by Mike Kearby
“Free? You OK?”
Jarred back to the present, Free turned toward his friend and regrouped his thoughts. “I’m fine, Parks.” He glanced back down at the tracks. “Why do you think it’s Apache? I thought they had all retired to the reservation.”
“Most have,” Parks said, “but there are a few bands left hiding in the mountains, causing a whole lot of trouble for the U.S. and Mexico.”
“Looks like one stayed here with the horses while the others climbed the mountain,” Free said, and then pushed a cut of tobacco deep into his jaw.
“I reckon the main bunch headed up to the station.” Parks stared across the trail, “But look over there.” He pointed to a spot where the Kiowa dog was busy taking in the numerous forest smells, “The dog has picked up something. I’ll bet the brave guarding the horses moved the herd across the trail and walked them back to the east.” He pulled his Winchester from its leather scabbard. “We might have more than just Tig Hardy to deal with at the end of this climb.” He chambered a shell into the rifle and set the rifle butt against his saddle.
Free pulled the Sharps from his ring and held the rifle across his chest. “Guess we best get up this trail then and see what kind of party is waiting on us.”
“More of your fuss, I suspect.” Parks lightly tapped Horse with a spur and walked the mustang forward.
“One thing bothers me though, Parks.”
“What’s that?”
“It seems mighty quiet on this mountain right now.”
Parks turned an ear up the hill and listened for several seconds, “You’re right, Free, way too quiet,” he said.
Chapter 23
The Old Pinery Station, Texas December 1868
The old Pinery Station showed no signs of life. The wooden bars used to barricade the entrance lay scattered near the gate and a trail of blood stained the snow. An eerie quiet surrounded the stockade, giving Free and Parks pause.
Both men sat in a clump of pines a hundred feet from the fortress, trying to take measure of their situation.
Free surveyed the entire compound and saw no movement or sign of life. A nagging fear tugged at his heart that told him he would not find Clara here.
“Will that dog listen to you?” Parks asked.
“I don’t know.” Free glanced at the animal several yards away. The dog sat on his haunches with his ears erect.
“See if you can persuade him to move inside the gate. If anyone is in the station, he’ll let us know.” Parks kept his gaze on the station walls.
“Dog.” Free pointed toward the station, “Go on, dog. Get in there.”
The animal turned his head toward Free, stood, and stared at the entrance.
“Go on now!”
Obeying the command, the dog exploded forward and sprinted to the station. The dog stopped at the gate and sniffed each wooden bar; he then began to lick the ground just inside the entrance.
“What is it, boy?” Free called out.
The dog turned back to Free, sniffed the air, and then ran inside the stockade. After several seconds of quiet, the dog began to bark. Soon, the barking became louder and incessant.
“He’s found something!” Free looked over to Parks.
“Let’s go!” Parks slapped the reins across Horse’s shoulders.
Inside the stockade, a scalped corpse lay face-up in the snow several feet from the middle station room. Parks jumped from Horse and inspected the arrow-riddled body.
“It’s Hardy. Captain Huntt was right, he and Chase looked exactly alike,” he said. “And these arrows are all flecked with hawk feathers. I reckon we’re dealing with Apaches for sure.”
Directed by the dog’s yips and howls, Free dismounted, maneuvered around Hardy’s lifeless body and staggered into the station’s main room. “Clara!” he cried out. His chest pounded explosively with the fear of what he might find. Three feet from the fireplace, a man lay belly down with his hands and feet staked to the earthen floor. A long, length of leather strap encircled the man’s forehead. Tied to a peg between his legs, the strap pulled the man’s head back and forced him to stare into a still burning fire.
“Parks!” Free screamed.
Parks ran into the room and grimaced at the sight before him. “Christ!” He turned back toward the door, “They roasted him alive.” Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the room and drew his knife. He cut the leather strap and allowed the man’s head to fall to the floor. “I don’t know who this man was, Free, but the Apaches don’t kill like this unless something horrible was done to one of their own.”
Free looked away and gasped for breath. “I don’t know what a man could do to warrant that kind of death.”
Parks looked at the man’s hands. He had scraped the flesh from his fingers digging in the dirt from the pain. “Let’s get him and Hardy covered before I get sick,” he said.
“What about Clara?” Free cried out in anguish, “Where could she be?”
Parks looked up. “There are two station rooms adjoining this one. You search the east room, and I’ll search the west.”
Free nodded and ran hurriedly toward the doorway, calling in desperation, “Clara! Clara!”
“Free!” Parks called to his friend’s back, “Don’t go in that room without your Colt drawn!”
Parks moved into the west room heedful of what he might find inside. The main body of the area was coated gray by shadows of the approaching evening. Even in the near darkness, Parks could see the room was empty. Dejected that Clara was not here, he turned to exit the shadiness. From the open doorway, the remaining daylight illuminated a small section of the back wall. There, scribbled in charcoal was a written message.
“Free,” he shouted in excitement, “Get over here, quick!”
Free pressed both hands against the station room wall and gently patted the cool limestone. Head down, he exhaled fully and uttered, “She’s alive.” He lifted his gaze and stared once more at the words written in charcoal.
December 26 Morning
Free, I am alone and on horse back.
I am riding east to the Old Mexican Trail.
Hurry.
Clara.
Parks placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We best ride, Free. Clara’s got a five-or-six hour head start on us, but if we use the dog, we might find her before dark.”
“How is he going to pick up her scent, Parks?”
Parks studied his friend in a measured gaze and then stared at the leather string around his neck, “Let him have a smell of your tobacco pouch. Her scent should be all over it.”
As night descended through the forest pines, a noticeable chill settled toward the ground. Clara looked around the graying woods and shivered uncontrollably. She was exhausted but felt fortunate to be alive. Mr. McCaslin’s rifle had gone silent only minutes after she fled the station. At first she figured the Apache would track her down in short order. But true to his word, Mr. McCaslin had saved her life, for the Apaches spent several hours torturing and tormenting him. His screams had filled the mountain and followed her for an eternity. His death was a grim reminder of how fragile life was for those who chose to settle in the West.
She looked up at the clear winter sky. She knew that meant another night of freezing temperatures. She considered building a small fire, but realized even a small flame might signal her location.
She had zigzagged across the Mexican trail on her descent, praying the north to south pattern would confuse any trackers. The process had been slow and tiring, but if McCaslin was correct, she would be safe from the Apache during the night. And with any luck at all, she would wake with tomorrow’s sunrise to a dazzling view of the prairie desert below the Guadalupes.
“Whoa, horse.” She pulled back on the reins. “We’ll take our rest here tonight.”
The darkness spread faster now and Clara hurried to secure the horse to a pine. Weary and lonely, she placed her back against the tree and pulled the saddle blanket over her shoulders for wa
rmth. “I’ll get you some browse tomorrow, I promise,” she spoke to the horse.
The horse moved nervously on its hind legs at her words and seemed skittish. Exhausted, Clara squinted into the charcoal forest with a fixed stare. It looked as if the trees were moving. Get a hold of yourself, Clara, she thought. You’ve come too far to go crazy now. Smiling at the notion of trees moving, her eyes drooped slightly and as sleep approached, a series of light kicks tapped on the bottom of her boots. With eyes closed, a smile quickly spread across her mouth. “Free?” She lifted her eyes sleepily, “I knew you’d find me….” She stopped mid-sentence, shocked by the Apache looming over her.
The Apache grabbed Clara’s wrists and with little exertion yanked her to her feet.
Caught off guard, she stared with wide eyes at the formidable warrior and uttered, “Who are…” but before she could finish her sentence, the Apache brave swung her around so her back was to the trail. From behind, a rawhide strap fell across her face and into her open mouth. She struggled against the Apache’s grip and shook her head frantically as the tightened strap pulled her mouth into a distorted smile. A rush of energy surged through her body, she tried to scream, but only a muffled utterance issued from the Apache gag.
Chapter 24
Near El Paso del Rio del Norte, Mexico December 1868
After a day’s ride out of the Guadalupes, the Apache raiding party crossed the great north river at a spot several miles south of El Paso del Rio del Norte. Clara shared a horse with a young brave the others called Delshay. Delshay had pulled her hands forward under his arms and then tied her wrists at his waist, forcing her tight against his back. The rawhide gag bit deeply into the corners of her mouth and trickles of blood oozed from the binding.
Exhausted, hungry and stiff-backed, Clara, nevertheless, pushed all her pain aside. The Apache never spoke and seemed to suffer little effect from the cold and the continuous riding. Act like an Apache, Clara, she told herself. It might be the only way to guarantee both her and the baby’s safety. Free and Parks must be following close, she thought. She had heard their far away calls echoing throughout the mountains during the previous night. Concentrate, Clara! she demanded. Do what ever is necessary until Free comes!
In the last hour of darkness, the Apache band came to rest in a small mesquite thicket. The group’s leader, a warrior called Chan-deisi, signaled for the warriors to dismount. Delshay untied her wrists, swung his right leg over the horse’s head and jumped to the ground. He looked up at Clara and held one finger to his lips. Clara nodded at his warning, and then the brave pulled her off the horse.
Clara rubbed each wrist gingerly, relieved to be on her feet and free of the rawhide binding. Delshay drew his knife and held the flint blade very close to her eyes. His expression, cold as the north wind, admonished her to stay quiet. He moved the blade to the side of her head and with a deft stroke cut her gag. Clara pulled the embedded leather strap from her mouth and hurled it to the ground. Delshay laughed at her action and removed a small calf bladder from around his hip. He untied the drawstring and pushed the bladder toward her.
Clara greedily grabbed for the water and drank. After only a few swallows, Delshay pulled the bladder from her grasp and returned it to his waist. Clara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and winced as the brine water stung her cut lips. Delshay once again held a finger to his lips and then pressed on her shoulders, forcing her to sit.
On the ground, Clara arched her back and rubbed her stomach with a gentle touch. The circular motion of her hands calmed her thoughts, which she hoped relaxed the baby.
The rest of the band milled about, gathering dead mesquite sticks and picking any remaining beans from the trees. Clara’s stomach growled noisily from lack of food, and she prayed the rumblings would not alarm the Apache braves.
One of the older braves removed a fire drill and kindling pouch from his quiver. The others crowded at the brave’s back and appeared excited as the fire-maker rolled the drill back and forth in a pinch of sand. Shortly, a spark began to smoke in the drill base and the brave fanned the smoke with the kindling pouch. As the kindling began to flame, he carefully added larger and larger mesquite twigs to his creation.
Walking from the group, Delshay approached Clara and smiled broadly. He opened his right hand and exposed several dried pods of mesquite beans. He pointed to his mouth repeatedly with the other hand. Starving, Clara grabbed the pods and began shelling the beans. She hungrily ate the bitter-tasting beans, thankful for the nourishment. Delshay nodded at her appetite and then motioned for her to follow him back to the fire.
Kneeling beside the fire, one of the braves carefully unrolled a small square of deerskin. A second brave stood nearby and held a short length of mesquite branch sharpened on one end. The first brave lifted a blond scalp from the deerskin and poked it onto the limb. Horrified, Clara stiffened at the sight and felt the burning sensation of bile rise in her throat.
The Apache began to chatter excitedly as the first brave then lifted a dark-haired scalp and pushed it onto the pointed stick. The second brave turned and held the impaled scalps over the small fire. In seconds, the smell of burning flesh filled the air and crept into Clara’s nose. She looked away and jerked spastically with dry heaves.
Delshay spun around and issued a stern look of disgust by her interruption. “Gunjule!” he warned her to behave. And then he held a finger to his lips. The rest of the raiding party stopped and stared at her with twisted expressions. “Gunjule!” Delshay repeated his warning once more.
Clara nodded and regained her composure. “I’m sorry.” She lowered her head in respect and hoped she had not angered the raiding party. After a moment of silence, Delshay looked back to the group, and the chatter resumed. Her indiscretion apparently forgiven, Clara exhaled softly, caressed her stomach and reminded herself to remain strong.
After removing the scalps from the fire, the two braves worked with attentive care on their trophies. Each softened the burnt side by pounding the scalp with a small stone. Next, each brave scraped the remaining flesh away with the cutting edge of his knife. Clara watched, both disgusted and intrigued at the Apache’s workmanship. With the process of cleaning and softening finished, they tied the scalps to a mesquite hoop, using strands of horse hair. As the sun gradually climbed over the horizon, the two braves lifted their coup skyward, offered thanks to the Sun God, and asked for his protection.
With the morning properly welcomed, the braves kicked sand on the remaining flames and extinguished the fire. Three Apache braves peered from the scrub and studied the settlement a few hundred yards to the north. The scattering of houses was located a mile south of the more populated El Paso del Norte. The trio hunkered low to the ground and exited the mesquite stand intent on reaching the first line of outbuildings undetected.
As soon as the braves departed, the remaining warriors took to their ponies ready to ride or fight. From his mustang, Delshay held an outstretched arm toward Clara. With great reluctance, she grabbed the extended hand and pulled herself up. Delshay pulled her arms through to his stomach and once again tied her wrists securely.
In the settlement, the Mexican inhabitants emerged from their homes to begin their daily chores. Soon, a great number of workers occupied the fields on the eastern side of the settlement. Some of the laborers dug sotol bulbs while others moved toward the river to collect water. In the midst of this activity, the three Apache moved inconspicuously into the yard of the nearest home. It was as if they were invisible.
Cautious in their movements, the trio circled the house and remained out of sight for several minutes. They reappeared on a dead run, racing for the clump of mesquites. Two of the braves carried large objects slung over their shoulders while the third brave kept a watchful eye on the Mexican workers.
The braves returned to the scrub undetected. The rest of the raiding party welcomed their success with a great slapping of thighs. The two braves showed wide smiles as they tossed the plunder ac
ross their pony’s shoulders.
Even with her view partially blocked, Clara nonetheless could see the swag was Mexican children. The gagged children kicked hopelessly at the air and a terrified look of helplessness glowed in their eyes. Clara tried to make eye contact with each, but the chaos of the moment made it impossible. She started to call out and then thought better of her foolishness. All she could do now was wait and bide her time.
With everyone mounted, Chan-deisi whirled his horse to the south and kicked the pony’s flank. “Nzhoo!” He shouted to show his approval of their raid. “Nzhoo!” The rest of the band hollered back. And then in a swirl of dust, the raiding party raced from the scrub thicket and disappeared into the Mexican desert.
Chapter 25
The Guadalupe Mountains, Texas December 1868
In the shade that follows day and later turns to night, Free rubbed his hand in a patch of scuffedup ground near the Old Mexican Trail. He felt certain that Clara had been here. “Looks like the same pony tracks we found below the Old Pinery Station.”
“Makes sense,” Parks answered from across the trail, “And what do you make of this?” He held up a saddle blanket abandoned near a towering pine.
