenter at the post and wore battered canvas pants, the suspenders pulled up over a faded red undershirt.

Crook showed no badges of rank and looked more like one of his own muleskinners than a brigadier general in the United States Army.

He didn’t drink or smoke and preferred Apache, his big, rawboned Missouri mule, to any horse.

Unlike his contemporaries, this skilled Indian fighter respected the Apaches and other tribes as valiant enemies who deserved to be treated fairly and humanely in defeat.

The Lakota chief Red Cloud once said of him, “Crook never lied to us. His words gave the People hope.”

But now Crook’s words to Al Sieber were short, terse, and to the point. He ordered the scout to pull out at first light and join a column of the Fifth Cavalry at the Verde River east of Turret Peak at the very western edge of the Mogollon Rim.

“Guide them well, Al,” Crook told him before waving a dismissing hand. “The sooner this miserable campaign is finished the sooner the Apache can be left in peace to grow his crops and sanity returned to this land.”

As Sieber turned to leave the office, Crook indicated to Fletcher that he should stay behind and waved him into a chair in front of his desk.

“Now, young man, what can I do for you?” he asked. “I take it you want something from me and that’s why you asked my corporal if you could come in here with Sieber.”

Fletcher nodded. “General, I’m looking for someone, a girl.”

Crook frowned his annoyance and his voice was curt. “Why come to me with that? I’m not in the habit of procuring girls, for you or anyone else.”

“No, it’s not that at all,” Fletcher said quickly. “The girl’s name is Estelle Stark, the daughter of Senator Falcon Stark, and he wants me to bring her home.” Fletcher moved in his chair, and added above its protesting squeak, “She ran away from Washington with a man who calls himself the Chosen One. He’s some kind of crazed prophet who told her he’s on a mission from God to convert the Apaches to Christianity before the world ends. Estelle fell for it—and him.”

Fletcher leaned forward in his chair. “Al Sieber told me you might know of Estelle’s whereabouts.”

Crook studied the gunfighter over steepled fingers. “Falcon Stark, eh? Young man, you move in exalted circles. I’m told that distinguished gentleman harbors dreams of the presidency.”

“He does, after Grant ends his term. That’s why he so badly wants Estelle returned. The slightest breath of scandal, even a runaway daughter with the best intentions, could adversely affect his campaign.”

“And what’s in all this for you, Mr., ah . . .”

“Fletcher, Buck Fletcher.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Fletcher. As I said, what’s in it for you? Are you a private detective?”

“You could say that,” Fletcher replied, unwilling to tell Crook the whole story lest the soldier be too quick to judge him.

“You don’t look like a private detective, Mr. Fletcher.” Crook spread his hands wide. “Detectives are gray men who melt into the background. You don’t. In fact, I’d say with your guns and your considerable physical presence, almost arrogance, you very much stand out from the crowd.”

That touched a nerve in Fletcher. Crook was being deliberately insulting—but why?

Crook leaned over in his chair and opened a drawer on his desk. He came up with a long-barreled Colt and a cream-colored envelope. Crook laid the gun on his desktop, close to hand, and passed the envelope to Fletcher.

“I wanted to hear your story from your own lips, and I believe, thanks to my little charade, I’ve given you more than a fair hearing. Now, Mr. Fletcher, you’d better read this letter.”

Fletcher opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of thick, expensive notepaper. As he read, Crook’s big hand closed around the handle of the Colt.

December 23, 1872

United States Senate

Washington, D.C.

General Crook,

Sir, I have reason to believe a dangerous escaped convict named Buck Fletcher could be heading into the Arizona territory for the express purpose of murdering my daughter, Estelle, who is currently in the area to study the flora and fauna of the Tonto Basin. She is a willful child and has done this contrary to my wishes, especially now that the savages are intent on making war on our government.

Fletcher plans to carry out this terrible deed because of the hatred he harbors toward me. As you may already know, I plan to run for president after Grant’s term is completed. I will campaign on a law and order platform, and it was through my direct involvement in the case that Fletcher was sentenced to twenty years’ hard labor for the vicious murder of a sheriff in Wyoming.

Please do all in your power to protect my daughter and apprehend Fletcher at the first available opportunity.

General Crook, take no chances with this man. He killed a prison guard during his breakout and is ruthless and deadly. Take him alive if you can, dead if you must. But take him.

If he is taken alive, I will arrange an escort to return Fletcher to Wyoming, where he will again stand trial for murder, and this time I guarantee he will not escape the hangman’s noose.

I remain, sir,

Your obedient servant,

Falcon Stark (Senator)

Fletcher laid the letter carefully on Crook’s desk, aware that the general had almost casually pointed the Colt at his chest.

“General, this is a pack of lies,” Fletcher protested. “Look at the date on the letter; it was written a day before Stark asked me to find his daughter.”

“Were you sentenced to twenty years in prison for killing a sheriff?” Crook asked, his eyes cold.

“Yes, but I was set up. I didn’t kill that man.”

“Did you kill a prison guard during your escape?”

“General, I didn’t escape. Believe me, nobody escapes from the Wyoming Territorial Prison. I was taken to Lexington by the army, an escort of an infantry lieutenant and eight men. Find that young officer—his name was Simpson—or any of his men and they’ll confirm that I didn’t escape. Hell, General, get in touch with the warden.”

Crook shook his head. “Fletcher, I’m in the middle of a campaign here. I have no time to carry out a murder investigation.”

The general held the Colt less negligently now, and it was clear by the way he handled the gun that he knew how to use it. “I’ll keep you here until your escort arrives to take you back to Wyoming.” Crook made a weak attempt at a smile. “Chin up, Fletcher; I’m sure Senator Stark will seek out the testimony of the warden and your alleged soldiers and see you get a fair trial.”

“That’s not going to happen, General. For some reason that I can’t even guess at, Falcon Stark will never let me reach Wyoming alive.” Fletcher’s face was bleak and drawn as he struggled to make some sense of what was happening to him.

Why had the senator asked him to urgently find his daughter—only to stab him in the back before the job was done?

Fletcher desperately turned the thing over in his mind, trying to find the handle to the mystery. But there was none to be found, and his shoulders slumped, defeat tasting bitter in his mouth.

“Corporal!” Crook yelled, no longer quiet-spoken, using the authoritative bellow of the parade ground.

The door crashed open and the corporal, a grizzled sergeant, and six troopers in tow barged inside, rifles hammer-back and ready.

Fletcher stood slowly, warily moving his hands away from his guns so there would be no misunderstandings.

The sergeant removed the Colts from their holsters and said, “Buck Fletcher, you are under arrest for murder.”

Fletcher felt a rifle muzzle in his back, and when he looked at General Crook the soldier’s eyes held only contempt and anger.

“Fletcher,” he said, “I don’t hold with killing women. In my opinion, any man who would plan such a thing as an act of revenge is low-down, lower than a snake’s belly in an army wagon track.” He turned to the sergeant. “Take this man out of my sight.”