Kiannatah yawned. Soon, he thought, it would be time to conduct another raid against the Nakai-Ye. He considered paying a visit to Geronimo, to argue for just such a course of action. The Netdahe leader lived nearby, but while his jacal was but a few miles away as the crow flew, it would take a half day to negotiate the maze of canyons to reach it. Most of the other Netdahe remained in close proximity to their leader. Yet while he considered himself an Avowed Killer—indeed, he thought of himself as a better Netdahe than all the others—Kiannatah had never befriended any of Geronimo's other followers. Even in the early days he had kept himself apart. This might not have been the wisest course, since Geronimo had come to favor him, and at one point had even said that Kiannatah was the closest thing to a son that he had. This had engendered a good deal of jealousy and, sometimes, outright animosity toward Kiannatah among the other Netdahe bronchos. Ironically, he was an outcast even from a band of outcasts.
It wasn't that Kiannatah thought he needed Geronimo's permission to conduct another raid. But he preferred to ride with at least two or three other Netdahe. Even though they did not like him, most of the other Netdahe would accompany him on a raid, because they knew that, like Geronimo, Kiannatah was a brilliant tactician who was assured of success.
Kiannatah had made up his mind to leave his place on the hillock and descend to the jacal when he was struck by the sudden and absolute conviction that he was being watched.
He peered at the jacal for a moment, but the Mexican girl was nowhere to be seen. Then he carefully scanned the rimrock all around. Nothing. Still, he was sure that there was someone out there. His instincts seldom led him astray. Who could it be? Another Apache, certainly. No Nakai-Ye or Pinda Lickoyi could get so close without betraying himself. Besides, neither the Mexicans nor the whites dared venture into the Cima Silkq these days. But just because it was an Apache did not mean there was no danger. Kiannatah did not trust his own people. Most were afraid of him. Some hated him. And there was one in particular who wanted nothing more than to see him dead—Cochise.
Deciding swiftly on a course of action, Kiannatah rose and proceeded down the slope to the jacal, acting for all the world like nothing was wrong. But once inside, he moved quickly to the back of the jacal and, dropping to one knee, dug down into the hard-packed dirt until he found the knotted end of a rope. The Mexican girl, squatting by the cookfire in the center of the jacal, watched him, wide-eyed. Pulling on the rope, Kiannatah lifted a small trapdoor made of rough-hewn cedar planking. Below was a narrow tunnel. Before dropping down into the tunnel, he gave the Mexican girl a fierce glance.
"Stay inside," he snapped, in his own tongue, "and be quiet."
She nodded, having picked up enough Apache during her year of captivity to understand clearly. Looking at her, Kiannatah saw the hate shimmering in her eyes. He was going out to, quite possibly, die—and she was fervently hoping for that result.
Once in the tunnel, Kiannatah crawled swiftly to its terminus, some twenty yards east of the jacal. He emerged through another dirt-covered trapdoor, in a spot surrounded by boulders and blocked from view in every direction. Slipping through a pair of boulders tilted one against the other, Kiannatah circled to the north, using the rough contours of the terrain to remain hidden from anyone who might be lurking on the rimrock. He couldn't know for certain where the intruder was located, but he did know that the best vantage point from which to get a clear view of the jacal and its surroundings was to the north.
He was right. The intruder was on the northern rimrock. But it wasn't an enemy. At least Kiannatah didn't think so.
Geronimo was sitting cross-legged in the shade of a huge catclaw, rifle across his lap. He could not see the jacal from this location. And even though Kiannatah approached from behind him, moving as silently as a ghost, Geronimo somehow knew he was near.
"Good," said the Netdahe leader, without turning around. "I am glad you are here. I was growing weary of waiting."
Kiannatah lowered his rifle. Circling Geronimo, he sat on his heels facing his mentor. He didn't ask why Geronimo was playing this game—why he hadn't simply approached the jacal openly. That was the way of the Netdahe leader; he was constantly testing others, especially those who rode with him. Knowing this did not temper Kiannatah's annoyance, however.
"Why are you here?"
Geronimo was surprised by the curtness of the question. "I bring you good news, Kiannatah. Valerio and his Coyoteros have gone to war against the Pinda Lickoyi."
Kiannatah's eyes were suddenly bright with interest. "And you are going north to join them."
Geronimo shook his head. "No. But I tell you this because I thought you would want to go."
"Why does Geronimo choose not to?"
"The time is not right."
Kiannatah made a dismissive gesture. There was scorn in his voice. "What does that mean?"
Geronimo watched the young Netdahe warily. He had seldom seen Kiannatah like this, so openly defiant. "One day all of the bands will rise up against the white man. Then the men will turn to me to lead them in one final battle against our enemies."
"So with you, now, it is not enough to kill our enemies. It is fame you seek."
Geronimo checked his anger. "I will die fighting, the same as you, Kiannatah. But for my death to count for something, I will choose the time and place."
Kiannatah thought it over. He realized that, as far as Geronimo was concerned, he had become a liability ever since his killing of Nachita, friend to Cochise. Perhaps this was Geronimo's way of getting rid of him. He quickly considered his options. He could refuse to go, and dash the Netdahe leader's hopes. But there was an even better way.
"I am not so particular," he said dryly. "I will go north, and join the Coyoteros. I grow weary too—weary of hiding in these mountains like an animal. I am an Apache, and whenever there is a chance to strike the enemies of my people, I will go there."
Geronimo stood up. The Netdahe leader was very grave. "Even your own people are your enemies, Kiannatah," he said.
He turned his back and walked away. It was a risky thing to do, because there was no telling how Kiannatah might react. But he was, after all, Geronimo—and he had to demonstrate that he wasn't afraid of this man. Even though that wasn't precisely true.
Watching Geronimo walk away, Kiannatah smiled coldly. He had learned many things from the Netdahe leader. He had been an attentive pupil in the ways of war. Now he would put all that he had learned to the test. And best of all, he would return alive, dashing Geronimo's hopes.
On his way back to the jacal, Kiannatah debated what to do about the Mexican girl. Before, he had never been gone more than a few days. But this time he would not return for a very long time. As far as he could tell, there were only two choices: He could set her free or he could kill her.
Reaching the jacal, he set the rifle down just outside the doorway and drew his knife before crossing the threshold.
Chapter 19
Even though it seemed like the world was going to hell in a handbasket, Barlow had two months of relative peace and quiet on his ranch with Oulay, during which time he tried very hard to convince himself that there was at least a slim possibility that the current Apache troubles would not visit him and his again. Of course, he knew that wasn't going to be the case. And so it was with more resignation than resentment that one day he heard the news from Short Britches that a small detail of soldiers was on its way. With a fatalist's sigh, he asked the old scout if he recognized any of the men.
"One of them is your friend, the lieutenant," said Short Britches. "And there is one who does not wear a uniform. But it is easy to see that he is a soldier."
"It isn't General Howard?"
Short Britches shook his head. "This one has a yellow beard. And both arms."
Barlow didn't bother asking if the soldiers had seen Short Britches. They wouldn't have, unless the old scout had wanted them to.
Short Britches watched Barlow closely. He saw how the padrone ca
st a despondent look around the ranch.
"Every time the soldiers come," remarked the scout, "you end up going away, even though you never want to go. This time, maybe you should go away before they get here. I will tell them you won't be back for a long time, and then they will go."
"You mean I should run," said Barlow.
"You are too proud. I have always thought so. I have always thought that pride would be the death of you."
"Maybe," said Barlow glumly.
Short Britches glanced beyond Barlow, and for the first time that he could remember, Barlow thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy in the scout's sun-faded eyes. He turned to see Oulay standing at the doorway of their adobe home—and could hardly bring himself to look at her, because the expression on her face made plain the fact that she knew, and dreaded, what was coming.
"I'll go tell the lookout."
It was a job he could have given Short Britches, except that he did not want to bear witness to any more of the suffering reflected in the eyes of the woman he loved.
The detail arrived a couple of hours later. The only man among them that Barlow recognized was Lieutenant Summerhayes. The man with the blond beard looked to be about forty years of age, and was clad in a canvas hunting outfit and a pith helmet. He was tall, spare, and sinewy. Most striking of all, however, was his choice in mounts. Instead of a horse, he rode a mule. But Short Britches was right—a single glance and you could tell he was a soldier. His bearing was military. This was a man accustomed to command. His was a stocky, durable build, and while it was clear these men had traveled a long way in a short time, he looked none the worse for the ordeal. The same could not be said of the four troopers who accompanied him and Summerhayes.
"Hello, Joshua," said Summerhayes, as the soldiers checked their weary mounts in front of the adobe. "I've brought you another general."
"Just what I wanted, Charles. Thanks."
"General George Crook, Mr. Joshua Barlow."
Crook swung down from the saddle and stuck a hand out. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barlow. I've heard a lot about you from General Howard. He thinks a lot of you."
"The last time I saw him," said Barlow, "I asked him to forget I even existed."
Crook smiled. "I understand."
"Do you?" Barlow gestured halfheartedly at the adobe's door. "Come on in."
Crook accepted the invitation, while Summerhayes tarried outside long enough to tell the troopers to water the horses, and where they could find the spring. Barlow introduced Crook to Oulay, and then the three men sat down at the table while Oulay provided them with cups of coffee.
"How's the war going?" asked Barlow.
"Not well," replied Crook gruffly. "Which, I gather, is why General Howard sent for me."
"I see."
"It seems the thinking was that, with Cochise and Geronimo apparently being content to remain down in Mexico, this Coyotero chief named Valerio would be easy enough to handle," said Crook. "Apparently, that hasn't been the case."
"Valerio's not to be underestimated."
"General Crook has earned his reputation as the army's best Indian fighter," said Summerhayes.
"Is that right?"
Summerhayes gave him a funny look. Barlow's ambivalence struck him as odd. "Oh, yeah. Like you, Joshua, he graduated from the military academy at West Point. . . ."
"At the bottom of my class, I should add," said Crook wryly.
"And he was posted to California," continued Summerhayes. "He led successful campaigns against the Shoshones and the Nez Perce. During the war he fought at Second Manassas and Chickamauga, and breveted major general of volunteers. He commanded the Army of West Virginia during the Shenandoah campaign, serving under Phil Sheridan. And then, after Lee surrendered, he was posted to Oregon to subdue the Paiute. And now, at General Howard's request, President Grant has sent him down here to end the fighting between whites and Apaches once and for all."
"Well," said Barlow, "you've done your homework, Charles."
"I've followed the general's career for some time," admitted Summerhayes, with unabashed admiration. "In my opinion, he is the best Indian fighter in the army."
Crook looked mildly amused by the lieutenant's enthusiasm, but said nothing.
"You might find the Apaches a harder nut to crack than the Paiutes, General," said Barlow.
"I've done my homework too, Mr. Barlow. Read all I could find about the Apaches, including the field reports from officers who have served in the territory for the past twenty years, along with written accounts by traders who frequented the Santa Fe Trail. Having done that, I'm inclined to agree with you. I know I have my work cut out for me."
Barlow nodded. "It's good that you're not going to underestimate them. I've seen a lot of good men killed needlessly because their commanders did just that."
Crook leaned forward. "I may be an Indian fighter, Mr. Barlow. But I'm not an Indian hater. The first thing I learned when I got to California, fresh out of West Point, was that the Indians seemed to have a valid reason for being at war with us. The Senate rejected no less than eighteen treaties that had been negotiated with the tribes out there. You know what that left them with? Nothing. No rights whatsoever. We promised that they could keep at least a portion of their homeland. But in most cases, they didn't get to keep any of it. So they struck back. And being an officer in the United States Army, I had to fight them. It was a difficult decision. But the only option was to quit the army, and I wasn't prepared to do that."
Barlow tried to conceal his concern. "Why are you here?"
"My task is to put down the Coyoteros. Now I fully understand why they've gone on the warpath—it has to do with that damned scalp bounty put up by the Mexican government, which resulted in that massacre of the Aravaipa. I know all this, but it doesn't change anything. The Coyoteros have to stop their raids. I would prefer to do that as quickly, and with as little blood shed, as possible. In previous campaigns against other tribes I've discovered that using native scouts can facilitate matters greatly. I would like to do that again here. Now I understand that it's been done before, to a degree. You were once made chief of scouts, with a number of White Mountain Apaches under your command—isn't that so?"
Barlow was about to speak when Short Britches walked in. The scout's intrusion startled him. It wasn't like the half-breed to interrupt when he knew that Barlow was engaged in business. But he stood there, just inside the door, looking unapologetic. For a moment no one said anything—Barlow and Crook and Summerhayes all stared at Short Britches, and he looked right back at them.
"Who is this man?" asked Crook, finally.
"He works for me," said Barlow.
"That coffee smells good," said Short Britches. "Mind if I have some?"
"Help yourself," said Barlow, curious to know what the scout was up to. He turned to Crook. "It's okay. You can talk freely in front of him. He's to be trusted."
"He's a good man," agreed Summerhayes.
Crook peered speculatively at Short Britches as the scout stood while Oulay poured coffee into the cup he was holding. "Part Apache?"
"I don't know," confessed Barlow. "I never asked. What about it, old man?"
"Me? I have a little bit of everything in me, I think."
His coffee cup filled, Short Britches wandered over to a chair in the corner of the room and sat down, appearing to be much more interested in the java than in what the three men at the table were talking about.
"There were six White Mountain scouts," said Barlow. "Most of them were killed. The rest went home. Using Apaches for scouting is probably a good idea, but I don't know where you'll find enough willing to do the job. Just because the Mescaleros and the Mimbrenos and the Bedonkohes aren't on the warpath doesn't mean they're feeling too friendly towards white people these days. They know what happened to the Aravaipa too."
"That's why I'm hoping you'll help me, Mr. Barlow," said Crook. "From everything I've been told, the Apaches trust you more than they do any other whi
te man. Maybe you can talk some of them into helping."
"And if I did, then what?"
"Then I would hope you'd consent to serve as my chief of scouts in this campaign."
Barlow's lips thinned. He glanced angrily at Summerhayes, who looked sheepishly away. Barlow didn't blame Crook for asking the question, but he thought that at least Charles, or maybe General Howard, would have talked Crook out of making the offer. Both of them ought to have known how he would react.
"Absolutely not," he said.
Crook paused, choosing his words carefully. "I haven't been in the Arizona Territory for very long, but I'm guessing there are plenty of people around here who would just as soon have a war with the Apaches, and be done with it. But you're not one of them." He glanced around the adobe's interior. "You have a nice place here. You've made a good start for yourself. Surely you place a high value on peace."
"He's done plenty to keep the peace," said Short Britches, over the rim of his coffee cup. "More than his share, if you ask me."
"Of course," said Crook. "Brokering a meeting between General Howard and Cochise—that alone was a remarkable achievement, and one that will save untold lives."
"Then how come you people won't leave him alone?" asked the old scout.
"That's enough," said Barlow quietly.
"I don't think so. They're going to try to talk you into it. And you might let them. I've seen it happen before. I'm just saying what needs to be said."
"I already said no."
"But they're still sitting here, aren't they? They're not done with you yet."
Barlow turned to look at the old scout. "What's gotten into you?"
"The fact is, General," said Short Britches, addressing Crook, who had been watching the exchange with intense interest, "you're asking the wrong person anyway. I could find plenty of scouts for you. And I'll lead them for you too. We can take care of the Coyoteros in no time at all."
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