A Tale Out of Luck Read online

  “This is government business. You go on and check in with the commander over yonder.”

  “Come on,” Skeeter said, reining his horse around and cutting between Jay Blue and the soldiers. He could see some of that Tomlinson temper swelling up in Jay Blue’s neck, and figured it was best to go talk to the commander as suggested.

  Nearing the post headquarters, Skeeter noticed one of the buffalo soldiers sitting in a chair that had been pulled out into the sunshine just off the edge of the porch. The man wore an immaculate uniform with the stripes of a first sergeant on the sleeves.

  Farther back on the porch, leaning against the wall, sat a brown-skinned man dressed in a mixture of Mexican and Indian garb—moccasins, buckskin leggings, white cotton shirt, embroidered vest, red silk scarf around his neck. A sombrero lay on the porch at his side. His features were leathery and severe, his eyes set on nothing in the sky.

  As the boys walked their mounts up to a hitching rail, the first sergeant casually rose from his chair, giving the tails of his tunic a crisp yank to smooth his uniform. With every movement of his arms, those stripes on his sleeves bulged as if he had bulldogs in there. “Howdy, gents,” he said.

  Skeeter had never heard a voice so deep. He touched his hat brim.

  “First Sergeant,” Jay Blue said. “We need to see Major Quitman.”

  “You sure about that?” The first sergeant smiled, then leaned closer to speak in a lower tone. “He ain’t in the best mood today.”

  “Well, that’ll fit in fine with the way this day has gone so far,” Jay Blue said. “Anyway, you’re the only soul we’ve met on this post who understands hospitality.”

  The first sergeant shrugged. “Fort Jennings ain’t the most popular choice of duty stations in this man’s cavalry. Tends to sour the disposition of soldiers and horses both. The fleas and bedbugs seem happy enough, though.”

  “We’ll take our chances with the major.”

  “Better get down and light a spell, then.” He waited for the boys to dismount before extending a welcoming hand. “I’m First Sergeant July Polk.”

  “Izquierdo Rodriguez.” Skeeter felt as if he were looking straight up at that flagpole in the middle of the parade ground.

  “Jay Blue Tomlinson.” Jay Blue shook the big hand and glanced at the other man sitting on the porch.

  “That’s Gavilan Gutierrez, our post translator. What shall I say is your business here, gents?”

  “We had a horse stolen.”

  “By Indians,” Skeeter added.

  “Maybe,” Jay Blue scolded.

  The first sergeant did not look surprised or even interested. “Wait here.” He went inside.

  Skeeter said, “¿Como esta, señor?” to the translator sitting on the porch, but the man only slid off the porch, donned his sombrero, and disappeared around the corner. Skeeter looked at Jay Blue and shrugged.

  Polk came back out and whistled at the cowboys, motioning them inside with a tilt of his head. Inside, Skeeter found a bald man attacking a piece of paper with a pen. The man looked up from his desk, his glaring black eyes blazing at the cowboys over the lenses of wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, by chance addressing Skeeter first.

  “Izquierdo Rodriguez.”

  “Mr. Rodriguez,” he answered with a nod. “I’m Major Ralph Quitman. And you, sir?”

  “I’m Jay Blue Tomlinson.”

  The major put down his pen and took off his spectacles. “Tomlinson? As in Captain Hank Tomlinson?”

  “That’s my father.”

  He seemed suddenly intrigued. “What brings you here, gentlemen?”

  “Well, sir, last night, a mare disappeared from our ranch. We found some tracks made by an unshod horse. We figured it was probably an Indian. I hear there are some Comanches camped over on Flat Rock Creek.”

  The major’s hardwood and leather office chair squeaked as he leaned back in it. “I know very well where the Comanches are camped, Mr. Tomlinson.” He laced his fingers together and placed them atop his middle-aged paunch.

  “Yes, sir. Of course. Well, we were wondering if you had heard . . . or seen . . . or if you wouldn’t mind going to take a look . . .”

  The major raised his right palm to silence Jay Blue. Slowly, he leaned forward in his squeaky chair. “Now, let me make sure I understand this. Your mare ‘disappeared,’ as you put it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the cowboys said in unison.

  “Would this be your father’s new Thoroughbred mare from Kentucky?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The major stood. “So, your father’s Kentucky Thoroughbred disappears, and Captain Hank Tomlinson, the most famous Indian fighter in Texas, sends his peach-fuzzed son to the U.S. Army for help!”

  “Oh, he didn’t send us,” Skeeter said, honestly trying to clear things up. “We’re lucky he didn’t kill us. You see, sir, Jay Blue was supposed to be on guard—”

  “Skeeter!”

  “First Sergeant Polk!”

  In an instant, Polk had entered the office and snapped to attention. “Sir!”

  “See that these cowboys are escorted off the post.”

  “Yes, sir. And, Major, sir . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “Jubal’s back.”

  “Who?”

  “Jubal Hayes, sir. The mustanger. He’s leading six horses in.”

  10

  GET THESE BOYS out of here,” the major repeated. He grabbed his hat on his way out the door. “And appropriate the funds to buy the remounts.”

  “Yes, sir,” Polk said.

  Jay Blue followed the major out onto the porch. “But, Major, about that mare . . .”

  “Boy!” the commander fumed. “Go home and face your father! First Sergeant!”

  “Coming, sir!” Polk stormed out of the office, stuffing some currency he had gathered up from somewhere into his pocket. “You boys lead your horses and come with me. I’ll detail an escort to see you off the post.”

  “But . . .” Jay Blue began.

  The big first sergeant, who had been so friendly, now cut Jay Blue off short. “You heard the major. You will be escorted off the post.”

  With no choice left to them, the cowboys grabbed their reins and led their mounts across the parade ground, toward the corrals, on the heels of the major and the first sergeant. It was only now that Skeeter looked across the parade ground to see the mustanger Polk had announced. The man was riding toward the Fort Jennings corrals, in the lead of six wild-looking horses. Two strange things immediately struck Skeeter about this man. First of all, the six horses followed him untied. They plodded along behind him as if mesmerized, not a rope nor a halter among any of them. Second, the mustanger wore a scarf across his face, like a bandito,and in fact had every square inch of his flesh covered, from the tips of his gloves and boots to the top of his dusty felt hat.

  “Hey,” Jay Blue said. “You ever seen anything like that?”

  “Nunca,” said Skeeter.

  A soldier at the bronc-busting pen ran to open a separate corral, then backed away to give the mustanger and his followers plenty of room. The strange man led the loose stock into the corral. They followed him in there as if under his spell.

  “Do y’all have to break mustangs to ride at this post?” Jay Blue asked the first sergeant.

  “The colored regiments don’t get the money other regiments get. Mustangs is about all we can afford. We break ’em ourselves.”

  “Who’s the man in the scarf?”

  “Name’s Jubal Hayes. He catches mustangs for a livin’.”

  “Catches ’em? Looks like he just sweet-talks them into following him around like pups.”

  “Why’s he wearing that scarf?” Skeeter asked.

  Polk didn’t answer, but looked over his shoulder at the cowboys and bared his teeth in a deep chuckle that sounded intentionally wicked to Skeeter.

  By now, the masked man had slipped back out of the corral and shut the gate on th
e mustangs. He dismounted, left his horse at the corral, and began walking toward the captain. As they all came closer together, near the bronc-busting pen, Skeeter heard one of the buffalo soldiers, a corporal, speak up.

  “Hey, whitey!”

  At first Skeeter thought the corporal must have been taunting Jay Blue, then he saw that other soldiers were backing away, clearing the ground between the mustanger and the corporal.

  A hawk cried, making Skeeter glance at the sky. There was nothing in that sky but the raptor and one lonely cloud.

  “Are you talkin’ to me?” said the growling voice of the mysterious Jubal Hayes.

  “You’re the whitest son of a bitch here, ain’t you?”

  “First Sergeant,” Major Quitman warned.

  “I’ll break it up, sir.” Polk quickened his pace.

  Jubal drew a blade—a bowie knife that came from a belt scabbard. “Alright, this is how we’ll do it.”

  The smirk on the corporal’s face dropped from view. “I ain’t got no knife.”

  “Then use your sharp tongue.”

  “Fists,” suggested the corporal, a hint of a plea in his voice.

  “Alright.” Jubal threw his knife, sticking it in a corral post between two buffalo soldiers. Sunlight glinted on the blade until that one lonely cloud in the sky floated in front of the sun, casting its shadow on the knot of men at the bronc pen, softening everything with kindly shadows. Major Quitman and First Sergeant Polk were now trotting toward the scene.

  Suddenly, Jubal pulled his scarf down and tossed his battered felt hat aside. Skeeter’s eyes bulged. Jubal Hayes was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of. His facial features were similar in form to those of the buffalo soldiers, but his skin was of a hue so pale that blue blood vessels could be seen running just under the surface of his powdery white flesh. And he wore spectacles like the ones Major Quitman had worn in his office, except that the lenses to Jubal’s glasses were dark as a colored bottle. His hair had the shaggy texture of the great buffalo—like that of the buffalo soldiers around him, except that Jubal’s hair was golden! And, unlike the soldiers, who kept their hair trimmed short, Jubal had let his go do whatever it wanted to do, and it had matted together in places and formed snakelike protuberances, mossy appendages, and comet-tail projections.

  The corporal kept his fists in front of him.

  Now Jubal Hayes pulled his tinted glasses off, dropping them in the dirt, revealing one last unusual feature. The light gray color of his eyes was such that a person could only look through them, instead of into them. And as Jubal Hayes made a glance his way, Skeeter thought he saw the eyes actually turn red for a brief instant.

  “Only thing is,” said Jubal Hayes to his would-be opponent, “you better watch out. It’s catchin’. If I touch you, you’ll end up lookin’ just like me.” He made a rush toward the corporal, who screamed and ran away like a frightened child.

  “Mr. Hayes!” scolded the major, finally arriving, out of breath, at the scene of the confrontation. “First Sergeant, catch that corporal!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Jubal Hayes began laughing, until that one cloud in the sky moved away from the sun, and then he shrank under it like a slug under a handful of salt thrown down by a mean little kid. He ran for his hat and pulled his scarf up. He scrambled for his shaded glasses, blowing the dirt from the lenses before he returned them to his face. But when he turned to collect his knife from the corral post, he found that Jay Blue had already retrieved it and was offering it to him.

  “Here you are, Mr. Hayes.”

  “Give me that!” Jubal Hayes looked so insulted that Skeeter thought he was going to cut Jay Blue’s throat with that shiny blade, but Jay Blue did not appear to be afraid.

  Skeeter stood gawking, fifteen paces away, where he had been compelled to stop. What was Jay Blue doing with that strange man’s knife? The man said it was catching, for heaven’s sake. Why did we even come here? Oh, when is this bastard of a day ever going to end?

  11

  JAY BLUE was studying his own reflection in the lenses of Jubal Hayes’s glasses, noting that bruises covered a good portion of his face. He improved upon his image as much as he could, drawing himself up into a slightly bolder stance. He was hoping the mustanger might be of some assistance to him in recovering his lost mare, since Major Quitman had showed no inclination toward helping. If Jubal could charm the wildest of horses right into a cavalry corral, certainly he could track down a single stall-raised Thoroughbred.

  But before he could broach the subject, the rattle of a wagon attracted his attention. He turned and saw a buckboard coming, five horsemen following at a trot. Instantly, he recognized the Double Horn Ranch crew, led by big Jack Brennan. As the buckboard came closer, Jay Blue saw that the ranch foreman, Eddie Milliken, was driving the vehicle behind two mules. Then he noticed some odd-shaped object in the bed of the wagon, covered by a wagon sheet.

  First Sergeant Polk was dragging the offending corporal back by his collar as the buckboard rattled right up to the acting post commander. Milliken’s shoulders lurched in a silent chuckle when he saw Jay Blue’s face. Jay Blue snarled back.

  “What is this?” the major demanded.

  Jack Brennan ignored the major, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Jay Blue and Skeeter. “What are you two whelps doin’ here?”

  “Jay Blue was supposed to be on guard and Indians stole the captain’s Thoroughbred,” Skeeter claimed.

  Jay Blue heard Jubal Hayes make a horselike grunt that said he knew otherwise.

  “I’ll ask the questions here,” Quitman scolded. “What have you got in the wagon?”

  “Evidence.”

  “Of what?”

  Brennan shrugged. “The government’s failed Indian policy?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Why don’t you take a look and see,” Jack Brennan suggested.

  “First Sergeant!” The major waggled his index finger at the wagon.

  Keeping one big hand clamped tightly on the corporal’s collar, Polk stepped forward and threw the tarp aside. The corpse of a man lay in the bed of the wagon, six arrows protruding from it at odd angles. Jay Blue approached close enough to look over the sideboards. He saw the lifeless face of the man staring heavenward, but only from one eye, as the other was missing. He grimaced at the sight of the bloody skull where the scalp had been torn away.

  “We found him up on Shovel Mountain,” Brennan announced.

  “Who is he?” Jay Blue asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. I saw him once at Flora’s Saloon.”

  “What happened to his eye?” Skeeter asked.

  Brennan pointed at the buzzards circling overhead.

  “These are Comanche markings,” Major Quitman claimed, studying the intricate designs in red paint on the dogwood arrow shafts. “We’ll need to ride over to Flat Rock Creek and question those Comanches about this. First Sergeant, secure one of those arrows to bring with us, and get a section of men mounted.”

  “Section Two, Red Platoon, Company K!” Polk barked.

  The buffalo soldiers made like a covey of quail, the men running to choose and saddle mounts. Polk looked at the corporal he still held in his grasp—the one who had started the trouble with the albino mustanger. “Well, Corporal Cornelius, if you’re so full of fight, you can ride at the head of the column.” He shoved the corporal toward the stables.

  Jay Blue heard a chuckle of satisfaction from Jubal Hayes.

  With one powerful hand, First Sergeant Polk yanked an arrow from the corpse. The sound of the barbs on the war point ripping flesh sent a chill down Jay Blue’s backbone.

  Jack Brennan had gotten down from his horse to address the post commander. “Me and my boys will go with you, Major. I’ve been missing a couple of horses, and I’ll just bet that those red devils have got ’em.”

  “I’ll bet they’ve got our Kentucky mare, too!” Jay Blue sang. “Skeeter and I will ride with you.”


  “No,” the major said. “I will not be responsible for getting Captain Hank Tomlinson’s son killed. You youngsters stay out of this. Go home. Mr. Brennan, your men can ride with me to identify your stock as long as you agree to act only under my orders.”

  Jack Brennan turned to Milliken. “Take the dead man into town. The rest of you men will come with me and the major.” He looked at Skeeter, then Jay Blue. “You two whelps do what the major says and let the men handle this.”

  “But . . .” Jay Blue began.

  “Don’t try to follow us,” the first sergeant added.

  “But they’ve got our mare,” Jay Blue insisted.

  Jubal Hayes slapped Jay Blue on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Them Indians don’t have your daddy’s mare. Do as you’re told and go home. First Sergeant, who’s gonna pay me for those horses I led in?”

  Polk took the money from his pocket, handed it to the mustanger, then turned for the stables. The major was marching back to his headquarters, for his weaponry, Jay Blue assumed. Eddie Milliken was busy cussing at his mules to turn the buckboard around, but took the time to aim one of the cuss words at Jay Blue. Jack Brennan was remounting with a curious grin.

  Jay Blue turned to the mustanger. “What did you mean, Mr. Hayes? If the Indians don’t have our mare, who does?”

  Jubal Hayes finished counting his money and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “I cut her trail this morning. Shod all around, long-legged, running with a herd of mustangs. That stallion got her.”

  “What stallion?”

  “The wildest of the wild. The Mexicans call him El Grullo. White men call him the Steel Dust Gray.”

  Skeeter had walked up within earshot, though he still seemed leery of the albino man. “They say he’s uncatchable.”

  “That’s right,” Jubal agreed.

  “How could a mustang steal our mare right out of her pen?” Jay Blue argued.

  “Was she in heat?” Jubal said through his scarf.

  “Yes, sir,” Skeeter replied.

  “Then that stallion took her,” Jubal insisted. “That mare is gone as a goose in spring, boys. You wouldn’t even know where to look to find her.”