Scalp Mountain

By Julia Robb

It’s 1876 at Scalp Mountain, and Colum McNeal is fleeing gunmen sent by his Irish-immigrant father. Colum pioneers a Texas ranch, a home which means everything to him, but struggles to stay there: José Ortero, a Jacarilla Apache, seeks revenge for the son Colum unwittingly killed. At the same time, an old acquaintance, Mason Lohman, obsessively stalks Colum through the border country, planning to take his life. Colum has inspired the unthinkable in Lohman. In a time and place where a man’s sexuality must stand unchallenged, Colum has ignited Lohman’s desire. Other characters include Texas Ranger William Henry, who takes Colum’s part against his father while wrestling with his own demons. Henry’s family was murdered by Comanches and he regrets the revenge he took; and Clementine Weaver, who defies frontier prejudice by adopting an Indian baby, must choose between Colum and her husband. Scalp Mountain is based on the Southern Plains’ Indian Wars. Those wars were morally complex, and the novel attempts to reflect those profound, tragic and murderous complications. Everyone was right, everyone was wrong, everyone got hurt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julia Robb
• Release date: Jan 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781515359166

Book preview

Chapter One

Colum was sitting on a rock, shoving beans and tortillas into his mouth, when the vaquero told him strangers were in Janos, the nearest village, stalking house to house, searching for a redheaded American.

Men on horseback chased cattle across a plain, calves bawled, and wood smoke curled up from branding fires, sweeping north on the wind.

The vaquero stared at spring grass pushing up through rocky ground.

What do these men look like?

Jefe, boss, they are Tejano, like you.

Snatching his hat from his sweaty forehead, Colum wiped his skin with his grimy cotton shirt sleeve. His red hair slid past his ears and clung to his neck. He used one freckled hand to scrap dirt off the other.

I could kill them before they know they’re dead, he thought, shoot them from behind the same way they plan to drill me. Or I could hire a vaquero to side me, face them from the front and avoid the rurales coming for me, after.

Or I could run again.

With that thought, hollowness like a sun-stretched desert filled him, an unwillingness to take one more step, ride one more mile with the banshees howling behind. There’s no end to it, on the jump, my bones crumbling from the long trail, sleeping with one eye open, living on beans until I gag at the scent of them.

My life is no use to me.

I thank you for telling me, Colum said. He fished two pesos from his pocket, holding them out for the other man.

No, Jefe, I don’t want nuthing, the vaquero said, not moving. He had holes in his boots, where leather would have protected his toes.

Colum waited.

Señor, I have heard of a place.

Yes?

This place is in Tejas, Texas, a valley, a..un paraíso.

A paradise?

Yes. Mens don’t go to this place. You mares would get fat, like me, the vaquero said. He patted his stomach and tried to grin. Water runs from mountains. Puro.

You’ve seen it, have you?

My compadre told me. He was there.

Gray hair fell over the vaquero’s bloodshot eyes. Tiny blue moles dotted his face.

Where is this paradise?

Near El Paso Del Norte, two days.

What’s your name?

Panfilo.

Panfilo, leaving here, it’s four days to the Rio Grande.

Pues, well, this is a good horse and you got three mares.

I have good stock. Colum’s Appaloosa stallion, white with dark gray, spotted hindquarters and dark mane, stood a few feet away, tearing grass from the ground and gulping it down, his head swinging from side to side, greedy for the best parts.

It’s a hide out? Not that I need one, mind you.

This country is sierra, nobody go there.

Why are you telling me about this place, I took your starving mother some groceries? You wouldn’t be making some extra pesos by luring me away from this rancho, by any chance?

I want to go with you.

Oh. Let’s see, this man has been with me four weeks. He came in late, after dark, hat in hand, begging for a job. Aye, he has the running look, he needs a way to cross the river, and thinks he can trick me into riding north with him, watching his back. He has spun this place from fairy dust.

Still, Colum could see the valley in his mind, and he had never wanted anything more in his life; pastures filled with springing Appaloosa foals, waking in the morning knowing he was home, in a house he built with his own hands, believing the coming day would be like any other, like yesterday, like next week. He could feel desire on his tongue and it tasted like cabrito, goat meat, cooked over mesquite, melting in his mouth, resinous with smoke and fat.

If the manny here is lying, perhaps I can find another place for myself, he thought, imagining Texas with a rapture he usually reserved for horses and women.

Tell the peons to load a burro for us, and I will pay the haciendado for the goods. We need corn for the stock, spare horseshoes and nails, a hammer, tortillas, side meat, canned stuff, rope, cartridges for my Winchester and for that Spencer you’re carrying, and anything else you can pack.

Yes, jefe.

I’m guessing you can shoot, but can you cook? he asked the squat vaquero, throwing himself on the stallion

Yes, jefe.

Riding north, they crossed the Sierra Madre, clinging to skinny trails snaking down mountainsides, leading the mares on long ropes and skidding on melted snow until they found firm ground on the plains; short, clean scrub, with two shadows moving steadily behind them.

Antelope or wild horses maybe, he thought, squinting, but the shadows did not stop to graze; they stayed on his trail like coon hounds, as if they could smell him.

Is it Panfilo, or is it me they’re after? When he was sure hunters followed, he spotted another moving smudge, a third rider hanging further back.

Ash-colored sky replaced sunlight and Colum hid Panfilo, the horses and the burro in an arroyo, then swept their tracks with a creosote bush.

Silence hummed, air cooled. A yellow moon rose, perfectly round, its color deep as a gourd, shiny against the darkening blue sky, and the riders did not appear.

Gray replaced darkness, and the world appeared around them, but they saw no movement. Panfilo held the muzzled horses, and the burro burdened with goods. Colum clung to the top of a juniper tree, his nose clogged with the smell of its sharp needles, his hands sticky with resin, his eyes sweeping back and forth like unsettled green water.

Two men passed. It took them all morning, from the first moment Colum saw them, until they disappeared over the horizon. He couldn’t see them clearly because they rode in wide circles, their heads down, searching for tracks.

Hell gate goblins, thinking we’re green and can catch us easy.

He never saw the third rider. Perhaps I dreamed it.

Colum looked back at Panfilo, at the vaquero’s chocolate skin gleaming in the light, and the Mexican raised his stumpy right hand, throwing it palm up, toward the sky. What do you want to do?

Wait, he mouthed.

The hunters returned, trotting in a widening gyre, then headed east.

Somebody knows ground, Colum thought, like vultures gliding over a corpse.

Darkness brought cold but no fire. The men huddled in their jackets, nibbling on crumbling cornmeal tamales.

You have woman troubles? Panfilo asked.

No, I’m looking for a good wife, do you know a lady would do me the favor?

All womens are putas, whores. None of them is good.

Are you bitter, then?

What’s bitter?

Have you had bad experiences?

I don’t have none of those.

The searching men, is it you they’re looking for?

Nobody wants me.

Silence gathered and Colum was relieved he could not see the other man’s face; if Panfilo was a liar, this was not a good time to find out.

Dawn, and they could see El Paso del Norte and the Rio Grande winding past the town. They rode in with rifles slung across their saddles, scanning rooftops, peering around corners.

Colum’s boots rubbed against swollen feet, his buttocks and thighs ached from days in the saddle, a warm breeze played with his black slouched hat–worn since the South threw up its arms in battered surrender.

Panfilo clapped his hand on his cheap straw sombrero.

Nothing stirred on the dirt street but the clop of hooves and a rooster’s crow.

Adobe houses crowded narrow streets shaded by cottonwood trees, leafed out with the palest of green. A squat bell tower announced the day’s first Mass while a woman with braids falling to her waist sat on her heels by a fire, patting tortilla dough in her hand, ready for customers.

Dragging her grill toward the fire, the metal clanged against the woman’s bowl and Colum’s hands twitched on his reins, spooking the stallion into a fruit cart, which still dozed under canvas.

The mares then whirled and slammed the cart again, hindquarters and legs rising and falling against the hapless wood.

Trembling like a wounded animal, the cart crumpled in a pile of kindling, the fruit rolling over the street; yellow bananas, orange mangos, green limes.

As the stallion scrambled around the cart, kicking and bucking, a bullet sped past Colum’s hat. Only then did he see the man sitting up in his saddle, on the corner, in full sight, aiming at him again. Before he could control the stallion and defend himself, Panfilo shot the ambusher high in the sternum, blasting the man backward and to the ground.

A second shooter appeared at the other corner, to Colum’s right, but Colum did not see him until it was too late. The long black barrel pointed at him, shining in the sun.

I’m dead. He waited, only to see the shooter’s head erupt in a tower of blood, as if an interior volcano lifted the man’s skull and swept him to the dirt street.

Standing by the gunman he killed, Panfilo’s eyes widened with shock.

Colum and Panfilo looked up and down the empty street. Who killed the second gunman?

The man Panfilo killed had red and white paint dotting his face and his three braids lay like black corncobs tossed on the dirt. He wore a Union-blue cavalry shirt. His eyes glared at the sky, a green fly buzzed around his face, then lit and crawled inside his open mouth.

Of course they found us, this man’s a Tonkawa. The entire tribe scouts for the U.S. Army.

The second dead man was sunburned above his beard and he smelled like unwashed long johns and leaking chamber pots. This man camped in saloons, Colum thought, helping himself to the free hard-boiled eggs and pickles, puking under the tables and throwing his money away at the faro game.

Faces peered from cracked doors, from windows. A few men slid outdoors, gathering around the bodies like vultures around a dead dog, hushed, their eyes down.

Spurring their horses, Colum and Panfilo galloped northeast, to the edge of the city–parallel to rock-covered mountains spreading morning shadows on the plain beneath–past tamarisk trees leaning over thatched huts built with wood poles, and goats penned with pricklypear cactus.

Hoof beats sounded behind them and Colum jerked his horse around, cradling his rifle stock against his cheek, only to see a familiar face. The big man did not hold a weapon and proved it by dropping his reins and throwing up his hands.

Manny, what are you doing here? Colum asked. He was so surprised at Lohman’s appearance he couldn’t think.

Why, seeing yourself again, laddie boy, Lohman said, imitating Colum’s lilt.

Lohman’s dark brows arched up in good-humored mockery, one curve of well-barbered hair falling on his forehead below his hat. But, he watched the world with the same kind of eyes Colum had once seen on a bobcat struggling against a rope.

Was it you killed the bushwhacker for me? Colum asked.

Poor boy, running for your life.

Are you tracking me?

It wasn’t difficult. I followed the posse.

I’m not wanted.

You have a price on your head. You know that, don’t you, hummm?

Have you been to Ballymena? Did my father send you?

I want your scalp, not the money.

Radiant morning wind rushed past their faces. Lohman’s horse skittered backward and Colum raised his voice, to be heard.

Was it yourself last year, in Arizona? Did you shoot me?

Had I shot you, you would be dead. Lohman cocked his head. Where were you shot? Not in the head, presumably.

In my legs, under my collar bone. I couldn’t walk for three months.

Tsk, tsk, what bad boys, attacking a Confederate hero.

I cannot recall harming yourself, but you would fight me. Why? When I came home from the fighting, it was more you wanted.

You’re easy when you’re drunk.

The stallion stamped his hind leg and Colum could feel the thud travel up his butt to his aching back.

The whiskey, that’s over with.

Good. The war was hard on all of us.

Is that it then, the war?

It’s the accent. It drives me mad.

Funny. Colum laughed and the laugh took him until it was hard to stop. He gulped. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threat; for I am armed so strong in honesty that they pass by me as the idle wind, he finally said, quoting Julius Caesar.

Lohman clapped. One may smile, and smile, and be a villain, he said, quoting Hamlet.

Let’s have an end. I will give you the advantage, if you give your word to shoot at me and not my horse.

I think not.

Does father want a viewing before he pays you?

I told you. This is personal.

I’m tired, Colum thought.

A dove whistled up from brush, its wings beating against the moving air. He used the side of his hand to rub the hump on the top of his nose, where Lohman once broke it, and the freckles running across the top of his cheekbones, his long chapped lips.

Tell me, did you plan to murder your brother John, or did you lose your head again? Lohman asked.

Colum squeezed his eyes shut. Johnny lay on the straw in the barn, his father threw himself on the body, kissing Johnny’s face, wailing, you have killed me darling, me best son, glaring up at Colum with wild eyes, his mouth smeared with blood like bear feasting on fresh-killed lamb.

What happens between me and mine is none of your affair.

You and yours? I wasn’t aware anyone claimed you.

The day and all the days before tangled in Colum’s mind; the wild ride away from his father’s ranch, the long trail, men spurting blood on the streets.

Another gust of wind tugged on his hat and pushed the tops of the tamarisk trees, lifted the singing sparrows, swept past the bleating goats.

Rising in his stirrups, Colum stretched out his arm, shaking, and pointed to the other man. We’re crossing the river. If you follow, I will shoot your heart out and I will not be careful how it’s done.

Trotting into the Rio Grande–narrow as a Mexican street–water splashed his sun-stung face.

On the Texas side, he and Panfilo halted on the sandy bank where the sky opened, painting them in its vast brightness.

From here, we cross desert, Colum said. It’s four days ride, to the Luz Mountains, if that’s where you’re meaning.

Colum glanced back but no one followed. Did I dream it?

Did you understand what the man said to me there, beyond? Colum asked Panfilo.

Yes, he don’t like you. Panfilo looked over his shoulder, shrugged. How we get to the sierra? We don’t got no water.

Did he shoot that bushwhacker?

He don’t want nobody else killing you. Where we going to get water?

You didn’t understand we need to cross this desert?

I never leave Chihuahua.

No matter, the rains came early.

Fuzzy yellow mesquite blooms waved as far as Colum could see, fragrant with the smell of honey; creamy yucca flowers topped green spikes; budding cactus sprouted pink and purple, and weed-like plants pretended, just for a season, they were flowers.

Near sunset, they found stone formations rising two hundred feet above the desert floor, pitted on top with hollows brimming with the season’s rainfall. On the bottom, rock jutted above the desert floor, a sheltered place to throw their blankets.

The moon was bright and pictographs loomed above them on the stone walls; painted faces with turquoise stars for eyes, ruddy masks, roadrunners in stiff-legged motion.

A hard-beaten Indian trail led southwest, with two freshly cut mesquite branches leaving a message; we’ve gone this way. The trail throbbed with unseen presence.

Water was scarce. He watched his back trail, but no one followed. Then, between one arroyo and the next the desert disappeared, replaced with long plains of grass and mountains. At first, the mountains were blue, a shade darker than the endless sky; closer, they were green mounds, hills rather than sierra.

Turning south into a gap, Colum found himself in the valley of his dreams, surrounded by the scent of juniper and piñyon pine, and grass jumping as tall as bushes.

A creek lined with cottonwoods ran so clean he could see, even at gloaming, tree limbs reflected in the water.

An abandoned one-room adobe leaned against a hill. We’ll be smoked like bacon if I don’t repair the chimney, but having a house will save a month of work. A good place, as good as I was told. He pulled a grass stem and sucked, savoring the sweetness, dreaming about his famous herd.

Newspaper advertisements would trumpet Genuine Arapaho Appaloosa for sale, straight from our brave northwestern states, by way of Luz Ranch, Texas. He imagined pulling letters from his post office box; Dear Sir: Do you have any of those fine foals left?

Checking his mares, he blew his breath in their nostrils, rubbed their sides, felt his gaunt ribs press against their sleek flesh. My darlings.

Nuzzling the stallion’s neck, he pulled the smell of rank horse hide into his nose, ran his thin hand, his long fingers, down the stallion’s shoulder, slid across the pasture with the touchy horse, moving with him step by step, the most graceful dancer at the dance.

A nice girl might have me, we could be married and love each other in the night, he thought, so filled with hot longing it made him dizzy.

I’m not an ugly man, no one has ever said so, he thought, remembering a woman’s blush when he smiled at her. I need a bit of cleaning up, he thought, rubbing his bristled face, squirming in his grimy clothes.

They threw their blankets on the high ground above the creek as a baby star blinked on, nighthawks swooped with a guttural cry and a pack of coyotes yipped in the hills.

Light and an aching bladder woke him. Gold began rolling across the valley while shadows clung to the western slope. A single file of turkeys minced across the clearing, then, when he moved, squawked and dived into the grass. A jackrabbit leaped across the campsite in three bounds, its ears pinned to the back of its head.

Not bothering to pull his boots on, Colum tiptoed across the clearing and created a puddle in the dirt. Then he paused, so shocked his limbs would not obey his brain.

A woman’s scalp hung from a tree trunk, fixed to the bark with an arrow; a mass of chestnut-brown, curling, silky hair. Daylight bounced off the scalp’s gold highlights, as if it adorned a woman strolling down the street.

Bile filled his throat. The scalp could have been his mother’s. Who has my mother’s scalp, what Comanche lodge does it decorate, he wondered.

Peace wasn’t coming. He ran his fingers up and down the shaft. He knew who made the Mescalero Apache arrow, glued the brown turkey feathers down the wood, who carved the rune-like marking on the side.

José Ortero made this arrow.

Maybe I go back, Panfilo said, staring at the scalp.

Go back. If the Apaches catch you, they’ll tie you to a rock and cook you before nightfall.

Perhaps they would and maybe they wouldn’t. Ortero would certainly shoot Panfilo. But me, if he catches me, he will roast me for sure, Colum thought, with a shudder.

Otero crept in while I slept, why did he leave me alive, to live in fear before giving me to the fire?

Ortero’s face swam in his mind, the probing black eyes, the bunched muscles, the face turned toward him like a blank wall, coarse hair whipping his face.

Father has cursed me with these hell-hounds. The Army hauled the Mescaleros north to Fort Stanton at least three years ago, 1873, and now they’re off the reserve again, crossing this land they claim; the Sierra de la Luz Santa de Dios, The Mountains of God’s Holy Light.

I never thought to face Ortero again, why can’t he just leave things alone between us, huddle in his wickiup and gorge himself with government beef? I hold no grudge against the man. But he won’t and I can’t run again, it will kill me, scared of the bogeyman, expecting my death on the instant, not asking for anything, not having anything.

Let him come. I’ll give him a welcome, and this time, he’ll not be walking away.

Grabbing the shovel, Colum dug a grave for the scalp, then squatted on his haunches, fingering the springy hair. She’s hasn’t been dead long, look at the shine on it. Poor woman. I hope they killed her quick.

I could go home. Begging for forgiveness might work, he thought, shoveling dirt on the scalp. I could tell Father I didn’t mean to harm Johnny, it was an accident, my temper got the best of me; but when picturing the moment, humble face, hat in hand, bent neck, his hands curled into fists.

Then, maybe a stranger is paying for my head, and not father. Who have I hurt? Not so many.

I like this place. He imagined the valley as he saw it the previous evening, in the softness following sunset, and felt a tug at his heart, as if a mysterious presence embraced him with each riff of wind through the cottonwood leaves; more than silence, a hush, a calling, more than the doves’ soft hoots, more than rose light lingering on the hilltops.

No, I’ll write Captain Henry and ask him to come, the captain will know what to do about the spooks who follow, ever follow, and about Ortero, who demands a sacrifice.

Tomorrow, he would leave Panfilo with the mares and ride to Fort Grierson. If he could get the letter on a stage, the captain would get it next week.

Chapter Two

Kasem’s Dry Goods and Mercantile was dark inside, compared with the brilliance outside; a single window arched beside the front door, providing the only light.

Four men sat in dimness, drinking from tin cups, sprawling on rickety wood chairs surrounding a covered barrel, the top of which was covered with brown bottles.

They were a walking arsenal; forty-five caliber six-shooters dangled from their hips, Peacekeeper revolvers with eight-inch barrels were jammed into their holsters, Winchester .44-.40 rifles, which