Apache Flame

by Madeline Baker

  She watched a falling star streak across the heavens. Mitch used to make fun of her because she had always made a wish when she saw a falling star. She had always insisted he make a wish, too, even though he thought it was “girlish nonsense”.

  “Oh, Mitchy,” she whispered, “how I wish you were here…”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Alisha shifted in the saddle, wishing Mr. Clements would decide it was time for a rest. She hadn’t expected a day in the saddle to leave her feeling so sore all over. Of course, spending the night on the hard cold ground probably had a lot to do with it, too. When she got up that morning, muscles she had never known she had screamed in protest.

  “Have you been to the Apache’s camp often?” she asked, hoping conversation would take her mind off her sore muscles.

  “Never been to the stronghold in ’Pache Pass, but I got me a wife amongst the Jicarilla.”

  “You’re married to an Apache woman?”

  “Yeah. She’s a pretty lil thing. Name’s Mountain Sage.”

  “Oh.” Alisha contemplated that for a few minutes. If Mr. Clements had an Indian wife, then she had probably spent the last night worrying over nothing. The Indians weren’t likely to attack them, not when Clements was married to one of their women. “Do you have children?”

  “Three,” he said with obvious pride. “Two boys and a girl.”

  “You don’t live with them?”

  “Not all the time. Got me a wife and a couple kids in St. Louis, too, ya see.”

  Alisha stared at Clements. “You have two wives?”

  He shrugged. “It ain’t uncommon. Lots of mountain men and traders have Injun wives.”

  She was too stunned to speak.

  “It ain’t as bad as it sounds. I take good care of ‘em both.”

  “Do they…?” Her voice came out in a high-pitched squeak and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Do your wives know?”

  “Mountain Sage knows. I ain’t never told Dorothy, though.” He grimaced. “Ain’t no way she’d ever understand, ya know, being brought up the way she was and all.”

  “And your Indian wife doesn’t mind?”

  “Nah. It’s common for warriors to have more than one wife.”

  “But that’s sinful.”

  “Injuns don’t think so. ‘Pache life is hard. A woman needs a man to protect her, and since there’s usually more women than men…” Clements shrugged. “It’s just practical, ya know?”

  “Who looks after Mountain Sage when you’re in St. Louis with…what was her name? Dorothy?”

  “Her kin. ‘Pache men go live with the woman’s family when they get married. From then on, his obligation is to support and protect ‘em. When I go huntin’, Sage always give a part of my kill to her ma.”

  “I see,” Alisha said, though she didn’t see at all.

  “The ‘Paches are good people. They’re honest. They don’t steal from their own. They pay their debts. They got a good sense of humor, they’re loyal. Cheerful most of the time. Women are hard workers. The men are fierce fighters.”

  “Are they good to their children?” she asked, thinking of her son.

  “Yeah. ‘Paches love kids. Young’uns are rarely punished, or even scolded. Little girls play house, ya know, with dolls and such. The boys play, too, ‘ceptin’ they play at being men. ‘Pache boys grow up fast. I seen four- and five-year-olds already well on their way to being warriors.”

  “Warriors!” Alisha exclaimed. “At four?” Her son was four. Was he already learning how to hunt and fight?

  “Injuns start ‘em out young. ‘Pache boys are considered men by the time they’re twelve or thirteen.”

  Alisha fell silent as she contemplated this last bit of news. She had boys in her class who were twelve and thirteen. A couple of them were tall and mature for their ages, but they weren’t men yet. “That’s incredible,” she murmured.

  “Yep. Ain’t easy, becoming a ‘Pache warrior. The elders make the novices take long runs carrying heavy loads on their backs. They have to learn how to live off the land. They test ‘em by having them take a mouthful of water, then run for a couple of miles without swallowing it. The elders test their willpower and endurance by making them go without sleep for long periods of time.” Clements shook his head, but his voice was filled with admiration when he spoke again. “It ain’t easy, being a ‘Pache warrior, but there ain’t no fighters that can equal ‘em, that’s fer damn sure.”

  Alisha stared at Clements, more convinced than ever that she had to find her son. She didn’t want her baby to be subjected to such barbaric trials and rituals. She didn’t want him learning to kill, praying to strange gods.

  For the first time, she thought past the moment when she would see her son for the first time. She would be a stranger to him. How would she explain who she was? Her son had been living with his adoptive parents since the day he was born. What if he didn’t want to leave them? What if they wouldn’t let him go? What would she do, in their situation? Would she be able to part with a child she had raised from infancy just because a woman showed up claiming to be the child’s mother?

  Clements cocked his head in Alisha’s direction. “Somethin’ eatin’ at ya, missy?”

  “I just realized I’m probably on a fool’s errand.”

  “How so?”

  Alisha shook her head. She couldn’t explain her past to this uncouth man, couldn’t humiliate herself by telling him that she had given birth to an illegitimate child.

  “Well, I don’t know as how it will be any comfort to ya, but most everyone I ever met has been a fool at one time or ‘nother,” he drawled.

  “Yes,” Alisha said, smiling. “I guess that’s true.”

  “Iffen ya ever want to talk about it, I’m a pretty good listener.” Clements grinned at her. “Man with two wives don’t have much choice.”

  “How soon will we get there?”

  Clements stared ahead a few moments. “‘Nother two, three days, I’d say.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mitch sighted down the shaft of the arrow, took a deep breath, let out half of it, and released the bowstring. He felt himself grinning ear to ear as the arrow hit the target scant inches from the arrow of Rides the Buffalo.

  “Enjuh!” Rides the Buffalo exclaimed. Good.

  Elk Chaser nodded. “You have learned quickly.”

  Mitch nodded. The crude bow and arrows he had fashioned as a child were nothing compared to Elk Chaser’s weapons. He had been surprised at how much strength it took to draw the bowstring. While hunting with a handful of warriors the day before, he had been mightily impressed by their skill. Elk Chaser had brought down a deer five hundred feet away.

  It had taken hours to stalk the deer. Once found, the Apache had crawled on the ground, careful to keep weeds and brush between them and the deer so they would not be seen. Always careful to stay downwind.

  Of course, Mitch was nowhere near the marksman Elk Chaser was. Hell, he wasn’t even as good as Rides the Buffalo. But he was getting better every day.

  Besides deer, there were herds of antelope and elk on the prairie that spread below the mountains. Wild turkeys lived in the forests and along the streams. Eagles were hunted for their feathers, which were used to fletch arrows, for ceremonial fans and decoration.

  “We will have to fashion you a bow of your own,” Elk Chaser remarked.

  “I’d like that,” Mitch replied. He winked at Rides the Buffalo. “Maybe my little brother will help me.”

  Rides the Buffalo nodded solemnly. “I will.”

  Mitch returned the bow he had been using to Elk Chaser. It was a powerful weapon, strengthened with layers of sinew on the back which had been applied so carefully they were scarcely visible. Elk Chaser’s arrows were more than three feet long.

  When he’d been a child, Mitch’s mother had often told him stories of her people, of how the men could camouflage themselves with dirt and plants so that they were virtually invisible. An Apache wa
rrior could travel from fifty to seventy-five miles a day over the roughest terrain. As a boy, Mitch had been awed by the tales she told him. As he grew older, he decided she must have been exaggerating. But after seeing Elk Chaser and the other men on the hunt the day before, he knew his mother hadn’t been exaggerating. The Apache had learned to live in perfect harmony with the world around him. Yesterday morning, while tracking a small herd of deer, he had watched the men, noting the way they paid heed to the smallest things—the position of a stone that had been overturned, horse droppings on the trail, the way a twig or branch had been broken. He remembered, too, the stories his mother had told him of brave fighters, both men and women.

  Mitch felt a stirring of old anger as he thought of all he had missed. Had his father let him go with his mother, he might have grown up to be a warrior. It was too late now. He might learn the ways of the Apache, he might embrace their beliefs and immerse himself in their lifestyle, but he would never be a true warrior.

  Mitch grinned as Rides the Buffalo fired four arrows in quick succession, each one striking the heart of the target. He might never be the warrior his little brother would, but he was determined to learn all he could while he had the chance.

  * * * * *

  Alisha blew out a sigh. It had been a long five days. She was hot and tired and sticky and wanted to take a hot bath and wash her hair more than she wanted anything else in the world, except for seeing her son.

  She looked down at her clothes. Her shirtwaist, once white and crisp, was now limp and covered with a fine coat of dun-colored dust. The hem of her skirt was dirty and ripped on one side where it had caught on a cactus. The hem of her petticoat was also dirty and torn.

  Clements had said they would reach the entrance to Apache Pass late that afternoon. She was thinking of that now, excitement fluttering in her belly like a hummingbird’s wings as she tried to imagine those first few moments when she would meet her son face to face for the first time.

  Alisha nodded as Clements remarked that they would be stopping to rest the horses soon, almost tumbled over her horse’s rump when, suddenly and without warning, Clements lashed her horse on the rear with the end of his reins, hollering for her to ride like hell.

  She heard that hideous shriek again and knew it had to be a war cry of some kind, knew that she would never see her son, that she was going to be killed.

  Tears stung her eyes as she slammed her heels into Sophie’s sides. “Faster!” she cried. “Faster, Sophie!”

  The high-pitched shrieks of the Indians were punctuated with the roar of gunfire and then, only moments after the attack began, there was an ominous silence.

  Alisha glanced over her shoulder again. Four Indians were chasing her. There was no sign of Red Clements.

  Fear such as she had never known curdled in her belly, making her feel suddenly faint. She clung to the saddle horn, praying that Sophie wouldn’t fall, that she could find a place to hide.

  Time lost all meaning, and there was only the sting of the wind in her face, the bitter taste of fear in her mouth. And the sure knowledge that she was going to be killed.

  Sophie’s hide was covered with frothy yellow lather, her sides heaving like an overworked bellows when the Indians caught up with them. In a move Alisha wouldn’t have believed if she hadn’t seen it, one of the warriors rode up beside her and jumped from the back of his horse onto the back of hers. Reaching around in front of her, he jerked the reins from her hand and brought Sophie to a halt. Tossing the reins over the mare’s head, he slid off the mare’s rump, then reached up and dragged Alisha from the saddle.

  Alisha could scarcely breathe, she was so frightened. Heart pounding, she tried to offer a last prayer to God, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only stare into the dark eyes of the man who stood in front of her.

  I wish I could have seen my son before I die, she thought sadly. I wish I had told Mitch I still love him…

  * * * * *

  Mitch checked the cinch on his saddle, made sure his canteen was full, checked the supplies in his saddlebags. Yesterday’s hunt had been for warriors only. Today, Elk Chaser and three other men were taking their sons and grandsons hunting. They would be gone for several days. Elk Chaser had asked Mitch if he would like to go along, and Mitch had quickly agreed, eager to learn everything he could about the People and their ways. He had expected it to take two or three months for him to feel at ease among the Apache, but such was not the case. These were his mother’s people, his people. Everything he had learned, everything he had seen, seemed vaguely familiar, as if the spirits of his ancestors were whispering in his ear, telling him that the ancient legends he was hearing were true, recalling to his mind the old stories his mother had told him as far back as he could remember and beyond.

  They rode out just after dawn, five men and eight boys between the ages of four and ten. Men and youth alike were clad in breechclouts and moccasins. Elk Chaser had given Mitch a pair of moccasins. They were a remarkable pierce of footwear, fitted to protect the wearer’s feet and legs from thorny plants and poisonous reptiles. They reached halfway up Mitch’s calf, and had tough soles that turned up at the toe. Like the others, he also wore a breechclout. His mother made it for him soon after he arrived so that he would blend in with the others. A strip of red cloth tied around his forehead kept his hair out of his eyes. No one, looking at him now, would guess he was not pure Apache.

  Mitch grinned at Elk Chaser as they forded a dry stream bed. Even as a boy chasing rabbits, he had loved the anticipation of the hunt, the excitement of the chase, the kill. It was humbling, knowing that Rides the Buffalo, who was the youngest of the group, was far more adept at hunting with a bow than he was. He took a small measure of comfort in the fact that, with a rifle or a pistol, he was any man’s equal.

  They rode for several hours. In addition to hunting, the boys were learning to track, to recognize landmarks, to determine the time of day by the position of the sun.

  Mitch urged his horse up the side of the ravine. It was a beautiful day, warm and clear. The cactus was in bloom, and there was nothing to see for miles in any direction but cactus and desert and gray-green clumps of sage. In the distance, an eagle drifted on the air currents.

  Mitch saw the bright red splash of color the same time as the others. Without being told, the boys fell back a little while the men rode forward, their weapons at the ready.

  The body was sprawled face down on the low side of a small rise. It had been stripped naked, save for the bottom half of a pair of red long johns. A patch of dark brown blood had dried around the shaft of the arrow in his back. A second arrow protruded from the meaty part of his left arm.

  The warriors dismounted a few feet from the body. Leaving their horses, they searched the ground for sign, nodding and talking rapidly.

  “Comanches,” Elk Chaser told Mitch. He held up both hands, fingers spread. “At least ten of them. They rode off that way,” he said, pointing toward the south. “They have taken whoever was riding with this man.”

  “How long ago?” Mitch asked.

  “Late yesterday.”

  Mitch nodded, feeling a wave of pity for the man who had survived. Either he would be forced into slavery, or tortured to death. Looking at the body, Mitch decided the dead man was the better off of the two.

  Satisfied that there was no longer any danger, the warriors vaulted onto the backs of their horses.

  Mitch looked at Elk Chaser. “You’re not going to bury him?”

  Elk Chaser shook his head. Like all Apache, he had a great horror of the dead. The Apaches buried their own as soon as possible, and always during the day. Interment was in a cave or crevice if such a place was available; otherwise, they buried their loved ones in the earth, covering the grave with brush and dirt and rocks to keep coyotes and other predators away.

  Mitch had seen such burial mounds from time to time. He watched as Elk Chaser mounted his horse and started to ride after the others. It seemed a shame to le
ave a body lying in the desert to rot, but he had little choice. He had nothing with which to dig a hole, nothing to cover the body with.

  He was about to turn away when he heard a low moan. Frowning, he nudged the body in the side with the toe of his moccasin. And the body twitched.

  Muttering an oath, Mitch rolled the man over, and found himself looking into a pair of pain-glazed brown eyes.

  “Damn, you’re alive.”

  “Water…”

  “Elk Chaser,” Mitch called. “He’s alive.”

  Moments later, the warriors were gathered around the wounded man. The boys stood together in the background, pointing and whispering.

  The warrior known as Kills Twice grunted softly. “Let us kill the pinda-lick-o-ye, and go.”

  Fear flickered in the eyes of the wounded man, and he reached out toward Mitch. “Help…me…” he gasped, and then went limp.

  “Duunndil’edida!” Elk Chaser exclaimed. “Do not be foolish. He will not be welcome there.”

  “Well, hell, I can’t just leave him out here to die.” Mitch glanced at Kills Twice. “Or to be killed.”

  “He is the enemy. It is the Apache way to kill their enemies.” Kills Twice smiled. “Usen has delivered him into our hands. Let us finish him now and move on.”

  Mitch’s gaze locked with that of Kills Twice. “I’m taking him back to camp.”

  Kills Twice stared at him a moment, then shrugged. Calling to his son, Kills Twice swung onto his horse’s back and rode away. The other warriors followed.

  “You must blindfold him when you are near the entrance to the rancheria,” Elk Chaser said.

  “I will.”

  “There are many who will be angry because of this. The Blue Coats killed four of our men and two of our women this past winter.”