Longarm #399 : Longarm and the Grand Canyon Murders (9781101554401) Read online

  “Something is not right here. I feel an evil spirit close by.”

  “Then we should hurry away!”

  But Henry was a curious young man. “You go,” he said. “I will follow the tracks. Maybe we will find another dead horse and a good saddle for me.”

  The old man, whose name was Shonto, did not like this idea, but he could not deny the fact that Henry’s saddle was just a few scraps of rotting leather. So he said, “Be careful, my son.”

  Henry then galloped off on his small roan pony. He had ridden only a short way when the tracks dipped into a deep arroyo. And it was then that he saw the mound of rocks and brush. A chill passed through his lean and shirtless body. Henry said a quick prayer that he would not be killed or harmed. He knew without any doubt that a dead person was under the mound and that something was very wrong, because white people did not bury their dead in lonely arroyos.

  Once more Henry rode around in a circle, and once more he set off to the west, with buzzards coming lower and lower. He came to a gap in the hills. Dismounting, he spent an anxious half hour reading the signs of a fight and seeing dark, clotted blood on the dirt and also where a rider had raced away into the brush.

  “I will offer a prayer,” Henry said, feeling even greater evil at this place. “And go back to my father and the flock.”

  But after his fervent prayer, Henry could not turn back to his flock. He was a very curious Navajo and he was hoping for a fine saddle like his father had just discovered. So he followed the tracks into the brush for two miles, and that is when he spotted the beautiful buckskin mare standing with her head up and her ears pricked forward in his direction.

  “This is not a mustang,” Henry said to himself. “This fine horse wears a saddle. But where is its rider?”

  Henry had an old black powder pistol stuck in his belt. It was a Navy Colt and he was good with it, although it was prone to misfiring. Drawing his pistol, he rode toward the buckskin, which showed no inclination to gallop away.

  And then Henry saw the very big man lying on his back in the rocks and brush. Ants had already begun to crawl across the white man’s bloodless face. Henry slowly dismounted and returned his pistol back behind his belt. He looked at the buckskin mare, and his heart jumped with happiness because this was an extremely fine horse and saddle.

  And now it was all his!

  The man twitched, and a big hand slapped weakly at the ants crawling on his face. Henry jumped back and yanked his pistol out, then cocked it and pointed it at the big white man.

  “Who are you!” he cried.

  The man’s lips moved, and then his hand slipped under his vest, and when it appeared again, there was a shiny United States marshal’s badge.

  Henry didn’t know what to do!

  He went over to the man and stared down at his face. The man opened his eyes, barely, and whispered, “Help me.”

  Henry whirled around and looked to the east. He wished more than anything that Shonto was with him now, because he would have a better idea of what to do next.

  “Help…me!”

  Henry faced a hard decision, and he took a moment to bow his head and pray for the right answer. He did not want to help this man. The white man’s law was very complicated, and if this man lived, bad things could befall not only himself but his family. Maybe the lawman would even decide that he, Henry, had shot him.

  “Please” was the urgent whisper.

  Henry had a goatskin bag of water. He grabbed it from what passed as a saddle and opened the stopper. “Drink,” he ordered, cradling the man’s head in one hand and pouring water into his mouth.

  Longarm drank and drank. The water was bitter, but it was wet, and he slapped some of it on his sunburned face to revive his senses. “I was shot in the back and need your help.”

  Henry did not want to roll the big man over and look at the bullet wound. “You are probably going to die.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Henry wasn’t sure what to do next. His hogan was at least six miles away over rough ground…his father, about five miles.

  “What can I do?”

  “A wagon.”

  “We do not have a wagon. Only sheep.”

  “A travois. Make a travois.”

  Henry stood up and walked around in a small, worried circle. He had helped Shoto make a travois once to move his mother to the reservation headquarters, where there was a doctor. He could make one now…but should he?

  Longarm opened his eyes wider and battled his pain. He wondered if the young Navajo was going to help him, or kill him and steal his belongings.

  “If you help me,” Longarm managed to croak, “I will repay you well.”

  “With money?”

  “Or that buckskin mare.”

  “I would rather have the mare and your saddle.”

  “Then it will become yours.”

  “I will make a travois,” Henry said, knowing that he would…in the end…have had no choice but to help this lawman, or else live the rest of his life riddled with guilt and maybe also cursed.

  Henry fired three shots from his old pistol, which he knew would bring his father on the run. Then he set about making the travois using his wool saddle blanket and cutting long poles. He was sure that his father would make changes in the travois and make it better, but he didn’t want to sit by the white man, who might die at any minute. If that happened, the man’s powerful spirit might consume Henry and drive him into screaming madness.

  Chapter 11

  Longarm awoke to the sound of a baby crying and a woman’s soft, almost cooing voice. The hogan was dim, but a shaft of sunlight was now shining in his eyes through the doorway. The Navajo woman saw him try to sit, so she scooped up her infant and hurried outside. Moments later, the same young man that Longarm remembered offering to give his horse to now appeared with an older Navajo at his side.

  “Who are you?” Shonto asked in passable English.

  He took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head. “My name is Custis Long. United States Marshal Custis Long. I’m from Denver, Colorado, and I was ambushed.”

  The Indians exchanged glances, then the younger one said, “I did not shoot you and neither did my father.”

  “I know that,” Longarm told them, feeling very weak. “Two men from Flagstaff ambushed me. I think I killed one, but the other escaped.”

  “I found the dead one’s body,” Henry offered. “It was hidden under rocks and brush.”

  Longarm processed this information for a moment. “Did you see the one that got away?”

  Shonto nodded and pointed to the north.

  “How bad am I hurt?”

  Henry turned around, and he was supple enough of limb that he could reach behind his back and put his finger on a spot up near the shoulder blades.

  “Did you already dig the bullet out?”

  “Bullet pass through,” Shonto said, making a motion away from his own body. “Much blood in sand.”

  Longarm knew that he had about two days before the stage would pass anywhere close to this part of the reservation. He lay back down on the thin, straw pallet and closed his eyes. “I will give you the buckskin mare and my saddle as promised. You have my word on that.”

  Henry didn’t believe it. “White man lie, mostly.”

  “Not this one,” Longarm said weakly. “But I need to catch the stage going up to the Grand Canyon. It should come through in two days. Can you take me there?”

  “You might die on travois. Plenty rough country.”

  “I’ll take my chances on the buckskin mare,” Longarm told them closing his eyes.

  The two Navajo men said nothing but left the hogan so that they could go off and talk about this among themselves. Longarm felt so tired he fell asleep as the baby began to cry again.

  Two days later, Longarm was lifted from his pallet and carried out to his horse then hoisted into his saddle. He clung to the saddle horn and hung his head, fighting off dizziness and nausea. “Let’s go,” h
e told the two Indians. “I can’t afford to miss that stagecoach.”

  When the mare began to walk, Longarm struggled not to lose consciousness. He figured that the Indians would take him to the gap where he had been ambushed and through which the stagecoach would have to pass. And, to his way of thinking, that could not be more than five or ten miles.

  However, it seemed more like a hundred miles of agony before the man and his son finally called a halt and helped Longarm down from the buckskin mare. They assisted him over to a large boulder where he could sit in shade and await the stagecoach, and they were considerate enough to give him his rifle, canteen, pack, and supplies.

  “Will the stagecoach come through soon?”

  Henry glanced up at the sun and then down at Longarm. “Not long. If you die, will the white men come after us?”

  “No.”

  “How would they know that we did not kill you if you are dead?” Shonto asked, face furrowed deep with worry.

  It was a question that Longarm couldn’t answer. “I’m not fixin’ to die,” he carefully explained. “If I was going to die, I would have done it by now. Take my horse and saddle and go in peace. You have kept your promise, and now I keep mine.”

  Henry smiled and knelt down in front of Longarm so he could look the white man straight in his eyes. “You have a paper?”

  Longarm immediately understood what the Navajo wanted. “As a matter of fact, I do. And a pencil. I’ll write you a bill of sale so that if you are ever questioned about the mare and the saddle, it will say that I gave them both to you of my own free will.”

  “Good!”

  Longarm found the pencil and paper and scribbled out the bill of sale and gave it to Henry along with some good advice. “Don’t take that mare into Flagstaff or someone will want to take her away from you even if you show them what I just wrote.”

  Henry nodded with understanding.

  “And put the paper I just signed in a safe place where it will not get wet or damaged.”

  Again, the young Navajo nodded, before he climbed to his feet and hurried to the buckskin. Stroking the mare’s neck, he looked to be about the happiest man on earth. So obvious was Henry’s joy at owning the mare and saddle that Longarm could not help but feel good for a few moments. He would, of course, have to pay John Wallace a hefty price for the horse and saddle, but the Navajo shepherds had saved his life and he didn’t begrudge them a thing.

  The pair waved and rode off, leaving Longarm to sit in the shade of the rock and wait. He couldn’t imagine how upset Heidi would be when she saw how terrible he looked, but he’d face that hill to climb when the stagecoach arrived. Until then, he just wanted to take a nap.

  Chapter 12

  The Flagstaff to Grand Canyon stagecoach was loaded to capacity when Heidi was helped on board by John Wallace. “Mrs. Long, I sure do hope that you’ll have a comfortable day,” the stagecoach owner said before he closed the door. “We’re full up and it’s gonna be a mite crowded on this run, but just settle in and enjoy the scenery.”

  Heidi sat down next to an older woman and smiled at her fellow passengers. On her side of the coach facing the rear was a gentle-looking older couple in their sixties who nodded in friendly greeting. Across from her sat a rough and dangerous-looking young man wearing two pistols, and beside him sat what Heidi decided was a mismatched couple. The gentleman was tall, well dressed, and quite the dandy, and he looked to be approaching forty. He had swarthy good looks, a hooked nose, dark piercing eyes, and straight black hair, and he was wearing a fine derby hat and a white starched shirt and collar. He also wore two large gold rings and a diamond stickpin in his tie, and his black boots were polished to a high shine. He was clean-shaven and Heidi sized him up as a successful gambler or perhaps a prosperous saloon owner. The woman sitting right next to him was very young and pretty…probably not much older than twenty. She wore too much makeup and kept her eyes downcast as if she were studying something no one else could see in her lap. Heidi thought she detected a dark bruise under one of her eyes but couldn’t be sure because it was heavily powdered.

  It was the dandy who first introduced himself while removing his derby and placing it on his lap then flicking off a speck of dirt. “My name is Frankie Virden, and this young lady at my side is my…fiancée, Miss Carrie Blue.”

  Heidi smiled at the cowed-looking woman, hoping to lift her spirits. “You’re very pretty, my dear.”

  The girl glanced up for an instant, managing a grateful smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “My name is Mrs. Heidi Long,” she said, trying to get the girl to relax and open up just a little. “Carrie, have you been to the Grand Canyon before?”

  The girl nodded unenthusiastically. “Quite a few times.”

  Frankie Virden jumped back into the conversation. “We’re going up to the Grand Canyon on business. I have just opened a saloon a few miles east of Lees Ferry, along with a hotel, to entice and entertain the growing number of tourists. I’m betting that tourism will grow faster than weeds and in a few years I’ll be raking in the money.”

  When Heidi said nothing, Frankie Virden motioned toward the young man who had not yet said a word. “This is Seth and he’s my…uh, assistant.”

  Seth looked at Heidi’s face, then her bosom, and grinned wolfishly. “Mighty nice to have such attractive company on this run, ma’am.”

  Heidi gave him no reply. She immediately judged that Seth was the kind of person to be avoided at all costs, and she guessed that he was more of a bodyguard or gunman than any kind of assistant.

  “We’ll be stopping at the Cameron Trading Post soon, and there we can stretch our legs and take some refreshments. You ladies can also use the powder room while Seth and I take some liquid refreshment.”

  “You sound,” Heidi said, turning back to the wealthy man with the dark, glittering eyes, “as if you are quite familiar with this stagecoach trip.”

  “Oh, I am! I’ve been coming up here several times a month with Carrie and Seth. I have to make sure that my interests are being well served. I’m sure that you’ll enjoy staying at my Rimrock Hotel.”

  Heidi had not discussed where they would stay with Longarm, so she said nothing.

  “And Mrs. Long,” Virden added, “if there is anything I can do to make this trip more comfortable for you or your marshal, please let me know.”

  Heidi noticed that Frankie Virden’s teeth were bone-white, straight, and perfect. He was certainly attractive, in a rather predatory way, and well mannered, but she sensed that he had a dark side that would not be hard to expose.

  “I’m sure that my husband and I will be just fine,” Heidi said, managing a smile.

  She had turned away from Virden, to the older couple. “And you are?”

  “I’m Mr. Elmer Potter and this is my wife, Emily. We’re on our way up to see the Grand Canyon for the very first time. We’ll be staying at Mr. Virden’s new hotel and viewing the canyon as much as we can. We’re only visiting Flagstaff for the summer and plan to return to Boston in the fall.” Elmer squeezed his wife’s chubby hand. “I have to confess that Emily and I are celebrating our fortieth wedding anniversary in a few days.”

  “Congratulations!” Virden and Heidi said at the same time.

  “Ah, marriage,” Frankie Virden said with a warming smile. “When it works, it must be like heaven. But when it doesn’t work…well, trust me it can be hell.”

  Heidi looked to the young woman but she didn’t so much as blink an eye. Maybe, Heidi thought, she is a prostitute who is currently at the head of the line for Virden’s affections. That could explain why she seemed so withdrawn and even afraid. It might also explain that black eye.

  “Mrs. Long,” Seth said, folding his arms across his chest and tipping back his black Stetson, “I understand that your husband is a United States marshal and that you are from Denver.”

  “That’s true,” she said, knowing that there was no point in denying what had obviously become common knowledge.r />
  “How come your husband, the marshal, didn’t ride along with us?”

  “Seth,” Virden warned, “that is really none of our business.”

  “Well,” Seth continued, “it could become our business.”

  “Seth!” There was steel in Virden’s voice.

  “I just mean,” Seth said, “that everyone knows that a judge and his pretty young wife have gone missing up by the Colorado River. And I don’t mean to upset anyone, but there have been—”

  “I think you’ve said enough!” Frankie Virden hissed.

  Seth didn’t seem in the least bit intimidated. He held up his hands and smiled at everyone. “Folks, I’m just makin’ a little friendly conversation by tellin’ everyone what they already know and askin’ why this lady’s husband, who beat the hell out of Carl Whitfield, didn’t come along with us. I meant no harm nor disrespect, Frankie.”

  Frankie Virden wasn’t buying it, and his face was tight with anger. “Why don’t you just button your lip, Seth?”

  “No cause to get upset, Boss.”

  All the others seemed to glance down at their laps or out the window, and there was a tension in the stagecoach as it rolled and bounced along, heading north.

  They stopped at the Cameron Trading Post, and they all exited the coach and made their way inside. When Frankie headed off with Seth, Heidi joined Carrie Blue, and together they went to find some place to relieve themselves and then wash and have something to eat.

  “It gets damned dusty up ahead,” Carrie said in a small voice. “After we cross over the Little Colorado, the country becomes drier and we’ll have to pull the shades down or the dust will swirl up inside the coach. One time we had to do that and it was a really hot day and I damn near died of the heat.”

  “Where will we stop for the night?”

  “Mr. Wallace has someone waiting about fifteen miles up the road, at a stage stop. He’s got two small bunkhouses, one for men and one for us women. There’s also a kitchen and a few other things, but it’s pretty humble. They’ll change horses there and feed us tonight and early tomorrow morning before we get back under way.”