by Hebby Roman
“Caballero come. He bring hostages to exchange. And big wagon,” Deer Stalker explained.
Big wagon?
He’d surmised Caballero had raided to have something to offer, but he’d expected stolen livestock, not the stagecoach. What about the passengers? He bit back a curse. Not even his strict routine of patrols could stop the raids—there was too much road to cover.
He nodded and waited. But he didn’t give his men their ease. No, they needed to be on the alert.
He expected Deer Stalker to enter the canyon and bring Caballero out, but the Apache were all around them, looking down from the canyon walls. The war chief would come when he was ready.
The tell-tale rumbling of the coach over the rocky canyon broke the silence. It was being pulled by six braves. The driver’s seat was empty, not a good sign. He clenched his jaw, fearing the worst.
Caballero and his men had already taken the horses. He doubted they intended to return them. They must have better things to trade.
His throat went dry, thinking about the driver, the guard, and any innocent passengers who might have been taken.
As of yet, despite government promises, the telegraph lines didn’t extend to Fort Davis. There was no way to know, ahead of time, if the stage carried passengers or not. Sometimes, the coaches were empty except for mail and packages, but the coach would have had a driver and guard.
Caballero and three of his braves came riding up. Though he’d never met the Apache war chief, he recognized him by the numerous feathers he had braided in his hair, making him look like a sharp-beaked hawk, ready to swoop onto his prey.
Caballero was bare-chested and covered in war paint. He jerked his head, and the six braves pulling the coach dropped the wagon’s shafts and melted back into the canyon.
Gregor advanced a few yards and stopped, waiting.
Deer Stalker said, “He wants go there. Meet half-way.”
Gregor nodded, thinking the Apache was a master at manipulating the situation to make himself appear more important.
He turned and told Sergeant Springer, who was in charge of the patrol, to wait for him. He urged his mount forward… alone, except for Deer Stalker who trailed him. He couldn’t do without the translator. He’d learned a few words of Comanche, but the Apache language, guttural and heavily accented, had eluded him.
Caballero raised his right hand in a salute. He followed suit. The chief jerked his head again and said something.
Deer Stalker turned to him, but he didn’t meet his eyes. “Caballero wants you dismount.”
“He’s not going to dismount. Is he?”
“No.”
“I see.” He let his horse’s reins drop, ground-tying him. He threw his right leg over his horse’s neck and dropped to the ground. He stood, gazing up at Caballero. He could play the chief’s game, if it meant getting innocent people freed. Deer Stalker dismounted, too, and stood beside him.
Caballero swept his arm toward the stagecoach and spit out some words.
Gregor kept his gaze trained on the chief, not daring to blink. “What did he say?”
“He says big wagon, nothing taken. All good.”
“I’ll bet,” he muttered under his breath, knowing the Apache would have stolen what pleased them.
“What about the stagecoach driver and guard?”
More words were exchanged between the Apache men.
Deer Stalker hunkered down and took up a stick, drawing patterns in the sandy ground. “Dead. Killed during attack.”
He took several deep breaths and fisted his hands. Guilt and frustration swamped him. He’d done everything he knew to stop the raids and attacks. But it wasn’t enough; he either needed more men or to change his tactics.
His first instinct was to attack the Apache, avenging the driver and guard’s deaths, but they had the advantage, perched on the canyon walls, able to easily pick off his men.
He’d learned the hard way, after twelve years on the frontier, fighting the hostiles was a war of attrition with small victories and a slow whittling away of their numbers and resources. It took nerves of steel and an unwavering commitment to his men, waiting for the right place and time.
He’d not sacrifice his soldiers to certain slaughter. He’d wait and bide his time, picking his battles when the odds were better.
“Do they have the bodies?” he asked. “I want to give them a decent burial.”
As if by magic, two braves leading paint ponies, appeared with the lifeless bodies of the driver and guard draped over their backs. The braves pulled the men off and dumped them on the ground.
Gregor turned around, not caring if the Apache chief took offense. He motioned toward Sergeant Springer and called out, “Strap those men to two of your mounts and have the men ride double. We’ll bury them in Fort Davis.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Springer saluted and picked two men to help him.
Gregor turned back. He narrowed his eyes and scowled. “And the horses pulling the coach?” He already knew the answer, but after seeing the dead men, he wanted to hold Caballero responsible for each of his actions.
“His horses now,” Deer Stalker said. “For big wagon.”
Gregor pulled off his gloves and slapped them against his thigh.
The chief, his black eyes narrowed, followed his movements, probably wondering if he was insulting him.
“Tell the chief he can keep the big wagon. He’s already killed two men.” He turned around and walked back to his horse. “I’m done here.”
Deer Stalker nodded and spoke.
The chief sputtered something in an angry tone.
“Men dead—they killed three Caballero’s braves. Fair fight,” Deer Stalker said.
Gregor stopped walking, but he didn’t turn around. A fair fight? A band of fifteen Apache warriors had attacked a stagecoach with only two men. “If the men are dead, what does he have to offer?”
“White man and white woman.” Deer Stalker had followed him.
Gregor’s heart dropped. But he wasn’t surprised. The chief hadn’t sent for him without having hostages to trade for the Apache women.
Deer Stalker came and stood in front of him. “He wants Apache women. Woman with baby is new wife of chief. Wants wife and son back.”
Finally, a bargaining chip.
Gregor turned around. “Have the passengers been harmed?” He hated to think what condition they might be in, especially if they’d struggled or tried to break free. The only hopeful part was that they hadn’t been captives of the Apache for long.
Deer Stalker and Caballero exchanged words.
The translator turned to him. “No, no harm. Woman has sunlight hair. Very young. Give you many children.”
Gregor snorted. If only. He’d wished all of his and Martha’s children had lived, but they hadn’t. And in his culture, women weren’t broodmares, to be bought and sold.
“Let me see them. I need to see them before I agree,” he demanded. “And Caballero will have to come to the fort to get his women and the baby.”
Deer Stalker hung his head, obviously reluctant to translate.
“Tell him!”
The translator didn’t look up. He gazed at his feet and mumbled a few words.
Caballero scowled and swelled up before his eyes. He jerked his head again and one of his band dismounted and opened the stage door. A dirty, bearded man spilled out, his hands tied behind his back. He sported a black eye and a red, swollen welt covered his left cheek.
Obviously, the war chief’s idea of harm was different from his own. He prayed the woman had fared better.
As soon as the bearded man saw him, he rushed forward and fell at his feet. “I’m purely tickled to see you, Colonel. These savages—”
“Be quiet. We’re still parleying. Don’t interfere, and I’ll get you free. Patience,” he cautioned.
But it was too late; the Apache who’d jerked him from the stage, yanked the man
to his feet and raised his hand.
Gregor stepped forward and caught the brave’s arm. Locked together, they gazed at each other, rancor rolling between them, thick and bitter as week-old coffee.
Caballero half-turned and spoke sharply. Two braves, holding a woman between them, appeared from behind a boulder. The woman sagged in their grasp, and her eyes were rolled back in her head.
Good Lord, what had they done to her?
“Hat' ii baa nadaa?” Caballero barked and pointed at him.
Gregor looked to Deer Stalker, but the translator walked away. He let the Apache’s arm go. The man grunted and moved beside Caballero’s mount.
The two braves came forward and dropped the woman at his feet.
He bent down and cradled the woman’s shoulders. She had blond hair, pulled into a bun, though half of her hair had come loose and fell around her face. He looked her over for injuries but only found a few bruises on her arms, and a thin, red line of blood on her throat.
Seeing her blood, worn like a hideous necklace, he wanted to strike Caballero, but he couldn’t do that. He must remain calm and collected. Not show any emotions or weakness. And not get his men slaughtered.
A shadow shrouded him. He glanced up.
Caballero had dismounted. The Apache chief stood over him, snarling words he didn’t understand.
He glanced back to find his translator and called out, “Deer Stalker, if you want this month’s pay, you’ll tell me what he’s saying.”
Deer Stalker shuffled his feet and bobbed his head. “Caballero says take woman and man. He no go fort for women. You bring to road fork.”
Gregor glared at Caballero, realizing he didn’t want to parley anymore. Not now. He knew which fork the Apache chief meant. One mile east of the fort, a wagon trail branched off, leading to Murphy’s spread, the Lazy M Ranch.
He nodded.
The Apache chief glared back and spat out two words.
“Caballero wants white chief’s promise,” Deer Stalker said.
He shifted the woman’s shoulders and raised his right hand. “You have my word. At sunrise tomorrow?”
Deer Stalker explained. Caballero grunted, crossed his arms, and inclined his head.
“We’re done,” Gregor said.
The translator bowed to Caballero and spoke a few words. The chief turned and walked away stiffly, his back ramrod straight.
“Deer Stalker, as soon as we get back to the fort, let the Apache women know they’ll be returned tomorrow morning to their chief.” Perhaps if they knew they were going to be freed, they’d quit trying to harm themselves.
The interpreter nodded and returned to his mount.
As gently as he could, Gregor got his arms under the woman and lifted her, cradling her head and torso. She mumbled something and tried to pull away, but she didn’t open her eyes. Turning around, he walked back to his patrol. Deer Stalker led their mounts with the rescued passenger, trailing behind.
“Sergeant Springer, hitch up four of our best horses to the stagecoach. Those men can ride their mounts and guide the stage.” He turned to the rescued man. “Sir, I don’t know your name. I’m Colonel Gregor, commander of Fort Davis.”
“Sam Spofford’s the name. I’m a mule skinner, workin’ fer Oberlin Freight.” He grimaced. “Thought we was done in. I can’t thank you ‘nuf fer saving—”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Spofford.” He inclined his head and said, “Sergeant Springer, Mr. Spofford will be riding with you.”
The Sergeant saluted and offered his hand to Mr. Spofford. The muleskinner climbed up behind Springer.
“What about the lady, sir?” Springer asked.
“I’ll carry her back.” He glanced down. “It’s the least I can do, given what she’s been through.”
His gaze wandered over her, taking in details he’d been too distraught to notice before, like her clothing. Her traveling dress was made of good quality material and looked fashionable. She was corseted and bedecked unlike any woman he’d seen in a long time… probably not since his days at Fort Clark. And she was light in his arms, not weighing above a hundred pounds, if that, despite her long legs.
He wondered how to get her in the saddle without disturbing her. He didn’t see any head wounds. He assumed she’d fainted from fright and would awaken soon. On second thought, maybe it would be easier for her, lying down in the stagecoach than being jostled on the back of a horse.
But he hated to let her go… for some reason.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and he stared into her eyes. The irises of her eyes were a rich combination of green and light brown. She had hazel-colored eyes, like his Martha’s. And the woman had his Martha’s ash-blond hair, too, before illness had turned it white.
He clutched her to him, the feel of her body stirring parts of him he’d thought were dead and buried. He tightened his hold, crushing her against his heart, not wanting to let go.
She reached up and touched his cheek. Then her hand trailed over his uniform. “You’re from the fort? The Indians who…?”
He shuddered, feeling the soft brush of her hand. How long since he’d felt a woman’s touch? “We’ve rescued you, Miss. The Apache are gone.”
Her smile shimmered, as bright as a new-day dawn. “Take me home, soldier, please.”
“Do you want to lie down in the stagecoach? We can—”
“No, please, hold me.” Her voice slid over him, a slow Southern drawl, like honey spread on biscuits. She clutched at his sleeve and closed her eyes, shaking her head.
He couldn’t refuse her, though, it would be a rough way to travel. “Hosea,” he called over his shoulder, “help me get this young lady situated on my horse. I’ll have to hold her. I don’t think she can ride behind me.”
His scout dismounted and saluted, holding out his arms.
She opened her eyes again. “I’m stronger than I look. I can ride behind you and hold on, soldier. Please.”
Chapter Two
Dazed and trembling, Mallory clasped her arms around the soldier who had rescued her. She felt as if she’d been caught in a hurricane, carried on a high wind and flung to the ground. She couldn’t stop shaking, and her brains seemed scrambled, not fully comprehending what had happened. When she thought about the savages who’d taken her, she wanted to roll into a ball and disappear. But she had to get hold of herself.
Clinging to her rescuer, she burrowed into his back. His chest was broad and muscled. His longish hair, curling over his collar, was brown with shimmers of red shot through it and a few silver stands. He wasn’t a young man, definitely older than thirty, maybe even forty years. But he was strong and capable.
His presence comforted her, though her stomach still sloshed with nausea and she hoped she wouldn’t throw up again, as she had when the Indians took her. That had been past humiliating.
He smelled good, too, of soap and bay rum, with the lingering scent of coffee clinging to his clothes. He must like his coffee, as her father had.
An hour before, she’d thought her life was over—that she’d be subjected to the vilest of horrors men could inflict upon a woman.
How well she knew what it felt like to be violated.
Disgust dug at her, turning her thoughts to Hiram. But she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on that dark time—never again. Her tumbling thoughts strayed to Macon, her beloved son.
The stagecoach lurched and rattled behind them. The Indians… the Apache had gone through its contents, scattering some things to the four winds, but mostly, they’d left her trunk alone. If she was lucky, Macon’s picture would still be there, hidden in a side pocket.
Thoughts of Hiram usually made her skittish, making her shy away from men. Despite what had happened today, she hoped she could pull herself together and be a dutiful wife for Mr. Murphy. At least, he wouldn’t see her like this, as there had been no way to tell him which stage she’d be on.
If she won Mr. Murphy’s regard,
she could send for her son, and they’d be a family—if her husband-to-be was a kind and forgiving man—if he was as gentle as she instinctively knew this soldier to be.
For some reason, the soldier reminded her of her childhood sweetheart, Beauregard Jackson, a boy from the neighboring plantation. He’d marched off to the War Between the States and returned, fatally wounded. She’d helped his mother nurse him, but it had been no use. His wounds had been deep and had festered.
She and Beau had been dedicated to each other from childhood, and he was a kind and gentle boy. War hadn’t changed him. Even as he lay dying, he’d been more concerned about her future than his death.
And if he’d known her future, he wouldn’t have passed peacefully.
Had Beau lived, how different her life would have been. But the past was behind her, and she needed to make a new future in this hostile place.
The horse stumbled, throwing her to one side. She clutched at the soldier and burrowed herself deeper into his strong, muscled back, lacing her fingers across his tight stomach.
“Sorry, Miss. I didn’t see the prairie dog hole.”
“What’s a prairie dog?”
“Hard to explain.” He shook his head and glanced back at her. His eyes were a silvery-blue, like storm clouds rolling over the ocean.
“A prairie dog is something like a stout squirrel that lives underground in tunnels. They dot the land with their holes, entrances to their tunnels. We try to keep the main road clear, though, as the holes are dangerous. If a horse steps directly into one, he can break his leg, leaving his rider afoot.”
“Oh, I’d like to see a prairie dog. But I guess I’ll need to be careful when I’m riding.” She couldn’t believe she was chatting with him. They hadn’t been formally introduced, but he had saved her life.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he said, “I think I should introduce myself.” He touched the wide brim of his navy-blue hat. “I’m Colonel William Gregor, the commander of Fort Davis.”
She’d known he was a man of substance. To be rescued by the commander of the fort was more than lucky—it was a miracle. She bowed her head and offered a short prayer of thanksgiving to her Savior.
