Apache Flame

by Madeline Baker

  “Papa? Papa!” She shook his shoulder again as the spark of life slowly faded from her father’s eyes. “Papa, don’t leave me! I forgive you, Papa,” she said, sobbing, “please don’t leave me.”

  She looked up, her vision blurred by tears, as the doctor rushed into the room. He quickly examined her father, checked for a pulse, for a heartbeat, then slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Faraday.”

  She nodded, hardly aware that he was lifting her to her feet, helping her to the sofa, telling her not to worry, he would take care of everything.

  But all she could think of was that her father was dead, and her son was alive.

  Chapter Eleven

  Never had the house seemed so big, or so quiet. Alisha stood at her bedroom window, staring out into the darkness beyond. Doctor Stoner had arranged to have her father’s body taken to the undertaker. She had sent a wire to James McBride asking if he would come and conduct the funeral service. He had sent his condolences, and advised he would be there tomorrow night. The service would be the following morning.

  The good women of the Ladies’ Aid Society had immediately gone to work. They had brought her enough food to feed an army, and promised more would be forthcoming. Her father had been the town’s sole spiritual advisor for twenty-five years, and had been loved by one and all. Even those who did not attend church had come to him for help and advice. He had never turned anyone away.

  She heard a knock at the front door and knew it was Roger, come to make sure she was all right.

  She blinked back her tears as she went downstairs. She wasn’t all right. She doubted if she would ever be all right again. Her whole world had turned upside down. Her father was dead, but her son was alive. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

  She forced a smile as she opened the door. “Hello, Roger,” she said. “Come in.”

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’ll be all right.”

  She went into the parlor, and he followed her.

  “Alisha…”

  She heard the love and concern in his voice, saw it reflected in the gentle depths of his gray eyes, and it was her undoing. With a sob, she went into his arms. She needed someone to hold her, someone to tell her everything would be all right. She wanted Mitch, needed Mitch, but he wasn’t here and she didn’t know where he’d gone.

  Roger held her tight, his hand stroking her back as he soothed her tears with soft words of comfort. But she found no comfort in his arms, or in his words, and she knew, in that instant, that she could never marry Roger Smithfield. She didn’t love him the way a woman should love the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with, and she never had. Before Mitch came back into her life, she had been prepared to settle for less, but not now.

  When her tears subsided, he led her to the sofa and sat down, drawing her down beside him. “Alisha, I know this may not be the right time, but…” He took her hands in his. “I think we should think about getting married next month instead of in June.”

  “Next month?” She looked at him, astonished. How could he talk about changing the date of the wedding now, with her father lying cold and still at the undertaker’s?

  “I know, I know,” he said quickly, “but this house belongs to the church. They’ll be getting a new pastor soon, and you’ll be needing a place to live. If we get married next month, you can move into the new house, with me.”

  “Roger…”

  “Just think about. I know some folks will say it’s unseemly, our getting married so soon after your father’s passing, but I’m sure most of them will understand.”

  “I can’t think about it now.” She stood up, needing to put some space between them. “I’m really tired, Roger.”

  “Of course.” He stood up. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Alisha nodded.

  Roger kissed her cheek, murmured, “goodbye”, and left the house, quietly closing the door behind him.

  “Oh, Mitchy,” she whispered tremulously. “Why aren’t you here? I need you so.”

  * * * * *

  “The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein. For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart…”

  Reverend James McBride paused in reading the 24th Psalm and looked out over the mourners. “We can, all of us, be certain that our brother, Russell, has ascended the hill of the Lord and taken his place with the saints…”

  Clad in a high-necked black bombazine gown and veiled black bonnet, Alisha stood beside Roger while Reverend McBride offered a glowing eulogy, recounting Russell Faraday’s life and accomplishments, his generous nature, his willingness to spend his life in tireless service to others.

  Alisha glanced around. It looked like the whole town had turned out to bid a last farewell to her father. He would have been pleased and embarrassed by such a show of affection from the members of his flock.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her thoughts not on what James McBride was saying, but on the talk she would have with him later that night. He was the only one who knew what had happened to her child, and as he bowed his head and prayed over the earthly remains of Russell Matthew Faraday, Alisha offered a prayer of her own that her son was still alive and that, somehow, she would find him.

  * * * * *

  It seemed as though the whole town came to the house after the service.

  They offered Alisha their condolences, spoke fondly of her father as they reminisced about the part he had played in their lives. Mrs. Neibich recounted the time Russell had sat up all night with her husband, keeping him company while she was in labor with her first child. Mr. Thomas mentioned how grateful he had been for her father’s words of comfort and counsel when his daughter ran away to marry a no-account traveling salesman.

  Alisha listened and nodded and made polite responses to each of them, and all the while she was thinking of her son, wondering what Mitch would say when he found out.

  It was near dusk when the last mourner took his leave. Roger left a few minutes later. She knew he was hurt that she hadn’t asked him to stay, but she needed to talk to James McBride, and she needed to talk to him alone.

  With a sigh, Alisha closed the door behind him. Removing her bonnet, she took several deep breaths, then went into the parlor where James McBride was waiting. He was short where her father had been tall, his blond hair graying at the temples. His eyes were kind as he smiled at her.

  “Can I get you anything, Reverend?” she asked.

  “No, child. Come,” he said, patting the seat on the sofa beside him, “sit down a spell. You look a mite peaked.”

  Alisha smiled wanly as she sat down. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yes. I shall miss my old friend. He was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Alisha folded her hands tightly in her lap. “I need to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “Well, of course,” James McBride replied, his tone slightly indignant.

  “What happened to my baby? Where is he now?”

  The good Reverend stared at her, his mouth agape.

  “Papa told me, just before he…before he passed on, that my son is alive.”

  James McBride exhaled deeply, then nodded. “It’s true.”

  “Where is he? Do you know? Is he all right?”

  “He’s with the Apache, Alisha. He was a fine, healthy baby.” McBride shrugged. “I couldn’t be saying if he’s still alive.”

  “What Apache? Where?”

  “There was a mountain man in town the night your son was born. I asked him if he knew of any Indians in the area. He said there was a tribe camped at Apache Pass, that they would take him in and raise him as one of their own.”

  Alisha nodded, her mind racing. Her baby was alive, and
living with the Apache. Was it coincidence or the hand of God that had sent her baby to Mitch’s people?

  “Thank you, Reverend.”

  “I’m sorry, Alisha. There were many times when I wanted to tell you, but I had given your father my word that I would never speak of it.”

  She shook her head. “How could you keep such a secret from me all these years?”

  “Your father thought it was for the best, and so did I.”

  “And neither of you thought to ask me?”

  “You were hardly more than a child yourself.”

  “I was almost seventeen!”

  James McBride held his hands out, palms up. “I’m sorry, Alisha. I hope one day you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. And to forgive your father. We both did what we thought was best for you at the time.”

  “What about my son?” Rising, she began to pace the floor, her agitation growing as she thought of her son being raised by Indians. At first, knowing her son was with Mitch’s people had seemed like a blessing, but now she thought about what it really meant. He would never learn to read or write or do his sums, never read the Bible or attend church. He would grow up wild and savage, never knowing who his real mother was. “Did either of you think about what was best for him?”

  James McBride stood up, his expression somber. “At the time, your father’s only concern was for you. Perhaps he was misguided in his decision, perhaps not. But it’s over and done now. You need to put the past behind you, Alisha. There’s nothing to be gained by brooding over that which cannot be changed.”

  “Put it behind me!” she exclaimed, her anger escalating. “My son is alive, and you tell me to put it behind me? I can’t do that.” She blew out a deep breath. “Thank you for coming, Reverend.”

  “Alisha…”

  “Good night, Reverend.”

  He stood up slowly, his expression troubled. “Good night, child.”

  She watched him take up his coat and leave the house, and then, alone for the first time that day, she sat down and cried, weeping for the child she had thought dead, for the lies her father had told Mitch that had kept them apart, for the life they might have had together.

  She cried until she was empty inside, until she had no tears left. Her father was gone. Mitch was gone. But her son was alive, and somehow, she would find him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mitch stared in amazement at Rides the Buffalo. Only four years old, yet the kid was already well on his way to becoming a warrior. When Mitch had decided to visit his mother’s people, he’d had a vague idea of becoming a warrior, but he knew now that becoming a true warrior wasn’t something a boy learned at a certain age, it was something that started at birth. It was more than skill with weapons, more than the ability to hunt and track. It was a way of believing, an innate sense of pride, of self.

  Mitch shook his head as he watched Rides the Buffalo. The boy knew how to throw a knife, how to use a bow. He knew how to track and kill small game, how to find food and water, how to hide from an enemy, how to build a wickiup. He was already an expert horseman.

  Mitch blew out a sigh as he watched his little brother place an arrow in the center of a target made of deer hide, then loose three more arrows in a handful of seconds, each one striking the target.

  “Nice shooting,” Mitch exclaimed.

  Rides the Buffalo handed his bow and an arrow to Mitch. “Now you.”

  The bow, made of mulberry wood, was boy-sized. The arrow, made of willow, was about two feet long, fletched with turkey feathers. Should have been easy, Mitch thought. He had made a crude bow and arrow when he’d been a kid, had even managed to bring down a rabbit or a bird from time to time, yet he sent four arrows flying, and missed the target four times.

  “Perhaps you need a bow more your size.”

  Mitch turned to see Elk Chaser walking toward him, a grin on his face. “I doubt if it will help,” Mitch replied good-naturedly. “I don’t think the fault lies in the bow, but in my skill.”

  “I think you are right,” Elk Chaser agreed as he handed Mitch his own bow.

  It was a good sturdy weapon made of bodark wood. Strong yet flexible, it was easily five feet in length. He accepted an arrow from Elk Chaser. It was made of willow, fletched with two eagle feathers. The bowstring was made of deer sinew.

  After five tries with only one hit, Mitch handed the bow back to Elk Chaser. “I can see I will need a lot of practice.”

  Elk Chaser looked at Rides the Buffalo. They exchanged solemn looks, then laughed out loud.

  “Come,” Elk Chaser said, grinning. “Let us eat.”

  * * * * *

  That evening, Mitch walked down to a quiet place near the river. Standing on the bank, he gazed at the reflection of the moon that shimmered like molten gold on the surface of the slow-moving water.

  He had never felt such a sense of homecoming, of belonging, as he had since he’d entered the rancheria. The people had made him feel welcome. Their language, a language he had not heard since childhood, sprang easily to his lips. Faces he had never seen before looked familiar, and he had to keep reminding himself that he had never been here before.

  He stared up at the sky, the urge to pray strong within him though he had not uttered a prayer in more years than he cared to admit. When his mother left his father, he had prayed for her return, prayed fervently as only a frightened and lonely child can pray, and then the old man had told him White Robe was dead, and Mitch had stopped praying.

  But now, with his mother nearby and the soft sounds of the night all around him, he felt the need to pray, to offer his thanks to the Great Spirit for returning his mother to him after all these years.

  Did he even remember how to pray?

  “Ashoge, Usen,” he murmured. “Thank You for returning my mother to me. Thank You for bringing me home to this place. Thank You for my brother…”

  Mitch grinned into the darkness. Earlier, he had asked Elk Chaser how Rides the Buffalo had gotten his name.

  “It happened like this,” Elk Chaser began. “It was summer. My son had watched the hunters one day as they moved among the buffalo covered with buffalo hides to disguise their scent and shape. He is brave, my son, and so, one day, he takes his buffalo skin and creeps up to the edge of the herd that is grazing nearby. Being a small warrior, he is hardly noticed as he slips in among the herd. Hidden beneath his robe, he makes his way to the center. Watching the buffalo closely, he imitates the movements of a buffalo calf.

  “But then, being only a small boy and not able to see much from the ground, he decides to climb up on a rock. This gives him a different view of the buffalo. He remains motionless on the rock, smiling at his feat of courage. Soon, a large bull moves near the rock, so close that my small warrior reaches out to touch the curly hide. The bull, being full of years, does not notice.

  “Being brave, but foolish, my son climbs onto the back of the buffalo. Lying flat on the animal’s broad back, he pulls his robe over him.

  “Slowly, the herd begins to move. My son does not know that hunters clad in buffalo hides have moved in among the herd.

  “Just before the attack is to begin, one of the warriors notices the boy on the back of the old bull. Acting quickly, he cuts the bull from the herd and just before the other warriors begin their attack, he pulls my foolish son from the back of the buffalo. Startled, the buffalo lunges forward, knocking the warrior and my son to the ground.

  “The warrior is angry, but my son, who is too young to be afraid, or to realize the danger he was in, begins to laugh, and soon the warrior begins laughing with him.

  “That night, my son has a new name. He is Rides the Buffalo.”

  “It is a good story,” Mitch remarked, smiling. “And a good name.”

  And a good life, he mused as he turned and gazed at the lodges spread across the floor of the valley. Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, Alisha’s image rose before him, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved in a smile of welcome.

 
Alisha…

  Swearing softly, he turned away from the river, determined to put her out of his mind, out of his heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alisha placed her teacup on the table beside the sofa, counted to ten, and looked over at Roger, who was standing near the hearth, his arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face.

  “I’m going, Roger, and nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”

  “You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly. Dammit, Alisha, you can’t go traipsing off into the desert looking for a bunch of savages.”

  Alisha stared at Roger, somewhat taken aback by his use of profanity. In all the years she had known him, she had never heard him swear, but she refused to be swayed. “I can, and I will. Can’t you see? I have to go.”

  Exasperated, Roger began to pace the floor.

  Alisha took a deep breath. He had taken the news that she had an illegitimate son surprisingly well, but when she told him she was going to try to find the boy, he had looked at her as if she had lost her mind. They had been arguing for the last forty minutes to no avail. Roger had declared that she was being foolish and stubborn. Maybe he was right, but, right or wrong, she was going after her son. She had already missed the first four years of his life. She wasn’t willing to miss one day more than she had to.

  Roger took a deep breath. “Alisha, you have no one to look after you now. As your future husband, I insist that you stay home, where you belong. There’s a trader in town. I saw him over at the restaurant this morning. If you’re determined to find your son, I’ll hire him to look for the boy.”

  “Hiring a guide is a good idea,” Alisha said. She had thought of it herself, of course. She wasn’t foolish enough to consider crossing the desert alone. Still, she was willing to let Roger think it was his idea. “But I’m going with him.”

  “Alisha, I can understand how you feel. Truly, I do, but I must forbid it.”