knee-high cavalry boots.
Sensing the man’s dawning doubt, Stryker stepped to his horse and removed his and Birchwood’s shirts. He threw the young lieutenant his, then held up his own where the shoulder straps could be seen. “First Lieutenant Steve Stryker, United States Cavalry, at your service.”
The vaquero who’d been holding a gun to Stryker’s ribs said something to the young Mexican, who reached out and grabbed the lieutenant’s hands. After a while he dropped them and said, “Pedro is right, you have no blood on your hands.”
“We have no blood on our hands, nor do we have the jewelry that was taken from the bodies,” Stryker said. “You may search us if you have a mind.”
The young man thought long and hard, then shook his head. “That will be unnecessary, Lieutenant. If you were the guilty ones, you would not have lingered at the scene of your crimes.” He shoved out his hand. “My name is Don Carlos Santiago Cantrell. The man in the coach is my father, and yonder lies my wife. They were returning from the mission in the village of Playa Vicente where my wife prayed that the Madonna would bless us with a child. But she gave us no child, only death.”
Stryker shook the young Mexican’s hand, then Cantrell’s black eyes flicked to the dead man in the driving seat. “I should have ridden with the gun, not that cowardly
He looked back to Stryker. “I am honor bound to invite you to my hacienda, Lieutenant. But tonight no lamps will be lit in my home and my people will wail in mourning. It is not a place where you would wish to be.”
Stryker looked at the sky, at the darkness crowding closer, shadowing the vast land. “We will camp farther down the trail tonight, Don Carlos,” he said.
The man nodded. “I will join you with my vaqueros tomorrow before the noon hour. Together we will hunt the men who did this. Give me their names.”
“Rake Pierce and Silas Dugan. Pierce is a deserter from my regiment, and both are murderers and rapists. They rob and kill without conscience, as they did here.”
Cantrell repeated the names, then said, “Be ready to ride tomorrow, Lieutenant. If I must, I will hunt those men to the ends of the earth.”
The man turned on his heel and swung into the saddle. A vaquero carried his dead wife to him and placed her reverently in his arms.
The vaquero named Pedro closed the coach door and then gave the reins of his horse to another man. He climbed into the driver’s seat and kicked the dead guard to the ground.
He slapped the lines and the coach bumped over the rocks and lurched into motion, the other vaqueros following, surrounding their grieving
Stryker waited until the Mexicans were out of sight, then mounted his horse. “Clem, you can see better in the dark than I can. Ride on ahead and find us a place to camp for the night,” he said.
The old man cackled, then nodded. “I’ve got cat’s eyes, an’ no mistake, Cap’n. And lately, I’ve come to believe that atween us, we got us ourselves more lives than a cat.”
Stryker smiled. “Maybe, but if we do, I think we’re fast running out of them.”
“A truer word was never spoke, Cap’n.” Trimble grinned, knuckled his forehead and rode into the gloom, the first stars of night glittering high above him.
“The old man is right, sir,” Birchwood said. “That was a damned close-run thing.”
“And it’s not over yet,” Stryker said. “I have a feeling our troubles are just about to start.”
Chapter 36
Trimble found a camping spot in an oak grove near a thin rock spring. The old man fried bacon and wrapped the greasy strips in tortillas, a supper Birchwood, with his youngster’s appetite, declared a “crackerjack meal.”
Trimble sat opposite Stryker across a hatful of fire, and froze his coffee cup to his lips, speaking quietly around the rim. “Don’t look around right now, Cap’n,” he said, “but there’s somebody in the trees.”
“Maybe it’s a bear,” Birchwood said. He opened the cotton shirt and undid his holster flap.
“My teeth are aching like hell,” Trimble said. “It’s an Injun fer sure.”
He rose slowly to his feet, both hands up and visible on his cup. “Come right on in, big chief,” he said, talking into the black wall of the night. “We’ve got coffee on the bile.”
A few tense moments passed; then the darkness parted and a man carrying a rifle stepped into the camp. He wore white cotton pants tucked into high moccasins, a shirt of the same color and over that a blue vest, decorated with beadwork. His hair was cropped short with no attempt at style and the top half of his face was painted black.
He was looking at Trimble, but his eyes missed nothing, especially the slow rising of Stryker and Birchwood.
“He’s Comanche, by God,” Trimble said. “I haven’t seen one o’ them in nigh on twenty year.” The old man raised his hand, smiled and said, “
The man ignored the traditional Comanche greeting and looked around the camp, his eyes resting briefly on Stryker’s face.
Trimble had run through all the Comanche he knew and now he said, “I see you have cut your hair and blackened your face. You are in mourning, great chief.”
“My name is Thomas, and this you will call me. I mourn the death of Donna Maria Elaina Cantrell. She was my friend.”
Stryker was on edge. Did the Comanche believe they were guilty of the girl’s murder? Was he about to push it?
Birchwood was obviously thinking along the same lines, because his hand was close to his Colt, his eyes fixed on the Indian.
“I will drink coffee now,” Thomas said. He squatted right where he was, waiting.
Birchwood forced himself to relax. His hand dropped from his gun and he said, “You speak English very well, Thomas.”
The man nodded. “The Texas Rangers taught the Comanche to speak English pretty damn quick.”
He accepted coffee from Trimble, then fished a pipe out of his pocket, which he lit from the fire.
After a couple of minutes of silence, Stryker said, “Thomas, we did not kill Mrs. Cantrell.”
“I know you did not. If I thought otherwise, you’d all be dead.”
The man was silent again, then took something from his pocket. He held up a small silver locket. “I found this on the trail a mile south of here. It was given to Donna Maria by her mother when she was a child. She wore it around her neck all the time. Don Carlos would laugh and say, ‘I offer you diamonds, but you will wear only a cheap silver locket.’ And Donna Maria would say, “Husband, this locket is more precious to me than diamonds.’ Yes, that’s what she would say. I have heard her say that many times.”
The Comanche was quiet again, deep in thought; then he said, “The men who murdered Donna Maria threw the locket aside as having no value, as they considered her life of no value. Soon they will curse the day they were born and the mother that bore them.”
Thomas drained his cup, then rose to his feet. He looked at Stryker. “You ran afoul of a cougar or a bear?”
“No, this was done by Rake Pierce, one of the men we are hunting.”
The Comanche nodded. “Then him I will leave for you.”
He turned away and let the darkness swallow him.
“Right nice feller,” Trimble said. “A talkin’ man, fer an Injun.”
“I’m glad he’s on our side,” Birchwood said.
“He’s on his own side,” Stryker said, staring into the night. “I hope he does what he said and leaves Pierce for me.”
The sun had not reached its highest point in the sky when Cantrell and four riders met Stryker and the others on the trail. The man had swapped the flashy palomino for an ugly, hammerheaded mustang that looked like it could run all day and then some.
