Forbes was on the ground beside one of the dead men, an old-timer with
silver-gray whiskers. 'What is it, Charlie?'
'Looks like this one was hit by an arrow, tried to rise and got shot
with a bullet, right in the heart.'
He could feel Jon standing behind him. Jamie adjusted his plumed hat and
twisted his jaw.
'Don't try to tell me the Comanche don't have rifles.'
'Hell, I'm not going to tell you that. They get them from the
Comancberos--the Comancheros will sell rifles to anyone.
Of course, you've got to bear in mind that the Comancheros do buy them
from your people.'
Jamie didn't say anything. He stepped past Jon and stared at the one
wagon that seemed to have had little damage done to it. He thought he
heard something.
He had to be imagining things. The job here had been very thorough.
Still, he watched the wagon as he straightened his back, trying to get
out all the little cricks and pains. He felt queasy about this thing.
And he hadn't felt queasy about anything in quite some time.
He'd grown up on bloodshed. Before he had been twenty, his sister-in-law
had been slain by Kansas jay hawkers Then war had been declared, and
though he had fought in a decent regiment under the command of John Hunt
Morgan, he had never been able to escape the horror of the border war.
From his brother Cole he had learned that the Missouri bushwhackers
could behave every bit as monstrously as the jay hawkers
And a Southern boy called Little Archie Clements had gone around doing a
fair bit of scalping in his day. He and his men had stripped down men in
blue and shot them without thought, and when they'd finished with the
killing they'd gone on to scalping.
He had no right to think that the Indians were any more vicious than the
white men. No right at all.
He exhaled slowly. Knowing that the Southern bushwhackers had been every
bit as bad as the Northern jay hawkers was one of the reasons he was
able to wear this uniform now. A blue cavalry uniform, decorated in blue
trim, with a cavalry officer's sword at his side. He didn't carry a
military-issue rifle, though. Through four years of civil conflict he
had worn his Colts, and he wore them to this day.
His eyes narrowed suddenly. He could have sworn that something in the
wagon had moved.
He glanced over his shoulder. Jon was behind him. Jon nodded, aware
instantly of Jamie's suspicions. He circled around while Jamie headed
straight for the opening at the rear.
He looked in. For a second he could see only shadows in the dim light.
Then things took form. There were two bunks in the wagon. Ironically,
they were neat and all made up-- with the sheets tucked in, the blankets
folded back at an inviting angle and the pillows plumped up. Beyond the
bunks were trunks and boxes. ~Everything seemed to be in perfect order.
But it wasn't. He felt just a flicker of movement again. He didn't know
if he really saw it or if he felt it, but all his senses were on edge.
He hadn't worked in Indian country and spent all this time with Jon Red
Feather not to have learned something of his senses. There was someone
