Chapter 4

Both men stood up, cautious of making noise, and remained very still for several long seconds. Malik slowly swiveled his head from one side to the other. Cowboy, with his eyes closed, said, quietly, “Three horses, maybe four, walking. Let me hold your scatter gun.”

Malik moved to the tree where he’d propped his long guns and took up both. He walked back to Cowboy and handed him the shotgun, saying, “Maybe go stand down near the horses. I’ll stay up here, see what they want. Keep an eye out on your right. I think somebody’s coming in, quiet.”

Malik stood near the smoldering campfire embers. Cowboy walked downslope about fifty feet and turned to face the trail, just uphill from where they’d tethered the horses. Both men held the long-barreled weapons on the diagonal in front of them. In the army they would have called it port arms.

Through the trees, they could now see several men on horses, theading south on the game trail on which Malik and Cowboy had come north. As the riders cleared the trees, Malik saw three men, all wearing lawman stars.

The horses paused about fifty yards off. “Hello, the camp,” the big man on the lead horse called. “We’re a search party looking for a missing girl,” he said, loud enough to carry. “I’m Deputy US Marshal Connor Lonegan.”

Malik allowed the rifle barrel to angle toward the ground, holding it now only in his left hand. “Come on in and ‘light for a spell,” he called back.

The three men walked the horses along the trail until they drew abreast of the camp. Malik said, “Deputy, your man coming in near our horses is liable to spook them or get shot by my friend.”

Lonegan paused in his dismounting and called over his shoulder, “Mister Edwards, go on back and get your horses.”

“I hear you, Marshal,” came a return call from among the trees.

All three men dismounted. The big man walked slowly up to Malik and offered his hand. “Connor Lonegan, out of Fort Birney. I work under Judge Westcott, the federal district judge there.” The two men briefly shook hands. Lonegan was broad-chested and clean shaven with wide shoulders and was several inches taller than Malik’s lean five-foot-eleven.

“Pleased to meet you, Deputy. I’m Emil Malik, from Waypoint.”

Lonegan indicated the two men with him. “Mister William Goodson and Mister Leo Trombley are temporary deputy marshals, as is Mister Sean Edwards, who’s fetching his horses.” Malik nodded at the men, both of whom were in their middle thirties and of medium build. Goodson had full facial hair, Trombley just a mustache. Both appeared competent and alert without looking cruel or arrogant.

Malik said to them, “My friend is Akalii Tsosie. He goes by ‘Cowboy,’ which is what the Navajo word means. The Tsosie family has a ranch over in the Flat Grass Valley.”

Cowboy came up and shook the Deputy Marshal’s hand, with a “Ya’at’eeh, Marshal.” He greeted the other two men the same way.

“We were just about to pack up camp, but I could make some coffee, if you’d like.” Malik gestured toward the empty coffee pot.

“Malik? Malik? Isn’t there an arrest warrant for you out of Jackson County? Some manner of evasion charge?”

Malik chuckled. “That’s what I hear. I’m on my way to the state circuit court office in Shepherds Crossing to straighten things out.”

“Well, I might as well mention that there’s a Jackson County deputy waitin’ down at the state clerk’s office. The Franklin County sheriff won’t help with the arrest, but he won’t interfere, either. Me, I’m limited to enforcin’ federal interests in Arenoso, for the court’s eastern district, so I’m not after you.”

“No, I didn’t think so. That warrant would be laughed out of any federal court.”

“But I might have some bad news,” Lonegan said. “Sheriff Hanson, down there in Shepherds Crossin’, said the Jackson deputy told him they’d arrested Anders Malik for obstruction of justice and he got hurt resistin’ arrest. You know who that is?”

“Andy’s my younger brother. He has no legal standing in this. How bad hurt?”

“Not sure. They’ve got him in the Jackson County jail, said he’s had some doctorin’, though. I gathered Sheriff Hanson doesn’t think much of Sheriff Banks and his way of doin’ things.”

Malik, a worried look on his face, said, distractedly, “Likely not,” then paused, letting his gaze drop down toward the smoking embers.

After a moment of Malik’s silence, Lonegan approached Cowboy. “Mister, uh, Tsosie? That right? That looks like a wound on your head. What happened?”

Cowboy shrugged and started to shake his head, but grimaced and quickly stopped the motion. He said, “I don’t really know. Last thing I remember was riding out of the ranch a few days ago, headed to a cattle auction at Shepherds Crossin’. After that, I was wakin’ up with a banged-up head here on the ridge and Shadow was leanin’ over me.”

“Shadow? Your horse?”

“No, my horse is Níyol, ‘the Wind.’ My family calls Emil, ‘Shichaha’oh,’ which means ‘Shadow.’”

Lonegan turned slightly and looked toward Malik, who was still standing silently, staring at the fire ring. He turned back to Cowboy. “So you don’t know what happened?”

“No. I don’t even remember the ride up here.”

“And you don’t know how you got that gash on your head?”

“Shadow says it’s a bullet wound. I had a fever for a couple ‘a days and he saw to me, right here where we’re camped. I don’t recollect bein’ shot.”

“So you didn’t see anyone else?”

“I couldn’t say. I can’t remember. You might ask Shadow, though. He thinks he might know what happened.”

“Do you think maybe he shot you?”

“Shadow?” Cowboy chuckled. “Not likely,” he said, still grinning. “He’s my closest friend since we were kids. ‘Sides, he’s a better shot. I’d not be talkin’ to you if he shot at me. No reason for him to take care a’ me, either. You’re shoutin’ down a dry well, Deputy.”

Sean Edwards, a whipcord thin, mid-height, clean-shaven man, rode up leading a pack horse. He dismounted, tied both horses to stout branches, and went to stand with Goodson and Trombley by their horses. “Is there coffee?” he asked.

“Naw, they’re packin’ up,” Goodson told him. “This is the guy the Jackson County deputy is after. And the Injun over there has a bullet wound on his head.”

Edwards said, “Hey, I know that Injun. He’s from a Navajo ranch down in the next valley, raises horses.”

“The other guy said his name is Cowboy.”

Speaking in a hush, Edwards said, “Hell, yeah. I know that feller, too. He’s a lawyer from Waypoint. Family has a big ranch east ‘a town. Yeah, Malik.” A surprised look shown on Edwards’s face. “That was the name on that Jackson warrant?” Edwards, shaking his head, blew out between his lips. “Then those people over there are crazy. Malik is like his father, not to be messed with.”

“What, a lawyer?” Trombley scoffed.

“More’n that,” Edwards said, quietly. “I’ve heard stories ‘bout him and his pa dealing with rustlers and, even worse, the bunch that killed his ma. There was no courts, or sheriffs or lawyerin’ back then. All those men just disappeared.” He looked over toward Malik, then back at the other two deputies, who were waiting for him to continue. He did, in a near whisper. “Maybe twelve, fifteen men, all told, and all anybody knows for sure is that Malik and his pa took out after ‘em. There’s never been hide nor hair of ‘em since.” He motioned his head toward Malik. “The Injuns call him ‘Shadow,’ ‘cause a’ the way he can sneak up on animals when he’s huntin’. It’s said he’s crept up on antelope and taken them with just a knife. There’s even a story he took a mountain cat that way. I know he don’t look like much, but I would not want that man on my trail.”

Lonegan walked back over to his deputies. “These two seem to fit the bill, but it just doesn’t feel right to me. ‘Specially them hangin’ around for three or four days. Doesn’t make sense.”

Edwards said, “Marshal, I know both these men. Well, I more know of ‘em rather than know ‘em, friendly-like. But it would surprise the hell out a’ me if they were involved in somethin’ like this.”

Lonegan turned back toward the camp. “Mister Malik, would you come over here and talk with us?”

Malik lifted his head and looked at Lonegan for several seconds before he walked over to them. “What can I help you with?”

“We’re looking for a girl, a sixteen year old. Her uncle says they were attacked by Indians.”

Malik gave another thoughtful look at the Deputy Marshal. “She’s dead,” he said quietly. “I found her body.” He looked toward the smoldering embers of the cook fire. “Let’s sit.” Then he called, “Cowboy, could you kick those embers together? I’ll make some coffee.” He looked at Lonegan again. “I’ll tell you what I know and what I can guess.” Then, to the other deputies, “Bring your cups, fellas. Ease your horses. There’s water not far.”

Lonegan and his deputies tended their horses—tying reins to various tree trunks and branches, loosening cinches—while Malik poured grounds into the pot and filled it with water from his canteen.

He settled the pot on some glowing coals and sat back against his saddle. Cowboy did the same, across the fire.

The deputies came down to the fire and each sat, crouched, or knelt in his own comfortable posture. Cowboy poked at the embers with a stick. The others looked at Malik expectantly.

“Five nights ago, I made a cold camp on the west side of Shepherds Ridge, a little north of due east from the head end of Isabella Canyon. That’s about thirty miles in that direction, if you’re a crow.” He pointed southeast, so the Fort Birney men would have some idea. “I was watching for the sheriff’s posse coming to arrest me and, after it got dark, I looked around for any campfires. The only one I spotted was due west, near the top of Green Ridge, this same ridge we’re on, maybe twenty-five miles south a’ here.

“I was taking it slow the next day, since I’d run my horse pretty hard the day before, and didn’t find that camp until about noon.” Malik went on to describe the camp, the boot prints and hoof prints, and what he’d concluded.

“What seemed odd to me was that I couldn’t imagine a likely reason for those folks to be passing that way. Local folks know easier trails, but even locals would have little reason to travel in the trail those two were following. I wondered if they were strangers who might be lost.”

He told of intersecting the trail later that day and noticing a different pattern to the hoof prints and of the red smudge on the rock. Finally, he spoke of seeing the coyote and finding the girl’s remains hidden in the wash. He detailed the condition of her body and how he’d buried it. He also described the same large boot prints in the arroyo near where she’d been concealed.