Apache Fire. Elizabeth LaneЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Five

       The Indian Ring?

      Rose stared at the man in the shadows. She had never heard of the Indian Ring, but something about the name, or perhaps the way Latigo had said it, sounded so sinister that it triggered cold prickles along the flesh of her forearms.

      “Your husband never mentioned the Ring to you?” he pressed her. “You never overheard him talking about it with his friends?”

      “My husband believed women should keep still and tend to their knitting. His friends did come to the ranch sometimes, but I was never invited to join them.” Rose twisted the hem of her apron, her eyes on her son lying contentedly in the cradle of Latigo’s bare brown arms. In the dancing lamplight, Latigo’s lean Apache face had softened to tenderness, which tore at her defenses. She forced herself to meet his calm gaze. “If you want to talk about the Indian Ring, you’ll have to start by explaining what it is,” she said.

      Latigo’s eyes narrowed. Cool evening air drifted in through the barred window, smelling of dust and rain. Thunder rumbled faintly from beyond the horizon.

      “Most people would say the Ring never existed,” he said. “But I know better.”

      “Maybe so, but I’m not following you!” Rose broke in impatiently. “Are you implying the Indian Ring had something to do with John?”

      “I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.”

      “You’re speaking in riddles.”

      “I know.” Pain rippled across Latigo’s face as he shifted his weight against the pillow. Seeing his discomfort, Rose leaned forward and lifted Mason out of his arms. His eyes watched her guardedly, their black depths whispering unspoken secrets, and suddenly she was afraid.

      “Can I get you something?” she asked, taking an emotional step backward.

      He shook his head.

      “This is taxing your strength,” she persisted.

      “I’m all right.”

      Rose held her son close, seeking comfort in his small, warm nearness. “Tell me about the Indian Ring,” she said softly.

      “The Ring is secret, and powerful.” Latigo bit back pain as he spoke. “It’s made up of white men who’ve profited from the Apache wars, legally by selling beef and supplies to the army, illegally by smuggling guns and whiskey to the Apaches.”

      “And you think John was involved?”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “But it’s certainly no secret that this ranch has furnished beef to the army for years.”

      “Let me finish.” His eyes warned her to listen. “The men in the Ring got rich off the Apache wars during the sixties. It suits them to keep things stirred up, especially with all the talk of the railroad coming in. That’s the last thing the Ring wants to see because most of them would be ruined. They’re banking on the hope that nobody will want to lay track through hostile Indian territory.”

      Rose stared at him in disbelief. “You’re saying that the Ring deliberately causes trouble with the Apaches? That sounds awfully farfetched to me.”

      “Not as farfetched as you might think. You remember the Camp Grant massacre in ‘71?”

      “Yes, of course I do.” Rose’s flesh went cold as she spoke. No one in the territory could have missed hearing about the slaughter of 125 peaceful Arivaipa Apaches by an armed mob of Tucson citizens.

      “But John wasn’t there!” she protested, springing once more to her husband’s defense. “He was out on the range with the herd! And you know as well as I do there were only five white men involved in the massacre—the rest were Mexicans and Papago Indians.”

      “All true.” Latigo’s eyes glittered like sharp black flints. “But I worked as translator for the army commission that investigated the massacre. The five whites all had connections to the Ring—as hirelings, most likely. The Ring’s leaders are prominent men. They call the shots and pay the money, but they don’t get their hands dirty.”

      Thunder rolled dimly, echoing along the fringe of Rose’s awareness as she stared at him, horrified. “You’re saying John could have been involved in the Ring and in the massacre?”

      “Rose, there’s no proof either way.”

      “And Bayard?”

      “Again, there’s no proof. When you get right down to it, there’s no proof the Ring even exists. Any such proof could be a very dangerous thing to possess.”

      Rose sank back into the chair, feeling strangely light, as if the marrow had been drained from her bones. “Your wound,” she said, forcing the words out of her right throat. “The murder of the two government agents—you’re saying that was the work of the Ring, too?”

      “Again, there’s no proof. But I know what I saw. And I know that the two federal men were looking into smuggling activities on the San Carlos, which could also have been the work of the Ring. If I hadn’t escaped the ambush, it would have been natural for the authorities to blame the murders on the Apaches and call in more troops. As it was—”

      “They had to blame you.” Rose closed her eyes for a moment as she struggled to make sense of the things she had just heard. She had asked Latigo for the truth and resolved to accept it, but he had shown her a glimpse of something so large and dark that it defied belief.