Opening his eyes, he gazed down the mountain. His cousin, Short Bear, had gone to seek a vision two years ago, at the age of fourteen. Short Bear had fasted and prayed in the prescribed manner, but no vision had come to him. Short Bear had been sorely disappointed. Even now, Zuniga wondered why the boy had failed to receive a medicine dream when he had prayed so earnestly and desired it so much. Had the boy failed because he had lacked the faith necessary to receive a gift from the gods, or had the Great Spirit stopped sending visions now that the people were no longer living wild and free? Nachi claimed Usen was displeased with his red children because they no longer lived in the ancient way, and perhaps the old man was right. Who could say for certain?
Zuniga smiled when he thought of his grandfather. Nachi had fought with both Cochise and Geronimo, with Mangas Colorado, and Victorio. They had known many victories, and many defeats. But now Mangas was dead, killed by soldiers. Victorio was dead, killed by a sniper. Cochise was dead. Of all the great old chiefs, only Geronimo was still living. He was a celebrity now, a living legend. He had ridden in Roosevelt's inaugural parade. He had appeared at the St. Louis Exposition the year before, where he had been a notable attraction for the tourists. It was said he sold photographs of himself to the whites for fifty cents. Zuniga thought it was disgusting, the way Geronimo sold photographs and souvenirs to the whites, The old warrior had sold his dignity for a few dollars, Zuniga thought, but he kept such opinions to himself, knowing that Nachi would be displeased if he spoke badly about the old chief.
Sometimes, alone in the lodge late at night, Nachi grieved aloud for the old days, lamenting the passing of the buffalo, the loss of their old hunting grounds. He missed the war dances and the victory celebrations, the warriors he had grown up with and fought with. But then, Zuniga mused, they all grieved for the past in one way or another.
It had been Nachi who had taught Shad how to make a good strong bow out of the wood of the wild mulberry, admonishing him to choose a piece that was straight and had no knots in it. The bow was held straight up and down for close shots, crossways for longer distances. Bowstrings were made from a length of sinew from the back of a deer, or from the muscle on the back of a hind leg. It was necessary to wear a wrist guard made of leather or tanned bide to protect one's wrist from the bowstring.
Arrows were made from reeds or cane growing in the mountains or along river bottoms. The best cane was found on the Gila River. Nachi had told him that long ago, when the Apache first began to make arrows, they had used only two feathers, but the shaft flew crooked, so they tried four feathers, but that made the shaft fly in a curve. Three feathers made the shaft fly straight. Many kinds of feathers were used, but Nachi preferred the feathers of the red-tailed hawk.
Nachi had also shown Shad how to make poison for his arrows by drying a deer's spleen and then grinding it to powder and mixing it with the ground root or stalk of nettles. The mixture was put in a small sack made from a part of a deer's large intestine. When all was ready, Nachi spit in the bag, then tied it up tight so none of the bad air would escape. The bag was hung from a tree for four days, sometimes five, until the contents were rotten and in liquid form. The poison was very effective. A deer shot with a poison arrow died in a short time, even if the arrow only scratched it.
Quivers were made from a variety of hides, usually horse, deer, wolf, or mountain lion. If the hide had a tail on it, it was left on as a decoration. A quiver usually held between thirty and forty arrows.
Zuniga swore softly as he stubbed out his cigarette. Rising easily to his feet, he reached for the bow and quiver that Nachi had given him many years ago. The bow was good and strong, made from unblemished mulberry wood; the arrows were of cane, fletched with the feathers of a red-tailed hawk; the quiver was made from the hide of a mountain lion Nachi had killed in the Sierra Madre Mountains.
For a moment, Zuniga's fingers caressed the quiver, and then he cursed again. He had come to hunt, not to get maudlin over a way of life that was forever gone. Still, he could not help yearning for the old days as he started up the hill. He remembered what it had been like to live wild in the Dragoon Mountains. He had been old enough to fight in the last battles between his people and the whites. He knew what it was like to take a life, to dip his hands in the blood of the enemy. And he had loved it all, the fighting, the killing, the thrill of the chase, the excitement of victory. But the victories had been few, the defeats many. The warriors the Apache lost in battle could not be replaced, but the whites seemed to have an unending number of men to send against them, an inexhaustible supply of guns and ammunition, and in the end the Indians had lost their fight for freedom.
Zuniga had gone into hiding in the mountains, refusing to surrender his freedom, refusing to be penned up on the white man's reservation, to wear a metal tag around his neck inscribed with a number that identified him on the Agency record books. It was only when word came to him that Nachi was sick and alone that he had moved to the reservation. The Indian Agent had assigned him a number, but he had thrown it away. He did not want the white man's charity and he did not show up at the fort on ration day.
Zuniga sighed heavily. If only he had been born fifty years earlier. The Indian had been supreme then. Apache, Kiowa, Comanche, Sioux, Arapahoe, Crow, Cheyenne, all the tribes that had once ruled the vast plains and prairies west of the Missouri had been subdued by the whites, forced off their native homeland and confined to reservations.
Thoughts of the whites brought Loralee Warfield to mind. He was drawn to her in a way he could not understand or explain. His dreams were filled with her golden image, his thoughts were never far from her. He wondered if she was as aware of him as he was of her. When they were together, it was almost as if he could touch her without touching her. Had she noticed? Did she feel the same?
He walked softly through the wooded hillside, his keen eyes searching for game while his thoughts lingered on Loralee. What would she think of him if she knew he had killed his father with his bare hands? She wouldn't be so eager to teach him to read and write then, he mused sourly, or so willing to be alone with him in the schoolhouse at night.
He swore under his breath, gripped by the old fear that sometimes came to haunt him, the fear that he would end up like his father, just another shiftless Apache buck who drank too much and vented his frustration by beating his wife and making life hell for everyone around him.
Zuniga came to a halt as he spied a deer grazing on a patch of yellow grass. Taking his bow from his shoulder, he put an arrow to the bowstring, sighted down the shaft, and let the arrow fly. The cane shaft flew straight and true, piercing the deer's throat, killing it instantly.
He felt a sense of satisfaction as he padded quietly toward his kill. Let the other Indians eat Agency beef. Tonight, he and Nachi would feast on venison steaks and tongue.
Tonight . . .
He moved quickly, draping the heavy carcass over the dun's withers. Tonight he would be with Loralee.
3
Loralee stood before the mirror, brushing out her long hair. It was Saturday, and the morning was bright and clear. She smiled at her reflection as she coiled her hair into its customary knot and fastened it in place. So many things had happened in such a short time. Shad Zuniga had kept his word. He had told the Apache children and their parents that he was learning to read and write the white man's language. The elders had decided it was a good thing. And the children had started to attend school.
Three little girls had been the first to come to class. Black eyes solemn, faces grave, they had arrived at the schoolhouse promptly at eight in the morning. Loralee had greeted them with a smile. They were darling children, she thought as she bid them sit down. All three were dressed in colorful long-sleeved blouses, corduroy jumpers, and moccasins. They wore their long black hair in twin braids tied with red ribbon.
Their names, she learned, were Red Bird, Little Blossom, and Miranda. Miranda was a half-breed. Her mother lived on the reservation. Her father had b
een a white man who lingered in the territory long enough to get Miranda's mother pregnant and then disappeared, never to be heard from again.
The girls had listened attentively to everything Loralee said, grinned with pleasure when she taught them how to write their names.
The next day, Red Bird, Little Blossom, and Miranda were at the school waiting for Loralee. Red Bird had persuaded her two older sisters to come to school, too. Their names were Yellow Grass Girl and Deer Eyes.
Now, five weeks later, Loralee had sixteen students, eleven girls and five boys, ranging in age from five to seventeen. The boys made it clear from the start that they did not want to be there, and Loralee knew it was only Shad Zuniga's influence that had persuaded the boys to attend school.
The boys. They were forever thinking up new ways to devil her, and Short Bear was the worst of all. He was a handsome boy, about five feet, six inches tall, with dark skin, shoulder-length black hair, and dark chocolate eyes. Loralee was certain it was Short Bear who left the little surprises in her desk drawer each morning. A dead scorpion the first day, a half-eaten rodent the next, a live snake the third. Loralee tried not to let her revulsion show as she bravely removed the creatures, both dead and alive, from her desk and tossed them out the window into the brush.
Slowly she gained the respect of the boys. Her sincere affection for the children, coupled with her obvious admiration and respect for the Apache people as a whole, won most of the children to her side.
As time passed, the frogs and lizards and other repulsive creatures stopped making an appearance in her desk drawer, and Loralee felt as though she had achieved a major victory.
She set apart an hour of each day to let the children teach her, and gradually she picked up a few Apache words and phrases. It was a harsh, difficult tongue to master, but she learned that ugashe! meant go, ciye meant son, cima meant mother. Nahleen meant maiden or young girl, chelee meant horse. Besh-shea-gar meant iron-that-shoots.
Loralee listened to their stories, played their games, admired their drawings, and never gave up hope that more of the children would come to school.
Short Bear remained a problem she could not solve. He would not read aloud. He would not answer questions. He would not do the sums she wrote on the chalkboard. She often wondered why the boy continued to come to class at all. He spent most of his time staring out the window, a sullen expression on his face.
When she learned that Short Bear was Zuniga's cousin, she told Zuniga of the problem she was having with the boy, but Zuniga only shrugged.
''I made him agree to go to your school," Shad had said, shrugging, "but I cannot make him learn."
It was sad, Loralee mused, sad that progress and civilization had swept over the Apache, changing their way of life, routing them from their land, putting them under the thumb of the white man, whom they distrusted. In the old days, Short Bear would have become a warrior. He would have known who he was and what was expected of him. He would have learned to hunt and fight and live off the land. Now, he needed to learn to read and write and cipher. But he did not want to learn. Still, like it or not, the Indians' only hope of survival was to be integrated into the white community, to learn to live and think like the whites.
And Loralee wanted to be a part of that change. She knew the older Apaches were reluctant to try new things, stubbornly clinging to the old ways, but she was here to teach the young, to help them learn the language and culture of her people, to help them increase their knowledge of the world, a world that was rapidly changing. Even Loralee found it hard to believe some of the things she had seen and heard in the last few years. Who would have thought that anyone could invent a machine that was actually capable of flight? And who would have guessed that motor cars would be more than just a passing fancy for the very rich? Even more fascinating than flying machines and horseless carriages was the advent of moving pictures. She had watched, mesmerized, as The Great Train Robbery, filmed in the wilds of New Jersey in 1903, unfolded before her eyes. Fully twelve minutes long, it had been the most amazing thing she had ever seen, and well worth the five cents it had cost for admission. Loralee had been on the edge of her seat the whole time. How ironic, she had thought at the time, to sit in an Eastern theater to watch a movie about a train robbery when trains were still being held up in the West, and men were still dying in gunfights on the streets of Western towns. But the movie was only make believe, and it had been thrilling.
Most of the Indians living on the reservation would probably never see a flying machine or a moving picture, yet Loralee thought it was important for them to know such things existed, to know what great strides were being made in the outside world, to look forward to the myriad changes that were coming instead of closing their eyes and remaining in ignorance. Teaching the children to read and write was the first step. It would not be easy to teach the Apache children, but she welcomed the challenge. Perhaps, if she could teach the children, the children could teach their parents.
Zuniga continued to meet her at the schoolhouse each weekday evening just after sundown. He had quickly mastered the alphabet and was rapidly learning to read and write. He had a quick mind and rarely forgot anything once she explained it to him.
She began to teach him basic arithmetic, pleased beyond words when he showed an aptitude for figures. So many people thought the Indians were dull and stupid, unable to learn. She was glad to know they were wrong. Zuniga was neither dull nor stupid. He was a grown man, one who was quickly learning to read and write and cipher, an Indian who was every bit as intelligent as any white man she had ever known.
There was only one problem in teaching Shad Zuniga. It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate on teaching when they were alone together. Each time she stopped near his desk, each time she bent down to study a problem or check his work, she was acutely aware of him as a man, a very handsome, virile man. His presence filled the schoolroom. He was so very male, she could not forget for a moment that she was a woman, a woman who had never known a man intimately.
Daily the attraction between them grew stronger. Loralee did her best to ignore it, refusing to believe she could be physically attracted to a man who was different from her in so many ways. And yet she spent hours thinking of him, dreaming of him, wondering what it would be like to be held in his arms. No other man had ever caused her such confusion. Shad Zuniga never said or did anything remotely intimate, yet she yearned for him in a way that was frightening in its intensity. Why was she so drawn to him? She had been courted by many attractive young men in the East. She had been wooed and coaxed, even kissed by a few of her bolder suitors, but none of them had ever piqued her interest or stoked her desire the way Zuniga did. She conjured up his image in her mind and could find no fault in it. His face was strong and masculine, his body beautifully proportioned and well-muscled, his hair long and as black as a raven's wing. . . .
Zuniga, Zuniga, Zuniga. It seemed she could think of nothing else. Slipping into her riding habit, she saddled her horse, which she had named Lady, and set out for a ride in the hills. She purposefully took the trail that led away from Shad Zuniga's lodge. She did not want to think of him, or see him.
The day was warm, the sky a bright blue. Loralee smiled happily as she put Lady into a slow trot. Back East, she had never ridden a horse except once or twice in the park on Sunday after church. Now, she rode just about every day for the sheer pleasure of it. There was something wonderfully relaxing about horseback riding. Days when she was irritable from trying to cope with Short Bear, or simply out of sorts, were quickly put right by an hour in the saddle. Once, she had mentioned to Mike how she felt about riding, but he had looked at her as if she were slightly crazy. Horses were a necessary pain in the ass, Mike had said, and then apologized for his crude language.
With a sigh of pure enjoyment, Loralee urged Lady up into the foothills. It was cool and shady riding beneath the trees. The ground was covered with pine needles that muffled the sound of Lady's iron-shod hooves.
Squirrels chattered at Loralee as she passed by. A deer, graceful as a ballet dancer, darted for cover, its tail flashing white as it disappeared in the underbrush. Later, a skunk waddled across the trail, followed by a brood of three striped babies. Loralee held her breath as the family passed by, hoping the animal would not become alarmed. She breathed a sigh of relief when the furry little creatures made their way around a log and out of sight.
Loralee was halfway up the hillside when she heard the sound of an axe striking wood. Pausing, she cocked her head to one side, listening to the rhythmic sound. It was coming from her right and was quite near. Was it possible that someone besides Shad Zuniga and his grandfather lived in the hills? Mike had not mentioned it, but it might have slipped his mind, or perhaps he had not wanted her to know.
Curious, she reined Lady toward the sound, marveling at the dainty way the mare picked her way through the brush, stepping over fallen logs as though she were a fine lady who didn't want to soil her shoes.
Some moments later, Loralee rounded a huge gray boulder and reined Lady to an abrupt halt. There, only a few feet away, stood Shad Zuniga. He was clad in a brief buckskin clout, thick-soled moccasins, a faded red headband, and nothing more. His coppery skin was sheened with a fine layer of sweat. The muscles in his arms and back rippled like water as he swung the axe through the air, slicing cleanly through the log at his feet.
Loralee had seldom seen a man without a shirt, never one without trousers, and she gazed in rapt fascination at the sight of so much exposed male flesh. The muscles in Zuniga's arms and legs were clearly defined as he hefted the heavy axe, and she noted with pleasure that he was strong, and beautiful to watch.
Love Forevermore Page 4
