“What is it, Clyde?” a woman’s voice called from inside the house.
“I don’t know,” the man with the lantern answered. “I thought I heard something, but it must have just been the dog.”
The man with the lantern went back inside, and when he did so, Willis, with money in his pocket, mounted Johnny’s horse and rode away.
Matt was in the Old Strong Tavern on Lafayette Street, reading the telegram he had just retrieved from Western Union.
AS PER YOUR REQUEST YOUR HORSE WILL BE SENT TO SUNDOWN CORRAL IN PHOENIX STOP SPIRIT WILL BE THERE WHEN YOU ARRIVE STOP WILL SETTLE ACCOUNTS WHEN YOU RETURN STOP
REDCLIFF STABLES
“Mr. Jensen? Are you Matt Jensen?”
Looking up from the telegram, Matt saw a man with long hair and a full gray beard. There was something familiar about the man, but Matt didn’t recognize him right away.
“Yes, I’m Matt Jensen.”
A broad smile spread across the man’s face. “I’m J. C. Jones.”
When Matt didn’t respond, the man added, “You may remember me as Trooper Jones.”
Now Matt smiled as well, and he stood up quickly and offered his hand. “Yes!” he said. “Yes, of course I remember you.” Matt motioned toward the man’s clothes. “But the last time I saw you, you were wearing an army uniform.”
“Yes, but no more,” Jones said. “When my hitch was up this time, I left. Oh, I might have stayed if Sergeant Emerson was still around. Me and Emerson was pards and had been since we was in the war together. But, as I am sure you remember, Sergeant Emerson got hisself killed when that fool Trevathan led us into that ambush.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “I remember well.”
“You was smart to leave when you did. Not long after you left, Lieutenant Manning—I reckon you remember him—took a platoon out lookin’ for Delshay.” Jones shook his head. “Manning didn’t have enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, and he made camp down in a ravine, didn’t post no lookouts or nothin’. Delshay attacked him and killed more than half his platoon, includin’ the civilian scout that was with him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Matt said. “I didn’t scout very long, but I met several of the soldiers and liked them.”
“Yes, one of them killed was Angus Pugh. I know you remember him.”
“I remember him very well,” Matt said.
“Ole Angus—he was a colonel in the Confederate Army,” Jones said. “Not a lot of folks knew that.”
“I know he was a good soldier,” Matt said.
“So, Mr. Jensen, what are you doin’ in St. Louis?”
“A friend of mine was killed and I came to St. Louis to give the news to his brother.”
“Oh, that’s got to be hard to do.”
“I haven’t done it yet. Turns out he’s in Phoenix, so I have to go out there to find him. I’ll be taking a train back tomorrow.”
“Damn, that means you’ll be goin’ right back into Delshay country,” Jones said.
“I guess I will,” Matt said. “But I don’t expect to run into him this time.”
“Well, I hope not, for your sake,” Jones said. “I tell you the truth, ever’body knows about Geronimo—but for my thinkin’, Delshay is a lot meaner and smarter than Geronimo.”
“He’s smart all right,” Matt said. “He was the one who set up the ambush that Trevathan led us into.”
“Only, if Trevathan had listened to you, there wouldn’t have been no ambush,” Jones said. He stuck his hand out. “I have to be going. I’m a deckhand on a riverboat now and we’ll be pulling out tonight. It was good seeing you again, Mr. Jensen. Good luck—and don’t run into Delshay.”
Chapter Eleven
After taking his leave of Geronimo, Delshay returned to the reservation, where he was greeted warmly by his wife and children.
“Delshay,” someone said and, looking toward the sound of the voice, Delshay saw two Indians wearing the uniform and accoutrements of the Indian police.
“Sentorio, have you become a running dog of the white man?” Delshay asked, recognizing a young man with whom he was raised.
“I am a policeman,” Sentorio replied.
“Yes, like I said, a running dog of the white man. What do you want?”
“Agent Baker heard you were back. He has sent us to bring you to him.”
