Penny Flame E-Book

John Reinhard Dizon

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Who was Penny Flame?

While researching the atrocities committed during the Apache Wars, university graduate Moneen Murphy learns of her great-great grandmother's key role in the conflict.

Tracing the relationship between her grandmother and the natives, Moneen begins a journey into the unknown. As she slowly discovers the truth, dark secrets and ghosts of the past are brought into the modern era with catastrophic force.

The story of this fateful chapter in America's past reflects issues and events of the modern age, presented in an unforgettable, epic adventure.

Leseprobe

Penny Flame

John Reinhard Dizon

Copyright (C) 2012 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Evit Art

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Part One

Chapter One

Dr. Israel Galvan was just about to enter the shutdown command on his PC when he was irritated by the knock on the door. It was 2 PM on Good Thursday and he was certain the college faculty building was nearly deserted. He regretted having to stop by on the way to the airport to catch his flight but there was overdue paperwork he had to submit. He was hoping to sneak in and out undetected but found his prayer would go unanswered.

“Dr. Galvan? I'm so sorry to be coming by at the last minute, but I wanted to have a word.”

“No problem,” Galvan's eyes softened. “C'mon in, have a seat.” Moneen Murphy laid her black leather Gucci carrying case on the floor next to the chair facing Galvan's large oak desk in his austere office at UMKC. It afforded a beautiful view of the grounds outside the College of Social Studies where he held a position instructing students pursuing their doctorate in American History.

“I've decided on my thesis, but wasn't quite sure how to present it and I thought you might be able to give me some advice,” she proposed.

“You're not really going to lock yourself in for the Easter holiday to work on your paper,” Galvan squinted through his gold-rimmed glasses. He was a stately, rotund man with thick gray hair and beard, sporting a hound's tooth sport coat and dark sweater in the Missouri spring.

“Actually I was thinking of killing two birds with one stone,” she smiled sweetly. She was a beautiful girl of Irish heritage with thick red hair, emerald eyes and a small nose, a cream complexion and slim figure complemented by long shapely legs and a generous bosom. “I came across that article in the Star about that military investigation of that regiment in Arizona, and it dawned on me that my Mom's people were from the region. I started doing some research into my family background and found out I had a great-great grandmother who lived near the Superstition Mountains in Arizona. I'm figuring I can tie in the investigation into the historical background of the indigenous people and come up with some pretty good stuff.”

“Hmm,” Galvan leaned back in his swivel chair, staring at his bookcase by the far wall. “That's the one where they're planning to withdraw the honors given to the 1/9 pending investigation of war crimes against the Indian Nation in the 1800's. Meaty stuff. So your paper would theoretically be an analysis of the military investigation reinforced by your own research. I think it'd fly. You'd just have to be careful to tie up all the loose ends and not let the story end up too big to wrap.”

“You've taught me that lesson rather well, sir,” she smiled ruefully. “You're one of the best research students I've had, Mony,” Galvan admitted. “You throw yourself into assignments and fill your heart and mind with the subject matter. The results I've seen at times are as close to works of art as it gets. You've got something here that can earn your doctorate. Give it all you got, and let me take a look at what you bring back so I can help you piece it together.” “Thanks for your advice, sir.”

“Just a minute,” he flipped through his Rolodex. “I have a card here with the number of an old acquaintance who lives in Phoenix. He's a freelance reporter named Robert Mendoza. Give him a buzz, tell him I sent you. I'm sure he'll be of help.”

Mony thanked Galvan profusely before going on her way. She trotted down the marbled steps of the prestigious old building, heading out the door and down the narrow path along the campus to where Tommy's car awaited.

“Hey, baby,” Mony opened the passenger door of his cream-colored Lexus. “Looks like we're going to be taking that plane trip to Phoenix after all.”

“Cool beans,” Tommy O'Hara smiled broadly. “I've never been west of Colorado.”

Tommy O'Hara was a third-generation Irishman who graduated from the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in NYC before opening his own private investigation company. He met Mony at the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Manhattan last year and they kept close contact ever since. He drove out to Kansas City every chance he got and mailed plane tickets to her whenever convenient. He was pricing office space in the Plaza area and was planning to relocate early next year.

Mony was a native New Yorker who relocated to Missouri to pursue her teaching degree and her doctorate in American History. Her parents were from the West and most of her relatives were scattered across Colorado and Arizona. When her Mom and Dad passed away, she moved to KC for its mid-size Midwest ambiance and affordability but remained curious about the homeland of her parents. Her studies in American history focused around the Old West and she grew very interested in Native American society and culture. She found that the migrating Irish of the era formed a loose bond with blacks and Indians back in the day due to their lower-class status. It made her very aware of civil rights issues which she defended rigorously as a social activist.

Undecided about her topic for her upcoming thesis assignment, the recent series of articles about the military investigation in Arizona came as a burst of inspiration. Getting the green light from Galvan was all she needed, and her getaway vacation plans with Tommy were becoming a reality.

“This is going to be so great, Tommy,” Mony gushed as they zipped down Oak Street towards the Country Club Plaza in Midtown. “Your skills as an investigator will be such a help out there. Plus we'll see so many wonderful sights, I know you'll love it.”

“You don't have to sell me, girl,” he glanced over at her, her titian tresses flowing in the spring breeze. “I just love every minute being with you.”

They parked near Brush Creek and walked over to Granfalloon, a popular bistro across from the promenade. They ordered shrimp cocktails and margaritas before lazing back in the padded benches at their booth.

“Okay, so,” Tommy sifted through her notes, “let's see what we got here. A bunch of Indian activists from the University of Arizona filing a petition in Federal Court to have a platoon from the Ninth Cavalry dishonored for their actions at Superstition Mountain almost two centuries ago. President Johnson and the US Army awarded the platoon full honors after its suicidal battle against a renegade Apache tribe that led to a long period of peaceful coexistence with the Indians throughout the Arizona Territory. The students claim that the operation was an act of genocide against the Apache that put the neighboring Pima in a state of servitude under the white settlers for almost two decades afterward. I don't think either side's going to find a lot of witnesses.”

“Here's the kicker,” Mony was eager. “There's a number of native Pima Indians in the vicinity whose great-grandparents lived through that period. Indians are a lot like the ancient Hebrews in that their oral traditions are preserved as meticulously as their written history. They've got tribal elders who are designated storytellers that pass the clan history on from generation to generation. Can you imagine getting these narratives second-hand from people who memorized them from those who were actually there?”

“You know, I love when you get excited like this,” Tommy grinned. “It just brings out so much of your spirit. I love seeing you so alive and vibrant.”

“Well, wait until we get a room out by the pool near the desert, see how lively I get,” she smiled impishly.

“I love that about you too,” he chuckled. “So you think your great-great-grandma may have had something to do with the Pima out that way?”

“My Mom used to tell me stories about her life back on the ranch with her Mom and Dad in Tucson all the time when I was a little girl,” she reminisced. “She didn't know too much about her great-grandma on her Mom's side other than the fact she was very religious and ministered as an evangelist and teacher to the Pima in Phoenix. It had to be right around that time period. It's going to be such an experience, to explore my family roots while doing this research.”

“I'm going to be so glad to be there with you.”

“I can't think of anyone else I'd want to be with,” she reached across the table to hold his hands.

They enjoyed their meal before returning to her apartment in Westport for a long session of lovemaking during which they both satisfied and exhausted one another. They recharged their batteries with a bedside snack before she left him to watch basketball on TV to rummage through her scrapbooks.

She had brought two scrapbooks back from NYC after her mother's death, one belonging to each of her parents. They were old and faded, containing pictures of her ancestors though limited details of who was who. Mony's genealogical research allowed her to trace her family roots back to the antebellum West, where many of her relatives were listed as charter members and founders of various civil and social organizations back in the day. She was able to match names and faces in time and found that the Murphys and the Flames had played essential roles in civilizing the new frontier.

Her great-great-grandma, Penelope Flame, was of particular interest. She was born in 1860 to an itinerant preacher and his wife, who came up from Tennessee after the Civil War to claim land and start a family. They settled in Arizona and eked out a living as traders with the local settlers, bringing supplies down from New Mexico while spreading the Gospel across the land. After her parents were killed in an Indian raid, Penelope was raised in foster homes among people in the local congregation until she was old enough to begin her own ministry.

It was hard to understand what compelled a woman like Penelope. Being orphaned in her childhood, watching both her parents killed, left alone in the care of strangers out in the wilderness, and still having a vision of ministering to the Indians. Was it a compulsion, an obsession, or some kind of Divine guidance? Mony had a cursory knowledge of Scripture and a normal belief in Christ, but was unable to fathom the deeper mysteries of faith that motivated people like Penelope Flame.

It was part of the family folklore that Penelope went into Superstition Mountain and never returned, and that her story became part of the Pima traditions as a result. She left behind her husband and small children, one of which was Mony's great-grandma. They lived in a small town outside of Phoenix, and owned a ranch that helped the family survive and prosper. What would have made her risk and lose everything, even her very life, to take a hand among the people who had killed her parents?

Tommy appeared to be totally engrossed in the Celtics' game, so she saw no problem in accessing the Internet for a bit. She began researching the 1/9 and determined that they had been brought in to end the depredation of the settlements throughout the Arizona Territory by a band of Apache renegades. The climax of the operation came when one platoon pursued the remnant of the Apache band into Superstition Mountain where no one was seen to have returned. The regiment was decorated with the highest honors and special tribute was paid to those who fell on the Mountain.

The motion before the Court was filed by the Bureau of Indian Affairs on behalf of the Pima Nation charging that one Captain Michael Marion was assigned by the Defense Department to take control of an Apache stronghold in the mountain and conduct clandestine operations against the Indian Nation. It was alleged that Marion's right-hand man, Lt. John Malagant, had helped him convert the platoon into a guerrilla unit that initiated a reign of terror in the area exceeding that of the renegade Apaches.

“Say, what's up with the Web jones?” Tommy chided her upon entering the room. “We don't have to watch the game, there're some good movies on.”

“C'mon, bring your sexy butt over here,” she extended her slippered foot and pulled a chair over by her PC station. “This is a big pissing contest, just like the Troubles in Northern Ireland. Both sides are accusing the other of being the bad guy. The Pima students are saying that the Army authorized one of the 1/9 platoons to conduct terrorist operations from the mountain. It went on for about ten years after the Cavalry wiped out the Apache tribe. That would have been about the time my great-great-grandma disappeared.”

“The plot thickens,” his eyebrows arched. “Maybe it had something to do with the lost platoon. You know, if we can prove any of this, your great-great-grandma may go down in history.”

“I don't know if I'm going to be very excited to find out my great-great-granny got murdered by the Army,” she replied softly.

“C'mon, Mony, that's not what I meant,” he put his arm around her. “Look, nobody knows what happened to Penelope. This is back in the days after the Civil War, the country had just prevented an insurrection and went straight into an Indian uprising. There was no Geneva Convention, no civil rights movement. The Army answered to no one, one of their generals was President of the United States. They might've told Penelope to leave the Territory, or else they'd go after her family.”

“Yeah, sure. A woman like her.”

“It sure seems like strong women run in your family,” he hugged her shoulders.

“Flattery'll get you nowhere, boyo,” she elbowed him gently. “All right, well, suppose they killed her. She had to be a well-known figure among the Pima, she would've been missed. Plus my great-great-grandpa would've demanded an investigation, they would've sent in a US Marshal. That means there's a paper trail somewhere if we know where to look.”

“That's where I come in,” he assured her. “There'd have to be Federal archives where we could trace this stuff. It'd put us where we need to be to match up the Pima side of the story.”

“Okay, try this on for size,” she mused. “I'm smelling a cover-up. How in heck would my family accept the explanation that she disappeared in the mountain? Somebody would've investigated, and someone else told them to back off. The trail went cold for two centuries, and now, all of a sudden, those Pima students came up with new evidence.”

“Do any of the articles say what they've got?”

“It's all about pending further investigation,” she shook her head. “Don't forget, the military is the military. They're not going to expunge their own heroes that easily.”

“Man, I thought we were going on vacation,” he laughed. “I think we're headed directly into a major shitstorm.”

“Is there anyone else you'd rather be in a shitstorm with?” she cooed.

“Hell no,” he said, taking her into his arms.

They arrived at Phoenix International Airport the next afternoon and rented a car before driving downtown and checking into a room at the Holiday Inn. They were both pleasantly surprised by the warm temperature and changed from their spring wear to summer clothes before heading down to the restaurant for brunch.

“Well, Brenda Starr, where do we start?” Tommy sipped his soup as they waited for their sandwiches.

“Let's go down to the Pima reservation,” she suggested. “I've never been on a reservation before. I'm sure someone can get us on track.”

“Damn,” he grunted as he flipped through his collection of maps and brochures. “These people are on the Salt River Reservation. That's about a two hour drive.”

They hit the road after brunch and soon their rented Camry was zipping along the highway towards the Salt River reservation. They were sobered by the sight of trailer parks and junkyards full of rusted jalopies that formed an endless trail alongside the highway.

“Damned shame how these people are living,” Tommy said ruefully as they passed a group of destitute Indians wandering down the road. “Freedom does have a price, in more ways than one.”

“You can see why those students are looking for payback,” Mony replied. “Maybe the victors do write history, but truth always comes to the surface.”

“It's beautiful country,” he admired the vast desert horizon of plateaus, hills and mountains against which the sunlight painted a dazzling landscape of lights and shadows. “I can understand why people wouldn't want to leave it.”

“It's just the way it was two hundred years ago,” she agreed. “I can see why they'd never want to change it, either.”

Eventually they arrived at the reservation and cruised along Pima Road until they came to the town square along Chapparal Road. They pulled up in front of a visitors' center and came upon the front desk where an elderly Indian was on duty. They introduced themselves and inquired about Superstition Mountain.

“I'm not sure you'd want to take your lady friend up that ways,” the Indian shook his head. “You don't want to go messing about there. I can give you directions to dozens of beautiful places to go sightseeing if you like.”

“Evil spirits, eh?” Tommy teased.

“I don't know about all that. I do know that you don't want to mess with them wild critters up there. There're all kinds of wildcats and plenty of places for them to hide behind them boulders. Plus you can't barely walk around for all them rocks up there. People try to clear paths along there from time to time for the tourists, but the landslides during the winter get 'em all cluttered up again. Even the hunters don't go up there much, it's more trouble than it's worth.”

“He's right about them mountains,” an elderly woman appeared from the back room with a cup of chicory. “I'm Sara, that's my husband Faustino. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Mony smiled.

“Our people have lived here since the early 1800's,” Sara explained when the couple inquired as to the background of the Pima community along Salt River. “We are the descendants of the Hohokam, who lived here in Arizona three hundred years before the birth of Christ. They were the ones who started the irrigation systems for farming that we still use today. The Maricopa tribe migrated into the valley at the same time as the Pima and the communities became close neighbors. They stood together through thick and thin, and protected each other against the Apaches whenever they came through. Eventually the US Army set up their outposts out here and our people were their best allies. Lots of our kids have fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. Faustino won medals fighting in Korea.”

“Your people didn't get along with the Apaches, huh?” Tommy asked.

“Not all Apaches,” Faustino chimed in. “You see, we are all Indian Nation, always have been, always will be. Yet there is a difference between the Pueblo Indians and the Plains Indians, the nomadic tribes, just like in different parts of the world throughout history. When people take root and settle down, they begin to think about tomorrow and what they can build for their children. When people are constantly on the move, their thoughts are on today, here and now, because they don't know what tomorrow brings. They are always thinking about survival, and people will do anything to survive. Desperate people can be dangerous people.”

“So do you know anything about that thing in the paper where they're investigating stories about a band of Cavalry holed up in that mountain and raiding the Pima after the Civil War?” Tommy wondered.

“You ever play that game of telephone when you were a kid in school?” Faustino smiled. “You tell a story to the kid in the front row and have him pass it on, and by the time it gets to the back it's a whole different story. That's what those folks'll run into, especially over something that happened two hundred years ago. I understand where those students are coming from, but you can't change the past. Just like my wife said, our people were very cooperative with the Army, but sometimes a traveling unit couldn't tell one tribe from the other. And, like I say, sometimes men on the move are just trying to stay alive.”

“So your people don't necessarily agree with what the students are doing.”

“It's just kids trying to gain some self-respect, find out who they really are,” Sara pointed out. “You see all these trailer parks out here, all the people without jobs, trying to make ends meet. We don't want to see ourselves like that, but you have to open your eyes sometime. We send our kids off to college as best we can, and they don't want to look back and see just this. They hear all the stories from the elders about our heritage and our history, and what they really want is the nobility back.”

“You know, there's a fellow out here who belongs to the White Wolf clan,” Faustino's eyes lit up. “His grandfather is Louie White Wolf, whose great-grandfather was Chief White Wolf, who was leader of the Pima tribe in those days. Louie White Wolf's a storyteller. If he can make the introduction you can get the actual story.”

“Or another telephone version?” Tommy grinned.

“Now, that's not what I was talking about,” Faustino huffed, taking the couple aback.

“What he meant before was all the different sides of the story,” Sara interjected softly. “Our storytellers pass the oral traditions of our tribes from generation to generation. It is always the eldest child of the family who inherits the legacy, and his tales must be verified by the tribal council. If the council finds too many inconsistencies in his stories, he will be discredited and replaced.”

“I didn't mean any disrespect,” Tommy apologized.

“See, the problem our shamans and our storytellers are having with the students is that what they are doing is disrespecting some of our legends,” Faustino shrugged off the slight. “Saying that the military had a base up there contradicts the Legend of the Ghost Riders and the Legend of Penny Flame. They're calling our sages liars.”

At once Mony's knees buckled and she began feeling dizzy. “Mony,” Tommy turned to her, touching her arms. “Are you okay?” “Goodness, child,” Sara was concerned. “Let me bring you water.” “I'll be okay,” she reassured them. “Maybe it's the change in climate

from Kansas City to here. I guess I'd better go back to the hotel and rest. We'd better hold up on meeting with White Wolf.”

“Did you say Penny Flame?” Tommy asked softly, as Faustino nodded. “Mony had a great-great-grandmother named Penelope Flame who went missing on that mountain.”

“Not to be disrespectful, but you don't come across many white folk who can trace their lineage back that far,” Sara mentioned.

“You're right about that,” Tommy agreed. “I barely remember the names of my grandparents, let along the great or great-great ones.”

“Do you know the legend?” Mony asked.

“You know, I hate to say it, but once you start getting older and you're not as involved with the tribal rituals and the inner circle, you sort of get disconnected,” Sara seemed embarrassed. “You start telling the stories at bedtime or on holidays to your grandkids instead of your own kids, and it starts drifting away from you when the grandkids grow older.”

“Do you remember any of it? Tommy probed.

“She was called the White Witch, the Fire Woman,” Sara recalled. “She came to the mountain to relieve the suffering of the Salt River Pima who were under the curse of the Demon of Devil's Hole. Her magic could not work against him unless she entered the spirit realm to do battle against him. She turned herself into a spirit creature and ascended to the mountain where she conquered the demon. The price she had to pay was remaining there forever to guard the Devil's Hole so that no other demons could ever rise from it. The Pima still hold rituals during our sacred festivals in honor of the Fire Woman in exchange for her blessing and protection.”

“Please, can you show me the restroom?” Mony managed. “I'm feeling sick.”

“Of course, dear,” Sara came to her side and escorted her to the rear of the facility.

“Man, this is turning into some heavy shit,” Tommy grimaced. “So what's the deal on the Ghost Riders?”

“There was once a band of renegade Apaches who were chased into the Devil's Hole by the tribe, and fell into the abyss,” Faustino recalled. “They returned as demons and rode the mountain range at night, killing and destroying everything in their path. The people prayed and sacrificed, and one night during the full moon the Great Spirit sent a posse of ghost riders in pursuit of the demons. They chased them back up the mountain and down into the Devil's Hole. There was a great eruption, and none of them were ever seen again. In time, another demon managed to find his way to earth from the Devil's Hole, and that's where the Legend of Penny Flame began.”

“Now you don't believe any of this, do you?” Tommy looked at him, taking his non-response as an answer. “I'm starting to see how the students reinterpreted all of it and began seeing how the covert military operations in the area had an effect on the natives' version of what actually happened. So if the ghost riders were actually a unit of the 9th Cavalry, it would make it seem like the Great Spirit sent the white man to protect the Pima. That's not going to make the storytellers look good.”

“There's no way in heck a band of Apaches rode up into that mountain with a cavalry unit in full pursuit, my friend,” Faustino was adamant. “I told you what it's like up there, you can go see for yourself. No one in their right mind would go on horseback up there. Now, as far as all the other stuff, are you religious? Do you go to church?”

“Well, yeah, on holidays, I guess.”

“Do you pray?”

“Sometimes, I suppose.”

“There you have it,” Faustino insisted. “You go to a church and speak to someone who you've never seen or heard. You're making contact with a supernatural being. You call it prayer, but when we do it, it's mysticism. Your God throws the Egyptian Army into the Red Sea and you get the Ten Commandments. Our God banishes a horde of demons into a mountain cave and you call it an old wives' tale.”

“Point taken,” Tommy agreed. “Now the burden of proof is on the students to show how the 1/9 led a cavalry charge into that mountain and set up a covert base there afterwards.”

“Not only are they disrespecting our tradition, but they're going to make fools of themselves in the process,” Faustino grumbled. “Isn't that just what we need, our fine young scholars being seen in public as a bunch of stupid Indians.”

“I'm not sure they'd be going down alone,” Tommy pointed out. “They're being sponsored by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and I understand the ACLU's watching closely. They're saying that any refusal by the military to conduct an investigation would be an infringement of the Indians' rights to information.”

“You know, none of the World War II or Korean vets would have ever gotten involved with something like this,” Faustino fumed. “That Vietnam War changed everything, people got all twisted up. All those left-wing politics turned the young people against our country and our traditions, and it was never the same after that. That Billy Sixkiller fellow over there running the Bureau office in Phoenix, he's a good enough guy, all right, but it's like he's always trying to show the young folks that's he's as hip as they are. It's like he bends over backwards to show them he's on their wavelength. It's like I say, the fellow before him, Thundercloud, would have never gotten involved with something like this.”

“I think I'd like to have a word with Sixkiller,” Tommy decided. “Now, what about this White Wolf?”

“That'd be Jimmy Wolf,” Faustino replied. “He hangs out around the Community Center shooting pool during the day. Old Louie don't have much truck with him, but Louie's a nice enough guy. If you went out there with him I'm sure he'd talk to you.”

“That's a rain check, lover boy,” Mony and Sara returned from the restroom. “I'm not quite up to snuff today. We'll come back out tomorrow and look for Mr. Wolf, okay?”

“Your wish is my command,” Tommy smiled, shaking Faustino's hand. “Say, folks, thanks for everything. We'll stop in again before we leave.”

“That was the Spirit,” Sara said softly as the couple took their leave. “It hit her hard. I do believe it had to do with Penny Flame.”

“They'll be back out here for sure,” Faustino sighed. “I just hope they know what they're getting into. That magic is strong up around those parts. Those kids just don't strike me as the type.”

“If she's kin to Penny Flame, I think she'll come out all right,” Sara decided.

“I certainly hope so,” Faustino said, watching through the window as the rented Camry drove away.

Chapter Two

“Hey, baby girl, how're you feeling?”

Mony woke up to f ind Tommy seated alongside the bed at the Holiday Inn the next morning, a Mc Donald's bag alongside her. She stretched lazily and rubbed her eyes before sitting up eagerly.

“Good morning, handsome. How sweet of you!” She dug into the bag and began munching happily on her Egg Mc Muffin as he opened her coffee for her.

“You slept like a log. Are you okay?” he reached over and touched her brow.

“I'm fine now,” she insisted. “Yesterday was so strange. When she mentioned my Triple G's name, I just got hit with this dizzy spell like I never had before. Then when she started talking about that legend, it was almost like vertigo. I've never felt like that, that's why I wanted to come back, but I'm fine now.”

“It may be jet lag. We're well above sea level, you know, altitude and all that. If you're back to normal, we can go out and enjoy the day. It's beautiful outside.”

She dressed quickly in a black T-shirt, jeans and sneakers before heading out the door behind him.

“Say, boyo,” she tapped him on the shoulder. “Were you aware that someone clipped a gun to your ass?”

“Well, actually, there's an open gun law here in Phoenix, and I was hoping to enjoy the privilege.”

“Not with this girly-girl,” she stood with her fists on her hips. “You put that thing back where it came for or you can take your macho act out solo.”

“Okay,” he sighed, walking over to the bureau and dropping it in an upper drawer. “For you, dear, anything.”

Tommy had grown up in the Hell's Kitchen area of Manhattan and was steeped in the legends of the Westies, the Irish Mob who had ruled the West Side of NYC for generations. Though the Westies, like the Mafia, were slowly giving place to the Third World drug gangs taking over the NYC underworld, their presence was well known to those of their parochial neighborhoods. Tommy knew of all the legendary figures, from Bugs Moran to Jack “Legs” Diamond, Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll to Mickey Spillane and Jimmy Coonan. He grew up aspiring to become as one of them, but the changing neighborhood made him realized he could do more good on the side of law and order fighting against the Caribbean drug gangs than taking it to the streets.

He passed his exam for the NYPD but then had second thoughts and opted to take out a small-business loan to open his PI firm instead. One of his close school pals, Philip Saleh, had just opened a law firm and promised Tommy all his subpoena work to help him get started. Tommy grew so efficient in delivering subpoenas to elusive defendants that he got a number of referrals that soon put his business in the black, and then some.

He met Mony at an overcrowded Irish pub after the St. Patrick's Day parade in 2009, and it was love at first sight. His heart still skipped a beat when he remembered the red-haired, fair-skinned maiden standing in the corner of the pub wearing a green top hat, her emerald eyes wide with excitement as she looked around at the raucous crowd. He came over and made small talk, and soon they found they had a lot in common. She told him later she thought he was extremely charming, and he had not seen so lovely a girl before. They had a few drinks and exchanged e-mail addresses, and he was a perfect gentleman in escorting her back to her car afterwards. They stayed in touch, and soon Tommy flew out to KC to visit. They consummated the relationship that evening, knowing that they had found the Special Someone in their lives.

She was far more liberal of a person that he normally acquainted himself with, and he held his tongue on numerous occasions as she launched into diatribes on peace, equality and liberty when they discussed current affairs and social issues. Not only did he realize how much he loved her in doing so, but also that she spoke from the heart rather than voicing prefabricated political beliefs. Whatever Mony did, it was in the best interests of others, sometimes even ahead of self. He knew that he would have to be in place to assure those in the world would not seek to take advantage, and he knew full well there were many of that type about.

Mony thought of Tommy as the prototypical displaced Irishman. He had the gift of blarney, a strong spirit and a good heart. Moreover, his wavy auburn hair, fair skin, Roman nose, chestnut eyes and mischievous grin never failed to thrill her when they reunited after being apart. He was an athletically-built man with surprising tendon strength, and was bright and quick to learn which helped him cope with many a situation. Not only was he well-educated with degree but had the street smarts that kept him well ahead of the common man.

She knew that he had serious intentions with the offer to relocate. She, however, did not want to disappoint and wanted to be sure he was happy with his decision. They were very happy when together and tended to agree on most things. She was just hoping she could quench his wild side when it surfaced and be a calming influence in keeping him as the man of her dreams once and forever.

They drove downtown and along its perimeter and came across a VFW post not far from the city center. They decided that it might be a good place to get a feel of the military veterans' community as well as their perspective on the military investigation of the Superstition affair.

“Now, Tommy, I'd want you to be on best behavior here,” she touched his face as he locked the Camry after parking out front of the worn white frame building. “If they're not friendly we'll just leave, okay?”

“Why, I'd never harm a fly,” he grinned broadly. She punched him across the butt as he walked over to open the door for her.

They entered the boisterous meeting hall and at once considered the centuries-old restriction of alcohol imposed by the Federal Government on the Indian Nation. A thick haze of tobacco smoke hung below the ceiling as the large majority of Native Americans smoked cigarettes, sipped alcohol, engaged in conversation and participated in games of pool, dominoes, cards and checkers around the hall. Many stared at the young couple as they entered, but they remained smiling and cheerful as they found an open space at the bar.

They ordered a Jack Daniels, Heineken and a screwdriver from the taciturn bartender, glimpsing about and admiring the quaint decor. There were ancient flags and banners festooning the walls, along with aged photographs and portraits of battle units and military leaders, both tribal and American military. Most of the furniture was antiquated and resembled that of a Wild West saloon. The patrons were dressed in blue-collar uniform wear, Western attire and biker-style gear, most wearing their hair long and, in some cases, ponytailed or pigtailed.

They could hear some overly loud remarks being made a few stools behind Tommy, with comments about white people being liberally interspersed. Tommy peeked over his shoulder and saw a towering, brawny pigtailed Indian wearing a leather vest, faded jeans and scuffed cowboy boots glaring in his direction, braced by two grinning friends.

“Say, Tom, you know what I said about best behavior?” “Yeah?”

“Well, if things go awry, I won't be upset if you were to apply a little elbow grease to get us out in one piece.”

“Gotcha.”

The big Indian swaggered over behind Tommy, the sound of his boot heels on the wooden planks alerting Tommy to turn in his direction.

“I'm Sammy Sixkiller,” the Indian thundered. “I'm a member of this post. Are you?”

“Well, sir, we saw no signs in front indicating any restriction to members,” Tommy replied politely. “When the fellow here served us, we thought nothing further of it. If we are trespassing, then we'll take leave with no offense intended nor taken.”

“That's in your mind, brother,” the Indian glared murderously. “Then, I suppose, I have no choice but to offer apology and be on my way.”

“Suppose I don't accept your apology?”

“Well, then,” Tommy looked down at the floor before staring hard into Sammy's eyes, “if this is the way it must be, then it's how it'll be. I don't see a lot of sense in having the cops coming in here to ruin the day, stopping us from ripping each others' faces off. However, if this is how you'll have it, then, let's have at it.”

“Did you hear that!” Sammy boomed. “Did you hear that! Well, White Boy and White Girl's money is no good in here anymore! They on my tab now! White Boy got Red Man balls! I like that!”

“Well, White Boy goes by the name of Tommy, and White Girl here is Mony.”

“Mony! You mean like Mony Mony!” They nodded.

“Yo, Redskin!” he bellowed to a man near the jukebox. “Put on 'Mony Mony', hear?”

Moments later the room blared with the sound of Tommy James and the Shondells.

“So what is a fine white couple like you doing here in redskin territory?” Sammy asked as he toasted them with shots of Jack Daniels. Tommy was highly aware of Indian intolerance to alcohol but decided to pay no mind. He was certain that Sammy had been imbibing long before this and would continue long after they left.

“Well, looking around, one might say, making friends, as it were. It seems as if everyone knows of everyone around here.”

“Biggest little town in Arizona, partner.”

“Would you know of a fellow named Jimmy White Wolf?” “Jimmy Wolf?” Sammy growled. “Now what you want with that

piece of trash?”

“A chat with his grandpa, perhaps, Louie White Wolf?”

“Louie gonna throw a fit if you bring that scumbag in his joint!” Sammy scowled. “Hey, Red Man, you keep 'em comin' for Mony Mony and her boy here. I'm goin' down the line to cool off. Jimmy Wolf, you believe that shit?”

“Well, all in all, you did a great job, Sir Galahad,” Mony patted his thigh.

“Sixkiller,” Tommy mused. “You don't suppose…?” “Don't even go there. Let's just finish up and go.”

“Now, he did say our money was no good. It stands to reason he'd gladly pay for one for the road…”

“Tommy!”

“Your wish, love, my command.”

Billy Sixkiller was a Vietnam veteran who had retired from the CIA and was now an executive member of the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Arizona. He was a barrel-chested man of average height whose full biceps bespoke a weight lifting routine. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and offered them sodas as they took seats in front of his gray metal desk.

“It's an interesting case those kids are prosecuting,” Sixkiller reflected, leaning back in his worn vinyl-covered armchair. “The whole thing's based on an obscure autobiography of a British-born gunfighter named Thomas Pennington that was published in Europe over a century ago. The work was so incredible that people dismissed it as a pack of lies, and it was treated as a novel until it went out of print. Apparently a foreign exchange student from Scotland brought it with her to the U of A and used it for a paper. The professor gave her a failing grade and she appealed to the Dean. Researchers found way too many consistencies in Pennington's story, and eventually it opened this can of worms.”

“What exactly were the issues?” Mony wondered.

“Pennington claimed to be riding shotgun for Chief Death Star, the leader of an Apache warrior clan. That in itself caused historians to discredit the book. What made it worse was the fact that the Death Star clan was like a tribe of ghosts. None of the Apache chiefs of the era would admit to knowing them, not even Geronimo, due to the nature of the crimes they committed. The military had a file on them like an encyclopedia. They were forced to classify the Death Star operations as top secret after the campaign turned into a war of attrition. Bottom line is that the Department of Defense may have knowingly decorated a regiment of war criminals for crimes against humanity.”

“Where can we get a copy of Pennington's book?” Mony asked. “Great question,” Sixkiller smiled wryly. “The Scotswoman's copy

has been introduced as evidence by the military tribunal, and there's a book hunt going on in two continents for another copy. Right now they're placing reserve bids on EBay for up to ten grand.”

“What in heck could've he written?” Tommy squinted.

“By all accounts, it was like a Western version of The Satanic Bible,” Sixkiller noted. “They said it was like something out of Satan's personal diary, consummate evil portrayed without a glimmer of humanity or remorse. There are very few people who've researched it so far who weren't emotionally disturbed by it.”

“So the 9th Cavalry tracked down and killed the Devil, and somebody's got a problem with how the job got done,” Tommy shook his head.

“I think it's more of a question of whether the Cavalry reenlisted with the Devil.”

“It sounds like the Cav is being accused of genocide,” Mony mused. “It's not so much what they did on the field as what they did up in those mountains,” Sixkiller frowned. “The war of attrition goes way back among our people. Sadly enough, many of our tribes have been responsible for a number of different situations going all the way back to the days of the English colonies. The warlike tribes such as the Mohawk, the Apache and the Comanches had no real limits as to what was acceptable on the battlefield. Of course, we can explain what the warriors' motivations were—scalps were considered trophies the way hunters mount animal heads, as grotesque as that may seem. Forms of cannibalism were comparable to the African traditions of acquiring the virtues of their victims. Mutilation was meant to scare off avengers, torture killings intended to have similar effect. Warfare in early America was not unique in its barbarism, Miss Murphy. We can find parallels in history going back as far as your Christian Bible.” “Okay, I get the picture,” she grimaced. “So it was okay for the

Apache but not the Cavalry.”

“According to the students' research, Marion's command went beyond what was considered acceptable in their ops conducted from the mountain,” Sixkiller pointed out.

“Allegedly conducted,” Tommy chimed in.

“Right,” Sixkiller concurred. “Anyway, when they accessed the reports and documents compiled by Colonel Bennett's command in the Arizona territory, everything after the raid on Superstition Mountain against Chief Death Star's renegades was classified top secret. That was the red flag. After that, they interviewed the tribal elders of the Salt River Pima, and that's where stuff hit the fan. The elders were outraged that the students would challenge the veracity of the tribe's tradition and history. It was kinda like what your friend Faustino was telling you. They insist there is no way a cavalry detachment could have led a full charge against a seasoned Apache warrior band into those mountains, and both disappearing without a trace. Pennington's account holds its own theory but has never been proven or disproven.”

“It's starting to sound like the students are alleging that Marion's command were the real demons in the mountain,” Tommy decided.

“That's what it comes down to, and, again, that suggests the Pima were too ignorant to detect a platoon of Cavalry troops operating out of the mountain. The Pima chiefs were so enraged that the students had no choice but to seek answers elsewhere.”

“So why run the risk of wrecking the traditions of their own tribe?” Mony wondered. “Why not leave well enough alone?”

“Unfortunately that's where I come in. The notion of Marion and his men having been commended and decorated for their actions is tantamount to the Germans erecting a memorial to Heinrich Himmler in the heart of Berlin for his contributions in the field of law enforcement.”

“That's quite a stretch,” Mony smirked.

“Not quite,” Sixkiller eased open a desk drawer and produced a thick sheaf of photocopy. “How about a passage from the gospel according to Pennington?”

“You've got it!” Mony's eyes widened. “We'll pay for a copy.”

“Like I said, this is being introduced in a military court as evidence in an ongoing investigation. This does not exist. If push comes to shove, this disappears and it's my word against yours.”

“Can't we even read it? I'm a speed reader,” Tommy offered.

“If you said one word that caught the ear of the wrong party, they could come in here and close me down. I don't know either of you from Adam. Would you risk that if you were me?”

“Well, what does it say, then?”

“This is from the foreword,” Sixkiller leafed through the top of the stack.

'Pennington's testimonio remains among the most callous and shocking of any war narratives in recent history. The sheer brutality of the crimes of the renegade band of Apache led by Chief Death Star— scalping, beheadings, mutilations, tortures and murders—exceeds the bounds of reality and limits of comprehension. Yet the allegation that the platoon led by Captain Michael Marion—Pennington's chief nemesis—matched these atrocities in reciprocation for Death Star's deeds places the American Army in a hideous light comparable only to that of the Spanish Empire on the North American continent.'“Okay, so you're holding the intellectual rights to a prospective award-winning slice-and-dice slasher flick,” Mony teased him. “Bully for you. And you're going to back up a research team of college students in a lawsuit against the US Army on the basis of that book.”

“I really don't want to play the hard ass here, ma'am,” Sixkiller grew piqued, “but it's not so much what Pennington says but how he says it. He expresses a certain admiration for Marion and his men that would make any red-blooded Indian sick. If Marion was indeed responsible for anything he is being accused of, it would be a black mark on this office for us not to take action in having the record set straight.”

“Not a word about your photocopy,” Mony, then Tommy, rose to shake his hand.

“Not a word,” Sixkiller smiled.

“Say, do you know a Sammy Sixkiller?” Tommy asked.

“Sure, he's my cousin. Know him?”

“Met him over at the VFW.”

“Did you have a drink with him?”

“Sure did.”

“Well, then, this is your lucky day.”

They next drove to Apache Junction and went northeast along Route 88 for four miles to the town of Goldfield where Apache Trail Tours and Superstition Mountain Adventures was located. They arranged a helicopter tour and were soon aloft, high above the mountain range in the experienced hands of a chopper pilot tour guide.

“What they called the Sierra Supersticiones wasn't documented by cartographers until 1866. They were renamed the Salt River Mountains by the US Army Infantry shortly afterwards. They didn't even officially recognize Superstition Mountain until 1870,” the pilot called over the whirring of the chopper blades. “The farmers in the Territory were the first to hear of the legends of the mountain from the Salt River Pima back in the 1860's. Scouts from Fort Mc Dowell reported this back to Colonel Bennett and his officers, and they began calling it Superstition Mountain.”

“Where would be the best place for horseback riders to get up the mountain?” Tommy called back.

“Nowhere,” the pilot chuckled. “Like the old timers say, everything on that mountain either sticks, stings, bites, or eats meat. If the mountain lions don't get you the scorpions will. At night during the winter it can drop below freezing, and during the summer the temperatures can go up to one hundred twenty-five degrees. Plus, if you take a look down there, you'll see that it's not a place you'd want to take a poor old horse, or even a strong young one.”

They looked down at the rocky terrain and nodded agreement. Many areas resembled moonscapes with their stalagmite formations and exotic rock steeples and spirals. Clearings that appeared as passageways were strewn with fallen rock, cactus and shrubbery. It didn't look like a place where one could steer clear of lions or scorpions, much less engage in a life-and-death gun battle.

“Have you heard about the military investigation of the operations against the Apache out here?” Mony called over.

“It's been great for business, I'll say,” the pilot laughed.

“Say, any old timers around who know the score out here?” Tommy asked.

“You go on over to the Bluebird Curio Shop and ask for old Chester Crow Foot. If that old man don't know about it, it never happened.”

Chester Crow Foot was a grizzled old warrior who recently celebrated his 110th birthday. His long braided hair was as snow and his wrinkled face like a leather parchment. He bade the visitors to sit with him on the benches in front of the curio shop as he lit a corn cob pipe and puffed it reflectively.

“Long ago, when the stars were young, the Chief Sky Spirit caused a flood to destroy all men and beasts upon the earth because of their evil and murderous deeds. The only people to survive were Suha, the shaman of the Pima, and his family. Their descendants lived and prospered in the river valley for a thousand years before they became stiff-necked towards the Great Spirit and spiteful towards one another. The Spirit allowed the demon Hauk to escape the spirit world and torment the Pima.”

“I've read about things like that,” Tommy mentioned. “Many of the religions of the world tend to agree with the Great Flood theory.”

“Hauk was known as the Devil of Superstition Mountain. He kidnapped women of the Pima tribe and turned them into concubines and slaves,” Chester continued.

“I'll bet that kept him pretty busy,” Tommy joked.

“Be still,” Mony slapped at his knee.

“Please go on, sir.”

“Suha decided that he would enter Superstition Mountain to find his missing daughter. Upon doing so, he came across Hauk's lair, where he found his daughter laboring as a servant girl. They agreed to wait until the evening meal before they acted. As she served dinner, Hauk partook of his cactus wine which was poisoned by Suha, killing him instantly. At once the evil was removed from the land, and the Pima nation entered a time of peace and prosperity.”

“Was there another demon after Hauk?” Mony asked.

“Yes, child. On his deathbed, Suha warned the people that if they ever grew arrogant with wealth, coveted the lands of their neighbor, waged war for personal gain or disgraced themselves before the Spirit, another devil would come unto them. This happened in 1865 when the Apaches turned to devil worship and the Pima joined forces with the white man to rid them from the land. Only the Pima grew proud and arrogant, and the Spirit allowed another demon to cross the netherworld to reside in the mountain. There he remained for two decades until he was cast down by prayer, sacrifice and fasting.”

“Do you know of the Legend of Penny Flame?” Mony entreated him.

“The Legend of the Flame,” he sat back pensively, taking a puff from his pipe. “Yes, it marked the end of the days of tribulation for our people, somewhere around the end of the 1880's. The elders of our tribe tell us that the Devil of Superstition Mountain returned to bring death and destruction to our land. The evil was so great that our people turned to demon worship as had the Apache, sacrificing and worshipping the Devil to ease the suffering of the land. This brought great disgrace upon our people before the Spirit.”

“That's about the time the Apache Wars ended,” Tommy muttered. “There was a Scarlet Witch who practiced white magic among our people. She came at the time of the great tribulation and gave comfort to the families in need throughout our village. Finally, after a period of prayer and fasting, she cast a great spell which allowed her to cross into the netherworld to do battle with the demon. She vanquished the demon, but found that she would never be able to come back to the realm of the living. No one, you see, can ever return from the dead.” “All but One,” Mony said quietly.

“The God of the Mormons, so they say,” the old man said. “The Scarlet Witch, however, remains in the mountain to this day as a benevolent spirit who protects our people in times of need. Our shamans are still able to contact her during the holy days, and our people offer sacrifice to her along the mountainside in times of personal crisis. Whenever she Johnsons her blessing, she gives sign by way of a great flame which appears from the mountaintop.”

“Omigosh,” Mony felt a great rush course through her body. “I'm going to be sick. Let me go inside for a second.”

“Is she with child?”

“Not that I know of. That would be kinda awkward.”

At length Mony returned with bottled water for the three of them.

The old man thanked her and took a sip before continuing his story.

“We can see how the blessing of the Flame coincided with the final victory over the rebellious Apache demon worshippers,” Chester pointed out. “The Great Spirit bestowed his blessing upon the Pima Nation because of their repentance expressed through prayer, fasting and sacrifice. Whenever our people deny themselves the pleasures of the flesh, the Spirit rewards their sacrifice with blessings of the spirit. In this day and age, our young people are distracted by the vices of the modern world, but it is the duty of the elders and shamans to provide instruction and example to keep them on the enlightened path.”

Mony and Tommy thanked him greatly for his help before returning to Phoenix.

“What's up with those sick spells?” Tommy was concerned. “Do you want to see a doctor?”

“No, it's just the weirdest thing,” Mony looked at him as they whizzed along the highway. “It's almost like whenever they mention my Triple G, or, more precisely, that legend business, it's like I get shaken right down to my bones.”

“Sounds psychosomatic,” he suppressed a laugh. “Maybe you'll have to see a psychiatrist.”

“I would think so, for getting involved in this business,” she agreed. They shared a laugh as they watched the flaming orange sun disappearing beyond the purple mountain range in the distance.

Eventually Mony's mood grew somber.

It made her think of Penny Flame.

Chapter Three

The beautiful red-haired woman trudged along the foggy mountain trail, her bare feet crunching on the ashen gravel floor that was strewn with broken bones and human skulls. She was determined to reach the top of the steep passageway though she shivered violently in the freezing cold, clad only in a white satin nightgown and a gossamer shawl. Above her, hawks, crows and vultures filled the sky while bats fluttered from one mountainside alcove to the next.

From the valley below she could hear a man's voice calling her name, but there was no turning back. She forged ahead though her lungs were seared by the chilly mountain air, her eyes burning from the smoke that swirled along the trail. Her lips were parched and cracked and she was desperate with thirst but dared not waver from her task.

At length she reached the crest of the trail and was able to peer down into the ravine where the object of her search awaited. She stared aghast at a field of skulls carpeting the ground for over forty yards in a bowl-shaped area enclosed by a towering rock line. She could see wild animals peering out between the rocks above, crouching as if ready to spring. Against the far wall of the ravine sat a skeletal figure on a throne of human bones, staring at her through eyes as flaming coals.

“I've been waiting for you,” the figure said in a voice that resembled the screech of hinges on a dungeon door.

She found herself gesturing in his direction, her hands suddenly burning as fire, but was distracted by the voice behind her, the man crying out her name.