He saw hate. But he also saw shame in the eyes of a few. He dragged himself up using the hitching post for support. He wiped his face with his sleeve. It came away red.
"You are fools," Cal rasped. "All of you. You are doing exactly what they want." He limped toward his horse, which Luis had caught. He pulled himself into the saddle.
Every movement a jagged spike of pain. "Let's go," he said to Louise. Night fell like a hammer. The wind increased, screaming through the canyons at 40 mph. It was a perfect night for a robbery.
Cal and Nielli met at the pass 3 hours after sunset. Cal was moving stiffly, his left eye swollen shut, his ribs wrapped tight with strips of linen. Na saw his face in the moonlight and hissed. "Gojo?" she asked, touching the bruise on his cheek.
"My neighbors," Cal said. He grimaced as he checked his cinch. I tried to stop them from hanging a basket weaver. They took exception. "You are a fool," Niley said, but her voice lacked its usual edge.
It was thick with something else. "Respect, fear for him." "We have to be quick," Cal said. "The wagon is coming." They had positioned themselves at a narrow choke point in the trail.
The plan was simple and dangerous. "Stop the wagon. Check the cargo. If it was rifles, burn it. If it was rations, take proof."
The rumble of wheels approached. A heavy freight wagon drawn by six mules rounded the bend. Two outr rididers with rifles rode ahead. Cal signaled. He and Naelli rode out from the rocks.
Handkerchiefs tied over their faces. Luis was on the ridge above firing a warning shot that sparked off the stone in front of the lead mule. Hold up. Cal shouted. The teamsters hired men who didn't get paid enough to die threw up their hands instantly.
The outr rididers hesitated, looking up at the invisible riflemen on the ridge, then lowered their weapons. "Don't shoot," the driver yelled. "We're just hauling flour. Get down," Cal ordered. Naelli kept her rifle trained on the men while Cal dismounted.
He moved to the back of the wagon. He climbed up, wincing as his ribs protested. He slashed open a sack. White flour spilled out. He checked another beans.
He dug deeper. Throwing sacks aside, beneath the food, he found a crate. He pried the lid open with his knife. It was not rifles. It was blankets.
But on the side of the crate was a stamp, US, Department of Interior, Churikawa Agency, and stapled to the manifest was a bill of sale sold to C. Vance, payment upon delivery. Cal ripped the manifest free. He grabbed a sack of flour that had the government seal clearly branded on the burlap. Proof.
He jumped down. Get out of here, he told the driver. Turn around. If I see you in this canyon again, I burned the wagon. The driver didn't argue.
He whipped the mules, turning the team in a tight, panicked circle. Cal walked back to his horse. He handed the manifest to Naelli. We got him, he said. They took shelter in a shallow cave high in the rocks to let the storm pass.
The wind outside was deafening. a roaring ocean of air. Inside it was quiet, cold, and intimate. Cal built a small fire using dried mquite roots. The flames cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. Nailey sat near the fire holding the manifest.
She looked at Cal. He was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, his face pale and battered. "You are hurt bad," she said. "I've had worse," Cal murmured. Niily moved to him.
She knelt beside him. She reached out and touched the bandage on his ribs. Let me see. It's fine, Nile. Let me see.
Cal opened his eyes. He looked at her. He nodded. She unbuttoned his shirt. The skin beneath was purple and black.
The ribs clearly bruised, perhaps cracked. She touched the skin gently, her fingers cool. Cal sucked in a breath. "Does it hurt?" Everything hurts," Cal whispered.
He wasn't talking about the ribs. Nielli looked up into his face. They were inches apart. The smell of sage and sweat and old blood was heavy in the air. "Why do you do this?"
she asked. Her voice was trembling. "You lose your name. You lose your blood." "For what?"
"For you," Cal said. The truth hung there, naked and terrifying. Cal reached out and took her hand. His grip was strong, desperate. I'm afraid, Naelli, he said of Gojo.
No, I'm afraid of wanting you because wanting you makes me reckless. It makes me think I can fight the whole world. And I know I can't. Naelli looked at their joined hands. Her own heart was beating so hard she thought it would bruise her chest.
"I am terrified, too," she whispered. "I am terrified that this hope is just another trap. that you will die and I will be left alone in the dark. We are already in the dark," Cal said. He leaned forward. He did not kiss her.
He pressed his forehead against hers. It was a gesture of exhaustion and profound intimacy. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair, the smoke, the wind. Naelli froze for a second, then she melted. She brought her hands up and cupped his battered face.
She held him like he was something precious and fragile. They stayed like that for a long time, the fire crackling, the wind screaming outside. It was not a sexual union. It was something deeper. It was two drowning people finding a piece of driftwood large enough for both of them.
"You are not alone," Niley whispered against his skin. "Not anymore." Cal pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wet. "Then we finish this," he said.
"We drag the truth out into the daylight, even if the daylight kills us." "Yes," Na said. "Even if it kills us, high on the opposite ridge, hidden in the darkness where the fire light could not reach." Go lowered his field glasses. He had watched the wagon stop.
He had watched the two riders. He had watched them ride together into the rocks. He did not need to see inside the cave. He knew the wind whipped his hair, but he did not feel the cold. He felt only a burning, cold hatred that was clearer and sharper than anything he had ever known.
The rancher thinks he has bought a wife. Gojo said to the darkness. He jacked around into the chamber of his rifle. The metallic clack clack was swallowed by the wind. Tomorrow, Gojo said.
He will find that he's only bought a grave. December brought the iron gray skies that signaled the coming of snow in the high country. The air in San Salano grew heavy, not with moisture, but with the suffocating pressure of a storm that had nothing to do with the weather. Rumors flew faster than telegraph sparks. Men whispered in the saloons that the Sixth Cavalry was marching south from Fort Apache.
Their Guidon snapping in the wind, coming to wipe the Chirikahwa from the face of the earth at the general store. The barrel of flour sat untouched. But the crate of Winchester ammunition was empty by noon. Farmers who had once traded squash with the Apache women now barred their doors and slept with shotguns across their laps. Calhart walked out of the county courthouse, his boots echoing on the boardwalk.
He felt a profound hollow exhaustion in his chest, a weight heavier than the cracked ribs that still throbbed with every breath. He had spent two hours in the office of Judge Thaddius Thornton. He had laid the manifest on the mahogany desk. He had shown the judge the government seal, the forged signatures, the clear trail of theft that led from the Indian agency straight to the pockets of Cyrus Vance. The judge, a man with a face like a bulldog and eyes that saw only political expediency, had barely glanced at them.
These are serious accusations. Hart, the judge had said, packing his pipe with slow, deliberate fingers. But this is federal property. Jurisdiction falls to the territorial governor or the bureau in Washington. My court handles cattle theft and drunkards, not treason.
It is theft, Cal had argued, his voice tight. They are stealing rations. They are starving a people to force a war. And you are a rancher. Not a lawyer, the judge had countered.
These papers could be forgeries. You admit you stole them from a freight wagon. That makes you a highway man. Mr. heart. I suggest you go back to your ranch and let the law handle the law.