Apache Shadow

by Jason Manning

  "So is he a Juárista, your husband?"

  "I do not know. As I told the captain, he has been gone for several years now. When he left, he would not tell me where he was going or how long he would be away." She looked away, struggling to maintain her composure, and Barlow could tell that she was leaving much unsaid—particularly the fact that, in her heart, she knew her man was never coming back.

  "I have no money," she said suddenly. "I have no way to repay the kindness you have shown us."

  "Don't want payment," said Barlow.

  "If you are staying, you are welcome to stay in our home. It is not much but . . ."

  "We're not staying. But thanks just the same."

  "Oh." She seemed genuinely sorry to hear that they were soon to depart, and Barlow figured it was because she was afraid—afraid that the soldiers would return, that her son was still in danger. Barlow thought it was probably futile to try to impress upon her that neither he nor Howard could protect her. In his mind, he hadn't saved her or her son. That had been done by Cordova. If the captain hadn't intervened, they'd all be lying dead in the Santo Domingo dirt.

  As she turned away, he said, "What is your name, senora?"

  "Angeline," she replied. The question took her by surprise. "Angeline Cabreras."

  He nodded his thanks. She smiled and disappeared into the adobe.

  "One wonders," said Howard bleakly, "how a woman alone can survive for long in this country."

  Barlow didn't respond. His attention was focused on the street of Santo Domingo—because suddenly there was nobody on it. The campesinos of the village had vanished as if by magic. Wary, he looked around, knowing there had to be a reason for this phenomenon. And there it was—a solitary horseman, emerging from the brasada.

  Captain Cordova.

  "My God," breathed Howard. "They're coming back."

  "I don't think so." Barlow stood up, left the shade of the ramada, and walked out to meet the dragoon officer.

  Cordova was all smiles, as though they were the best of friends. As though what had happened earlier had never happened.

  "Senor, I am glad I found you still here."

  "How come?"

  "I suggested to Colonel Villiers that I return, and offer my services to you and the general. After all, my orders were to escort the two of you to the Sierra Madre. My responsibility is to see you safely there, and as a soldier, I take my responsibilities very seriously."

  "I think we'd be better off traveling without you, Captain. Nothing personal."

  "If you are afraid my uniform will attract unwanted attention from the Juáristas, you need not concern yourself. They would attack you even if I did not accompany you. But if it would make you feel more at ease, I am willing to wear civilian clothes."

  Howard stepped forward. "Were we to agree to this, and we were stopped by Juáristas, I would not hesitate to divulge to them your true identity, Captain. I will not be branded a spy."

  "I understand, General. And I accept the risk."

  "I don't like it, General," said Barlow. "And frankly, I don't want to be associated in any way with the Mexican government—since the government is responsible for the bounty on Apache scalps. And that's the source of all our troubles."

  "The bounty," said Cordova, "was a decision made by the emperor's ministers and advisers. I do not approve of it, myself."

  "Well," said Barlow dryly, "that makes me feel a lot better."

  Seeing that he wasn't going to get anywhere with Barlow, Cordova turned to Howard. "General, it is far more likely that you will meet other army detachments. My presence will ensure that you'll have no difficulties with them. I strongly urge you to consider my offer. Your safety is my only concern in this matter."

  Howard thought it over. Then he glanced at a frowning Barlow. "Well, he did save your life. I guess that should count for something."

  Barlow just shook his head. He was grateful to the captain for intervening in his scrape with the two dragoons. But gratitude only went so far.

  "Only as far as the mountains, then," he said. "He doesn't go any farther than that."

  "Believe me, senor," said Cordova fervently, "I have no desire to commit suicide by entering the stronghold of the Apaches. Once the mountains are within sight, I will take my leave, with my duty done and my conscience clean."

  "So you think we're committing suicide by going into the mountains," said Howard.

  "If you come out alive, it will be a miracle, General."

  Amused, Howard looked again at Barlow. "Well, at least you two agree on something."

  Chapter 16

  When the bronchos appeared, rising up from the rocks that littered the steep slopes of the canyon, Barlow was surprised to feel a sense of great relief. For the better part of three weeks, he had been living on the edge, wondering what would happen when they finally arrived at their destination—wondering whether the Apaches would kill them immediately. He was inclined to think that this would be the case. But he couldn't be absolutely sure, and not knowing was the worst part of it all.

  Now they would find out.

  They had departed Santo Domingo twelve days earlier, and the journey from the border to the Sierra Madre Mountains had been relatively uneventful. Captain Cordova proved to be good company. And as they did not meet any Juáristas, he didn't turn out to be a liability. By the time they parted company, at a small village called Dolorosa, Barlow was almost sorry to see the captain go. He'd had time enough to conclude that Cordova was a man of his word, a gentleman, a true soldier. That didn't entirely exonerate him, in Barlow's mind, for having stood by while his dragoons terrorized Santo Domingo and killed innocent campesinos. But Barlow had learned a lot more from the captain about the military and political situation in Mexico. He'd learned, for instance, that men like Villiers held the power of life and death over Mexican officers. One word from Villiers, and Cordova would have faced a swift court-martial and execution. He'd learned too that Cordova was genuine in his hatred for the French—and the emperor. The captain did not like the Juáristas, either—he thought that most of them used the rebellion against Maximilian as an excuse to murder, rape, and plunder. He conceded hat Benito Juárez was probably sincere in his concern for the well-being of the country and its people. But most of his followers were no better than criminals. The captain's father had been an officer loyal to Santa Anna, and Barlow got the impression that Cordova would have preferred a Mexican republic with a military man as el presidente.

  As for the Apaches, Cordova believed that they would be—as they had been for as long as anyone could remember—a thorn in the side of the Mexican people for many years to come. Sooner or later, though, they would be wiped out. This was inevitable; there was no place for them. The hatred, on both sides—Mexican and Apache—ran too deep. There had been too much blood for there ever to be a lasting peace.

  In parting, he wished Barlow and Howard well—and then informed them that he was going straight to the little iglesia in Dolorosa, where he would light a candle and pray for their souls. The general thanked him.

  They had proceeded immediately into the mountains, and on the first day had seen no sign of Apaches. Barlow hadn't expected that to last—and here they were, on the second day, three of them. At least there were three that he could see. The rocky slopes of the canyon might have concealed a hundred bronchos. Barlow remembered the old saying: You didn't see an Apache until he was in the process of killing you.

  He didn't expect them to recognize him immediately, and then to welcome him with open arms. Even if he were recognized at once, he couldn't be at all sure that he'd be welcomed. Not all the Apaches in the Sierra Madre Mountains were Chiricahuas, and even some of the Chiricahua had never liked him. But there were plenty of Bedonkohe hiding out up here in the Cima Silkq. The Bedonkohe had gone to war against the Pinda Lickoyi on behalf of the Chiricahua several years ago, and for that, they had become outcasts, unable to return to their homeland. And also in these mountains were the Netdahe,
the Avowed Killers, the renegades who came from all the bands and owed their allegiance to none. They were led by the one called Geronimo. And Barlow wondered if, among the Netdahe in the Cima Silkq, the one named Kiannatah still lived.

  Rather, Barlow's hopes were all hinged on the possibility—slight though it was—that any Apache he happened across would not be in a hurry to kill two White Eyes. That they might be curious as to why two of the Pinda Lickoyi had ventured alone into the Apache stronghold. After all, they could always kill the white men later.

  He was fairly sure that this was why he and Howard weren't already dead. He had a moment or two of grace. If he said the right thing, he and the general might live. If he didn't . . .

  "I am Barlow," he said, speaking in the Apache tongue. "I have come to see Cochise, to tell him of his daughter, Oulay."

  It wasn't true, of course—that wasn't why he was there. But he wasn't sure that the truth would be quite so compelling. If these bronchos were Chiricahua, they would probably know his name even if they didn't know him by sight. He was, after all, the Pinda Lickoyi, who had taken as his woman the daughter of Cochise, and that had caused quite a stir among the Chiricahua. Many were the young bucks who had actively sought Oulay's favor. They had been stunned and angered when Cochise had allowed Barlow to take her away. In fact, it was quite possible that at least one of these three men had been a suitor of Oulay's. And while that man would resent Barlow, and might even feel compelled to kill him, the fact that he was son-in-law of Cochise would, hopefully, cause him to refrain from such action.

  The bronchos edged cautiously closer. Howard looked at Barlow, ready to follow his lead. The general didn't appear to be at all rattled. It was a brave man indeed, Barlow knew, who could maintain his composure when confronted by Apache bronchos. There was something elemental about these warriors, something that engendered fear in the most stalwart of men, just as a tornado or a rattlesnake coiled to strike would engender fear. That fear was nothing to be ashamed of. What counted was how you dealt with it.

  Moving slowly, very slowly, Barlow used his left hand to unbuckle his gun belt, and then he let it drop to the ground. To render oneself helpless in the face of this kind of danger wasn't easy, but he had to convince the bronchos that he'd come in peace. He could only hope that General Howard had nerve enough to do likewise.

  He did—and the bronchos seemed to relax a bit. One looked at his comrades, and nodded.

  "He is telling the truth. He is the one who took Oulay. I remember him."

  It could be a trick," said the second, more belligerent than the others.

  "We have watched them all day," said the first broncho. "They are alone. I say we take them to Cochise. What harm could come of that?"

  They looked at the third broncho, and Barlow sensed that, for whatever reason, his life depended on what this man said.

  The third man nodded. "I agree. We can kill them anytime we want. We will take them."

  Vastly relieved, Barlow glanced at Howard, who was watching him, trying to read his expression for some clue as to what his fate would be.

  "So are we going to live?" asked the general.

  "For the time being," replied Barlow. "Just don't try anything."

  "A little late for trying anything," said Howard dryly, "since I've just surrendered my weapons."

  While one broncho stood watch over them, a second gathered up their guns, and the third disappeared, to return a few moments later with three unshod mountain mustangs. Once mounted, one of the bronchos—the one who had made the decision to take them to Cochise—rode up alongside Barlow and used his headband to blindfold his prisoner. One of the other Apaches did the same thing to Howard. Barlow wasn't concerned. He understood the reasoning behind the blindfold. They were about to take two White Eyes to the hideout of the Chiricahua, and they didn't want their prisoners, once freed, to find their way back—with a column of soldiers in tow, for instance. The one who had blindfolded Barlow took the reins to his prisoner's horse and led the way. The second broncho took charge of Howard. The third Apache brought up the rear as they proceeded single file up the canyon. So far so good, thought Barlow. They were going to reach Cochise alive. The next problem would be to get out of those mountains alive.

  They rode for several hours, and by the position of the sun's heat on his body, Barlow calculated that they were heading primarily westward, though their route twisted and turned considerably. He could also tell that they were climbing higher into the mountains. Of course, this knowledge was useless—he couldn't have retraced the route they took that day even if his life depended on it. But he had no problem with the blindfold, since it could mean the difference between life and death, even though it was unnerving to travel without the benefit of sight, especially when one was at the mercy of Apache bronchos.

  When, at last, they reached their destination, and the blindfold was removed, Barlow saw before him an Apache che-wa-ki on a high plateau surrounded by rugged peaks—not unlike the hideout in the Mogollon Mountains in which he had once found Cochise and his people, following the outbreak of trouble that, in the end, had forced the Chiricahuas to seek sanctuary in Mexico. And while the long history of animosity between Apache and Mexican might have led some to wonder at the wisdom of such a choice, Barlow knew what the Sierra Madre Mountains meant to all Apaches. For generations these mountains had been a refuge, and few Mexicans were foolish enough to venture into them. Long ago, the Mexican government had tried to root the Apaches out of the Sierra Madre; they had sent their best commanders and most veteran troops into the mountains for that purpose. Each expedition had resulted in disaster. For their part, the Apaches believed that the Sierra Madres—they called the mountains the Cima Silkq—had been set aside by the Great Spirit for them, and that the Great Spirit and the ghosts of their ancestors watched over them and kept them from harm as long as they remained here.

  The che-wa-ki was a large one, consisting of dozens of jacales constructed of dirt, clay, stones and sticks. The men, women, and children who had gathered to watch the arrival of the two white men looked none the worse for the fact that they were exiles from their homeland. But then, the Apaches were a resilient people. Barlow knew them well enough to look beyond the stoic facade, however. He knew, for instance, that under normal circumstances, and contrary to the perception of them—shared by most whites—they were a solemn bunch, that Apaches were good-natured and friendly, able to cheerfully accept the trials and tribulations of life. This attribute was usually hidden from strangers, but Barlow sensed that there was no joy here, even beneath the surface. No happiness, and no hope, either. Physically, the Apaches were more durable than most. Emotionally, though, they were vulnerable. And the past years, living like hunted animals, with no place to go, and no prospects for the future, had taken a heavy toll on them. Barlow was glad he had refused to allow Oulay to accompany him. These were her people, and what she would have seen behind their eyes and in their hearts would have upset her greatly.

  The escort of bronchos dismounted in the center of the village, and bade Barlow and Howard to do the same. Barlow glanced at Howard, and noticed that the general was studying the people that surrounded him with keen interest. He wondered if Howard was going to judge the Chiricahuas by their appearance. At first blush they seemed unthreatening—dark, wiry, dirty, most of them short of stature, clad in plain, undecorated garb no better than one would see worn by poor campesinos. They did not cut grand, warlike figures like the Comanches or the Cheyenne. But Barlow, like others who truly knew the Chi-hinne, would not have hesitated to state, if asked whether he preferred to battle a dozen Comanche warriors or a single Apache broncho, that he would choose to confront the former over the latter any day of the week. Would the old soldier realize this? Or would he be wondering why he'd come all this way, risking so much, just to keep these people, who did not look as though they posed any sort of threat at all, from going to war against the United States?

  And then the crowd parted, and
a man Barlow knew well—a man he respected as much as any other—stepped forward. It was Cochise, leader of the Chiricahua, and the one in whose hands rested the fate of the two Pinda Lickoyi who had ventured into his realm. Taller than most of his kind, and broader in the shoulders, Cochise looked every inch a warrior. He had a commanding presence. Howard looked at him, then at Barlow, and the expression on his face spoke volumes. You don't have to tell me who this one is, it said.

  Cochise hardly seemed to notice Howard; his attention was entirely focused on Barlow. He strode forward and extended a hand of friendship. Barlow took it gratefully.

  "My daughter," asked the Chiricahua jefe, "is she well?"

  "She is well. She sends her love and respect."

  Cochise was visibly moved. "I think often of her," he said wistfully.

  "She misses you too. She wanted to come with me, but I would not let her."

  Cochise nodded. "The trail is a long and dangerous one. You were right to make her stay behind."

  "One day I will bring her," said Barlow, and he meant it as a vow. "When the trail is less dangerous."

  "That day will be long in coming, I fear." Cochise finally acknowledged Howard's presence. "Why have you come all this way?" he asked Barlow.

  "To bring this man to you. He is a chief among the Pinda Lickoyi warriors. He asks to speak with you."

  "About what?"

  "War," said Barlow, "and peace."

  Though Barlow and Cochise spoke in the Apache tongue, and Howard did not understand a word of what was passing between them, he snapped to attention and saluted the Chiricauhua jefe. The gesture startled Barlow, but he quickly realized that it was a smart thing to do. For one thing, it left no doubt in anyone's mind that, despite Howard's trail-stained civilian clothes, he was a officer. And that being the case, it was a sign of respect proffered to Cochise.

  "Is he to be trusted?" Cochise asked Barlow.

  "Yes," said Barlow, without hesitation, honored to know that Cochise relied on his judgment in such an important matter.