"I'll be coming with you," said Barlow grimly.
"You will?" Summerhayes was surprised—pleasantly so. Then he thought about Short Britches, and his joy was short-lived. "But, Joshua, Short Britches rode against the Coyoteros so you wouldn't have to. So that you could stay here, with Oulay. . . ."
"Yes, that's right. He died for my sake."
"Then stay," said Summerhayes somberly. "I can handle the Coyoteros."
"Oh you can, eh?" Barlow was amused.
"Sure."
"You never even wanted to be in the army, Charles. Remember?"
"That was then. This is now. I made the choice. Now I'm going to try to make the best of it."
Barlow nodded. "That's all any of us can do. But I'm going with you. Not because of Short Britches. Not really. I'm not seeking vengeance, and I'm not trying to lay to rest any guilt I feel about why he died."
"Then why?"
Barlow nodded at the mountains. "Because I've been wrong. I can't just hide here like a rabbit in its hole and hope the world will forget I exist. As long as there are Apaches up there, Oulay won't be safe. And especially if a Netdahe is one of them. So"—he turned and shrugged, smiling wanly at his friend—"I've made a choice. I'm going to eliminate the threat. Or rather, I'm going to help you and Crook eliminate it. I can't keep living like this. Every day I wonder if they're coming."
Summerhayes nodded. "I think I understand. But . . . what about Oulay?"
"Right. Now that Short Britches isn't here to protect her, what do we do?"
Summerhayes looked at Mendez and the other vaqueros. "You've got ten good men here. They're loyal to you, and to your wife. Are ten good men enough?"
"Maybe. They'd die to protect her, no question. Three of them died some years back doing just that."
"But that didn't make her safe," said Summerhayes.
"No, it didn't. So I'll take her to Fort Union. Giving her shelter—and protection—will be the price Crook will have to pay to get me to sign on." Barlow glanced again at his friend. "Think he'll pay it?"
"Without hesitation. But you know, I have a feeling Oulay won't be too fond of the arrangement."
"Right again." Barlow chuckled ruefully. "But at least I'll know she's safe. And that will make doing what I have to do a lot easier."
"Then that's what you should tell her."
A mile away, on high ground, hidden behind rocks so as not to silhouette himself against the setting sun, Kiannatah watched the burial of Short Britches through his Mexican field glasses.
He was jubilant. The old scout was dead. And Oulay was still here.
Following the night battle at the canyon, Kiannatah had slipped away from the Coyoteros in the darkness and confusion. Believing that a large force of yellow-legs was closing in, Talpute and the others had stopped fighting and drifted away into the high country. Kiannatah had whistled his horse to him, and waited. He thought, as the other bronchos did, that maybe the soldiers had come, but that didn't really matter—he was confident he could elude them, no matter how many there were.
At first light he had studied the ground carefully, and found the tracks made by Summerhayes, leading his horse with the wounded Short Britches in the saddle. Kiannatah had seen the blood. He wasn't sure of the wounded man's identity, but he knew that there was a good chance it was the old scout. He had followed the tracks. They had led him here. And now he was sure. The old scout was dead.
He was still at his vantage point when he saw eight riders leave the ranch. There was the yellow-leg officer, the rancher named Barlow, and Oulay, accompanied by five heavily armed vaqueros. Where were they bound? Kiannatah went down to where his horse was hidden, and mounted up. He would shadow the eight riders until he knew the answer. And sometime, somewhere, he would take Oulay again. This time he would not give her up.
Chapter 26
Upon arrival at Fort Union, Barlow asked for and immediately received an audience with General Crook. Captain Cronin had returned to the fort with his contingent; three of the Mescalero scouts had deserted, and one was dead, leaving only one other, and with but one scout Cronin could not carry out his orders. He was furious at Charles Summerhayes, and insisted on being present at the meeting between Crook and Barlow. For his part, Barlow insisted that Summerhayes be present as well. Crook acceded to all the demands. His first concern was the welfare of Short Britches.
"He's dead," said Barlow bluntly. "That's why I'm here."
"I'm truly sorry. Are you intending to take his place?"
"That's right."
"Unfortunately, we have only one Apache scout left to us."
"Under the circumstances, one will be enough. Besides, I have five vaqueros with me. They're all good trackers, good fighters. They've all fought the Apaches before."
Crook thought it over—and nodded his approval. "That suits me. I won't ask for the reasons you've changed your mind. I have a pretty good idea. And that doesn't really matter. The main thing is, as it always has been, to stop the raids."
"Right," said Barlow. "I have two more conditions, General."
"Let's hear them."
"The first is that you allow my wife to remain here in the fort until the troubles are over."
"That can be arranged, certainly. I personally will vouch for her safety. Your second condition?"
"That Lieutenant Summerhayes be assigned to me."
"I protest!" exclaimed Cronin. "The lieutenant should be brought up on charges for gross dereliction of duty."
Crook fastened a steely gaze upon Summerhayes. "I must admit, the captain has a point. Your first responsibility was to the captain and the troops under his command."
"I know," said an unflinching Summerhayes. "But I had a dying man's last wish to consider. That's why I sent the Mescalero to inform Captain Cronin of the situation."
"He might never have gotten through," said Cronin. "The first one didn't."
"The Coyoteros had no desire to attack you or your command, Captain," said Barlow.
"Oh, so now you know what the Coyoteros are thinking?" asked Cronin tersely.
"I know what they were doing. They were after the scouts all along, which is why the first Mescalero was waylaid—to keep you out of the game."
"This is ridiculous, General," protested Cronin. "They can make all the excuses in the world, but the fact remains that Lieutenant Summerhayes did not do his duty."
Crook exhaled heavily through his nostrils. He was clearly perturbed. He glowered at Cronin, then at Summerhayes, and finally swung his gaze in Barlow's direction.
"The lieutenant deserves a medal, if you ask me," said the latter. "When Short Britches and the Mescalero with him were attacked by the Coyoteros, Lieutenant Summerhayes was on his way out of the canyon, heading for Captain Cronin's command. Most men would have kept going. But he put his life on the line to go back, and he sent the Coyoteros packing. As it turned out, he couldn't save Short Britches. But at least he tried."
"I will leave a final decision on this matter to another day," said Crook. "For now, we must concentrate our energies on defeating the Coyoteros. The lieutenant will be assigned to you, Mr. Barlow."
But Cronin wasn't inclined to let it go. "General, I . . . ."
Crook held up a hand, cutting the captain short. "I've made up my mind. Besides, it's entirely possible that Mr. Summerhayes will be killed before this war is over. And then the problem will have resolved itself." He glanced at Summerhayes, with the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Summerhayes nodded slightly. The general was right. His logic was unassailable, and Summerhayes wasn't the least bit offended.
"Very well, then," said Crook, turning briskly to Barlow. "Your conditions will be met. As the new head of scouts, I would be interested to hear what you have in mind."
"Do you have a map of the Mogollons?"
Crook turned to his desk, where several maps lay among an assortment of papers. He unrolled one of them, holding down one side with his scabbarded
saber, the other with a heavy leather-bound book. Barlow bent over the map, studying it.
"I can't vouch for it's accuracy," admitted Crook. 'This map was not produced by a survey team, but rather, I'm told, by prospectors over two decades ago."
"It's accurate enough," said Barlow. He pointed to a spot on the map. "See here—three canyons, extending deep into the mountains. Though it isn't shown, they converge—right about here. The most likely place for the Coyotero camp is here, maybe three miles from the convergence."
"How can you know this?" protested Cronin. "You're just guessing, Barlow."
"I know the Mogollons like the back of my hand," replied Barlow. "Back when Cochise and the Chiricahuas called those mountains home, I went up there quite bit."
"So what are you suggesting?" asked Crook.
"That you gather up as many troopers as you can muster, and that we push straight up these three canyons. The Coyoteros will come down to stop us. They'll have no choice."
"I thought you were opposed to a straightforward approach," said the general. "That you thought driving deep into the Mogollons would be a bloody business."
"Oh, it will be," replied Barlow bleakly. "A lot of men will die. But we will prevail. It's simply a matter of superior numbers."
"To divide our force into three parts, one for each of those canyons, is reckless," said Cronin.
"No, it isn't. Valerio has, at most, seventy to eighty bronchos. And he will have to split his forces if he intends to stop all three of our columns. Any one of the contingents should have a better than fair chance of whipping twenty to thirty bronchos. And by pressing on as quickly as possible to where the canyons converge, it supports the other columns, because it threatens to outflank the Coyoteros in the other canyons."
As the full scope of Barlow's plan became clear to him, General Crook's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Yes. Yes, of course. Well done, Mr. Barlow. I see your years at West Point weren't wasted. This is strategically and tactically sound. Captain?"
"What happens if Valerio concentrates his bronchos against only one of the columns?"
"Then that column must hold out as long as possible," replied Barlow, "giving the other two time enough to get behind the Coyoteros. When that happens, Valerio has only two choices—surrender, or withdraw to his camp and defend it to the death."
Cronin nodded, begrudging in his acceptance of the scheme. He didn't like the fact that Barlow had come up with it, but he couldn't very well complain too much, since his had always been the voice for taking the fight directly to the enemy, and damn the costs. "I have only one question," he said. "Where will Mr. Barlow and his men be?"
"When the Coyoteros come down to stop you," said Barlow, "we'll let them pass right by us. And then we'll move against their camp. Once they find out we're behind them, and threatening their hideout, the bronchos may scatter. They may even give up the fight."
Crook was solemn. "I don't want the Coyotero women and children harmed. I know I don't have to worry about you on that score, Mr. Barlow. But what about your vaqueros? Can you control them? I understand there's much bad blood between Mexican and Apache."
"Yes, there is. But they'll do what I tell them."
"Very well, then. I will send riders to summon Lieutenants Embrey and Walker back here immediately. With their companies we will be able to put nearly a hundred men into each of the three canyons. Embrey will command one column, Walker another, and you, Captain Cronin, will command the third. I will accompany you, Captain. We should be able to set out within the week."
Thanks to Crook, Oulay was provided with quarters at the end of Officers' Row, which just happened to be adjacent to the room that, years before, Barlow had shared with Lieutenants Summerhayes, Trotter and Hammond. Barlow had to wonder how the garrison—particularly the handful of wives who lived within the fort—would respond to Oulay's presence. She was, after all, an Apache. He didn't expect them to befriend Oulay, but he did hope they would not treat her badly. At least he would have a few days, maybe as long as a week, to spend with her—and he intended, by his presence, to ensure that the garrison wives, not to mention the soldiers themselves, remained on their best behavior.
She was worried, of course, knowing what he intended to do. He'd told her everything, even the details of his plan to end the Coyotero war. She had no illusions about the perils involved—to plunge into the Mogollons looking for a fight with Apache bronchos was a dangerous business, no matter how many troopers were involved. Though she didn't speak of her feelings, Barlow surmised that Oulay wasn't happy being in the fort, yet she understood perfectly why he'd brought her here, and she wasn't about to complain. Her duty, as she saw it, was to suffer through, to remain where he put her, so that he wouldn't have to worry about her while he was taking on the Coyoteros. Still, she had grown to love the little adobe house that had been their home these past few years—growing up a Chiricahua at a time when the Apaches were having troubles with the Pinda-Lickoyi, she had never before lived in one place for so long a time. She was terribly homesick, but tried to conceal that fact from her husband.
In the days they spent together at Fort Union, waiting for the army to prepare itself for the campaign into the Mogollons, they spoke only once of their greatest fears and what the future might hold for them. It was late into the night, when they lay awake, in each other's arms. During the daylight hours, Barlow was usually able to occupy his mind with making sure he and his vaqueros and the single remaining Mescalero scout would receive their fair portion of ammunition and provisions. And during the evening hours he could distract himself by joining the vaqueros around a campfire, where, usually these days, the conversation dwelled on Short Britches, not so much on his death, but rather on the remarkable abilities he had displayed while alive. But late into the night, when Oulay lay beside him, Barlow was no longer able to divert his thoughts from the very real possibility that these might be their last hours together.
"We might be moving out tomorrow," he said, abruptly. Although her eyes were closed, and she hadn't moved for a long while, he knew by the rate of her breathing that she was awake. "I won't be gone long, though."
She was silent a moment—then her eyes opened, and she gazed at him, and said, "They may be Coyoteros, but they are still Apaches. They are my people."
Barlow was surprised. He hadn't expected this to be a concern of hers—he'd thought she would be worried about him, about when or whether they would be together again. But he told himself he shouldn't be surprised; leave it to Oulay to be worried about others beside herself, to see things in a larger perspective than he was usually able to.
"I'm sorry," he said, lamely. "But now all bets are off. Now the Netdahe are involved."
Her body was pressed against his beneath the counterpane, and he felt her shudder involuntarily; he suspected that she was wondering now whether the Netdahe who rode with the Coyoteros was the one who had kidnapped her. For her, there were many potential dangers out there, considering the circumstances. But the greatest danger to her was the Avowed Killer called Kiannatah. As long as he lived, she wasn't safe, regardless of whether all the rest of the Apaches laid down their arms and never again went to war against the White Eyes or the Mexicans.
"They said you were a friend to the Apache," she whispered. "From now on, they will not say that anymore."
"This has got to end," he said, exasperated—not with her, but with the fact that there was no happy resolution to the dilemma that confronted him. "We've got to have peace, and I've begun to think there's only one way to achieve it."
Her head propped up on one hand, she looked thoughtfully down into his eyes, her own dark gaze indecipherable. "By killing all the Chi-hinne?"
"No. But I may have to kill some of them. Even if they are your people. And were my friends."
With a sigh, she laid her head back down on his chest, and for a long while neither spoke; during this time Barlow let his senses record the experience of lying beside her, thinking the memory would
help him get through the nights to come, when he would be without her. And then she showed him that she had an even better way to render this night a memorable one, that she wanted something more than just the memory of a moment to cling to. She whispered in his ear that she loved him, and followed this with a series of featherlight kisses that started at his earlobe and traveled along his jawbone to the corner of his mouth. She straddled him; aroused, he slipped inside her, and marveled at how perfectly they seemed to fit together, and how unself-consciously they made love. When they were done they lay with arms and legs entwined, and spoke no more of the uncertain future, but reveled in this intimate interlude that, while fleeting, was unforgettable.
Chapter 27
Early the next morning, Barlow emerged into the slanting sunlight and squinted at two men approaching across the parade ground from the general direction of the headquarters building. One of them was Summerhayes. The other was a civilian, clad in a travel-worn tweed suit. He was short, slight, balding. Strands of mouse brown hair were plastered to his sweat-glistening pate. His suit had large dark patches of perspiration. Here was a man unaccustomed to the harsh climate of the Arizona Territory. Barlow didn't hold that against him. The weather took a lot of getting used to. It could easily kill a man—just like everything else around here.
Summerhayes introduced the civilian as a Mr. Boswell, who proclaimed himself an attorney from Tucson. Even though Summerhayes had just performed the introductions, Boswell requested that Barlow identify himself. Barlow complied, somewhat indifferently. He had no idea what Boswell wanted from him, and he didn't really care. He could glance over the shining head of the attorney and see that there was a great deal of hustle and bustle on the other side of the parade ground; it looked very much like the campaign against the Coyoteros was finally about to get under way.
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