Firestick. William W. Johnstone

except for that bunch runnin’ with Geronimo, they’re supposed to be contained up in San Carlos . . . unless Geronimo has decided to head down this way.”

      “No, we would have heard something about that. The soldier boys up north might not be able to catch Geronimo, but he ain’t runnin’ so far ahead of ’em that he could make a swing in our direction without us gettin’ word,” said Beartooth. “But don’t forget there’s still some others that have never been captured down in the mountains of Mexico. Could be there’s a pack of them who decided to cross the Rio for some hell-raisin’. The Mex government don’t really have ’em contained very well in the Sierra Madres. A renegade pack like Boynton is describin’ could squirt across the border and nobody’d notice until they commenced to raidin’ and carryin’ on.”

      Boynton’s forehead puckered. “Not that I’m complainin’, mind you, but what I can’t figure out is—if it was a raiding party I saw—why didn’t they take out after me when I caught sight of ’em?”

      “Could be they weren’t ready to tip their hand yet,” said Firestick. “Could be they were on their way to raid somewhere else, and attackin’ one lone man wasn’t worth their while. All that’s supposin’ you’re right about it bein’ Injuns at all.”

      “You don’t believe me?”

      “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. I said, if you’re right. You came here with some doubts of your own, didn’t you?”

      “Maybe doubts . . . Maybe I just don’t want to believe what I saw.”

      “What we came here for,” said Tolsvord, “was to seek your help in trying to make certain. Like I said at the start, the last thing we want is to cause undue panic. No, make that the second-to-the-last thing. The very last thing is for this renegade pack, if they’re out there, to start killing and raiding without any warning.”

      “You three are the best trackers in the territory,” Boynton quickly added. “We were thinking that, if I take you to where I saw those riders, you could pick up their trail and see where it leads. Or maybe you could tell something simply from the tracks.”

      “Hey, that ain’t a half-bad idea,” said Moosejaw.

      “No, it ain’t,” agreed Firestick. “You want to take a crack at pickin’ up that trail, Moosejaw? In the meantime, I’ll get into town and send out some telegrams, see if there’ve been any other sightings anywhere around. Though I’ll have to word ’em careful-like so’s not to rile things up until we have a better idea what’s goin’ on.”

      “What about me?” said Beartooth.

      “In case there are some renegade bucks on the prowl,” Firestick told him, “don’t you think it’d be best for one of us to stick close to the ranch to keep an eye on things?”

      “Yeah, I reckon,” Beartooth allowed reluctantly.

      Tolsvord said, “That’s what I intend to do, too—get back to my place, where I can keep a sharp eye out without stirring up the rest of my hands until we know something further.” He aimed a scowl at Firestick. “Once we do, one way or another, you and me still have to take up the matter of my men you’ve got locked up. Especially if there are Indians on the prowl, we’ll need every gun we can get.”

      Firestick met his scowl evenly. “Like you said, once we know something further as far as what Boynton saw, then we can take up that matter.”

      “As soon as I get a look at those tracks and have a chance to make something out of ’em, me and Boynton will send word,” said Moosejaw.

      Firestick quickly threw down the last of the coffee in his cup and then stood up. “Okay, sounds like we got us a plan. The quicker we get this pinned down, the better. So, we’d best get to makin’ some tracks of our own.”

      CHAPTER 12

      The stern-faced woman on the seat of the small buckboard expertly handled the team of horses pulling the rig as she swung them smoothly in alongside the section of iron fence bordering one side of the cemetery. When she had both team and buckboard aligned parallel to the fence, she reined to a halt so that her rear wheels stopped just ahead of an arched gateway.

      Well-crafted cursive lettering, fashioned from iron and welded between the top and bottom frames of the arch, read BUFFALO PEAK CEMETERY. An eighth of a mile to the northeast, the town, only just starting to bustle with activity at this early hour, was crowded in on either side of the old trail. The latter, continuing on toward the west, made a long, gentle northerly curve away from the cemetery, as if in respect to its privacy and sense of isolation.

      The woman climbed gracefully down from her seat and spoke a word to the well-trained team, commanding them to hold in place. Then she walked around to the rear of the buckboard and withdrew from its bed a basket of brightly colored flowers, their different hues brought out nicely by the early morning sun. The woman, by contrast, was dressed rather dully—dark blue bonnet and matching dress, full-length skirt and collar buttoned at the throat. Her form was trim, and her face might have been called handsome not too many years prior; perhaps still would be if not for the stern, chiseled expression that looked as hard as some of the tombstones that dotted the cemetery. Under the bonnet, her hair was reddish brown and pulled back into a severe bun.

      Carrying her basket, the woman passed through the gate, under the lettered arch, then angled a short way to her right, where a pair of tombstones stood slightly apart from any others. She stood for a long moment, just gazing down at them. The inscription carved on one read HIRAM ROCKWELL . . . 1835–1879 . . . Beloved Husband and Father . . . Called by God too soon; on the other, OWEN ROCKWELL . . . 1859–1881 . . . Beloved Son and Brother . . . Taken too soon, too tragically. The ground in front of the latter had been disturbed not all that long ago, and the outline of a rectangular blanket of sod, still taking root, was plainly in evidence.

      Folding the front of her skirt down over her knees, the woman sank onto the soft, greening grass between the two stones and began distributing the flowers from her basket. As she did this, she murmured softly to each, and from time to time she would hum strains of the popular hymn “In the Sweet By and By.”

      After the woman had been thus occupied for some time, a man emerged from behind a tall cottonwood atop a low rise toward the middle of the cemetery and began slowly walking toward her. The man was of average size and build, clad in a gray frock coat, white shirt, black string tie. The hair visible under his wide-brimmed hat was thick and wavy, yellow in color. On his hip rode a .45-caliber Colt revolver in a black leather holster.