Kitt Peak Read Free Page A

turned maddening, and Thomas was thankful for the thin stack of unread Strand magazines he had brought in his bag. He had particularly enjoyed Conan Doyle's most recent adventure, published in the December 1902 edition, recounting the "Adventure of the Speckled Band." Conan Doyle was back at his best, after a disastrous interlude where he had tried to kill Sherlock Holmes off, then, after an outcry which Thomas had only been too willing to add to, posting three letters in as many days to the Strand after they had dared to offer to the reading public the outrage titled "An Affair at Reichenbach Falls."
    But the present adventure was more up to snuff, with Holmes employing all of his deductive powers to great end, and Thomas knew this Holmes story was a fine one because he had been unable to guess its ending. That had only happened once in the last year, a sure sign that Conan Doyle had been losing his powers.
    Perhaps we're both coming back, Conan Doyle, he thought.
    He shifted his weight on his bag, and looked out the window. The baggage car was empty now, another Negro having gotten off in Fort Worth. Only twice in the past two weeks had he sat in the last passenger car, but that was back in the East, where segregation was more subtle, and now that he was back in the South, the more overt forms of racism were evident. But baggage cars could be made comfortable, and the Negro porter on this train had taken good care of him, and made sure that he was fed properly and allowed to use the men's facilities after the white passengers had gone to bed for the evening... .
    The window was small, and smudged, but it showed the same relentless vista of bleak winter, the same denuded trees, only mercifully shy of snow.
    Thomas tucked his Strand magazine away and drew out the papers in his jacket pocket.
    The first was the letter from Bill Adams, which he had been over numerous times. Always he came to the same conclusions. The second was a telegram from Lincoln Reeves, waiting for him in Kansas City, as he had instructed, with one word, Yes.
    These two he put away, finding no more interest in them. The third, however, still held his attention. It was another telegram, this one from Tucson, from the landlord of the hotel where Bill Adams had been staying. Though it was few in words, it told Thomas much:
    ~ * ~
ADAMS BELIEVED DEAD STOP. INJUN BEING HELD STOP. MARSHAL SAYS NO ARMY IN TERFERENCE NEEDED STOP. CATES.
    ~ * ~
    Apparently Mr. Cates had misunderstood Thomas's own telegram, regarding his present status with the U.S. Army. That was fine, and irrelevant. Besides the fact that his friend might be dead, Thomas found he could read volumes from the short message.
    First, it was obvious that Bill had gone after his daughter and was missing somewhere on the Papagos Reservation. This did not change Thomas's mission, but only made it more urgent. Bill Adams, despite his alcoholism, knew how to travel and how to survive. Thomas would reserve judgment on his death until he had seen a body. Secondly, there was an Indian being held for Adams's supposed murder. This alone Thomas found curious, since Cates had stated that Bill was believed to be dead. And the Marshal who was handling this case had apparently decided that he didn't like Thomas already, based merely on the fact, however misinterpreted, that Thomas was an Army man. This implied friction with the local Army people. Nowhere had Thomas mentioned that he was Negro, and this fact was apparently not known. So the marshal, and Mr. Cates, would have a surprise for them when Thomas arrived.
    But the most telling piece of paper Thomas had was one that didn't exist, the reply to his second telegram, which Thomas had sent from St. Louis, and which had never been answered. So Thomas had already been cut out of the loop, and would be on his own when he arrived.
    Thomas put Cates's telegram away, and again looked out the smudged window.
    The shorn trees of winter had been replaced, not by snow, but