Chapter 18
755 Words
Three of them now stood at the graveside, Landers, unable to keep his grief at bay, cried openly whilst Hanson clutched his hat in front of him in both hands, screwing up the rim, teeth clenched. The dead Utes they burned.
“The smoke will warn any others,” muttered Hanson, “and I hope more of them come. I truly do.”
Simms ignored him and tended to the horses. A little way off, hobbled behind another outcrop of rocks, he came upon some ponies, pulled off their blankets and let them run free across the plain. Three ponies for the three dead Utes. He stared after them for a long time.
The only cross which bore any kind of inscription was the one marking their dead companion"s grave. It said simply "Wicks, a soldier". Simms thought it was enough.
They rode on in silence, each burdened by their thoughts and the horrors they had witnessed. Simms, who had experienced so many deprivations during the Mexican War, accepted the deaths as a normal part of hostilities. He neither mourned nor harbored thoughts of revenge. His duty was to find Elisabeth Randall and ultimately, nothing would sway him from that path. Once he"d discharged his orders to contact Ives at the Colorado River ferry, he would again head back to the ranch where he felt sure he would find the kidnapped daughter of Colonel Randall. On the way, if he picked up the trail of Newhart and Mason, so much better. Their bounty would ease the remaining journey.
The landscape continued to change, the air thinner and fresher, green grass replacing coarse scrub and when, at last, they left the rolling hills behind, they gazed in abject relief at the great silver snake of the river, wending its way through the land. And at the jetty, moored alongside a rickety gangplank, the riverboat bobbed in the water, as if it were waiting patiently for their arrival.
Simms spurred his horse and, together with the others swiftly following, they ate up the remaining distance, eager to meet with the surveyor there, Lieutenant Joseph Christmas Ives.
As they drew closer, Simms became aware of the shirt-sleeved men around the boat, shouldering rifles, taking aim, and of the man sporting a huge broad-brimmed straw hat of brilliant white, standing in the lead, a revolver in each hand.
Simms with his hand up, ordered the others to slow to a trot, and he called out, “We are Federal officers, sent by Colonel Johnston to deliver a message to your commanding officer.”
His voice rang out across the open space between the two groups and for a moment, it seemed as if the entire world held its breath, waiting for Ives"s response.
The man in the hat stepped forward, the revolvers held loosely in his hands. “I"m Ives,” he said, his voice clear and strong. He nodded towards Simms"s companions. “You look like government troops, but I can"t be sure. Slip off your firearms and get down from your horses.” He lifted his own guns slightly, easing back the hammers, “Nice and easy, boys.”
Hanson and Landers shot Simms a glance and the Pinkerton nodded. “Do as he says.”
So they did. As Simms relieved himself of his own weapons, some of the men standing close to Ives whistled.
Simms jumped to the ground.
“That"s quite an arsenal you have there,” said Ives, stepping closer. “What are you, a bounty hunter?”
Simms let his breath out in a long, tired stream. “Pinkerton.”
“Good God,” said Ives, mouth dropping open. He looked back to his own men. “Boys, lower your guns. No one would say they were a Pinkerton if they were not.” He smiled at Simms. “Let"s see your license.”
Simms brought out the wallet, with his badge pinned inside. Ives leaned forward to study the wording. “That"s impressive,” he said, and at last, holstered his revolvers. “Can"t be too careful, Detective. Boys,” he looked across at Hanson and Landers, “collect up your things and one of my men will give you some food and water.” He sniffed. “And a bath too. How long you been on the range?”
“Three days,” said Simms, “but it feels longer.”
“You can tell me about it,” said Ives, and led Simms to the boat and his office.
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