Savage Territory

Chapter Fifteen

Denver

The Western Flyer arrived in Denver at ten o’clock in the morning. There, it was necessary for Matt to collect his luggage and leave the Union Pacific depot. Boarding an omnibus that was drawn up outside the depot, he rode across town to the depot of the Denver and Rio Grande. There, he learned that the train for El Paso would not leave until two that afternoon.

Resolving himself to a four-hour wait in the depot, Matt decided to use the opportunity to get a haircut and take a bath. Coming out of the bathhouse a while later, he looked like a different man. Gone was the suit he had been wearing, to be replaced by jeans, a gray denim shirt, and a Stetson hat. He also strapped on his pistol, feeling comfortable in reacquiring that which he had abandoned during his trip to St. Louis.

Much more refreshed now, Matt had his lunch, then bought a newspaper and settled down to read.

INDIAN UPRISING!

Yesterday morning, in the dark hours of predawn, neighbors who lived near the Doogan ranch near Phoenix, Arizona Territory, reported seeing a fire. They gathered quickly for what they thought would be an excursion to extinguish the flames, and made haste to reach the scene in order that they might provide assistance to their neighbor.

When they arrived at the Doogan ranch, however, they were greeted with a sight that is almost too gruesome to describe. Mr. Doogan, his wife, and two sons lay mortally wounded in the yard. Their bodies had been riddled with gunfire and with arrows. The barn had burned to the ground, killing three horses and two cows, but the house was undamaged.

This newspaper has learned that markings on the arrows found in the bodies are consistent with the markings of arrows used by Chiricahua Apache. As the Apache renegade Geronimo is Chiricahua, it was believed at first that Geronimo, long an adversary to the army, might be responsible for the foul deed. But those who are knowledgeable in the ways of the wily Apache chief say that it is very rare for him to range this far north for his nefarious deeds.

A recent telegram was dispatched from Indian Agent Baker at the San Carlos reservation to the Department of the Missouri Army headquarters in Chicago, telling of the unauthorized departure from the reservation of the Indian Delshay. Word then went out to General George Crook to widen his campaign against Geronimo to include Delshay.

Delshay is described as a man in his late twenties with the appeal of a medicine man to the other Apache. He is known to have ridden with Geronimo and, no doubt, has acquired much of the Apache chief’s skills as well as his savagery.

Matt had just finished the paper when he heard the by now familiar, and unpleasant, voice of Jay Peerless Bixby. Looking up, he saw Bixby standing at the ticket counter, arguing with the clerk.

“El Paso? But isn’t that in Texas?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“But why must we go through Texas? I may not live out here, but I do know my geography, and I know that it is not necessary to go through Texas to get to Arizona Territory.”

“It is, sir, if you are going by railroad,” the ticket clerk said. “You will take the Denver and Rio Grande to El Paso, where you must change trains again, this time boarding the Southern Pacific cars.”

“And how many more times must I change trains?” Bixby asked, his voice getting louder and more irritating.

“That will be your last train.”

“Well, thank heavens for small favors,” he said. “So, this train will take us directly to Phoenix?”

“No, you’ll have board a coach from the Sun Valley Stage Coach Line at Maricopa for the last twenty miles into Phoenix.”

“Oh, for heavens sake, when will the West catch up with the rest of the country?”

Earlier in the day, when Matt had stepped off the Union Pacific train in Denver, he considered waiting to take a later train down to El Paso, just so he would not have to put up with Bixby any longer. But he found that he actually liked Hendel, and he believed that somehow his being present helped Hendel bear the burden of being Bixby’s employee. Although he had not known Hendel all that long, he felt that leaving now would be the same as deserting a friend, so he decided to continue his trip as planned.

“Mr. Jensen,” Bixby said when he and the others came over to join him in the waiting room. “I didn’t see you at the cab stand so I thought perhaps you might be on a different train. I’m glad to see that we shall be continuing our journey together. You have adopted a different mode of dress, I see.”

“No,” Matt said. “This is my normal mode of dress. I adopted a different mode of dress when I went to St. Louis.”

“Well, I think it becomes you,” Cynthia said with a pleasant smile.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Matt responded, touching the brim of his hat.

“Oh, my, I see that you are wearing a pistol,” Bixby said. “Is the West really so unsettled that one must wear a pistol?”

“It’s sort of a habit I’ve gotten into,” Matt replied. “You might be more comfortable, by the way, if you would take off your jacket and vest. For the rest of the journey, it is only going to get hotter.”

“Thank you, but I’ve no intention of taking fashion suggestions from someone whose idea of proper dress includes wearing a pistol on his hip,” Bixby said.

Matt smiled. “Like you said, Mr. Bixby, it was just a suggestion.”

“Have you eaten, Mr. Jensen? We are about to take our lunch. Would you care to eat with us?” Cynthia invited.

“Thank you, I have had my lunch,” Matt said.

“Very well. Come, Hendel, let’s find the dining room,” Bixby said.

“I’ve eaten as well,” Hendel said.

“You have? And when did that happen?” Bixby asked, surprised by Hendel’s response.

“While I was seeing to our luggage.”

“Very well, you can wait here. Come, Cynthia.”

Bixby and Cynthia left. Then Hendel indicated the bench next to Matt. “May I join you?”

“Yes, of course,” Matt said.

“To be honest, Mr. Jensen, I wasn’t sure you would be on this train.”

Matt smiled. “I considered waiting for the next one,” he admitted.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I need to get there and get my business done,” Matt replied. He decided not to add that he thought his presence might lend support to Hendel.

Hendel sighed. “Well, for whatever reason, I’m glad you are still with us. I confess that I have enjoyed our conversations during the journey, and it has helped pass the time in an enjoyable way. I just wish it could help Cynthia as well.”

“I think your being here helps her,” Matt said.

Hendel smiled self-consciously. “I hope it does,” he said.

Later that afternoon, shortly after they boarded the train and left Denver, Matt saw Hendel lean across the space between the seats to speak to Cynthia.

“Mrs. Bixby,” he said. “While we were in Denver, I bought something that might make the rest of the trip somewhat easier for you.”

“Oh, Mr. Hendel, you didn’t have to do anything like that,” she said.

“Oh, but I wanted to,” Hendel said. “You and Mr. Bixby have been so good to me that I wanted to do something.” He reached down into a bag and withdrew a book. “This is Sonnets of the Portuguese, a book of poetry by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Oh, yes, I know the book,” Cynthia said enthusiastically. “I’ve read some of the poems and I love them. I’m sure I will enjoy the book, and I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Take pleasure in the book,” Hendel said. “That is all the thanks I will need.”

Rancho Grande

The sun was a great orange ball, poised on the eastern horizon, and Delshay and the others waited just over the crest of a ridge that overlooked the house. Despite its overstated name, Rancho Grande was barely a ranch, with no more than fifteen head of cattle.

Delshay could smell the aroma of cooking bacon and baking biscuits and he felt his stomach rumble in hunger. The back door of the little house opened and a man came outside, wearing a pair of trousers with suspenders. As he walked toward the outhouse, he loosened his suspenders and let them drape down to either side.

Using a bow, Delshay stood up, drew the string back, then let the arrow fly. He and the others watched it flash quickly through the air. It hit the man in the back, right between the shoulder blades. The arrow did not drop him, though, and he spun around with a surprised and pained expression on his face, reaching around, trying to grab the arrow, trying to pull it out. Looking up, he saw Delshay and the other Apaches standing no more than fifty yards away.

“Martha! Injuns!” He shouted. He started back toward the house but, with the need for silence gone, Delshay and the others opened up on him with rifles. He went down before he made it to the back porch.

From inside the house, they heard a scream.

Jumping up, Delshay ran toward the house with the others close behind.

“Mama, what—” The young boy’s call was cut off by the sound of a gunshot.

Delshay leaped over the body of the rancher, then ran up the steps and burst through the kitchen door. He stopped in surprise at what he saw. There, lying on the floor, was a boy who looked to be about six or seven. His eyes were open, but unseeing. There was a hole in his forehead, from which a small trickle of blood oozed.

A woman was sitting on the floor next to the boy. Her eyes were wide in fright and she was holding a pistol to her temple.

“Woman, why did you kill the boy?” Delshay asked.

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled the trigger and blood, bone, and brain sprayed out from the entry wound. Her arm dropped to her side, the pistol clattered to the floor, and she fell over against the body of her son.

“She killed herself,” Chandeisi said, stating the obvious. “She killed herself and her child.”

“Yes,” Delshay replied.

“But I don’t understand. Why did she do that?”

“It is what white women are told to do,” Delshay said. Stepping over the body, he grabbed a handful of bacon and a biscuit and shoved it in his mouth.

Along the Maricopa-to-Phoenix road

Pogue Willis was sitting on a rock eating cold beans from a can. Burt Philbin had climbed up onto the ledge a little earlier and was looking toward the south. Deermont Cantrell and Billy Meechum were playing a game of mumblety-peg, and Abe Oliver had walked over into a little patch of woods to relieve himself.

“Hey, Pogue, I can see the dust,” Philbin called down. “The stage is a-comin’.”

Willis took the last mouthful of beans, wiped the spoon clean on his shirt, then stuck it in his pocket. He tossed the can over his shoulder and it landed with a soft clanking sound. He stood up and brushed his hands together.

“Come on down, Philbin,” Willis called. “Meechum, Cantrell, Oliver, you three get over here.”

Meechum, Cantrell, and Oliver came over to join Willis as Philbin came down from the ridge.

“Now, do all of you have it straight as to what each one of you is goin’ to do?” Willis asked.

“Yeah,” Philbin said. “We pull a log across the road to stop the stage. When it stops, you and Meechum will be up here on the rock keepin’ an eye open while I brace the driver and shotgun guard and Oliver and Cantrell pull all the folks out of the coach. We’ll take whatever money they got, plus the money pouch.”

“Right,” Willis said. “Any questions?”

“Yeah, I got a question,” Oliver said. “You ain’t never said how much money you think this here coach will be carryin’?”

“Who knows how much it’s carryin’?” Willis answered. “That ain’t nothin’ you can ever tell till you open the money pouch and look.”

“Yeah, but how much do you think?”

“How much money you got now?” Willis asked.

“About half a dollar,” Oliver answered.

“More than likely the coach is carryin’ more than half a dollar,” Willis said, and the others laughed.

“Look here, Oliver, you don’t want to do this, you just ride on out of there now and I’ll take your share,” Philbin teased.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t goin’ to do this.”

“Yeah, I thought you might come around.”

“All right, enough talkin’. Get the log across the road,” Willis said. “Ever’one get ready.”

Aboard the Sun Valley stagecoach

The team was pulling the coach down a slight downgrade so that the coach was moving at a fairly brisk pace. The driver, Moses Turner, was handling the ribbons with a very delicate touch.

Hal “Pinkie” Floyd, the shotgun guard, saw it first.

“Moses!” he said. “Look up! There’s somethin’ a-layin’ across the road up there.”

“Damn. It’s a log,” Moses said as he started hauling back on the reins. “It wasn’t there this morning. How did it get there? There ain’t no trees nearby to fall across the road like that.”

“I don’t know,” Pinkie said. “But I sure don’t like the looks of it.” Pinkie picked up the shotgun, broke it down to make certain it was loaded, then snapped it back and held it, barrels up, with the butt on the seat right beside him.

“Whoa!” Moses called to the team. He put his foot on the brake as the coach slowed to a stop.

“Son of a bitch! It’s a holdup!” Pinkie said as three masked riders appeared on the road. He raised his shotgun to his shoulder.