Trail of Secrets

Chapter 2

2Fort Phantom Hill, Texas

“Mr. Daniels!”

Paul Daniels slung his bedroll behind his saddle and tied it down with piggin’ strings. He gave a quick sideways glance to the young soldier jogging down the headquarter building’s porch stairs. Without paying him any more mind, he rechecked the cinches, making sure they were secured, giving the dappled gray roan a gentle pat when he was finished.

Glancing at the silvery sky, he knew he was in for some rough weather ahead. Winter was coming early to North Texas, and there were still a lot of miles to travel. He’d promised to be at his sister’s in Northwestern Indian Territory for Christmas, and he wasn’t about to let her down.

“Mr. Daniels!”

Paul still didn’t turn as he grabbed the stirrup and pulled it down into place. He recognized the soldier’s clipped Boston accent—kid’s name was Potter, if he remembered right. “Name’s Paul. And you are?”

“Lieutenant Dean Potter, sir. I have a message for you from the major. A scout rode in about an hour ago, reporting another uprising with the Comanche and Kiowa. Quanah Parker’s causing all sorts of ruckus for the troops up north. He wants you to check on the situation for him, seeing how you’re going up that way and all.”

He stared at the young soldier, noting the grim set of his mouth. His outfit was pristine, which was saying something out here. His hair was trimmed and neat, and the subtle scent of soap still lingered, which told him the kid hadn’t been in Texas long. Most men he knew only managed to get a bath once a month.

“Meanin’?” Paul asked.

The kid glanced around behind him and met his gaze. “I don’t think it was a request, sir. The major’s worried. Rangers, as well as a unit from Camp Wichita, were supposed to come. They should’ve arrived two days ago, and he doesn’t have the men to spare to go looking for them. He said you were a good soldier during the war—best tracker he’d ever seen—and that you’d do the right thing for him now.”

Paul swallowed an angry retort. He and Captain Schwan had briefly served together during the latter part of the War Between the States. He’d always figured Schwan would remain in uniform. Some take to a soldier’s life. Paul, however, had never wanted to serve in the military. All he wanted was a bit of land where he could run horses, maybe even breed them.

Because of the money, Paul had stayed in for a couple of years after the war’s end. But as soon as his term was finished, he’d collected his pay and headed back to Indian Territory. The better part of the last eight years had been spent trying to put memories of battles and death behind him…and even longer searching for the man who’d killed his mother.

Until now, he’d drifted, working as a cowhand or driving cattle up the trails to Kansas. But his nightmares remained. One consolation at least; they seemed to be fading. Instead of every night, they only happened once every week or so. Maybe one day, they would go away completely.

He gave the lieutenant a quick glance. “I wasn’t planning on comin’ back this way for a while.”

Actually, he wasn’t planning on ever returning to Texas. He’d delivered the money from his last cattle drive to the owner in San Antonio and had slowly been making his way north to his sister’s in the Nation.

From the time he’d been abandoned as a child, he’d been trying to find his mother’s killer, but the man seemed to have disappeared. After Christmas, he’d head on to Colorado. If he didn’t find anything there, he’d start thinking about his future.

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s why I was ordered to accompany you to Camp Wichita. I’m to send word back with the Rangers, if we can find them, then go further north to Camp Supply where I’m to be stationed.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“About a month, sir.”

Paul frowned, liking the situation less and less. The last thing he needed was a greenhorn tagging along with him through some of the worst areas of Comancheria. The rest of the Indian Territory seemed tame compared to the area controlled by the Comanche’s.

Camp Supply, which was in Kiowa territory, wasn’t much better. The last he’d heard, the Kiowa were settling down, at least for the time being. Now that Satanta, one of the sub-chiefs, was back on the reservation, it was anyone’s guess as to how long he’d remain.

The camaraderie between the two tribes was also an obstruction the army had to overcome. Where one was, the other wasn’t far behind. During the past several years, he’d seen bands of Comanche and Kiowa-Apache joining together for hunting and raids.

“I’m not gettin’ rid of you, am I?”

Dean shook his head. “No, sir, you aren’t.”

Paul sighed, knowing this kid wouldn’t find anyone without someone’s help. “You have five minutes. If you aren’t saddled up and ready, I’m leavin’ without you.”

The young man took off toward the stables at a run. In less time than he’d been given, he returned, riding a black gelding.

Paul took another deep breath and stepped into the stirrup, throwing one long leg over the saddle. With one arm draped over the horn, he glanced back at the lieutenant. “I’ll say this one time and one time only. You do as I say, when I say. Got that?”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Of course, sir.”

He bit back a chuckle. “West Point?”

The young man frowned. “Yes, sir. How did you know, sir?”

“Easy on the ‘sirs’. Name’s Paul. And I knew the moment you started talkin’, kid.”

Leading them away from the small fort, his thoughts turned inward. Underneath his jokes and smiles lurked a simmering rage. He’d only been five years old when his life had fallen apart, and the man who’d caused it all—he’d never forget that bastard’s face.

There were only a few good memories from his childhood—his mother’s long, black, silky hair, her wide smile. Her safe hugs. He had no memories of his father, only his mother’s sadness. Even more vivid was the memory of the man who had taken them in, given them shelter. The dark visage of the man who’d beaten his mother to death and left him for dead somewhere on the Kansas prairie.

One day he’d find that man and kill him…but until then, he would keep wandering. Keep searching.

Several miles south of Red River Station, Paul and Dean topped a low hill overlooking the yard of a large, Mexican-style house. The beauty of the house faded into the background when Paul noticed the bodies.

One lay over the porch rail and another face down on the stairs. There were more scattered around the large yard, most with one or two arrows protruding from their backs. As they got closer, he saw more men just inside the corral…two of the four had arrows in them as well.

As they walked their horses into the yard, Paul’s gaze moved along the ground, picking out the shod prints of twelve horses, at least…but no unshod hooves, which the Indians would’ve been riding. Due to the chewed up ground, it was impossible for him to tell exactly how many had plowed through here.

He climbed down and stretched, his muscles tight from the long hours in the saddle. Winding the reins around the top runner of the small fenced-in corral, he glanced over the bodies, worry nagging at him.

He walked over to the nearest body and squatted, resting his weight on the heels of his boots. The man had been young—twenty-something—and was just beginning to fill out in the shoulders. His shirt and pants were torn, as if he’d been dragged.

Paul counted three bullet holes, two in his chest. The third had taken out a chunk of skin from his neck. Leaning forward, he gently closed the dead man’s eyes, sorrow for such needless deaths filling his heart.

“Sir? Can you tell which tribe attacked these people? I’ll need to send a report back to Major Schwan. We also need to check the house and barn for survivors.”

Paul pointed toward the well. “Water the horses and check everyone in the yard and the corral. Make sure they’re all dead. I’ll look inside the buildings.”

He glanced toward the house, a quick frown shadowing his eyes, dreading what he might find inside. The heavy planked front door stood ajar, the interior dark. He held himself still and listened to the complete silence around him.

The only sound he heard came from the chomping of their horses behind him as they snapped at the tufts of brown grass growing from beneath the fence. Even with the shortage of fall rain over the past couple of years, the grass remained tenacious as it forged new roots into the surrounding sandy soil.

“Think Comanches did this?”

Paul ignored the kid’s question and continued to stare at the house, a bad feeling churning in his gut. The bodies had already stiffened, so he knew whoever attacked the Rancho was long gone, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be back. “Sit tight, Potter. I’ll be right back.”

He entered the barn, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. The structure was larger than most he’d seen, other than military stables. He counted twelve stalls on either wall, the stall ropes hanging to the floor.

Two stalls in, he found another body. With the toe of his boot, he flipped him over. The man had been shot in the neck and shoulder. Further in, he found two more bodies and wondered if they were the defenders or the attackers.

His boots clopped against the wood planks, loud in the heavy silence, as he made his way to the closed door at the back of the barn. It wasn’t unusual for Indians to use guns; most of the tribes had them, either by trading or killing for them. However, this attack didn’t feel like Indians to him. He couldn’t put his finger on it yet…but he would.

He pushed the door open, expecting to see the corrals. Instead, he found himself in a smithy. The central fire pit, normally hot enough to melt metal, was cold. He picked up the large tongs and turned them over, their heavy weight unfamiliar in his grip.

From the size and well-kept condition of the structures, the workers hadn’t been gone long, but in this harsh landscape, it wouldn’t take much time for nature to begin reclaiming the land.

He’d been through this area enough to know that no amount of money kept anyone safe out here. From talking to the soldiers at the fort, this part of Texas was under the constant threat of raids by both the Comanche and Kiowa-Apache. The Indians had never bothered him when he’d traveled through, but he still kept a wary gaze, never letting his guard down…and he wasn’t about to start now.

Leaving the barn, he made his way along the sandy path running toward the house. Several times he stopped and examined the bodies as well as the surrounding ground, then walked up to the front porch. He pulled the man down from the railing, laying him on his back, then pulled out the arrow protruding from his right shoulder. The arrow hadn’t killed him, but the knife wound to the heart did. From what he could tell, none of the men died from an arrow wound.

“Dean! Keep an eye open. The men who attacked this ranch weren’t Indians.”

The lieutenant’s dark gaze skimmed over the yard. “White men? You’re sure?”

Paul held out the arrow and tossed it to the ground in front of him. “No Indian would ever use an arrow like that. Looks like a child made it. And none of the arrows were kill shots.”

He turned and pushed the door, which lightly thudded against the small dividing wall separating the expansive living area from the smaller dining room. Inside, the interior was reminiscent of a Mexican hacienda, the openness allowing the chilly fall breeze to flow through the rooms. He glanced at the sheer red curtains fluttering away from the open windows.

Overhead, a long, rough-hewn dark brown beam ran the length of the high ceiling and several smaller beams jutted out like ribs on either side. The room was filled with large, comfortable-looking leather furniture, worn and faded at the outer edges. His eyes were drawn to a massive bookcase spanning the entire wall, the shelves empty.

He frowned. Papers still covered the heavy desk, some strewn across the clay-tiled floor, but the bookshelves were empty. A couple of vases, still filled with bouquets of wilted flowers, rested on the two round tables sitting at each end of the sofa. On one, several gold coins lay scattered across the top. If this had been a robbery, they wouldn’t have left the coins behind…unless they’d only been after the cattle.

He clenched his jaw, his gaze drawn to where the inner corner of the curtain gently waved above a small table. Fear welled up inside of him, his nerves as taut as a bowstring. He stared at a small daguerreotype of a dark-haired girl, her beautiful face shining out from the silver halo.

He breathed a quick prayer for the girl’s safety before moving slowly through the wide doorway of the colorful kitchen, then coughed as the smell of death filled his nostrils. Bright yellow and green Mexican tiles covered the walls, giving the room a cheerful façade…but it was just that. A façade.

Walking toward the open back door, he stopped short when he saw the decomposing body of a plump, gray-haired woman lying face-down on the red tile floor. She’d been shot through the chest; the dark brown blood had spread out in a large pool beneath her.

He closed his eyes, sorrow choking him like a garrote. He forced his heavy feet to walk down the narrow hall to stand in front of a hand-hewn oak door. He hesitated, dread filling his body. He closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around the doorknob. He didn’t want to find the girl’s lifeless body behind the closed door. He’d seen too many dead bodies during the war. Everywhere he went, the specter of death seemed to follow.

Silence hung heavy over the house, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He forced his eyes open and turned the cool metal knob, slowly pushing the door open.

Inside was a massive, shiny brass bed. Glass from the window showered across the floor. Crunching with each step, he walked toward the open window but stopped when he rounded the bed.

On the floor was the body of a well-dressed man. Tall and thin, he, too, lay in a pool of blood. The fury of the attack was evident from the jagged wound almost severing his head.

Paul’s heels clunked loudly in the silence house as he hurried outside. Indians hadn’t caused these deaths, but he was going to find out who had. This wasn’t something he could just walk away from—not until he found the little girl. Stepping into the saddle, he glanced at Dean, already sitting astride his horse.

“Did you find anyone alive?”

Paul shook his head. “Two dead inside. What do you make of this?”

Before Dean could answer, he heard the pounding of hooves and stepped his horse around as a small group of tired-looking riders rode into the yard.

The dust-covered men surrounded them in a loose semi-circle facing them, effectively pinning them in place. The leader, evident from the uniform stripes on his dusty military jacket, touched two outstretched fingers against the bill of his hat in a quick greeting then dropped his hand to rest against his thigh.

“Evenin’ gentlemen. Major Josiah Carpenter.” He nodded with a jerk of his head to his men. “These are my men. Part of a larger group of Texas police chasing after the Comanche. The Quahadis raided several nearby farms. Made off with about twenty horses and five to six hundred cattle.”

“State police?” Paul asked.

“Since Governor Davis took the reins, we’re police, but we prefer to be called Rangers. Came by here to check on everyone here. Guess they didn’t fare so well.”

The major twisted in the saddle and glanced around the yard then faced them again. “Too many dead men here for neither of you to have a scratch. Find ’em like this?”

Paul nodded. “Yes, sir. We’re headin’ to Red River Station then on to Camp Wichita.”

The major backed his horse up and turned toward the dead men, his gaze focused on the ground around them. “Comanches?” He squinted at one of the bodies, moving his horse closer. “Hmm. Somebody tried real hard to make us believe this here was done by Indians.”

“Yes sir, they did. Noticed there weren’t any unshod tracks anywhere around the yard—and the arrows are wrong,” Paul said as he rode up beside him. “Did you know the people living here?”

Carpenter nodded. “Known Jonathan Sanchez for about a year now. Nice enough fellow, but a bit strange. Always wearin’ a suit. His wife is another story. Most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen, but ice runs through her veins. Cold-hearted. Never could see what he saw in her.”

“Did they have a young daughter?”

With his head tipped forward slightly, the brim of his hat keeping most of the sun’s bright glare out of his eyes, he chewed on the end of his unlit cigarette. “Only daughter I ever saw was…” He scrunched his face in thought. “Now what was her name? Anna. Her name was Anna, but she’s in her twenties. Did you find her inside? Right shame. Sweet girl and just as pretty as her mother.”

“No sir. There was an older Mexican woman and from the way he was dressed, I’d say the gentleman in the bedroom was Sanchez.”

Carpenter’s thoughtful gaze swept over the yard. “Think anyone else made it? Sanchez usually kept ten or so hands out with the cattle when he was gatherin’ them up for a fall roundup.”

Paul felt drawn and tired, but knew he couldn’t let the girl fend for herself against someone who could orchestrate something as heinous as this was. For some reason, the little girl’s pretty face on the daguerrotype, her smile filled with the hope and innocence of youth, had touched his heart. He couldn’t help but to offer his assistance. “As I said earlier, we were headin’ north. But we have time enough for a search party, if you’d like the extra help.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “Damn straight we’re helping.” He threw a sideways glance to the major. “Sir.”

“Hell, son,” the major said to Paul. “We need all the help we can get out here.” He motioned with a wide swing of his arm overhead, and, without a word, his men rode through the open corral gait and spread out.

Paul nodded to Dean. “Let’s head to the river and search there.” Riding through the field at an easy gallop, he kept a wary gaze on the skeletal trees running along the horizon. Pulling up the collar of his black overcoat to keep the chilly wind off his neck, he led Dean into the trees, which followed a rough outline of the Rancho’s northern border.

Nothing stood out until he made his way through a particularly thick tangle of bushes growing over the path when he caught sight of something fluttering. Slowing his horse, he leaned sideways and scooped up a torn piece of calico print stuck to the broken limb of a dead bush.

He turned it over a couple of times, his thumb rubbing the soft fabric. It looked like material from a woman’s blouse. Although, the small fragment could’ve been out here for weeks and been from anyone’s shirt. He tucked the scrap into his coat pocket.

A shrill whistle pierced the air, east of where they were, but Paul continued along the narrow trail, Dean following behind him. Tall grasses and weeds had long covered the path, which disappeared when they left the trees.

Running into the wind, the cold burned Paul’s face, and his eyes watered. They rounded a small plateau, lines of tan soil layered between a wide expanse of red dirt above and below. Beside the narrow river were the Rangers. Two of the riders knelt a few feet away, looking at someone lying on the ground.

Dismounting, Paul moved to stand just behind the two kneeling men. Rising, they shook their heads at Major Carpenter and moved away. He glanced at the broken body of the injured man. His eyes opened and stared up at him. He tried to say something and coughed, pink foam on his lips.

He dropped to one knee and leaned closer. The man’s black hair was matted with blood and sand. There was a wicked gash along one cheek, and his limbs were mangled and twisted. “What’s your name, cowboy?”

He coughed up more blood, choked a bit, and then cleared his throat as he met Paul’s gaze. “Robert James. Find her. My fault...the cattle...cough, cough...stampeded.”

“Find who?”

“Anna Sanchez.” He choked. “Paid us…to move cattle…north.” The dying man’s voice faded.

Paul leaned forward. “RJ, whose plans?”

“Her mother’s and Phillips’—didn’t know he was goin’ to take her...” He closed his eyes and he struggled for breath. His eyes popped open and he grabbed Paul’s arm. “On way to ranch to warn her… Cattle spooked.”

He took another shallow breath, his chest shuddering under the strain, then he let out a long sigh. Eyes wide open, his head slowly dipped to the ground.

With a surge of frustration and worry for the missing girl, Paul rose and faced the major. “Who is this man, Phillips?”

“A no-account scoundrel and thief. Like a rattlesnake, he’d rather kill a person than work. Lazy, but ruthless.”

While chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, the major rolled a cigarette. Taking a long draw, he blew out the blue-white smoke from his nostrils. “We’ll go after him together. Had a few run-ins with him. Might be more willing to cooperate if he sees me.” He glanced at two wiry men who looked like they hadn’t eaten in a month. “Smith, Corbin, follow the cattle. We’ll catch up as soon as we find Miss Sanchez.”

The two men raised their arms and momentarily rested their hands against the brims of their hats. Like partners in a dance, they turned their horses in unison and raced across the river.

Dean stepped forward and saluted Carpenter. “Permission to speak, sir.”

The major nodded.

“I have orders to find information about a Ranger outfit sent to find a couple of soldiers due in from Camp Wichita two days ago. Would you, by chance, be those Rangers?”

“No, Lieutenant. Passed a group up near there headin’ north toward Camp Supply late yesterday. Maybe they’re the ones you’re lookin’ for?”

Dean gave a quick nod, his lips pinched together in frustration.

Carpenter took one last drag on his cigarette then crushed it against the seam of his trousers and dropped it to the ground. He loosely held his reins in the palm of one hand. “Let’s go pay a visit to Mr. Wade Phillips, boys.”