Chapter Eleven
San Carlos Indian Reservation
After taking his leave of Geronimo, Delshay returned to the reservation, where he was greeted warmly by his wife and children.
“Delshay,” someone said and, looking toward the sound of the voice, Delshay saw two Indians wearing the uniform and accoutrements of the Indian police.
“Sentorio, have you become a running dog of the white man?” Delshay asked, recognizing a young man with whom he was raised.
“I am a policeman,” Sentorio replied.
“Yes, like I said, a running dog of the white man. What do you want?”
“Agent Baker heard you were back. He has sent us to bring you to him.”
“Am I your prisoner?”
“You are to come with us,” Sentorio replied without being any more specific.
“And if I choose not to come?”
Sentorio and the other Indian policeman looked at each other, and it was obvious they were frightened at the prospect of having to force Delshay to come with them.
Delshay laughed. “Do not be frightened, friend of my youth,” he said. “I will go with you to see the Indian agent.”
Agent Eugene Baker was sitting on a stool under an umbrella, on the edge of a long, deep trench. There were dozens of Apache down in the ditch, digging with pickax and shovel. The ditch was the brainstorm of Agent Baker, ostensibly to be an irrigation ditch to bring water to the reservation from Salt River. As there were times during the year when the Salt River was dry, the irrigation ditch seemed a waste of time, but as Baker said to the representative from the Indian Agency who questioned him, “It keeps the bucks busy.”
“Agent Baker, we have brought Delshay to you,” Sentorio said.
There was a table beside Baker’s chair and on the table was an apple. Baker picked up the apple and began paring it as he spoke.
“So, Delshay, you have come back to us, have you?” Baker said. “Did you find that riding with Geronimo was more difficult than you thought it would be?”
“I have been hunting,” Delshay replied. It wasn’t exactly a lie, it just wasn’t the entire truth.
“Oh, yes, I have no doubt but that you have been hunting. Tell me about the hunting you have been doing, Delshay. Was it with Geronimo?”
Delshay didn’t answer.
“Uh-huh, that tells me all I need to know. Hunting for white scalps, more than likely. How many white men did you kill while you were with Geronimo?”
Delshay still did not answer.
“I have no doubt but that you have the blood of many white men, women, and children on your hands,” Baker said. “Well, if you want my opinion, Delshay, I think you should have stayed with that renegade, because there is nothing for you here.”
“My wife and children are here,” Delshay said.
“Ah, yes, your wife and children,” Baker said. Out of the corner of his eye, Baker saw one of the Indians climbing up from the ditch.
“Here!” Baker called to him. “I did not tell you that you could quit.”
“I want water,” the Indian said.
“You can get a drink when it is time. You don’t want to leave the others to do your work, do you? Now get back down there and keep digging.”
The Indian who had tried to climb up from the ditch glared at Baker for a moment, but he turned and went back down into the ditch.
“Now, where were we?” Baker asked. “Oh, yes, your wife and children. The truth is, Delshay, your wife and children are better off without you.” The apple now pared, Baker quartered it. “Just make certain you do nothing that will put you on my bad side,” he said as he popped a piece of apple into his mouth. Then, using his knife as a pointer, he continued his admonition. “I will tell you the truth, Delshay. If I had it my way, I would hang you right now. At the very least, I would put you in prison. But the Great White Father in Washington has ordered that I treat humanely all the Apache who are willing to surrender to authority, so I have no choice but to accept you back onto the reservation.”
After doing all in his power to humiliate Delshay, Baker dismissed him, once more warning him to do nothing that would incur his wrath.
Hachita, New Mexico Territory
Philbin, Oliver, and Cantrell reached the tiny town of Hachita just after midnight. Cantrell bought a bottle of tequilla at the cantina, then picked up a Mexican whore, taking her as much for her bed as for any of the “special” services she could provide for him.
Hachita was a scattering of flyblown, crumbling adobe buildings laid out around a dusty plaza. It was less than ten miles from the Mexican border, and what made it attractive to people like Philbin, Cantrell, and Oliver was its reputation as a “Robbers’ Roost,” or “Outlaw Haven.”
The town had no constable or sheriff, and visitations by law officers from elsewhere in the territory were strongly discouraged. There was a place in the town cemetery prominently marked as “Lawman’s Plot.” There, two deputy sheriffs and one deputy U.S. marshal, all uninvited visitors to the town, lay buried.
Cantrell woke up the next morning with a ravenous hunger and a raging need to urinate. The puta was still asleep beside him, and she didn’t wake up when Cantrell crawled over her to get out of bed and get dressed.
There was an outhouse twenty feet behind the little adobe crib, but Cantrell disdained its use, stepping out into the alley and going against the wall instead.
“Oliver,” he called as he stood there, relieving himself. “Oliver, you still in there?”
Oliver had gone with the puta in the next crib over.
“Yeah, I’m in here.”
“You goin’ to sleep all mornin’ or what?”
“I’m comin’ out.”
Cantrell heard a sound from within the shadows of the crib; then Oliver appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his boots, hat, and long underwear. He joined Cantrell at the wall.
“Philbin, where are you?”
Philbin didn’t answer.
“You seen Philbin this morning?” Cantrell asked as they stood there relieving themselves. He shook himself, then put it away.
“Not this mornin’, I just woke up. I seen him last night, though. He went in there,” Oliver said, pointing to one of the other cribs.
Cantrell walked over to the crib and looked inside. The whore Philbin had been with was still asleep, but she was alone in the bed.
“He ain’t here,” Cantrell said.
“So where the hell did he go?” Oliver asked.
“Beats me. I ain’t goin’ to worry about it right now. I’m goin’ over to have breakfast. You want to come along?”
“Yeah, I reckon so,” Oliver replied.
In the Casa del Sol cantina, Cantrell rolled a tortilla in his fingers and, using it like a spoon, scooped up the last of his breakfast beans. He washed it down with a drink of coffee, then lit a cigar just as Philbin and Meechum came in.
“Well, I’ll be damn,” Cantrell said. “Look here, Oliver. Look who has just showed up.”
“Meechum,” Oliver said. “I didn’t think we’d ever see you again.”
“I sent word about the time lock on the safe in that bank back in Bent Canyon. It ain’t my fault you didn’t get it.”
“If you’d done a little more lookin’ into it than you done, you wouldn’t have had to send word about nothin’,” Cantrell said angrily.
“And if you hadn’t left early, you would of got the word,” Meechum said. “The truth is, you got greedy and was plannin’ on keepin’ all the money for yourself, wasn’t you?”
“What money?” Oliver asked bitterly. “The only thing we got out of that was damn near killed. And Morris did get hisself killed.”