“I’m Hiram Ferguson. That’s one of my coaches you’ve got there.”
“Sergeant Curtis, sir. Returning your coach from Fort Bowie.”
Curtis set the brake, wrapped the reins around the handle, picked up his carbine and started to climb down.
“Where in hell’s my driver, Danny Jenkins?”
Curtis said nothing until his boots touched the ground.
“Inside the coach,” Curtis said. A trooper untied his horse from the back of the coach, led it out, toward the sergeant.
“Jenkins,” Ferguson called. “Danny? Come on out.”
“He can’t hear you no more,” Curtis said.
“Huh?”
“The man in that coach is dead. Been embalmed and everything by the post surgeon.”
“Dead? How? Somebody kill him?”
“Yes sir, somebody sure killed him.”
“Who?” Ferguson asked.
“Man drove the coach into the fort with the lady come to teach the Injun women and children. He shot Jenkins. Said it was self-defense.”
“Damn it, Sergeant, I demand to know who killed my driver.”
“Man name of Cody. Zak Cody.”
Ferguson shook his head. “Who in hell is this Cody? I never heard of him.”
“Well, sir, we sure as hell heard of him. The man has quite a reputation. None of it proved, of course. But I wouldn’t want to go up against him. Your man Jenkins had the drop on him, according to the ladies who heard the story from Miss O’Hara, and this Cody feller shot him plumb dead.”
“Shit,” Ferguson said. He did not look up on the porch where Trask stood. But he could feel Trask’s eyes on his back, burning holes in it.
Curtis pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, handed it to Ferguson.
“What’s this?” Ferguson asked.
“A receipt, sir,” Curtis answered. “For the coach. To show that I delivered it.”
Ferguson held the paper up to the light as Curtis produced a pencil, held it out for him. Ferguson signed the paper and handed it back to the sergeant.
“That all?” Ferguson asked, anxious to open the coach.
“No, sir.” Curtis pulled an envelope from inside his tunic, handed it to Ferguson. “From the acting commandant.”
The packet was sealed with wax, oilcloth folded over. It rattled when Ferguson took it.
Curtis took the reins of his horse, mounted it stiff-necked, his back perfectly straight. He did not salute as he turned his horse, joined the other two soldiers. They rode off toward the town, vanished into the night. When the hoofbeats of their horses faded into the silence of night, Ferguson walked over to the coach and opened the door.
“Damn,” he said, peering through the gloom.
It looked like a package, a bundle. Something wrapped in burlap and bound with twine. He knew what it was. He could smell the decomposing body even through the formaldehyde and the crushed mint leaves in a sack tied around the feet, dangling down from the seat.
“What is it?” Trask asked, not moving from the porch.
“It’s Jenkins. Dead. Embalmed, I guess.”
“Shit,” Trask said as Ferguson turned away, then nodded to Grissom. “Put him somewhere, Lou. We’ll bury him in the morning.”
Ferguson walked back to the porch, climbed the steps. He held the oilcloth packet in his hands, unopened.
“What you got there, Hiram?” Trask asked.
“I don’t know. Something from Fort Bowie, I reckon.”
“Let’s go inside,” Trask said. “Find out what it is.”
They entered the office. O’Hara sat there, staring at them.
“You want me to give him some of that coffee, Hiram?” Cavins said. “It’s ready.”
Ferguson looked at Trask, who nodded. Cavins turned and walked to the stove, lifted the pot and poured steaming coffee into a tin cup. He carried it back to O’Hara as Ferguson broke the seal on the packet, opened it.
He read it while O’Hara blew on the coffee to cool it as Cavins held the cup up to his mouth.
Ferguson read the letter. It was not written on official U.S. Army stationery and it was unsigned. But he knew who had written it.
