by Mike Kearby
“Cleyra.” Dayden stood over Clara’s back. “We go,” she said and pointed toward the five girls.
Clara rose and followed Dayden toward the center of the camp where much of the tribe now gathered in a circle around the captured girls.
The oldest of the squaws, called Lupan, sat beside the first captured girl and began to stroke her long, coal black hair. The young girl presented a tight smile and offered her hair to Lupan, trying to be obedient because the squaw often beat the girls with a buffalo hair quirt.
Lupan deftly combed the girl’s hair and chanted a rhythmic song with each stroke. The young girl listened for several minutes, lowered her head and relaxed. Lupan noticed the calm and rubbed the girl’s upper arms while continuing to sing.
Then, without warning, Lupan twisted a handful of hair around her palm. The young girl’s eyes widened in fear as Lupan violently jerked her head backwards.
Standing at the sotol pit, another squaw removed an orange- glowing iron from the embers and moved quickly toward Lupan. The young captive suddenly realized what was happening and fought to escape Lupan’s clutches.
“What is going on?” Clara whispered, horrified.
“Shhh, Cleyra. The girls must be prepared for the traders.”
The squaw with the hot iron grabbed the girl by the chin with a vice- like hold. Ignoring the child’s struggle, she pushed the flat side of the brand onto the girl’s left cheek.
The pitiful girl howled in agony. Before relaxing her grip, Lupan removed a large mesquite spine from her lap and punched the thorn through the girl’s left ear lobe.
“The girl can now be traded,” Dayden whispered to Clara.
Without a thought, Clara pushed her way through the crowd determined to stop Lupan. As she entered the circle, the front of her shirt dug deeply into her throat halting her movement. Confused, she turned and tried to free herself. To her shock, Delshay stood there and held a fistful of her shirt.
His eyes glowed dark with anger. With little concern for her pregnancy, he pushed her toward Dayden. “Gunjule!” he cautioned.
After each of the girl’s faces had been branded and their ear’s pierced, the squaws dragged them back to the chore of mashing sotol bulbs.
With the ceremony complete, Lupan rose and began to utter a series of loud cackles and howls. When she finished, the warriors near the river led the two captured boys into the ring. As the boys entered, the Apache became very excited and the noisy hum of chatter filled the air.
“Dayden, what are they doing?” Clara asked, anxiously.
“Lupan’s son has gone to the spirit world. She has the right to choose her new son. The boys will fight so she can choose the one who is stronger.”
Clara fought back the bile rising in her throat. She panted as her heart raced rapidly. She felt responsible for the ordeals facing the children and wondered why Free was taking so long to find her. Please, Free. Please come soon, she prayed.
The two captured boys stood in the ring and looked confused as Chan- deisi gestured for them to fight. Bewildered by his hand signals, both boys stood frozen, unsure of what to do. The frustration of the camp grew loud at the boys’ reluctance and Clara feared what might happen if the boys did not obey.
Early in her life, she slaved on a farm near Victoria and at one time understood many Spanish phrases. Pressured to act quickly, she desperately tried to remember the Spanish word for “fight.” “Muchachos!” she screamed over the crowd.
Both boys turned at the sound of their native tongue and looked her way.
Frantic, she held up her fists and shook them rapidly. “Combate!” the word suddenly appeared to her, “Ahora!” she added.
The Apaches stared at Clara, quieted and then erupted into a loud roar as the boys grabbed each other and began to fight. The two released a ferocious rage that had smoldered during their captivity and began to rain a fury of fists and kicks upon each other. Like animals in the wild, the boys fought at a furious pace, urged on by the whoops of the Apache squaws.
After several minutes, the taller of the boys gained a dominant position and pinned his opponent to the ground. The boy landed a sharp punch and then began to strangle his foe.
Clara shuffled her feet in a rapid dance and tried to remain quiet. She watched the one boy turn ashen and unable to hold her tongue any longer, screamed out, “Help him!”
Delshay, standing in front of her, whirled and backhanded her across the face. A loud crack resonated around the circle and caused the Apache to glance up from the fight.
Clara stumbled backward and unable to regain her balance, fell hard to the ground. Angered, she looked up in defiance and swiped at the trickle of blood that formed on her mouth. Delshay’s eyes seemed inflamed, and he held his outstretched hand above her, ready to strike again.
“Go ahead!” Clara screamed, “Hit me again! You are not a warrior, but a man who hits women!”
Delshay remained motionless, unsure of Clara’s words.
Dayden rushed in and helped Clara regain her feet. “No Cleyra! No!” she screamed.
Clara held Dayden’s hand and stared at the crowd. The boys had stopped their fighting and looked about their captors with heaving chests. Then both shook and cried uncontrollably as the rush of battle exited their bodies.
“Hi-disho!”
All of the Apache turned at the voice.
Standing outside the large tepee at the camp’s center, a stocky Apache dressed in a purple headband and a yellowed shirt held both hands skyward. “Hi-disho!” he repeated, calling an end to the encounter.
The tribe now directed their full attention on the civil-chief. Chanting in Apache, he pointed to Lupan and then to the boys. Next, he pointed all around the circle and rubbed his hands together.
The tribe erupted in laughter at his gestures. Finally, he pointed at Delshay, laughed loudly and spoke to Dayden. “Bring the buffalo woman to me!” he commanded.
The civil-chief of the Apache spread his arms across the interior of his tepee and offered Clara to sit.
“You have much courage, buffalo woman. That is a good sign. I am called Cochinay.”
Clara nodded in respect. “Thank you, Cochinay. You speak very good English.”
“Ashoge,” Cochinay said, and then added, “Thank you. I learned English as a young boy from the border traders.” Cochinay squatted and gracefully took a seat with crossed legs. “Tell me how it is you rode with the men who killed the Apache squaw in the great desert mountain?”
Clara reflected for a moment and then looked at the chief. “Cochinay, one month ago, the one man captured me and burned my house. I ran from this man and escaped, but he captured me again in the great white sands. I was a prisoner of those men like I am a prisoner of the Apache.”
The chief studied Clara in silence. After a time he said, “Have you no man to protect you?”
Clara looked deep into Cochinay’s eyes. “Yes. And he is coming here soon to find me.”
Cochinay’s face showed a quick flame of anger. “Any man who comes to the winter camp of the Apache uninvited must certainly die,” he said.
Chapter 31
The Apacheria, Texas January 1869
The Kiowa dog sniffed at the ground with eager attention. He had remained in this one spot for well over five minutes trying to separate hundreds of different smells from one another.
Free stepped from Spirit and removed the tobacco pouch from around his neck. He waved the pouch back and forth under the dog’s nose. “What do you smell? Do you smell Clara, boy?”
The dog set his nose against the pouch and began a series of rapid snorts. After another minute, he placed his nose back to the ground and then raced off to the northeast.
Parks reined Horse forward. A string of three ponies trailed behind him. He hoped to use the mustangs as a gift for the Apache leader. Parks watched the dog’s movements and then glanced at Free. “Looks like he’s back on the trail.”
Free mounted Spirit and walked
the mustang several paces behind the tracking dog. “Let’s hope so.”
The men had left their camp early in the morning and followed a javelina trail that cut through the overgrown sotol and yucca to the Rio Bravo. They traveled along the Texas side of the river for the better part of an hour before the dog picked up the first scent. But the Apache were smart; their trail crossed the river five times within a few miles, a strategy which confused the dog and made the Indian horses almost impossible to track.
Now back on the scent, the dog followed a wide bend in the river that emptied from mesquite and white thorn onto a large clearing at the mouth of a narrow canyon.
Free looked up the ravine and carefully studied the landscape. An enormous drift of sand climbed the northwest side of the canyon wall. The pile extended forty feet up the cliff walls. “This could be the canyon, Sergeant Jones spoke of.”
Parks searched the top of the canyon walls for movement. He felt a hundred eyes on his back and was certain the Apache were here. Anxious, he calmly maneuvered Horse toward Free, even as his heart raced wildly. “We must be in the right spot. I can feel a dozen arrows pointed at me.”
Free pushed his hat back and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “You too?”
“Yep.” Parks continued to search the cliff walls. “I say we stop and let them come to us. We’ve lost the element of surprise, and we don’t want to risk entering their camp uninvited.”
“It sure is quiet all of a sudden.” Free swiveled in the saddle and looked in all directions trying to locate the dog.
“Too quiet.”
“Dog!” Free called out, “Com’on, Dog! Get back here!”
The only sound in the canyon was that of the river rolling at their backs. Parks reached up and removed his bandana. He tied the blue cloth around the barrel of his Winchester and then placed the butt of the rifle on his thigh. “Can’t hurt to let them know we came to talk,” he said.
“I wonder where that dog’s gone.” Free lifted the Henry to his chest as a precaution and then from the corner of his eye, caught movement near the sand drift. He tossed a glance toward the pile just as the dog streaked into view. The dog sprinted full chisel toward Free leaving a spray of sand in his wake.
Behind him, a band of ten Apache followed in single file.
The Apache never hurried their ponies, and they rode within several feet of Free and Parks. The lead rider, dressed in a long yellow shirt and wide purple headband, looked at the men and studied their faces. “To steal a Tejano’s horse brings great honor to the Apache,” he said, proudly.
“We come in peace,” Free answered.
The leader turned to his warriors and spoke Apache. The braves all broke out in laughter.
“We don’t need the Tejano’s peace,” the lead rider replied.
“We offer the Apache chief a gift.” Parks held up the mustang string.
The lead rider tightened his jaw, raised his hand, and quickly made a fist. “We will take the ponies!” Then his face relaxed as if bored with the men before him. “Zaastee,” he said, calmly.
The Apache braves all drew arrows and notched them into their bowstrings.
“Stay calm,” Parks whispered.
One of the braves moved close to Free and held a drawn arrow inches from his heart. The Kiowa dog stood underneath Spirit and uttered a low warning growl to the brave.
“Quiet, Dog,” Parks uttered, and then to Free, “Don’t move a muscle.”
After several seconds, the leader moved beside the brave and pushed the warrior’s bow downward. “OK, Tejano, you give us the ponies.”
Free, Parks and the Kiowa dog sat in the soft soil of the river’s bank and under guard of seven Apache braves. To their north, the leader and the remaining braves rode the wild ponies in and out of the canyon mouth, whooping and hollering, pleased at the mustangs speed.
“Why do they keep calling us Tejano’s?” Free asked, puzzled.
Parks watched the Apache riding skills in fascination and then replied, “The Apache make no distinction between Mexicans and Texians. To them, we are all just intruders on their land.”
Free nodded and asked, “How’d you know they weren’t going to kill us back there?”
“I didn’t. But, I did remember Colonel Ford saying an Apache gets excited when he orders a death. That chief was calm when he told his braves to kill us. I reckoned they were just trying to test our courage.”
The Apache chief rode back to Free and Parks flashing a broad smile. He dismounted and sat across from the men. “Good Apache horses, Tejano,” he laughed. “Ashoge! I am Cochinay.”
“I am Free.”
“You ride a horse marked by the Kiowa, Free.”
“Yes, a gift from White Horse.”
Cochinay spoke to his warriors in Apache. The braves raised their bows at White Horse’s name. “We know of this Kiowa. He refuses to sign peace treaties with the whites.”
“And he is a friend,” Free said.
“All right, friend of the Kiowa,” Cochinay looked at both men, “What do the Tejano’s want from the Apache?”
“We wish to trade with Cochinay.”
Cochinay straightened, “We have your ponies.” he spread his hands away from his body. “What else do you have?”
Parks stared into Cochinay’s eyes. “We have many more horses.”
Cochinay looked all around the river. “Where? Where are these horses?”
Parks smiled. “Hidden. Hidden far from here. Where only the Tejanos can find them.”
“All right, Tejano.” Cochinay studied his opponents carefully. “You are smart. We trade our best buffalo skins for your horses.”
Parks moved closer. “We have no use for hides,” he shrugged.
Cochinay spoke in Apache and then held both hands palms up. “All the Apache have for trade is buffalo skins.”
“What about hostages?” Free asked.
Cochinay appeared confused by the question. He looked back and spoke to one of his braves. The brave answered rapidly and pointed back toward the canyon. Cochinay shook his head as if remembering and then said, “Yes, we have five Mexican girls waiting for the traders. Are you the traders for these girls?”
“You don’t have a wo…”
Parks tapped Free on the shoulder and interrupted his question. “Yes, Cochinay.” Parks said, “We are here to trade for the Mexican girls.”
Cochinay grinned. “Good, Tejanos. You get your ponies and meet us here one day from now, and we will take you to the girls.”
Parks and Free pushed the mustangs at a harsh pace on the return to the Ghost Mountains. The Kiowa dog lagged behind, distracted by a new scent on the trail.
They rode in silence, knowing it was important to reach the camp before dark. This would be a long night as they prepared for tomorrow’s trade at the Apache camp.
In the late afternoon and under the falling shadows of the mountain, they reached the rock corral.
“We best take care of these horses.” Free stepped down from Spirit and uncinched his saddle.
“I’ll drag up some wood with Horse before I wipe him down,” Parks said.
Free nodded and tossed his saddle next to last night’s fire. He removed a rag from his pack and wiped the sweat from Spirit. “Good boy,” he patted the mustang’s neck and glanced into the corral. The mustangs fidgeted about and nickered quietly. “I don’t blame you,” he spoke to the lead mare; “I hate being locked up too.” He quickly counted the herd and then removed the water bladder from his saddle. “I’ll rustle us up some water,” he spoke aloud.
As he rounded the large, corner boulder of the corral, a shadow crossed his path, and he instinctively reached for his Colt.
“Hold it right there, “Mr. Colored Man.”
Free froze and stared down the working end of a Winchester rifle. He raised his hands slowly and stared at the man holding the gun.
“I bet you weren’t expecting to see me again, were you?” Nathan Polk lowered
the Winchester to Free’s belly. Behind him stood two ruffians.
“Hello, Polk.”
“You might want to meet these two fellas as well.” Polk pushed the barrel of the Winchester farther into Free’s belly. “The one goes by Ward and the other Charlie.” Polk showed a mouthful of yellowed teeth. “Ward and Charlie Fischer. And they are the kin to those two boys you plugged at Agua de Mesteño.”
Chapter 32
The Apacheria, Texas January 1869
Where’s that mutt of yours?” Polk moved cautiously behind Free, not wanting a repeat of their last encounter. He leaned against the large corner boulder of the corral, peeked around the rock and scanned the vacant campsite. “And where’s your friend? I owe them both a little something.” He looked toward the darken shadows of the mountain and then out into the desert.
“I’m alone, Polk.”
Ward Fischer, a powerful looking man, walked straight up to Free. Both men stood the same height. “Is that a fact?” he said, gruffly and then swung a hard fist into Free’s jaw. Ward pulled his hand back and shook it several times. “You were right about him being an uppity colored, Nathan.”
Free dipped slightly at the blow and then stood back straight. He rubbed his jaw and stared hard at Ward. “I’m alone,” he repeated.
Charlie Fischer, younger and smaller than Ward, sized up Free and then turned to the others. “Let’s string him up right now!” he yelled, “For what he did to Isham and Coy!”
“Hold your tongue, Charlie.” Ward cautioned his brother, as he removed Free’s Colt from its holster. “We don’t know where his partner is, and I sure as heck don’t want him knowing where we are. Get this one tied up and sit him on the ground.” Ward glanced back to Polk. “See anything, Nathan?”
“Nothing. The shadows off that mountain makes it impossible to see a darn thing.”
