Rising, Oulay swallowed the lump in her throat, and fought down a rising panic. The soldiers had returned, captured Coyoteros in their keeping. But her husband had not. And no one would tell her anything. Not even the captain who led the trail-weary troops. Still, the way some of the soldiers turned away quickly when she looked at them told her plenty. She was afraid now that the man on the other side of that door would confirm her worst fears.
"Right this way, miss," said the sergeant, solicitously.
Oulay lifted her chin. She reminded herself that she was Chiricahua Apache. She had been taught, from an early age, to conceal her feelings. Her fears. And here, among strangers, she would even conceal her grief, when it came.
The sergeant opened the door for her, and she entered to find General Crook sitting behind the desk. It was getting dark outside—the purple shadow of twilight had fallen across the parade ground just outside the room's solitary window, and there was a single burning lamp on the desk, its yellow light casting the angles of Crook's face in sharp relief. Seeing her, Crook stood up. He was stiff, uncomfortable, but it wasn't a physical discomfort. He motioned to a chair facing the desk.
"Mrs. Barlow. Thank you for your patience. Please have a seat."
"I will stand."
"Please. I insist."
She complied, because she realized that if she didn't sit, Crook wouldn't—and he looked as though he needed to be sitting a lot worse than she.
With a sigh, Crook laced his fingers together on the desk in front of him, and looked at his clasped hands instead of at her as he said, "I have some bad news."
"Yes, I know." She was inwardly pleased that she sounded so calm and composed.
"Your husband was shot three days ago. It occurred while the troops were leaving the Mogollon. Most of the Coyoteros had surrendered. But apparently a few diehards remained. Captain Cronin speculates that it was one of those that shot your husband."
"Is he dead?"
"I . . . don't know. He wasn't two days ago, when the captain left him, and the other seriously wounded, at a camp just south of the mountains."
"He's not dead." She wanted to be sure she'd heard correctly.
"He wasn't two days ago. But I won't withhold anything from you. You have the right to know everything. According to Captain Cronin, he was in a very bad way. The post surgeon, Dr. Lee, did not hold out much hope, I'm afraid."
She stared at Crook, waiting for a flood of emotion to wash over her, threatening to sweep her away, and trying to brace herself for it. But nothing happened. She didn't feel any differently from how she had a moment before. All she could think about was that her husband had been alive two days ago—and he might still be alive. So there was hope. The general did not seem to have any. The doctor and the captain might not have had any. But she was going to cling to her hope until she knew for a fact that Joshua was dead.
"At any rate," said Crook, made more uncomfortable by her inscrutable silence, "I intend to leave first thing in the morning, with a contingent of troops, with wagons, to make for that encampment and to return the wounded here. Captain Cronin informs me that those soldiers who, um, who died have been buried in the field. But, um, if your husband has passed away, I will bring his remains back here to you, if that's your wish."
"Where are the men who rode with my husband?"
"They remained behind, at the encampment."
"Then I ask that you take me with you."
Crook was completely unprepared for that request. "Well, I . . . I don't know. Your husband's request was that you be kept safe here until he returned."
"But he may not return, General. If he is dying, I want to be with him in his last moments. And if he is dead, I want to be there to bury him."
"Of course." Crook thought it over. Her request was a legitimate one—and it was also one he could not bring himself to deny. "We leave in the morning, then."
She stood, thanked him from the bottom of her heart, and left the room. Somewhat in awe, Crook watched her go, thinking that she was one hell of a woman, and that Barlow had been one very lucky man.
Then he realized that he was thinking about Joshua Barlow in the past tense.
Chapter 30
He came out of nowhere, and in a split second had killed two men—one of them the trooper who'd been riding stirrup-to-stirrup alongside Summerhayes. Killed him with a bullet to the head, and the lieutenant suddenly found himself splattered with blood and brains. The corpse slid sideways out of the saddle, spooking the horse under Summerhayes, and for an instant it was all he could do to stay aboard. Then it registered that the killer was an Apache. And Summerhayes had been in enough scrapes with Apaches to know that he'd be better off fighting on foot. Yanking the carbine that rode in a scabbard under his right leg, he threw that leg over the horse's neck and slid to the ground on the left side.
It took him a moment to figure out what was happening. They had been riding north toward the Mogollons, having left Fort Union that morning, and had made good time, without problems of any kind. There was a storm brewing off to the west—angry black clouds and bolts of lightning accompanied by peals of thunder rolling across the desert plain—but Summerhayes thought the storm was moving north, and would pass them by. General Crook, himself, Oulay, and four troopers were on horseback. They were followed by three wagons, each with a driver and a trooper riding shotgun. They hadn't been expecting trouble—the only renegade bronchos now remaining on the loose in this part of the country were the Coyotero diehards, and they were holed up in the mountains. This particular Apache war was practically over.
Yet Summerhayes had no doubt that the man who had literally risen up out of the ground was an Apache. And the most remarkable aspect of the whole business was that he was on his horse when he did it. Both man and horse had been lying in a shallow hole just a few yards away, covered by a thin film of sand. Summerhayes knew that some Indians, and even a few white men, were able to coax their mounts to stretch out on their sides and lay relatively still; in a country where quite often the only cover was a scattering of sagebrush, this was a good way to stay out of sight, if you could manage it. The lieutenant was also aware that burying oneself in a shallow hole and covering up with a layer of dirt was a common Apache ambush tactic; in this way, they would wait until their prey was almost upon them before springing the trap. But he'd never heard nor seen of an Apache burying his horse right along with himself.
The Apache and his horse had exploded out of the ground not a stone's throw away, and the broncho had immediately starting firing his rifle, killing the two troopers nearest Summerhayes. Up ahead were Crook and Oulay, riding side by side, preceded by two more cavalrymen. The first of the three wagons, which followed single file, was no more than twenty yards behind Summerhayes. One of the troopers back there was already shooting, and the lieutenant thought he ought to do the same. He looked around for more Apaches. But there weren't any more. At least none that he could see. Just the one—and even as he swung his rifle around to draw a bead on the broncho, he saw that the Apache had already reached Oulay and the general, and realized he had to hold his fire for fear of hitting either of them. Summerhayes assumed the Apache's target was Crook. Instinctively he began to run to the general's aid, hoping for a clear shot, and willing to take on the broncho hand-to-hand if necessary, regardless of the fact that his left arm was still in a sling.
But he didn't get the chance to tangle with the broncho. Seeing that the general, quick to recover from his surprise, was drawing a saber, the Apache struck him with the butt of his rifle, a blow delivered with such force that it sent Crook somersaulting backward out of the saddle. Then the Apache wrapped an arm around Oulay's waist and dragged her from her horse. Wheeling his pony around, he let out a wild shout of triumph and rode away.
It had all happened so quickly that the only trooper in the column who'd gotten off a shot was one of the men on the wagons. The two cavalrymen in the lead had just turned their horses as the broncho grabbed Oulay
; now they brought their carbines up, about to fire at the fleeing enemy. But Summerhayes, concerned for Oulay, shouted at them to hold their fire. In that same instant, he reached Crook's side—and was relieved to see that the general was alive and conscious.
The wind knocked out of him, Crook clutched at his chest. "Don't worry about me," he wheezed. "Get after him, damn it!"
Summerhayes caught up the nearest horse—it happened to be Crook's—and leaped into the saddle. "Follow me!" he shouted at the two cavalrymen, and raked his spurs across the animal's flanks. It lunged into a gallop and he took off after the Apache with the pair of troopers right behind.
Kiannatah tried to guide his horse with one hand and hold on to Oulay with the other. But she was struggling to escape his grasp, and in exasperation he threw her across the horse's neck in front of him and struck her twice with his fist in the back of the head. This brutality knocked her senseless, and she lay limp, facedown.
A quick glance over the shoulder told him that the soldiers were in pursuit. He was surprised by this, thinking that the suddenness of his attack, and his killing of two cavalrymen, would have dissuaded the rest from wanting to continue the fight. Besides, it wasn't as though he had taken a white woman. Oulay was an Apache—so why were the yellow-legs chasing him?
He wasn't unduly alarmed by this development, however, being entirely confident that he could elude the soldiers and, failing that, kill them if he had to.
The situation could not quell the fierce elation swelling in his breast. He had Oulay once more in his possession! After days of watching the fort while avoiding discovery—no small feat—his chance had finally come. Having dismissed the option of trying to infiltrate the fort and take her out as one doomed to fail, he'd had no recourse but to wait until she emerged. And when she did emerge, he'd made his move, undeterred by the fact that she was accompanied by nearly a dozen soldiers.
Once he'd ascertained that they were traveling north, toward the mountains, he'd circled wide around to get in front of them. Then it was simply a matter of picking his spot. This had to be a place he could be sure the soldiers would pass close by. That the soldiers were traveling with wagons helped—they would choose the route that was easiest for these conveyances. He found his place soon enough—a narrow valley passing between a pair of low, rocky ridges beyond which, on either side, was rough ground. Kiannatah was confident the soldiers would pass through the valley, and there he set his trap.
Riding south by west, Kiannatah came to a shallow arroyo. His limber pony had no difficulty in negotiating it, even though there was a foot of fast-running water in the bottom. This was a development Kiannatah had not expected. It was raining hard just to the west of him—he could smell the rain on the still, lightning-charged air. In such a situation, the arroyos could become death traps, as they were prone to flooding. The horse beneath him struggled mightily to carry his double load up the steep embankment and, a moment later, was galloping across the flats again. Another glance revealed to Kiannatah that the soldiers were still a thousand yards behind him. Too far for an effective rifle shot, especially from the back of a hard-running horse.
The chase went on for several more miles. Kiannatah felt the pony beneath him begin to slow. It was barely perceptible, but he knew he wasn't imagining it. He could only hope that the cavalrymen's mounts were tiring even more quickly. Two more arroyos had blocked his path—in both cases there was hock-deep water in the bottoms. Both times his horse plunged down one embankment and struggled mightily up the other. And both times he looked back to see the three soldiers pursuing him successfully negotiate the arroyos.
He was beginning to think that he would have to turn and fight, when he came abruptly upon a fourth arroyo.
Just as he was about to kick his pony into a leap down the embankment, he saw out of the corner of his eye a raging flash flood—a wall of churning brown water, filled with debris, surging down the arroyo from the west. He checked the pony so sharply that it sat down on its haunches. The edge of the flood swept past him, instantly filling the arroyo completely. Making a snap decision, Kiannatah turned the horse and kicked it into a gallop, riding along the arroyo as though he were trying to get ahead of the fast-moving floodwaters.
He glanced left—and what he saw drew a curse from his lips. The three soldiers were gaining on him now, for they were angling across the flats to intercept him.
He looked right—and could see the edge of the flood tumbling down the arroyo. Could he get far enough ahead of the waters to actually make it across to the other side? If so, he would escape; the yellow-legs would have no choice but to call off the pursuit.
But then two things happened simultaneously that ruined any chance he might have had to outrace the flood. Oulay began to regain consciousness—and the soldiers began shooting at him.
Kiannatah could not shoot back. He had to prevent Oulay from throwing herself off the horse. He could only hope that the soldiers would be unable to hit their mark from atop galloping mounts.
His luck ran out.
He felt the pony shudder beneath him as the bullet struck, and in the next instant, he was flying through the air. The impact of the ground knocked the wind out of him. Landing on his side, he rolled, gasping for air. His horse was down, thrashing, and he knew it would never get up again. Oulay lay between him and the horse, some ten paces away. His rifle was with the horse—too far away for him to get to before the soldiers were upon him. All he had was a pistol stuck under his belt. The soldiers were still shooting at him. With bold contempt for the bullets burning the air around him, he stood up straight and started for Oulay, because she was beginning to stir.
Summerhayes saw this too. He and the troopers were no more than a hundred fifty yards away from their quarry now. The Netdahe's behavior alarmed him. Instead of shooting at them, or staying low to provide a smaller target, the Apache was walking toward Oulay. The lieutenant shouted at her to stay down. Perhaps she couldn't hear him over the roar of the floodwaters in the arroyo directly behind her. She straightened, saw the Netdahe's approach, and turned to run.
"Kill him!" Summerhayes shouted at the troopers, even as he levered another round into his repeater and fired at the broncho. The troopers with him fired almost simultaneously, and he experienced a brief surge of triumph as the Apache was spun around by the impact of at least one bullet. The Netdahe staggered, but didn't fall. He raised the pistol—and Summerhayes almost choked on the horror that filled him as he realized what the broncho was about to do. He shouted again—something incoherent—and watched helplessly as the Netdahe shot Oulay in the back. She was thrown forward, and in the next instant the broncho was gone, falling—or did he jump?—into the racing, churning brown water that filled the arroyo.
Chapter 31
When Manuel returned from the fields, he did so at a run, his face radiant with delight, for he had managed to snare a rabbit, and he was quite pleased with himself. It was not often that he managed to contribute to his mother's never-ending struggle to keep food on the table. But today was different, and he thought she would be very proud of him.
As he drew near his home, Manuel saw two saddle horses tied to the uprights of the ramada that stood adjacent to the adobe. He slowed to a walk—and then broke into a run again. This time, though, it was concern for his mother that prompted his haste. Reaching the doorway, he paused to let his eyes adjust from the brightness of the sun to the dimness of the interior. Two men sat at the table. His mother crossed the room quickly to put an arm around his shoulders.
"Manuel," she said softly, "your father has returned."
Manuel looked up into her face. He understood what she was saying, but the way she said it puzzled him. Often he had dreamed of this moment. But in those dreams it was a moment of intense joy. His mother seemed more apprehensive than joyful, however, and he wondered why.
He turned his attention to the two men. One of them was a gringo. A big, bearded man, wearing a soiled gray tunic and buckskin trouse
rs. This was not his father. The second man, then, had to be the one. But Manuel did not recognize him. He was slender, with a dark, hawkish, even cruel face. The man—no, not just a man, his father, Manuel reminded himself—was peering at him with such intensity that the boy felt uncomfortable under the unblinking scrutiny. He wondered why his father did not say anything. Did not come to him with open arms. Yet Manuel was not hurt by this failure on his father's part to display the emotion one might expect from someone reunited with his family after many years' absence. In fact, he was relieved that the man—his father—was keeping his distance.
The other man, though, was a great deal more effusive. "Well I'll be damned, hombre," he said, staring at Manuel but addressing Manuel's father. "So this here is your rug rat." He grinned at Angeline. "You'll have to pardon me, ma'am. I'm just surprised as all get-out. I've done rode with this man for more'n two winters now, and not once did he see fit to tell me he had a wife and son."
"He did not see fit to tell us if he was alive or dead," said Angeline, and the anger underlining her words made Manuel glance up into her face again.
She spoke in Spanish, and Coughlin looked to his companion. "What did she say?"
The Mexican simply shook his head.
"Where have you been?" Angeline asked him. "What have you been doing all this time?"
"It is none of your business," he replied gruffly.
"I am your wife, so it is my business." She waited, watching him, expecting an answer—and getting none. "Then why have you come back now?"
Coughlin couldn't understand much of what was being said, but he could tell that the woman was agitated, and that his partner—though he didn't show it—was getting angry.
"Well," he said, "ain't this one big happy home-coming?"
Having spent most of her life in a border town, Angeline understood some English. She was also a very good judge of character. One had to be to survive in this country. There was something about the gringo that troubled her. That made her afraid for her son's welfare. And there was something about her husband that made her afraid too. He was not the same man who had left her years ago.
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