by Prairie Heat
It was dark and quiet outside. The campfires were banked for the night.
Side by side, Jess and Matilda walked away from the camp and into the star-lit darkness.
Matilda walked away from McCord, her pulse racing. What was happening to her?
A short time later, McCord called her name, and a shiver of excitement skittered down her spine. His voice was soft, compelling, intimate in the dark of the night.
She moved slowly toward him, her heart pounding. He was waiting for her beneath a tree and she wished suddenly that she had never heard of Josiah Thornton, that she could curl up in McCord’s arms and welcome his kisses. But she couldn’t. She was promised to Josiah Thornton and she couldn’t defile her marriage vows because she was infatuated with a man she’d known less than a week.
“Are you ready to go back?” she asked.
“Not yet. It’s a pretty night. Seems a shame to waste it.”
Matilda nodded. It was a pretty night. The moon was riding low in the sky, and the stars were like jewels twinkling on a bed of indigo velvet. The air was warm and still and smelled of sage and pine, of smoke and earth.
They stood together without speaking for a long time.
McCord’s thoughts traveled back in time to when he had been a young boy living with his mother’s people. It had been a good way to grow up, so much better than growing up in the white man’s world. Children were prized among the Apache, and everyone in the village looked out for the youngsters. If a mother or father was too busy to play with a child, there were always the old ones who had nothing but time and liked nothing better than to gather a bunch of children together and tell the stories of Coyote.
He grinned into the darkness as he recalled the story of how Usen created people.
“What are you thinking about?” Matilda asked, her curiosity piqued by his boyish grin.
“I was remembering a story my grandfather used to tell me.”
“What kind of story?”
“How Usen created people. It seems he thought there should be two kinds, so he called the children of White Painted Woman and showed them two weapons. ‘Choose which one you want to live by,’ he said, and he laid a gun on one side and a bow and arrows on the other.
“Killer of Enemies was the oldest and he got first choice. He took the gun, and Child of the Waters was left with the bow and arrows. Killer of Enemies became the leader of the white eyes, and Child of the Waters became the leader of the Indians, and that’s how they got to be different.”
Matilda chuckled softly. “Do you believe that?”
Jess shrugged. “It’s as good an explanation as any of the others I’ve heard.”
“Do you know any more stories like that?”
“Sure. The Indians have hundreds of them.”
“Would you tell me another?”
Jesse frowned thoughtfully as he searched his memory for another tale. “In the beginning, everybody was supposed to live forever. There was no death. Maybe they just never thought about it, but one day they had to make a decision about it. Coyote did not want death in the world. He said he was going to throw a stick into the river. If the stick floated, people would live forever, but if it sank to the bottom, people would begin to die.
“He threw the stick into the water and it floated. Then Raven decided he should have a say in the matter. He said he would throw a rock in the river, and if it floated, then there would be no death, but if it didn’t float, people would begin to die. So he threw the rock in the river and it sank to the bottom. And that’s how death came into the world.”
Matilda smiled, charmed by the simple tale. “You don’t believe that one, do you?”
Jess laughed softly. “No. That one’s a little hard to swallow, even for me.”
For a moment, they stood quietly close. Too close. Matilda was acutely aware of the tall, dark-haired man beside her, aware of the vast differences between them, aware of the attraction that drew them together in spite of those differences.
“How did you get to be Vittorio’s blood brother?” she asked, breaking the taut silence between them.
“We grew up together. He was like my older brother. I followed him everywhere he went whether he wanted me to or not. I guess he was sixteen or seventeen, and I was pushing fourteen the day I followed him into the hills to go hunting. He’d told me not to follow him, but I went anyway.” Jess chuckled softly. “I trailed him for about two miles, careful to stay far enough behind him so he wouldn’t know I was there. He was hunting deer but he stumbled on a mountain lion. The cat had been wounded and it wasn’t too happy to see him. Vittorio got off a shot with his bow and missed and the cat attacked him.”
Jess paused, remembering how scared he’d been when he saw the mountain lion poised over Vittorio. The scent of blood had been strong in the air. And then the big cat had turned to face him and he knew he’d have only one chance to kill the cat before it was on him. Time had slowed and he saw everything clearly, the broken arrow protruding from the mountain lion’s right flank, and the blood dripping from its yellow teeth. Everything his father had taught him came clearly to mind as he nocked his arrow to the bow and let it fly. The shaft had pierced the mountain lion’s heart and it dropped where it stood.
“I got there just in time. I killed the cat, then carried Vittorio down the mountain. He was lucky that day. The cat scratched the hell out of him and he lost a lot of blood, but it could have been a lot worse. While he was mending, I went back up the mountain and skinned the cat, and when Vittorio was feeling better, I gave him the hide. We became blood brothers that same summer.”
Jess let out a long sigh. It had all been so long ago, but he couldn’t help wondering what his life would have been like if his father hadn’t dragged him away, if he’d been allowed to stay with his mother’s people. But it was all water under the bridge now.
Matilda watched the emotions play across his face. She was mesmerized by his nearness, captivated by the sound of his voice. She could feel his gaze moving over her face, settling on her mouth, and she knew he was going to kiss her again. She felt the blood grow warm in her veins, felt her pulse begin to pound.
A nameless fear wrapped itself around her heart and she took a step backward, frightened by the intensity of her feelings.
“I’m tired,” she said abruptly.
He nodded and they walked back to the wickiup. She wished that she wasn’t married to someone else, that she could spend the night in McCord’s arms even though she knew it was wrong, so very wrong.
She helped him to bed, then crawled under her own blankets, her arm still warm from touching him, her lips yearning for his kisses.
Closing her eyes, she repeated Josiah Thornton’s name in her mind as she tried to conjure up his image. But it was Jess McCord’s swarthy countenance that haunted her dreams, the look in his smoky gray eyes that made her heart pound and brought a smile to her face.
Chapter Nine
McCord sat outside his lodge, one leg drawn up, while he watched the activity of the rancheria. It brought back memories, good memories. Life hadn’t changed much since he’d been gone. The women still worked hard from dawn to dark, the men hunted, and the children laughed and played. But there were changes. The women had cast-iron kettles now, and some wore colorful cotton blouses and calico skirts. The men carried rifles as well as the traditional bow and arrows.
Closing his eyes, Jess recalled how good life had been in his mother’s wickiup. Pale Gray Dove had been a loving wife and mother. She had adored her husband, cherished her son, and her happiness had filled their lodge. She had comforted him when he was little, expressed her pride in his accomplishments as he grew to manhood.
His father, Rand McCord, had been a good man, a strong man, well respected by the Apache. From him, Jess had learned to hunt, to track wild game, to locate water where there seemed to be none, to live off the land. His father had taught him that a man who wished to be a nagonlk’adi, a warrior, was brave in the face of dang
er. A warrior did not show fear to his enemy. He did not steal from his own kind, but to steal from the enemy was a way of life. A warrior did not lie, he did not cheat. A warrior treated women and old people with respect. He was obedient to his elders, he honored the ways of the People. A warrior fought to protect what was his; he shared what he had with those less fortunate.
Jess had learned his lessons well. He had been accepted by the Apache as an equal. No one had ever belittled him because his father was a white man. Indeed, growing up, Jess had never given much thought to the fact that he was a half-breed. He knew it, he accepted it, but it had never seemed important.
Jess opened his eyes as he heard someone shout Vittorio’s name. Rising to his feet, he felt a tightening in his gut as he watched the Apache war chief ride into the village. Whether they lived or died would be determined now by a man Jess hadn’t seen in almost twenty years.
He had left the rancheria with his father the day after his mother died. The old chief, Two Horns, had tried to convince Rand to stay with the People. He had urged Rand to take the sister of Pale Gray Dove to wife, but Rand hadn’t been ready to marry again so soon. He had loved his wife deeply and refused to think of marrying anyone else. He had taken his sixteen-year-old son and left the Apache rancheria without a backward glance, his reason for staying with the People having died with Pale Gray Dove.
It hadn’t been easy for Jess, leaving the only home he’d ever known, leaving his grandparents and friends. He had begged his father not to go, and then begged to be left behind, but his father had been adamant. It was time to return to his own people, time for Jess to learn about the other half of his heritage, to discover the wonders of civilization.
Rand had shed the Apache way of life as easily as he had shed his moccasins, but it hadn’t been so easy for Jess. He’d never known any other way of life. Apache ways were his ways, and he did not want to change.
Before taking up with the Apache, Rand had been a blacksmith, and he took up the trade again, teaching his son all he knew. Life in the white man’s world did not come easy to Jess. He didn’t like living in a house made of wood; he didn’t understand the need to eat with a fork and a spoon when it was so much easier to spear meat with a knife and drink soup straight from the bowl. He felt ill at ease with his father’s people, awkward speaking the white man’s language. The clothing of the whites hampered his movements. He hated the high-necked, long-sleeved cotton shirts, the heavy wool pants, the cumbersome shoes. After years of wearing little more than a clout and moccasins, he felt as if he were smothering. The narrow, straw-filled tick he slept on was not as comfortable or warm as the robes he was accustomed to.
But it was the attitude of the townspeople that was the hardest to live with. The men looked at him with suspicion and distrust, the women stared at him with fear in their eyes. He was an Indian, an Apache, and they looked at him as if he might pull a knife from his belt and slit their throats. Life might have been a little easier if he would have cut his hair, but it was the one thing he refused to do.
School was a disaster. He could read and write a little, but he was far behind those his age. The girls avoided him, the boys teased him unmercifully until he beat the hell out of a couple of them and then they too kept out of his way.
In time, Jess learned to accept his father’s way of life, and the townspeople learned to tolerate him, though they never really accepted him. He worked in the blacksmith shop days, spent most of his nights alone, sometimes just sitting in the dark wishing he were back with the Apache, and sometimes he went for long walks.
Occasionally, he went to the saloon, but it seemed there was always someone there who wanted to fight, someone who didn’t think half-breeds had any right to drink alongside “decent white folks”. Jess had never turned his back on a fight, and he rarely lost one. He found a kind of grim pleasure in facing another man toe to toe. It was a satisfying outlet for the anger he kept bottled up inside.
When his father died, Jess sold the blacksmith shop. He was twenty-six then, and he spent the next five years wandering from one cow town to another, looking for a place to settle down, a place to call home. He had thought often of going back to the rancheria, back to the land of his birth, but he’d never done it. He wasn’t sure why, even now. Perhaps he’d been afraid he wouldn’t fit in, that he’d be as much of an outcast there as he was in the white man’s world. It was easier to hold on to the memories, to think there was one place on earth where he’d be welcome, than go back and find out it wasn’t true.
He had taken the job as marshal in Lordsburg because he’d had nothing better to do, and he was tired of moving from town to town. And then he’d met Kathleen.
Jess shook her memory away as Vittorio rode toward him. The two men gazed at each other for several moments, and then the Apache chief smiled.
“Nepotanje,” Vittorio said as he slid agilely from the back of his horse. “It is good to see you again.”
“It is good to see you, chickasaw,” McCord replied warmly.
“Come, we will go to my lodge and eat,” Vittorio said, then paused as Matilda stepped out of McCord’s wickiup. “Who is this?”
“My woman. Matilda.”
“Then she is also welcome to my lodge. Come.”
Matilda followed McCord and the war chief into a large wickiup. Vittorio’s wife hurried forward to greet her husband and immediately offered food to her husband and his guests.
The men ate in silence, and then Vittorio lit his pipe and the two men smoked. Only then did Vittorio speak.
“Tell me, chickasaw, why have you come back to us after such a long absence?”
“Some of your warriors brought me here,” McCord answered with a wry smile. “They did not believe me when I told them I was blood brother to the great Vittorio.”
Jess held up his hand when he saw the anger in the chief’s eyes. “They were young men, and I was unknown to them. We have been treated well in your absence.”
Vittorio grunted softly. “You are lucky. My young men are eager for war, eager to shed the blood of the Indahs. I think they would not hesitate to shed your blood if they thought they had a good reason.”
Jess nodded. He could understand why the young men wanted to fight. The whites were slaughtering the buffalo. Huge piles of bones could be found along the railroad tracks in Dodge and Abilene and Ellsworth. Hides and meat were selling at a premium in the East. The bones were being sold for eight dollars a ton; it took about a hundred carcasses to make a ton of bones, which were sent to carbon factories.
In addition, the whites were coming across the plains in ever-increasing numbers. The railroad was making its way toward the Pacific, following in the wake of the settlers and the farmers, the businessmen and the con men.
“Do not wander off alone,” Vittorio warned. “And keep your woman close by.”
“I will.”
“How long will you be with us, chickasaw?”
“Until I can travel,” Jess replied, and quickly explained about Kane and how the white man had shot him in the leg and then left him and Matilda to die in the desert.
Vittorio nodded. “I saw the Indah when I rode in. Tonight we will have a feast to celebrate your return and tomorrow you can join my young men as they spill the blood of the white man.” Vittorio paused, his dark eyes moving over McCord in a long, assessing glance. “Or perhaps you have lived too long with the Indahs. Perhaps you do not wish to avenge yourself on the yudastcin who has wronged you.”
“I wish it,” Jess replied curtly.
They had been speaking in English and now McCord sent a sharp glance at Matilda, warning her to keep silent.
Later, as they walked back to their lodge, the words flowed out of her like water. “You can’t take part in anything as ghastly as torturing Kane,” Matilda protested. “You just can’t. He’s a white man. He deserves a trial the same as anyone else. If he’s guilty, as you say he is, he’ll certainly be sentenced to hang. Won’t that satisfy you?”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Jess replied curtly. “Kane is their prisoner, not mine. No matter what I say, Kane is fated to die.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jess said wearily. “Kane dies tomorrow night. Where are you going?”
“For a walk. I need to be alone.”
“Stay close to camp, Mrs. Thornton,” he warned brusquely, and ducked into their wickiup.
Matilda stared after him for a moment, then turned and walked toward the river. There had to be a way to make Jess change his mind, something she could do to prevent him from taking part in Kane’s death.
“Mrs. Thornton.”
Matilda paused, unable to ignore the pleading note in Kane’s voice as he called to her again.
“Mrs. Thornton, please!”
His voice was faint, raspy. Compassion swelled in her heart as she walked toward Elias Kane, her nose wrinkling at the stench that emanated from him. “Mr. Kane,” she murmured, stricken at the sight of him. “Good Lord, are you all right?”
Elias Kane managed a weak grin. “As well as can be expected.” He licked dry, cracked lips. “Need water.”
Matilda nodded.
“Help me.”
“How?”
“Water, please.”
She glanced around for something to use as a cup. Spying a large leaf, she carried it to the river, formed a cup and filled it with water.
Kane’s eyes filled with gratitude as she offered him a drink.
“Bless you,” he murmured, his eyes closing with pleasure as the cool water slid down his throat.
Matilda stared at Kane, remembering how he had shot McCord and then left them in the desert without food or water.
“Bless you,” he said again. “Mrs. Thornton, you’ve got to…to help me.” His voice was thick with desperation.
“The way you helped us?”
“I’m sorry about that,” Kane said fervently. “Mrs. Thornton, you don’t know…what these savages are like.” He swallowed and licked his lips. “What they’re capable of. They’ll cut me up in little pieces.” He gazed up at her, his green eyes filled with fear. “They’ll hack off my hands and feet…they’ll disembowel me, and…”
