“Yeah, I did. The only thing is, the train don’t run all the way to Phoenix. Closest it comes is Maricopa. Then they put it on a stagecoach.”
“How much money are we talkin’ about?” Cantrell asked.
“From what I hear, they don’t never transfer less that ten thousand dollars. Is that enough money to get you interested?” Willis asked.
Cantrell smiled broadly, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think ten thousand dollars is enough money to get me interested.”
“How are we goin’ to pull this off?” Oliver asked.
“Don’t be worryin’ none about that,” Willis replied. “I’ve got it all figured out.”
Chapter Fourteen
San Carlos Indian Reservation
“Delshay, I know the impulse will be very strong for you to get revenge,” Baker said after the funerals of those killed in Delshay’s and Chandeisi’s families. “But don’t. Leave it up to the law.”
“White man’s law?”
“The law is the law,” Baker said. “Just because it was Indians they killed, it doesn’t make them any less guilty of murder. The law will find them and the law will punish them.”
“How will the law find them?” Delshay asked. “Nobody knows who did it.”
“Just leave it in the hands of the law,” Baker repeated. “That is all I am asking of you.”
Delshay nodded, but said nothing else. Then, at midnight on that very night, in the flickering light of a held torch, he spoke to the nine men he had managed to recruit. One of the recruits was Chandeisi; the others were young men, without families,who would be coming along for the excitement and adventure.
“If you are brave of heart, and can leave home without so much as saying good-bye to your mother and father, then you have the fighting spirit that you will need in the days to come,” Delshay said as he looked into the fire-lit faces of the young men who were eager to become warriors.
“Come, we will strike fear into the heart of every white man and all will hear the name Apache and cower.”
“All will hear the name Delshay and cower!” Chandeisi shouted.
“Delshay!” the others shouted.
There was some stirring from those who were still sleeping in their hogans, and Delshay held up his hand to call for quiet.
“Go to your horses,” he said. “We ride.”
San Carlos was made up of several small encampments that were scattered about the reservation. The wickiups were of traditional construction, animal skins, bark, woven grass, and mud. But at the center of the reservation, where the headquarters was established, stood the Indian agent’s house. The equal to any fine home in any city, the agent’s residence was a large, two-story house with white-painted leaded windows, dormers, clapboard sides, and a green shake roof. There was a swing on the deep, front porch where Baker and his family often sat in the evenings, enjoying the cooling breeze.
The sun had not yet risen when Sentorio rode up to the front of the house, dismounted, and hurried up the brick walk.
“Agent Baker!” he called. He banged loudly on the door. “Agent Baker!” He banged on the door again.
A moment later, Baker, carrying a candle and still in his nightshirt, opened the door.
“What is it, Sentorio?” he asked irritably. “What do you mean by banging on my door at this time of morning?”
“It’s Delshay, Agent Baker. Delshay, Chandeisi, and eight others.”
“Delshay, Chandeisi and eight others? What about them, Sentorio? Make sense for God’s sake.”
“They are gone, Agent Baker,” Sentorio said. “All of them.”
“Gone? By gone, do you mean they have left the reservation?”
“Yes, Delshay and Chandeisi gathered several warriors to follow them and they left the reservation.”
“Damn,” Baker said, shaking his head in anger. “It wasn’t Chandeisi. He didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“You are wrong, Agent Baker. Chandeisi is with Delshay,” Sentorio said.
“Oh, Chandeisi might be with him, all right,” Baker said. “But you can bet your bottom dollar that Delshay is in charge. Chandeisi is but a puppy that will go along with anything Delshay says. How long have they been gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I did not see them leave,” Sentorio said.
“Never mind. Round up the rest of the Indian police and see if you can find them.”
“If they are off the reservation, we will have no authority over them,” Sentorio said.
“I know that. That means you had better catch them before they get off reservation property.”
“I think it may be too late for that,” Sentorio said.
“Yeah, well, whether it is too late or not, you are going after them,” Baker said. “And when you find them, bring them back bound and gagged. I want the others to see their—hero—humiliated.” He set the word “hero” apart from the rest of the sentence, twisting his mouth around the word.
“I will do so,” Sentorio promised.
At the very moment Sentorio and Agent Baker were discussing their absence, Delshay, Chandeisi, and the others were already off the reservation. Eerily illuminated by the flickering torches many of them were carrying, they sat on their horses on the crest of a hill that overlooked the Doogan Ranch near the little white settlement of Picket Post. Delshay looked down on the little collection of neat buildings that made up the ranch.
“All are asleep,” Chandeisi said.
“Yes,” Delshay replied.
“Delshay, are we at war?” one of the younger riders said.
“Yes.”
“Will we join Goyathlay?”
“No,” Delshay said. “We will make our own war.”
He made a motion with his arm, then pointed toward the barn.
Delshay’s riders rode quickly down the hill to the Doogan Ranch. Without any further directions, a couple of the riders broke away from the rest of the pack and headed toward the barn. One of them tossed a torch inside the barn, where it landed on dry hay. The other threw his torch up onto the dry-shake shingles of the roof. Within moments, the barn was on fire.
Another of the riders started toward the main house, but Delshay called out to him.
“Wait,” he said.
The rider stopped, though it was clear by the expression on his face that he did not understand why Delshay had stopped him.
They waited for nearly two minutes. Delshay and the nine other warriors sat silently as they stared at the house, which, though not on fire, cast back the reflected flames of the burning barn. The popping, snapping fire licked up the sides of the walls and spread over the entire roof, growing in heat and intensity. The horses and cows trapped inside the barn realized their danger and began screaming in terror. Delshay reached down to pat the neck of his own horse reassuringly. The animal was very nervous at being that close to the blaze and it began to prance about.
The ten Indians waited, their faces glowing orange red from the fire. The illusion created an apparition of ten of Satan’s mounted demons.
From inside the house, they heard a young boy’s voice call the alarm.
“Pa! Ma! Wake up! Wake up! The barn’s on fire!”
Alerted, his mother and she poked her husband awake. When Doogan opened his eyes, he didn’t have to ask what was wrong, for by now the light from the burning barn lit up the bedroom as bright as day.
“What in the world! How did that happen? Sue, get the buckets! Donnie, Morgan, you boys turn out double quick! Turn out, boys, we’ve got to save the animals!”
Doogan and his two sons dashed out through the front door in their nightshirts, not bothering to take time to get dressed. They tumbled off the front porch, then were brought to an immediate stop by the sight of the ten mounted Indians. Backlit by the burning barn, the Indians looked as if they were ghost riders from Hell. Doogan shielded his eyes against the glare of the fire, but even though he stared hard at the riders, he couldn’t make out any of their features. As a matter of fact, from his position he couldn’t even tell that they were Indians.