Storm's Thunder by Brandon Boyce Read Free Book Online Page B

Although my constituency is slightly larger than yours. But I leave it to you. If you wish to defy an act of Congress, and an executive order, by abetting a known thief—a savage for whom you carry some sentimental affinity—then play your hand, sir.”
    â€œLook here, we don’t need to be making no federal rumpus out of this. No one’s abettin’ or defyin’ anything. Let’s just suppose we handle this all local.”
    â€œIt’s not some local militia his band has been attacking, it is the United States Army. The Apache chose to wage war on this nation. A war they shall have.”
    â€œSaulito wouldn’t attack nobody.”
    â€œYou have no idea what he would do.”
    â€œI know Saulito. He’s ain’t nothing but a drunk, dumb Injun. But that don’t mean he deserves to be carted off to no rez.”
    â€œA good Apache scout would make you think that. The only ones still out there are desperate. They’ve had to get resourceful.”
    â€œCome on, Cross. He ain’t no scout.”
    For the first time all day, Jacob Cross smiled. “Then here,” he pulled a flask from an inner pocket and held it close to Jack’s face. “Give him this. Ply him with liquor and invite him to your home. He’ll cook your lungs and eat them, dancing to his pagan dirt-god while his brothers rape your wife and your daughters.”
    â€œGood thing I only got boys.”
    â€œHis kind do not discriminate.”
    â€œI think I’ve heard enough,” Jack said. “Hell, you want him so bad, take him then.”
    Cross gestured to Van Zant. The Dutchman spun Saulito around and yanked the blanket from his body. He produced a pair of iron handcuffs and bound the Indian’s wrists. Then he checked him for weapons.
    â€œHello. What’s this?” Van Zant pulled a stone spike from the man’s waistband and dabbed his thumb against the razor sharp tip. He handed it to Cross.
    â€œWell I’ll be God-damned,” Big Jack said. Jacob Cross hitched mid-step—the blasphemy a physical assault to his ears.
    â€œVain the Lord’s name again, sheriff, and I’ll damn you where you stand.”
    * * *
    By eleven o’clock, the pale sun had risen as high as it would go this time of year. The buggy meandered down the trail, making terrible time, Van Zant coaxing all he could out of the bay, but the horse had slowed considerably now that the terrain had become winding and unfamiliar. And with the unexpected load of three passengers and the buggy itself, one misstep could send them all tumbling to a rocky death. Cross sat in the next seat, keenly aware that Caliche Bend stood only ten miles behind them. Up ahead, the valley floor shimmered, as if tantalizingly close, but the wheels would not touch its flat surface for another hour. Right now a thirty-foot drop of sheer rock on either side of the trail kept everyone’s focus on the present and their nerves raw.
    â€œI shoulda asked about the trains,” Van Zant said. “Rate we’re going, we make the run out to San Carlos, we won’t get back to Santa Fe before nightfall tomorrow. Sorry about that, Mister Cross. Sorting out gettin’ places is one of the things you pay me for.”
    â€œRest your mind, Mister Van Zant. I inquired about the trains before we left the Bend. It seems the railroads don’t run on my schedule. I’ll have to see what I can do about that.” Van Zant smiled. That was as close to humor as Cross got. But Van Zant knew that Cross was only half-kidding. He’d seen the sonofabitch move bigger mountains than getting the railroad bosses to rejigger a few timetables.
    Saulito sat with his back to them in the rear of the buggy, his arms bound behind him, his eyes skyward. The sound escaping his mouth was like nothing Van Zant had ever heard—something between a chant and the weeping of a child.
    â€œWhat’s he carrying on