Lawless Love

by Rosanne Bittner

  Moss moved his eyes to meet Buck’s and puffed his cigarette quietly, waiting for the man to go on.

  “I, uh, well, this one day I was in the house. And she was takin’ a nap. She woke up real bad upset. Came to the door and looked like she was gonna pass out, cryin’ and carryin’ on about how she was sure something bad had happened to you. I mean, it was you she was hurtin’ for, you know?” He moved his eyes away from Moss’s and looked at the coals. “I felt sorry for her. I walked over to take her arm, ’cause I was sure she was gonna pass out or something. I mean, it was hot—awful goddamned hot—and she looked pale and was shakin’ bad. And when I got close she just—just up and hugged me around the middle and cried against me. And then she…asked me to hold her for a while.”

  He swallowed, and Moss remained silent, taking inventory of the broad-chested Buck Donner who had two strong arms and was a good ten to fifteen years younger than Moss.

  “She—she didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Moss. I mean, she was just feelin’ damned scared for you and lonely. And she’d been carryin’ the burden of that worry all alone, and knowin’ she was pregnant on top of it, she just needed to give it over to somebody—to have somebody stronger than her hold her for a while. I felt real funny about it, but she was so—I don’t know, pitiful, I guess you’d say, like a little girl, you know?” He finally met Moss’s eyes again.

  “I know,” Moss replied. “God knows I’ve seen her that way many times.”

  “Well, I—I just thought you should know. I didn’t mean no offense. And she—she felt real funny about it afterward. I know she worried about it, tried to figure out how she’d tell you about it.”

  Their eyes held in understanding.

  “Thanks for tellin’ me,” Moss said quietly.

  Buck swallowed nervously again, as though he was afraid Moss Tucker would swing the powerful right arm any moment.

  “Well, I, uh, ain’t the kind to move in on another man’s woman or nothin’ like that. I mean, she’s special, you know? I felt sorry for her. I figured what are friends for? If holdin’ her a minute would help, why not?”

  He looked at the coals again.

  “If I thought you meant somethin’ else by it, your face would be restin’ in them coals right now,” Moss told him.

  Buck glanced up at him, at first in fear, but he saw the teasing smile on Moss’s lips. Moss put his hand out and Buck took it. They shook hands and continued the grip for longer than normal.

  “Fact of the matter is, I’m glad you was there, Buck,” Moss told him. “But don’t ever let me catch you with your arms around my wife again.”

  They both laughed lightly and released hands.

  “Hell, you old son of a bitch, once we find her there ain’t nobody gonna be able to get near her!”

  “That’s a fact,” Moss replied. “And I’ll never leave her.” He sobered and tossed his cigarette outside. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t find her, Buck. I just don’t know what I’ll do.”

  Buck reached over and grasped his shoulder. “We will find her, Moss. You’ll see. We will find her.”

  Moss sighed and lay back on his bedroll. And the rolling thunder outside and the lonely raindrops only added to his desolation.

  The storm had ended sometime during the night, and by the time they arose, the arid Arizona air had dried the tents. They all cursed the fact that the rain had not seemed to help anything. It was already hot when they packed their gear, and the ground was so dry that it seemed the storm must have only been an illusion.

  They started to mount up, but Johnny Pence suddenly cried out. Everyone whirled to see an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

  “This is it! Find some cover!” Moss shouted, grabbing his horse’s reins and yanking the animal behind a boulder with him. Arrows sang through the air and rifles were fired, but as yet they couldn’t even see the Apache. Darrell Hicks bravely dragged Johnny into a gully with him, and it was then that a band of about twenty renegades charged toward them, yipping and howling with delight at finding someone to do battle with—let alone the weapons and supplies and horses they would take as bounty once the white men were dead.

  “Make your shots count!” Moss hollered out, whipping out his .45 and taking aim himself. He fired, opening a hole in the dark-skinned chest of the warrior in front. The Indian yelped and fell from his horse.

  “Right in the brisket!” Buck told him, cocking his own rifle. For the next few moments the gunshots were almost deafening, as they echoed over and over, the sound and bullets bouncing off rocks and multiplying the noise. Moss’s heart pounded at the thought of wild-eyed renegades such as these coming across a soft white woman like Amanda. To think they might spare her was foolish. And it made him angrier. He fired again and again, each time making his shots count.

  “Look out, Moss!” he heard Buck holler. “Behind you!”

  Moss whirled as Buck fired, and one of the three Indians coming up behind them lurched forward, his face a bloodied mass of nothingness. The other two came at Moss. He fired twice, reacting fast and hitting his targets. But then three more were upon them, and Moss’s gun was empty. With only one hand there was no way he could reload fast enough. Buck was busy shooting at more who came from the front again. Moss grabbed his Winchester and cocked it in midair, firing it with one hand and killing one more Apache. Then there was no time for any more shooting, as the other two came at him with hatchets, bringing back sickening memories; Moss Tucker knew for sure that he’d not let them get near his only good arm. They came fast, leering joyfully, their white teeth looking like fangs against the dark skin, black hair wild and tangled, bronze arms shining in the sunlight.

  Moss pulled a knife from his boot and hunched over slightly, waving the knife and waiting for the two men to pounce. One swung at him with the hatchet, and Moss ducked, running head-on and unexpectedly into the man’s belly. There was a loud grunt and a flash of steel, and Moss’s blade struck deep into the soft flesh of the Indian’s groin. It all happened in only one or two seconds, yet it seemed an eternity. Moss shoved the body hard, yanking the knife out as he did so and whirling to see the other Apache gleefully raising his arm to strike down with the hatchet. Moss tried to duck, lashing out with the knife at the same time and cutting a deep gash into the Indian’s forearm. The movement made the Apache’s blow falter, and the hatchet came down Moss’s left side, skinning a piece of flesh off the stub of his missing left arm. The horror of having had his arm partially severed by an Apache in almost the same manner five years earlier only brought new rage to Moss, who quickly took advantage of the Indian’s sudden imbalance and plunged his knife into the Apache’s neck.

  Moss backed up, panting and staring down at the five Apache he’d killed in a matter of seconds, and with only one arm. His rage at picturing Amanda with these men, combined with his memory of fighting them once before, kept the adrenaline flowing, and he whirled with gritted teeth, ready to face his next attacker. It was only then he realized that things had quieted. He looked over at Buck.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  Buck turned and momentarily gaped at the dead Apache near Moss, who stood over them with the huge blade that dripped blood.

  “Did you kill all them?”

  Moss gritted his teeth. “With pleasure.”

  Buck looked back out over the boulder. “They left.”

  “They’ll be back,” Moss replied. “Stay low, men!” he hollered louder. “What’s the damage?”

  “Just the arrow in Johnny’s shoulder!” came the shouted reply. “We’re gonna pull it out and pour some whiskey on it!”

  “Nobody else!”

  “I lost the top of my ear to a bullet!” Tom Sorrells hollered. “Goddamn, I was bloody ugly enough to begin with!”

  There was light, nervous laughter.

  “You should see how many Moss got!” Buck bantered. “At leave five! Two or three with his knife!”

  “That one-armed bastard has all the luck!” Lon
nie Drake shouted from behind a rock somewhere. All of them needed to joke at the moment, sensing the dangerous situation they were in. But it was worth it if somehow they could find out about Amanda this way.

  There was a heartrending cry, followed by a long groan, as Darrell Hicks yanked the arrow from Johnny’s shoulder and poured whiskey into it. And then there was silence, as the long wait began.

  They nestled down into their hiding places, smoking, sweating, thinking their own thoughts, but mostly thinking about Amanda and wanting to puke at the thought of her being in the hands of men such as these. These were desperate men. Who knew how long they’d been entrenched in the torturous canyons and among the grotesque rocks of the Arizona deserts and mountains? And how long had they been in hiding without the softness of a woman? Just how far did their honor and bravery go? In spite of their ruthless fighting capabilities and their murderous raids, Moss held a certain respect for these red men who were fighting for a small piece of the vast land the whites had grabbed away from them. They were a desperate, deprived people, with nothing left to call home, and nothing to look forward to but death.

  The long afternoon dragged, and Moss was nearly asleep from the heat of the sun when Buck nudged him.

  “Look up there,” the man said quietly. Moss moved his eyes to see a grand-looking Apache warrior, sitting on a rise not far off and wearing a headdress of many eagle feathers. He sat on a painted pony, holding a stick with a piece of white cloth tied to it.

  “You have a one-armed warrior among you!” the Indian shouted.

  “Don’t nobody shoot!” Moss ordered his men. “This one knows something!”

  “We do!” Sooner shouted back at the Indian.

  “We wish to know if he is called Moses Tucker!” the Indian called back. Moss’s heart pounded with hope and fear combined.

  “I’m here!” he called back.

  “You have guns, Moses Tucker!” the Indian hollered down to them. “And ammunition! Food and supplies! You will give them to us!”

  “Come down here and try to take them, you son of a bitch!” Moses shouted back. The Indian grinned.

  “You will give them to me, Moses Tucker!”

  “In return for what?” Moses shouted.

  “For your woman, Moses Tucker! Or do you not think she is worth trading for?”

  Moss looked down at Buck, his feelings torn. What had these renegades done with Amanda?

  “Come out from your hiding places and give up your weapons!” the Indian commanded. “Or you will die where you are and the woman will belong to me!”

  Moss stepped forward, wondering if he would simply end up with an arrow in his chest or back. His men followed suit, appearing out from behind rocks and holding their weapons in the air. Perhaps they would die, but if this was the only way to find out about Amanda Tucker, then it would be worth it.

  “Lay your weapons on the ground!” the Indian commanded, enjoying the hold he had over this group of brave white men. The small woman who had been his captive apparently had much power to bring men such as these to surrender their weapons. More warriors appeared and moved in, to collect the guns of the lonely men.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Moss approached the Apache leader, who remained on his horse, smiling in his victory.

  “What have you done with her?” Moss asked through gritted teeth.

  The Indian’s jaws flexed, showing the anger that lay beneath the smile.

  “Why is it, my white friend, that the white man thinks it such a horror for an Indian to claim a white woman, yet he thinks nothing of raping and torturing and murdering Indian women!” The smile left the Apache’s face, replaced by hatred. Moss’s chest ached, and Sooner made a move toward the Indian.

  “Stay where you are, Sooner!” Moss ordered. “They’ll kill you sure as you’re breathin’!”

  The Indian smiled again. “The white man speaks the truth.”

  “Then I’ll tell you somethin’ else!” Moss hissed. “I’ve never laid a hand wrongly on any Indian woman, and there’s not a man with me who has, either! There are some white men who hold women in the same honorable position as any of their own women. Only a coward would take his pleasure in a woman against her will, no matter how full of vengeance he is. Is that what you are, my Apache friend?”

  The Indian lost his smile again.

  “It is sometimes difficult to remember honor, when you have seen children butchered before your eyes!” the Indian snapped. “And when you are chained to a wagon, and forced to watch white men grovel in the dirt with your woman and then cut out her privates!”

  Moss paled and his stomach churned. Somebody behind him cursed. The Indian strutted his horse in a circle, as his warriors formed a tight circle around Moss and his men.

  “However, Moses Tucker,” the Apache went on, “when I saw this white woman tied and struggling with the while filth who was bent over her—and I remembered what happened to my own woman—I saw that the white man seems to have no preference for color when he has trouble controlling his man part. This seems to be a trait with many white men.”

  Moss studied him, his mind whirling with confusion, still racing with the slim hope.

  “I did not like the pitiful sounds the white woman made, and I took out my vengeance on her attacker.” The Indian dismounted and stepped up close to Moss, their eyes holding in what was beginning to be an understanding.

  “I thought about finding out what a white woman is like,” he went on, “as I stood over her naked body. And I thought about more vengeance. I also thought about how much she would be worth to the Mexicans. Many things passed through my mind as I stood there looking at her.”

  “Stop torturin’ me with your words and tell me what you’ve done with her!” Moss growled, clenching his fist and longing to hit the man—or better yet, murder him. The Indian grinned a little again.

  “Chano is not like the white coward who attacked her,” he said quietly. “And I watched her eyes. They were wise, like a shaman—a medicine woman, a woman of faith. And do you know what she told me?”

  Moss swallowed, daring now to hope that perhaps she was not harmed after all.

  “She told me her God had sent us to help her!” The Indian snickered. “She looks straight into the eyes of an Apache renegade and says her God sent me to help her!” He laughed more and said something in his own tongue to his men, who all then joined in the laughter. Moss didn’t know whether to smile or hit the man. The Apache continued seconds later, still smiling, “So, how can a man sent from God harm she who has prayed for him to come? I cut the rawhide that bound her wrists, and I took her to my camp.”

  “How do you know it’s my woman in the first place?” Moss asked.

  “She said you would come for her. She did not fail to tell me many times. She told me her husband was the white warrior who had lost one arm to the Apache. And she said you would probably kill me when you came, if I harmed her.”

  “She spoke the truth,” Moss said flatly. The Indian grinned.

  “I am sure she did. You and your men fight well, as brave as any Apache. When we attacked you, it was for your supplies. But then one of my warriors said there was a man here with one arm, and I knew the white woman had been right. Her man had come for her. It takes a brave man to walk into the nest of Apache renegades—or a man who thinks highly of his woman. I think she must be worth much to you—perhaps worth all of your weapons?”

  “I’ll give you anything you want if she’s alive and well and I can take her home,” Moss said quietly.

  “Mmmm. I thought you would, Moses Tucker. And she is alive and well.”

  “And do I have reason to kill you?” Moss asked coldly.

  Their eyes held.

  “She is not like other white women, who stick their noses up at an Apache buck as though he were a rattlesnake,” the man replied. “She is soft and good, like my woman was. And I would not hurt my own woman, would I?”

  “You sayin’ you made my Amanda
your woman?” Moss hissed.

  “I told you I am not a coward. She belongs to you only. And I will trade her—for your guns, and any whiskey you have, and most of your food. We are starving, Moses Tucker. But we will not go back to Bosque Redondo. We will not live on the reservation ever! We will die first!”

  Moss put a shaking hand to his head and took off his hat, rubbing his sweaty forehead before putting it back on.

  “Where is she?” he asked almost brokenly. “For God’s sake, take me to her!”

  “I will tell you that I spared her not just for honor. I spared her because she told me who her man was. Do you not remember me, Moses Tucker?”

  Moss studied the man more closely. “Remember you from where?”

  “Five years ago, your arm was half cut off by Apache warriors. The two warriors that you spared ran off. They came to me to tell me about the very brave white man who had killed six others. So we let you go free. But then the white outlaws found you—the ones who had paid us to attack you—and they did a very cowardly thing. They tied you and whipped you when you were bleeding to death and unable to fight them. I saw then that they were the cowards and they were the ones who deserved to die—not you. We saved you from death, Moses Tucker. And we learned that the outlaws had raped your woman and that was why you had come to Apache country to search for them. We allowed you to kill them yourself, and we allowed you to leave Apache country alive.”

  Moss frowned. “You? You were the one?”

  “Ai. I am Chano.”

  “I was in so much pain. I don’t remember the faces.”

  “You fight bravely and with honor. And you spoke the truth that day. Your woman is also brave, and speaks only the truth. She has not been harmed.”

  “She was pregnant.”

  “She is still with child.”

  Moss blinked back tears and looked back at the others, who were grinning. He turned back to Chano.

  “You’d better be tellin’ the truth!” he said brokenly. “Or you’re a dead man, whether I’ve got one arm or not—even if I don’t have any weapons!”