Slowly, he raised his hands to shoulder level. “Ya a teh, shila aash,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness. Greetings, my friend.
“We have no friends among the whites.” The voice, speaking remarkably good English, came from behind him, high up and a little to his right.
“I am Otter, son of White Robe, daughter to Stalks the Bear.” Mitch spoke the Indian name his mother had given him for the first time since childhood. She had called him Otter because he loved the water, because he tried to swim whenever she bathed him.
There was a flurry of hushed whispers, and then the voice said, “Go to the left. Wait for us at the cottonwood at the bottom of the trail.”
Releasing the breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, Mitch took up the reins and followed the left fork in the trail, which snaked back and forth for about a hundred yards.
A few minutes later the narrow path opened onto a stretch of flat ground and he saw a tall cottonwood standing like a sentinel at the head of another trail. Four warriors clad in clouts and moccasins stood near the tree. Three held rifles, one carried a bow and had a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder.
Mitch reined his horse to a halt a few yards from the men. He had never seen any of his mother’s people, but she had told him that the men were fierce warriors, trained from infancy to be hunters and fighters. She had told him that Apache men could go for miles without food or water and were warriors without equal. Now, studying the four men in front of him, Mitch knew she had not lied. They were stocky and barrel-chested, solid and muscular, with dark copper skin, thick black hair, and suspicious black eyes.
The warrior on the far right took a step forward. “Why have you come here?”
Mitch recognized the voice as the one who had spoken to him earlier. “I was raised among the whites. I wish to learn the ways of my mother’s people.”
The warrior looked at Mitch with obvious distrust. “White Robe has never mentioned having a son of warrior age.”
Mitch stared at the warrior, his breath trapped in his throat. It seemed his heart stopped for a moment before pounding in his ears. “What did you say?”
The warrior looked at him strangely. “White Robe did not mention she was expecting you.”
“She’s here?” Mitch asked hoarsely. “My mother is here?”
“Is that not why you have come here?”
“No.” Mitch blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears that burned his eyes. “I thought she was dead. I wanted to meet her people, learn their ways.”
“Come,” the warrior said. “We will take you to White Robe.”
Mitch searched his memory, trying to recall the Apache word for thank you. His mother had often spoken to him in her language until his father put a stop to it. Sadly, Mitch had forgotten most of what he had learned.
“Ashoge,” Mitch said.
With a nod, the warrior gestured for Mitch to follow. The other three men turned and went back up the trail to guard the entrance to the stronghold.
She couldn’t be here, Mitch thought as he followed the warrior through a narrow pass. She was dead.
A short time later, the pass widened onto a wide green valley surrounded by tall cliffs. Mitch stared at the tipis spread in concentric circles on the valley floor, at the men and women immersed in their daily tasks, at the children running half-naked along the stream that meandered through the center of the valley. Stared, and felt a stirring deep within his soul, a calling to that part of him that he had resisted for so long.
He had never been here before, yet it all seemed achingly familiar, like the echo of a song long forgotten, the last vestiges of a dream that elude the memory upon waking.
He took a deep breath, drawing in the scents around him—the smoke from a cook fire, the smell of roasting meat, sage and earth and pine. There was a sweet savor to the very air itself, and it smelled like home.
When they reached the village, the warrior stopped in front of a large tipi located in the shade of an ancient pine. “This is White Robe’s lodge.”
“Ashoge,” Mitch said. He sat there for a moment, trying to compose himself, telling himself it couldn’t be his mother, it was just a woman who had the same name.
Dismounting, he ground-tied the bay, then rapped on the lodge flap.
His heart was pounding like a drum as the flap was pulled back and he saw his mother standing in the opening.
Mitch shook his head. “I don’t believe it. He told me you were dead.”
The woman looked at him, clearly not recognizing him.
“It’s me,” he said. “Mitch.”
She leaned forward a little, her gaze moving over him. “Otter,” she murmured, her expression and voice mirroring her disbelief. “No. It cannot be. He told me you had died of a fever.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“I went back to visit you a few months after I left your father. I hoped he might have changed. I missed you, and thought perhaps I would stay with him. He said I was not welcome there, and that you had died of smallpox.”
She stepped back, motioning for him to enter her lodge
“I guess he lied to us both,” Mitch said, ducking inside. “If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him.”
“He is dead then?”
“Yeah, got himself killed in a poker game. Somebody caught him with a fifth ace.”
White Robe let out a sigh that might have been regret, but Mitch didn’t think so. Relief would be more like it.
He thought of all the years he had missed with his mother because of his old man’s lies and knew he had never hated his father more than he did at that moment. “I never understood how you got hooked up with him in the first place.”
“He was very handsome, and I was very young.” She shrugged. “It is bad luck to speak of the dead. Let us not speak of him anymore.”
“Shi ma.” He whispered the Apache word for mother, his voice ragged with emotion as he took her in his arms. He held her tight for a long while, his tears falling unashamedly.
She shuddered as she took a deep breath, and he felt her tears on his chest.
Mitch smiled as he sat down. He hadn’t seen her in years, and the first thing she wanted to do was feed him. “Later, shi ma. Sit down and tell me…” He grinned at her. “Tell me everything.”
She sat beside him, unable to stop staring, reaching out to touch him from time to time, as if to assure herself he was really there.
“I was never happy in that house. I knew you were not happy either, and that is why I decided to leave there. To leave him. I did not know he would refuse to let you go with me. When he said you could not go, I told him I would stay, but he was angry then, and he said he no longer wanted me. I did not want to leave you, ciye.”
“I know.”
“But I was afraid of him, and so I came home and lived with my parents. My father was killed by the soldiers two years later. My mother died soon after.” She paused a moment. “I have a good husband now, and another son.”
“Are you happy?”
She nodded, her expression softening.
“So, I have a brother. How old is he?”
“Four summers.”
Mitch laughed. “Well, I always wanted a little brother,” he said, squeezing his mother’s hand. “Thanks, shi ma.”
“What of you, ciye? Has life been good to you?”
“I can’t complain.”
“Have you found a woman?”
He thought briefly of Alisha, then shook his head. “No. I reckon I never will.”
“You are young yet.”
He grunted softly. He didn’t feel young, just old and rode hard.
“How long will you stay?”
“I don’t know. ‘Til you throw me out, I reckon. I’ve got no place to go, and no one waiting for me when I get there.”
She smiled at him, her dark eyes glowing. “Then you will stay here with us until you are an old, old man.” She stood up, her fingers ruf
fling his hair. “Elk Chaser and our son, Rides the Buffalo, will be home soon, and they will be hungry.” She smiled at Mitch again. “And surprised.”
Mitch watched his mother as she prepared a large pot of venison stew. She had gained a few pounds, there were a few strands of gray in her hair, but other than that, she had changed little since he had seen her last. There was still a sparkle in her eye, she smiled easily.
He looked around the lodge, taking it all in. It was large and roomy. Three bedrolls were spread near the rear of the wickiup. There was a small fire pit in the center of the lodge for cooking and keeping the lodge warm in winter, pots and cooking utensils stacked nearby. Several buckskin bags that he guessed contained clothing and the like hung from the ceiling. There were a couple of willow backrests.
His mouth began to water as the lodge filled with a fragrant aroma.
A short time later a man and a young boy entered the lodge. The boy was grinning ear to ear as he held up the carcass of a rabbit.
“Enjuh!” White Robe said as she took the rabbit. “You did well, Rides the Buffalo.”
The boy nodded, obviously proud of his accomplishment. He stopped smiling when he saw the tall stranger standing near the back of the lodge.
White Robe took a deep breath. “This is Otter,” she said, her gaze moving from her young son to her husband. “I hope you will make him feel welcome in our lodge by speaking to him in his own language.”
Surprise flickered in Elk Chaser’s eyes. “Has he come back from the dead?”
“Sit down, my husband,” White Robe said. “I will tell you about it after you eat.” She smiled at Rides the Buffalo as she took the rabbit carcass from his hand. “I will prepare this for you tomorrow.”
White Robe served the men first, then Rides the Buffalo, and then herself.
Elk Chaser said little, but Mitch was aware of the older man’s scrutiny as White Robe explained that she had taught her husband and son to speak English because she didn’t want to forget it. She told him there were three or four other Apaches in the stronghold who also spoke English and Mitch remarked that he had met one.
When the meal was over, White Robe told Elk Chaser how Con had lied to both her and Mitch.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Mitch remarked. “He never cared for either one of us.”
“He was a proud man. A jealous man,” White Robe said. “I was his woman. You were his son. He believed in keeping what was his.”
Mitch snorted softly. “I guess it would have been all right if he’d thrown you out.”
“Well, it’s all in the past now.”
White Robe looked at her husband. “I have invited Otter to stay with us.”
Elk Chaser nodded. “You are welcome in our lodge.”
“Ashoge,” Mitch said.
Rides the Buffalo had listened intently to the conversation between the adults. Now, he tugged on his mother’s skirt. “He is your son?”
“Yes.”
“We are brothers, then?”
“Yes.”
Rides the Buffalo smiled at Mitch. “Hello, my brother.”
“Hello.” Rides the Buffalo was a cute kid, Mitch thought. His skin was a mite on the fair side for an Apache, there was a slight wave in his hair, his eyes were brown. If he hadn’t known Elk Chaser and his mother were the boy’s parents, he would have thought the boy had some white blood in him somewhere.
Rides the Buffalo pointed at the Colt holstered on Mitch’s hip. “Will you teach me to shoot?”
Mitch glanced at his mother. “If it’s all right.”
White Robe nodded, and Mitch grinned at the boy. “Maybe you’ll show me how to use a bow.”
Rides the Buffalo’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You do not know how to use a bow?”
Mitch shook his head. “Not really. I made one when I was a boy, but I never had anyone to teach me how to use it.” He held out his hand. “Deal?”
The boy stared at Mitch’s outstretched hand and frowned. “Deal? I do not understand this word.”
“It means we agree.”
With a grin, Rides the Buffalo put his hand in Mitch’s. “Deal.”
Chapter Ten
“Miss Faraday? Miss Faraday?”
With a start, Alisha realized that Bobby Moss was calling her name. “Yes, Bobby, what is it?”
“It’s time for dinner.”
“Is it?” She glanced at the small heart-shaped watch pinned to the bodice of her dress, surprised to note that it was twenty minutes after twelve. “Thank you, Bobby. Class dismissed.”
“Do we have to be back at the regular time?” Bobby asked.
“No, you may take the full hour. I shall expect you back at your desks at twenty minutes past one.” She smiled at Bobby. “No later.”
With a sigh, she watched her students hurry into the cloakroom for their dinner pails. As usual, Bobby was the first one out the door. In many ways, he reminded her of Mitch. Like Mitch, Bobby hated school, hated to be cooped up indoors, especially on days like this, when the sun was shining and the fish were jumping. Bobby played hooky at least once a week during the winter, more during the spring and summer. She had long since stopped telling his parents. She knew she should report Bobby’s habitual truancy, but she also knew that his father would punish him severely. Bobby was thirteen, and a bright boy. He never caused any trouble in class. He studied hard and always passed his tests, usually with the highest score in his age group. She knew it was wrong to keep silent, but Bobby had enough trouble at home as it was, and she didn’t want to cause him any more. As long as he continued to do well, she saw no reason to cause the boy any more grief by mentioning his frequent absences.
She ate her midday meal at her desk, her thoughts, as always these days, centered on Mitch. She couldn’t go on like this, thinking about him all the time. It was interfering with her teaching. Like today. She hadn’t heard the church clock chime the hour. No telling how long Bobby had called her name before she heard him. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Last night, when Roger kissed her, she had found herself wishing it was Mitch holding her in his arms. And then she had pretended it was Mitch. To her horror, she had almost called Roger by Mitch’s name when she said good night.
There was no question about it. She had to put Mitch out of her mind.
If she only knew how.
* * * * *
Alisha was still thinking about Mitch, or rather, trying not to think about Mitch, when she got home after school. She put her coat in the closet; placed the stack of papers she was going to grade after dinner on the table in the kitchen.
“Papa?” Running a hand over her hair, she went into the parlor, expecting to find her father reading the newspaper, but he wasn’t there. “Papa?” She went into his study, but he wasn’t at his desk, either.
Thinking he must have gone to visit one of his parishioners, she went into the kitchen to make dinner.
She was peeling potatoes when she heard a crash from the back of the house. Wiping her hands on her apron, she left the kitchen. “Papa, is that you?”
She looked in the parlor, in his bedroom, in her own, but saw nothing. Wondering if she was hearing things, she headed back to the kitchen. She was passing her father’s study when she heard a low groan.
Pausing, she glanced inside. At first, she didn’t see or hear anything, and then she heard a scraping noise, and her father’s voice whispering her name.
“Papa?”
“Here.”
Hurrying into the room, she walked around the desk, gasped when she saw her father lying on the floor. “Papa! What happened?”
She knelt beside him, wondering how long he had been lying there. “Papa?” His face was chalk-white, his breathing shallow and uneven. “Don’t move, Papa, I’ll go get the doctor.”
She started to rise, but he grabbed her hand. “No…no…time…listen to me…”
“It can wait.”
“No.” His hand clutched hers. “Lied…to you.”
/> “It’s all right. Rest now.”
She tried to free her hand from his, but he held on tenaciously.
“Baby…not…dead.”
“Papa, we can talk later. You need a…” The words died in her throat. “Baby? What baby?”
“Yours.”
She stared at him, everything else momentarily forgotten. “What are you saying?”
“Sent it…away…baby.”
“Away? Where? Why?”
“Gave it to…McBride. Told him…to…get rid of it.”
James McBride was an old friend of the family. He and her father had attended the seminary together. His church was in Dawes City, the town where Alisha had gone to wait out her pregnancy. Her son was alive. He would be four years old now, hardly a baby anymore.
“How could you?” Alisha exclaimed. “How could you do such a terrible thing?”
“Thought…it was for…the best.” His eyes closed and he took a deep shuddering breath. “Forgive…me.”
Forgive him? How could she ever forgive him for what he’d done? He had lied to Mitch, lied to her. She wanted to yell at him, to strike out at him, but he moaned softly, bringing her back to the present. His face was pinched and gray, and fear shot through her. She would get to the bottom of this later. Right now, her father needed help, and quickly. “I’m going to get the doctor.”
His hand fell away from hers, and she scrambled to her feet. Grabbing a blanket from the back of the sofa, she covered her father. Then, lifting her skirts, she ran out of the house and down the road toward the doctor’s office.
Her baby was alive. The wonder of it, the joy of it, rose up within her, only to be smothered by the memory of her father’s pale face. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “please don’t let him die.” No matter what he’d done, he was her father, and she loved him.
She pounded her fist on the doctor’s door, hurriedly explained that her father needed help immediately, then turned and ran all the back home.
Her father had lied to her. Her baby, her son, was alive.
When she reached the house, she ran into the den and knelt at her father’s side. “Papa?” She shook his shoulder lightly. “Papa!”
His eyelids fluttered open and he summoned a weak smile. “Please,” he said, his voice barely audible, “don’t…hate…me…”
Apache Flame Page 7
