Savage Territory

Chapter Twenty-six

Every time Delshay and his followers broke camp, they took every precaution to erase all signs of having been there. They used tree branches to brush away any tracks, they covered the holes in the ground that were made by the tent stakes, and they even picked up the pony droppings. Such attention to detail was enough to throw off almost anyone who might be searching for them.

Almost anyone.

Matt wasn’t just anyone. Having initially learned his craft from his mentor, Smoke Jensen, Matt had a base upon which to build and, over the years, his own experience, intuition, and native intelligence had added to that skill so that he was the equal of or superior to any scout alive.

One thing the Indians could not do was alter where the ponies had grazed. Matt’s keen eye caught the uneven cut of vegetation, including some sprigs that had merely been broken, and not consumed. And although the fires had been extinguished and the coals removed, there were a couple of circles of slight discoloration in the sand showing where the fires had been laid.

He was about to move on when he saw a piece of dark green silk stuck in the notch of a tree, and he remembered that Hendel had told him that Cynthia had been wearing a green dress when she left.

This was not something the Indians had merely overlooked, this was something that had obviously been placed there, no doubt at great risk, as the Indians were leaving their camp. As he approached the silk, he saw that it was folded into a small square, and inside the square, he found a note:

To the Finder of this note:

My name is Cynthia Bixby. I can but pray that you are a white man, and one who is aware of my situation. On the 5th of September, my husband, Jay Peerless Bixby, and I departed from Phoenix in a rented conveyance for the purpose of examining some property my husband intended to purchase.

The conveyance broke down and we were put afoot. While walking back to Phoenix, we were set upon by a band of Indians led by one who is called Delshay. Moved to pity by the sight of my husband’s great fear, Delshay let him leave unharmed, though he kept me as his captive. It is both my belief and hope that my husband has sounded the alarm as to my condition of captivity, thus putting into motion a search.

I do not know how to tell you where I am, as we move from place to place each day. If you are reading this, that means I have at least been successful in getting word through to the outside world. May I here hasten to add that the Indians have not mistreated me in any way. On the contrary, they have provided me with food, water, and clothing, for which I am eternally grateful.

With hope for my eventual rescue, I am most sincerely, Cynthia Bixby

“Moved to pity by the sight of my husband’s great fear, Delshay let him leave unharmed, though he kept me as his captive.” Matt read aloud. “I knew there was something fishy about that.”

Folding the note back into the little square of green silk, Matt put it in his shirt pocket and started to mount Spirit. That was when he saw him.

Pulling his pistol, he pointed it at a nearby bush.

“If you want to live, mister, you had better come out of there now,” he called.

After some hesitancy, the branches of the bush moved and someone came out. It was an Indian, but Matt perceived immediately that he represented no danger. Like with many Indians, it was difficult to ascertain his age, though the man could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy years old. He was holding his hand to his side, and Matt saw that his side was matted with blood.

“Do you speak English?” Matt asked as put his pistol back in his holster.

“I speak English,” the Indian said.

“What happened to you?”

“Many white men came to attack my village. They killed many of my people. They killed my wife. They killed my daughters. They killed many others.”

“Who were these white men?” Matt asked.

“I do not know.”

“Who are you?”

“I am called Nopoloto.”

“The village that the white men attacked, was it the village of of Delshay?”

Nopoloto shook his head. “No.”

“Do you know Delshay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where Delshay is?”

“He is not on the reservation,” Nopoloto said.

“There is a white woman with Delshay. I am looking for her,” Matt said.

“I do not know of any white woman,” Nopoloto said. “My village is on the reservation,” he said. “Once I was with Cochise, but now I am reservation Indian.”

“You say you are a reservation Indian, but you are not on the reservation now,” Matt challenged.

“I left the reservation after the attack,” Nopoloto said.

“When was this attack?”

“Today. The white men attacked as the sun rose.”

“Do you have a horse?” Matt asked.

“Yes.”

“You need to have someone look at your wound. Come with me, I will ride with you to the reservation hospital.”

It was much later on the same day when Matt rode back into Phoenix, this time accompanied by Indian Agent Baker. They stopped at the office of Sheriff Robert Williams. Williams drank a cup of coffee as he listened to Matt relate to him the story of the attack he had heard from Nopoloto.

“Where is Nopoloto now?” Williams asked.

“He is in the hospital at the reservation, being treated for his wounds,” Matt said.

“And Nopoloto says the attack took place on the reservation?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pretty sure I know who did it,” Sheriff Williams said. “Pogue Willis, Billy Meechum, Karl Lathum, Angus Pugh, and nearly a dozen others are over at the Dry Gulch now, drinking it up. They claim they attacked Delshay’s camp.”

“I don’t think so,” Matt said. “I found Delshay’s camp. There was no sign of an attack.”

“Did you find the woman?” Williams asked.

“No,” Matt said. He purposely withheld the information about finding a letter from her.

“I don’t think you are going to find her. Not alive anyway.”

“As long as I don’t find her dead, I maintain the hope of finding her alive,” Matt said.

Williams sighed. “Well, if the attack happened off the reservation, it would come under my jurisdiction, seeing as how it was white men who did the attacking. But if it happened on reservation grounds—”

“It did,” Matt and Indian Agent Baker replied, speaking at the same time.

“Then you need to see U.S. Marshal Gilmore.”

“Do you want to come along with us?” Matt asked.

Sheriff Williams walked over to retrieve his hat, then put it on. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go down to Gilmore’s office with you.”

“Did either of you see the attack?” Gilmore asked.

“No,” Matt answered.

“I was at the agency headquarters,” Baker said.

“Did you hear anything? Shooting, or yelling, or anything?”

Baker shook his head. “The agency headquarters are too far away from Nopoloto’s village. I didn’t hear anything.”

“We did ride out to the village,” Matt said.

“What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

“No survivors?”

“No.”

“No bodies?”

“The bodies had already been moved,” Baker said.

“Uh-huh,” Gilmore replied. “If they were ever there in the first place.”

“Marshal, are you saying the attack didn’t happen?” Matt asked. He pointed up the street toward the Dry Gulch. “There is a saloon full of people who are bragging about it.”

Gilmore shook his head. “No, they are bragging about attacking Delshay’s village. And if that is true, I have no quarrel with them. And without any eyewitnesses or even evidence to tell me otherwise, I have no reason not to believe them.”

“You have an eyewitness,” Matt said.

“Who?”

“Nopoloto.”

“Nopoloto,” Marshal Gilmore replied with a derisive snort. “You expect me to arrest more than a dozen white men on the word of one old Indian? And not just any Indian, but one who used to ride with Cochise, making war against us. Like I said, I have no eyewitnesses.”

Baker raised his finger at Gilmore. “It is this kind of thing that caused all our problems in the first place,” he said. “Geronimo had settled peacefully onto the reservation, until white men murdered his family. Delshay had settled peacefully onto the reservation until white men murdered his entire family. Now, Cochinay has gone to join either Geronimo or Delshay. And all because you aren’t doing your job.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Baker,” Gilmore replied angrily. “The entire U.S. Army has been chasing Indians throughout the West for the last forty years. When Custer and all his soldier boys got themselves killed, it had nothing to do with the marshal’s office. I don’t know what is going on with Delshay and I don’t care. Dealing with Delshay is the responsibility of the U.S. Army. Now, if you gentlemen would excuse me, I have some work to do.”

“Mr. Jensen, I’m sorry I suggested this,” Sheriff Williams said. “It is obvious to me that the marshal is going to do nothing to help us.”

“This is not my jurisdiction, Williams, and you know it,” Marshal Gilmore said.

“Right,” Williams said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Come along, gentlemen, we are wasting our time here.”

“I have to get back to the reservation,” Baker said. “And I want to do so before dark.”

As Baker started back to the Indian reservation, and Sheriff Williams returned to his office, Matt headed toward the Phoenix House to see Bixby.

“I believe he and Mr. Hendel are at the Dry Gulch,” the hotel clerk said.

Matt couldn’t help but chuckle. “Bixby at the Dry Gulch?”

The clerk chuckled as well. “Yes, it is hard to imagine, isn’t it? Someone like Bixby at a place like the Dry Gulch?”

When Matt stepped into the saloon a few minutes later, the celebration was in full swing. Nearly all the men of Willis’s posse were drunk and a few had even passed out. The others were talking loud, telling stories of the great battle that had taken place.

“There was no battle,” Matt said as he stepped up to the bar. “I’ll have one of Mr. Marcus’s beers,” he said.

“What do you mean there was no battle?” Meechum demanded. “Are you saying we didn’t kill a bunch of Delshay’s murderin’ Apaches?”

“You killed a bunch of Indians all right,” Matt said as he blew the head off the beer that was put before him. “But they weren’t murderers, and they weren’t with Delshay. You went onto the reservation and attacked a peaceful village.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I spoke to Nopoloto, one of the Indians who lived in the reservation village you attacked. And I found Delshay’s latest encampment. There were no signs of any battle there.”

“Did you say Nopoloto?” one of the saloon patrons asked.

“Yes.”

“Nopoloto used to ride with Cochise. He’s not an Indian you want to get mad at you. We’ll be lucky if the entire Apache Nation doesn’t go to war because of that.”

“Let ’em go to war,” Willis said bombastically. “If they do, we’ll be ready for them. Right, boys?”

“Right,” Meechum replied.

Matt noticed that the rest of the men, at least those who were not passed out drunk, were pointedly silent in response to Willis’s challenge.

“It looks like you may wind up fighting this war all alone, Willis,” Matt said. “And even you can’t draw fast enough, or shoot straight enough, to handle this all by yourself.”

“What about you?” Willis asked. “You say you found Delshay’s village. Did you see him?”

“No, I did not see him.”

“I see,” Willis replied. “And did you find the woman?”

“No.”

“Well, then, it looks like we are about even, don’t it, Mr. Matt Jensen?”

Without answering, Matt walked back to the table where Bixby and Hendel were sitting.

“May I join you?” he asked.

“Yes, please do,” Hendel replied graciously.

“I heard you tell them that you didn’t find my wife,” Bixby said.

“No, I did not.” Matt reached for his pocket, intending to show Bixby the note he had found, but before he could, Bixby spoke again.

“There’s no need in your going out there again,” he said. “Cynthia is dead. I know she is.”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t believe she is dead.”

“I know, I know, you explained all about how Indians don’t bury their enemy. But that means nothing to me. I know that she is dead.”

“Mr. Bixby, I wish you had a little more confidence,” Hendel said. “I am convinced that she is still alive.”

“You hold on to that conviction, Mr. Hendel,” Bixby said. “In the meantime, I want you to go to the depot and secure two tickets for our return to New York. I have been in this accursed place quite long enough now. I am ready to go home.”

“No, Mr. Bixby, I will not purchase a return ticket for you,” Hendel said.

“What? What did you just say to me?” Bixby gasped, shocked at the response of the man who had always been subservient to him.

“I said, Mr. Bixby, that I will not purchase a return ticket for you.”

“How dare you refuse me!”

“We are not leaving Phoenix until Cynthia has been rescued,” Hendel said.

“Cynthia, is it? Since when do you have the right to call my wife by her first name?”

“As it is evident that I am more concerned for her welfare than you, I have assumed that right,” Hendel said. “Neither you nor I will leave here until she has safely returned.”

“You are wasting your noble feelings, Hendel. My wife is dead.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s because you don’t want to believe it. But I know she is dead.”

“How do you know she is dead?”

Bixby bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because, even as I escaped, I saw the savages kill her,” he said.

“Then, if you saw that, why did you offer a reward for her safe return?” Hendel asked.

“Maybe it is because I just didn’t want to admit it to myself,” Bixby said.

Matt applauded quietly, and as he did so, both Bixby and Hendel looked toward him.

“I congratulate you, Bixby,” Matt said. “With a performance like that, you should be on the stage.”

“What are you talking about, sir?” Bixby asked, the tone of his voice righteously indignant.

Matt took the little square of green cloth from his pocket and put it on the table.

“What is that?” Bixby asked.

“You don’t recognize it?” Matt replied.

“No, I don’t recognize it. Why should I?”

“But surely you recognize it, Mr. Bixby,” Hendel said. “That’s a piece of material from the dress Cynthia was wearing the day the two of you left to look at land.”

Bixby looked at the little square of cloth, then nodded. “Yes, now that you mention it, it is what she was wearing,” he agreed. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting to see it here like this.” He looked up at Matt. “You found this, did you?”

“I did.”

“Then, does this not prove that she is dead?”

“On the contrary,” Matt said, unfolding the cloth to expose the note that was inside. “If you read this, it will prove that she is still alive.”

Bixby grabbed the note, and as he read it, Matt studied the expression on his face. He recognized the moment Bixby read the crucial words: Moved to pity by the sight of my husband’s great fear, Delshay let him leave unharmed, though he kept me as his captive.

Finishing the note, Bixby folded it and started to stick it in his pocket.

“May I see the note, Mr. Bixby?” Hendel asked.

Bixby glared at Hendel. “No, you cannot see it. This is a personal letter from my wife to me.”

“From the wife you saw killed?” Matt asked.

“Well, I—I—thank God I was mistaken. There was some distance between us. I suppose it is possible that I just thought I saw her killed.”

“Show the note to Mr. Hendel.”

“I see no reason why I should do that just because you ask me to,” Bixby said.

“If you thought I asked you to show Hendel the note, you misunderstood me,” Matt said. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you to show him the note.”

“You—you have no right to order me to do such a thing,” Bixby said. Then, looking at the determined expression on Matt’s face, Bixby broke into a sweat, licked his lips, and with trembling hands, gave the note to Hendel.

Hendel read it, looked up at the moment he read the line about Delshay letting Bixby go, then returned to the note. After he finished reading it, he returned the note to Bixby without comment.

“Uh, naturally, after receiving this note, my position has changed,” Bixby said. “I will not be returning to New York until we have found her. Mr. Jensen, I would appreciate it very much, sir, if you would continue to look for her.”

“Call off your reward,” Matt said. “Not only were a dozen or more innocent Indians killed because of that foolish reward, it has made my job harder.”

“All right.”

“Do it now,” Matt said.

“Now? Here? Look at them, they are drunk and carrying on—how do you expect me to get their attention?”

“I can get their attention for you, Mr. Bixby,” Hendel said.

“You? Ha! How can someone like you get their attention?”

“Watch me,” Hendel replied with a confident smile.

Standing, Hendel put his fingers in his mouth, then let out with an ear-piercing whistle. As he promised, it got everyone’s attention as the talking halted in mid-conversation while all turned to see what was going on.

“Gentlemen—and ladies,” Hendel added, taking in the half-dozen or so women who were in the Dry Gulch, “excuse me for interrupting, but my employer, Mr. Bixby, has an announcement to make.”

Hendel sat down and, with some hesitancy, Bixby stood up. He was extremely cognizant of the fact that everyone in the saloon was staring at him, and he cleared his throat before he began to speak.

“I, uh, hereby withdraw the reward offer of ten thousand dollars.”

“What?” Willis shouted. “Why?”

“A question has been raised about the efficacy of the attack on the Indian village. It is entirely possible that several innocent Indians were killed and I want no part in it.” Bixby sat down.

“You’re behind this, ain’t you, Jensen?” Willis said. “You’re behind this, and you’re doing it because you want the reward all to yourself.”

Matt stared at Willis for a moment before he answered. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said quietly. “I’m behind this. And I’m doing it because I want the reward all for myself.”

“You!” Willis said, choking on his anger. Turning to face Matt, he moved his hand so that it hovered threateningly just over his pistol. “I’ve had a bellyful of you.”

Chairs tumbled over and tables were scooted across the floor as everyone in the saloon moved quickly to get out of the line of fire. They watched expectantly as Willis and Matt stared at each other. Matt was still seated.

“Stand up, Jensen,” Willis said with a snarl. “Stand up. Let’s get this done.”

“I don’t need be standing to beat someone like you,” Matt said. “You want to play this out, go ahead and draw. I can kill a little pissant like you as easily sitting as I can standing.”

Like the others in the saloon, Meechum had moved to get out of the way. Now, standing to one side of the action, and seeing that Matt Jensen’s attention was focused entirely on Pogue Willis, he realized that he had an opportunity he would never get again.

He drew his pistol.

“Draw, Jensen!” he shouted, even as his own pistol was clearing his holster.

Within the blink of an eye, Matt reacted with a draw that was fast and smooth. His practiced thumb came back on the hammer in one fluid motion while his finger put the slightest pressure on the hair trigger of his Colt. There was a blossom of white, followed by a booming thunderclap as the gun jumped in his hand.

Meechum tried to continue his draw, but the .44 slug from Matt’s pistol caught him in the heart. When the bullet came out through the back, it brought a chunk of Meechum’s shoulder blade with it, leaving an exit wound the size of a quarter.

Meechum’s hand came away from his gun and it slipped back down into his holster as he staggered backward, crashing into a table before coming down on it with a crunch that turned the table into firewood. He landed flat on his back, on the floor, his mouth open and a little sliver of blood oozing down his chin. His body was still jerking a bit, but his eyes were open and unseeing. He was already dead. Only the muscles continued to respond, as if waiting for signals that could no longer be sent.

The exchange had caught Willis by surprise, and by the time he looked back toward Matt, he saw that he was looking into the smoking barrel of Matt’s pistol.

Willis put his hands up.

“No!” he said. “No, I ain’t drawin’ on you. I ain’t drawin’.”

“Get out of here, Willis,” Matt said dryly. “I don’t like you. If I see you again, I may kill you just for the hell of it.”

“You all heard that!” Willis shouted to the others in the saloon. “I want you to remember that you all heard him threaten to kill me.”

“If you are still here ten seconds from now, it won’t be a threat, it’ll be a fact,” Matt said.

Willis glared at Matt a second longer, then turning, he hurried from the saloon.

“Ha!” one of the saloon patrons said. “I never thought I would see Pogue Willis turn tail and run.”

Several others laughed, though their laughter was nervous and guarded, as if they were afraid someone might tell Willis they had laughed at him.

Matt stood up and looked down at Bixby and Hendel, both of whom were staring at him with shocked expressions on their faces.

“I’m going to find your wife now,” Matt said. “I strongly suggest that you be here when I come back with her.”

“I’ll—I’ll be here,” Bixby said.