The Apaches woke in foul tempers, cursing at each other with white man words. Adam guessed their heads were pounding from their drinking the night before as they drank whiskey soon after waking. He found it amusing that the only words in English they had bothered to learn were obscenities which they seemed unsure how to use.
"They drink all the time?" Adam asked as he saddled his horse, motioning with his head toward the two braves.
"Most all," Solly said. "Gotta give 'em what they want." There was a pause while Solly watched Adam adjusting the cinch on his horse. "What do you want, Adam? You've never been clear on that—say you want one thing but then, you really don't—all talk."
"What do you mean?" Adam didn't glance over to Solly but concentrated on what he was doing; Solly wasn't stupid, was actually highly intuitive and Adam feared Solly would see his imminent betrayal in his face.
"You're saddling-up. Where the hell you going?"
"I'm not sure." Adam patted the horse's neck. He glanced at the two Apaches who were gnawing on hard tack to break their fast—and probably, Adam thought, to stop the burning in their guts.
"Ride with us. Heard there were some homesteaders west of here. We need some scalps to take back and whatever else they have. I'd like to have something else to present to their leader."
"I'm not of a mind to slaughter any homesteaders." Adam went back to the fire he had earlier built and poured himself the rest of the coffee, stopping just short of getting the grounds that slipped through the strainer in the spout.
Solly chuckled. "Why not? They're fools for coming out here—deserve what they get. I'm sure they were warned about Indians being on the loose but these easterners, they think things'll be different for them than everyone else. They believe they can come out here and lay claim on a plot of land and no one will bother them—especially not the Indians they stole it from. Dumb bastards. They deserve to be strung up by their heels."
"What about the women and children? They deserve it too?"
"I know you don't fight unless you have to, Adam—always put me to scratching my head about that—how you always managed to pick the right time to show that side. You don't think you're a violent man, do you? You think you're so goddamn logical and rational but by your own admission, you murdered someone. I know you say he assaulted and killed your wife so you went and killed him but that still makes you a murderer whether you think so or not. Makes you just like me now, doesn't it? Besides, were you sure—absolutely sure—he's the one who did it? Did you give him a chance?"
Adam worked his jaw. The very same things Solly brought up had haunted him. Was it Cowell who had killed Kat? Yes, he was sure—he knew it was Cowell. Cowell had the Indian hat band as Mai Wong had said the killer had on his hat. He had Kat's cross—Cowell had given it to the saloon girl—she had told him Cowell had—pointed him out at the poker table. He was the one. Adam was sure of it. But Mai Wong hadn't been able to identify Cowell as he lay stretched out at the undertaker's, but that was common; many whites couldn't pick one Chinese out from another saying they all looked alike and the reverse was also true. When she was asked to identify him, Cowell wasn't wearing his hat or clothes—just had a sheet up to his neck, Hiram Wood had told him, and Mai Wong was at a loss. And then Adam wasn't so sure anymore either. Had been tortured with doubt. But it had to have been Cowell, Adam told himself over and over as he lay on the cot in his jail cell. But maybe it hadn't been. Had he killed an innocent man?
Adam had gone through many scenarios over the past weeks. The killer may have come across Cowell and said he needed money, sold Cowell the cross and hat. It was a possibility. Perhaps Kat's killer had also tried to rob Cowell, Cowell killed him and then, in going through his pockets afterwards, found the cross and took the hatband as his own. Or Cowell murdered the killer out of opportunity and robbed him. So many alternate situations arose in his imagination.
"No," Adam said quietly. "I didn't give him a chance at all."
"So are you going to wander for the rest of your life. not lighting anywhere? Or knowing you, go back and turn yourself in? 'Member when we had to learn about the Puritans? You're like them, Adam, but then you came from them, didn't you? Beat yourself up all the time about what's right, what's wrong. Not just judging others but yourself as well. I always admired that about you—how you always accepted the responsibility for what you did. Now us-me and Carl and the Bonners, hell, if we could pass the fault off on someone else, we would. That's how people are, Adam, but not you. You told me about those monks in the Middle Ages who mortified their flesh by whipping themselves over their shoulders. You should've been one of them—just go through life punishing yourself over and over and over."
Adam smiled to himself. Solly was right about him; he was always punishing himself and maybe the puritanical attitude toward sin and punishment was deep in his blood, coursing through the alleyways of his body as it had his ancestors. But he was who he was and there was no escaping it. But maybe he could redeem himself—maybe.
"I'll go with you," Adam said.
~ 0 ~
The ranch house was obviously abandoned—and the occupants had left in a hurry. They had left many belongings and the two Apaches went through the long, narrow house, tossing about what the homesteaders had let behind, angry they found nothing of much value to them. One Apache, Night Bear, put a woman's slip around his shoulders, tying the two ribbons at the waist about his neck. They laughed. An oak china hutch stood in the front room, too heavy to be carted out in a hurry and the taller of the two Apache, Yellow Wolf, smashed the shelfs, laughing as they split under his fists. He seemed to be bragging about his strength to the smaller Indian but Adam couldn't be sure; he wasn't familiar with their language.
Adam was relieved. He had hoped that if the people were still there, still eking out a hard existence on this hostile ground that he would be able somehow to save their lives. Perhaps he could do some finagling with Solly, convince him, Yellow Wolf and Night Bear that the homesteaders could be used as pawns against the soldiers. In that way, Adam could buy himself time and stave off the deaths of the people until he could manage their escape. But it wasn't necessary now.
"Damn waste of time," Solly said as he looked about the empty house. There was a small barn which Adam and Solly went to check while Yellow Wolf and Night Bear continued to destroy the few remaining belongings, holding up some of the clothing left behind; Adam could see that there were a few infant gowns and a dirty rag doll. He wondered if the little girl, when realizing it was gone, cried for her doll but her parents refused to turn back.
"There's nothing of any value here," Adam said as he looked around. "What now?"
"I guess now I take the whiskey to the Apaches. That would be enough, but like I said, I would've liked a few scalps to take back—or a woman to give to the leader. That would have been a valuable gift—earned me the respect I need for them to listen to my plan." Solly turned and narrowed his eyes at Adam.
"You thinking I would make a good pawn in your deal with the Apache? My horse and rifle as a gift? Or my scalp."
Solly laughed and Adam gave a grim smile as well. "Not you, Adam. They like blond scalps—the blonder the better."
It was a little past noon when they headed back to their own camp. The sun beat down on them mercilessly but the Indians didn't seem to notice. They had a few of the homesteader's belongings tied across their ponies—a tin teapot, a wooden chair, some candles wrapped in an infant's gown and a brush along with a few other interesting items.
They rode along in silence, Adam and Solly ahead by a few yards, and then a rifle went off. Both Adam and Solly spun around while the Indians laughed. One had blown a lizard off a rock.
Solly shook his head in disgust. "Wasting good ammunition." Adam said nothing more and when they reached their camp, after unsaddling his horse, Adam found a shady spot and pulling his hat down over his eyes, napped.
The Indians began drinking and Solly also reclined in the shade of the rocks and thought, plotted. He had always considered Adam a good friend even though there was a bit of envy involved. Solly often wondered what it would be like to be Adam Cartwright. People sometimes started out with some of the same blessings. Solly had been told he was handsome—of course it was by some saloon girl trying to sell him more drinks or some cheap whore he found in his travels but he had seen his face enough to know that Adam wasn't more handsome that he was. And Carl Reagan was chased by the girls in Virginia City, almost as much as Adam.
But Adam seemed to have been dealt all the right cards. Life, Solly considered, was like a poker game—you had to play with what you were dealt and Adam had all the high cards—but he could still make the wrong move and he, Solly, could always bluff. But Solly considered that right now, Adam was bluffing—it was possible—and maybe probable. He'd wait and see if Adam'd show his hand. Actually, more like "when." It would happen. And Solly accepted that he just might have to kill his old friend.