“What grave problem?” Sait-jah asked suspiciously.
“Delgadito and White Apache.”
The warrior regarded the chief as an adult might a foolish child. “Some say Delgadito is a problem because he has not surrendered to the white-eyes. Some say he has done wrong and want him to turn himself over to them.” There was a meaningful pause. “Others say that Delgadito and those with him are the last true Chiricahuas. Some wish they could do as he has done, but they do not because they have families.”
Palacio was all too aware that many in the tribe felt the same as the renegade. They made his life miserable with their constant troublemaking. “I know how they feel,” he said. “Many of us would like to go back to the old days, but that cannot be as long as the white-eyes are in control. And because of your friend Delgadito, our people will suffer.”
“How is this?”
Here was the crucial moment. Palacio picked his words slowly. “I have just come from the great stone lodge of the whites, Fort Bowie. I was sent for by the white-hair, Colonel Reynolds. He is very mad. So is the White Father.”
A derisive grunt was Sait-jah’s response. “What do we care? They are only whites.”
“We care when these whites have the power to punish our people for acts done by others,” Palacio said testily, beginning to lose his patience.
“Speak plainly.”
“All right. I will.” Palacio tried to square his shoulders but it was impossible to square two sloping mounds of flesh. “The whites say that unless we tell them where to find Delgadito’s band, they will cut our food ration in half.” Which was a lie in itself. Colonel Reynolds had said no such thing. The officer had merely warned Palacio to either learn where the White Apache could be found or face the loss of all those wonderful gifts from the White Father.
Sait-jah was still not convinced. He was a credit to his lineage, an Apache who only trusted those who had earned his trust. “Why would they do that when we get barely enough to live on as it is?” He became flinty with outrage. “Delgadito has been raiding for many moons. Why do they want him so badly now?”
“Do not blame your friend,” Palacio said. “Blame the mongrel he has taken up with. The whites want Lickoyee-shis-inday, and they will stop at nothing to get their hands on him.”
“What does all this have to do with me?”
Palacio nearly laughed. He had the arrogant warrior right where he wanted him. “Your concern for our people is well known to me. So is your long friendship with Delgadito. I thought that on their behalf you would go to him and convince him to turn the mongrel over to Colonel Reynolds.”
“I do not know where Delgadito is.”
“But you could find him if you wanted. The two of you roamed the mountains together when you were younger. Take as many warriors as you need and go hunt him down.”
Sait-jah stared into the distance at the shimmering peaks. “I cannot. I will not betray a friend.”
Seizing the advantage, Palacio said, “And no one asks you to. Simply ask him to do what is best for our people.”
“And if he refuses? If he will not turn White Apache over?”
“Then you must search your heart for the right thing to do. But remember this. The whites want this Clay Taggart more than they want Delgadito. They would be satisfied with him. They would not cut our rations if we give him to them.”
The warrior’s forehead furrowed. “Just White Apache? Perhaps that could be done no matter what Delgadito wants. Our people must not suffer any more than they already have.”
“You will look for the renegades, then?”
“Yes.”
A warm feeling came over Palacio, the same giddy delight he always felt when he bent others to his will. Sait-jah was a man of his word. The warrior would find the renegades, and he would bring White Apache back whether Delgadito wanted him to or not. White Apache would be handed over to the soldiers at the fort, and Palacio would go on receiving the many fine things which made his life so bearable. All would be as it should be.
“I misjudged you,” Sait-jah said. “I thought you only had eyes for yourself, but I see now that you do care for our tribe and want the best for us.”
“I understand,” Palacio answered in mock humility. “It is sad but true that too few of our people see me as I truly am. That is one of the burdens, I suppose, of being a leader.”
Nine
Marista found her man standing at the lip of the ravine, staring down at the spot where the Mexican woman had met an untimely death. She came up behind him and went to loop her arm in his but he recoiled as if he had been bitten by a snake, then looked at her and grinned. A grin which did not touch his eyes.
“Sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”
“You be all right, Lickoyee-shis-inday?”
White Man Of The Woods. Once Clay Taggart had been proud of that name. Delgadito had given it to him in honor of how well he had taken to Chiricahua ways. It was all the more special because the Apache word for their own people was Shis-Inday, or Men Of The Woods. Another tribe, long ago, had first called them Apaches, or Enemies, and the name had stuck. In fact, the Shis-Inday had been so flattered, they now used it themselves.
But on this day Clay Taggart’s soul was mightily troubled, and he wondered if he was worthy of the honor. It had been his brainstorm to kidnap women to be wives of the warriors, and because of it a young woman had died. He had witnessed a lot of dying since he hooked up with the Chiricahuas and hardly any had bothered him. This one did, though. It gnawed at his innards. “Yes, I’m fine,” he fibbed.
“You be not,” Marista said. She would never confess as much since the women of her tribe did not fawn over men as white women were prone to do, but she was worried about him. From the day she first set eyes on him, lying half-dead under the blazing sun, she had sensed something special, a strange quality which drew her to him almost as if they were meant for each other. Never before had she felt this way, not even with her husband, a chief of the Pimas.
Clay Taggart put an arm around her slender shoulders. “I reckon I shouldn’t lie to you, should I? Not when you’re the only person I know of in this world who gives a damn whether I live or die.”
They turned from the precipice and meandered toward the stream. It was a tranquil morning. A cool northwesterly breeze stirred the high grass. Nearby, a pair of gorgeous butterflies fluttered. Over by the wickiups a horse whinnied. And the aroma of roasting deer meat reached them, courtesy of the fire Delores had made. She was cooking what remained of their feast from the night before for her new lord and master.
Marista saw fit to comment to take Clay’s mind off his troubles. “Fiero and Delores be like this,” she said, entwining two fingers.
“Just like you said they would be,” Clay said. “You’re a heap better judge of folks than I am. From now on, when I need advice I’ll come running to you.”
Clay inhaled her earthy scent, felt her smooth skin under his arm. He had never expected to have any feelings for a woman after being betrayed by Lilly, yet here he was, caring for someone most whites would brand as a ‘mangy Injun’. If they were to walk along a street in the middle of any town in the Territory, they would draw harsh stares and the sort of comments that made a man bum under the collar.
Was that fair? Was that right? Clay had to admit that it was not. And he also had to admit that once he would have been one of the onlookers who regarded with contempt anyone who would take up with an Indian.
It was peculiar, the way things worked out. Life had a way of shattering all a person’s settled notions, of showing those who took on airs that air was all they were full of.
Just then a horse galloped from behind the wickiups and over to where they stood. Ponce had a quiver on his back, a bow slung over his left shoulder. “I go to hunt,” he informed them, which explained the bow. Using it would save precious ammunition. And they did not care to draw attention to themselves with gunshots. “Do not expect me soon.”
&nbs
p; “Ride with Yusn,” White Apache said. He wanted to ask how the young warrior’s night had gone, how Maria Mendez had acted once they were alone in the wickiup, but he did not. It was none of his business. And it was doubtful anything had happened given her spiteful frame of mind. It made him wonder if Ponce really wanted to hunt or if the warrior was using it as an excuse to get away for a spell.
“Will you keep watch for me, Lickoyee-shis-inday? Will you see that my woman does not run off?”
‘Is she in your wickiup?”
Ponce stared at the lodge. “Yes. She crawled under her blankets after we put her sister in the ground and she has not been out from under them since. All night long I could hear her crying. When the sun came up I offered her food and water but she would not take them. She still cries. I can stand it no longer.” Giving the sorrel a slap, he trotted south toward the canyon mouth.
In English, Clay mused aloud. “Maybe I should take her back across the border. Maybe it would be better if he got himself another filly.”
“No,” Marista said.
“Why should he keep her? She’s not about to let him touch her, not after what’s happened. Odds are, she’ll slit his throat one night soon and make off with a horse. I don’t want his death on my hands, too.”
The Pima came to the shallow ford and hiked the hem of her long skirt. “Woman not run away. Woman stay now. Be content.”
Clay shook his head. “You had Delores pegged, but I’m afraid you’re wrong this time. Maria wants us all dead. In her eyes, we’re to blame for the death of her sister.”
“No,” Marista insisted. “She blame herself. No more hate Apaches.”
“I’ve lost your trail,” Clay said. “I don’t rightly see how that could be.” He escorted her across and they strolled toward their wickiup. Colletto was out front, practicing with a lance Clay had made for him.
“My boy likes you. He think you new father. Him not know we all be dead soon.”
Thoroughly startled, Clay halted and turned her toward him. “What the blazes are you talking about? I aim to last a good many years yet. What makes you think I won’t?”
“You know,” Marista said. She glanced at her son, her countenance as sad a one as he had ever beheld. “You know.”
~*~
Ren Starky was mildly surprised that it took the kid as long as it did for him to get up the nerve to ask the question. They were four days out of Fort Bowie, cresting a mesa, sticking to the high lines as any savvy owlhoot knew to do, when the clatter of hooves told him he had company.
“Mr. Starky, do you mind if I ask you something?” Timothy said. He felt awkward around the gambler, unsure of himself. It was the same feeling he had around rattlesnakes and wolves.
“This is a fool’s proposition,” Starky said.
“What?”
“You were about to ask me why I told you that we’d all be buzzard bait in a few days. Now I’m telling you. We’re kidding ourselves if we reckon we’re any match for a band of renegade Apaches and that turncoat. Look at us.” Starky jabbed a thumb at each of them in turn. “An Injun whose sole ambition in life is to drown himself in firewater, an old scout who hasn’t gone up against an Apache in years, a wet-nosed kid so green behind the ears he could grow com there, and me.”
Timothy didn’t like being insulted but he was not about to rile a man some claimed was the deadliest in Arizona. “I don’t rightly think you’re being half fair, Mr. Starky. Iron Eyes hasn’t touched a drop since he joined us. Grandpa may be getting on in years but he’s more spry than most my own age. I don’t have much experience at this sort of thing, I’ll admit, but I’m willing to learn. And I’m willing to do as I’m told. That ought to count for something.”
Ren Starky idly flicked a speck of dust from his white shirt. The kid was just like everyone else, he mused. Few ever had the grit to admit they were making a mistake even while they were making it. Most went through life believing that every little thing they did was perfectly right to do, and they’d justify their actions in all sorts of ways when challenged. It was just part of the human condition, he supposed. Or the human comedy, as he liked to call it. “What about me, kid? You forgot to justify me.”
“Justify?” Timothy repeated, confused. “I don’t know what you mean. You don’t need any justifying. You’re the fastest gunman in the Territory. Everyone knows that.”
“Talk, kid. Saloon gossip which gets told and retold, growing a little bit each time, until the tale is so tall it reaches clear to the clouds.”
Timothy thought that an awful strange comment to make but he did not mention as much. “I don’t see where the talk about you is all that overblown. You are almighty fast with a pistol. Folks have seen you when you practice. A lucky few have seen you in a gunfight. Hell, Mr. Starky, I feel safe having you along. If you had refused to come, I’d probably have changed my mind about the whole thing.”
Starky glanced at the kid and felt an odd stirring in his chest when he saw that the other was sincere. Peeved, he said, “You missed the whole point. We were talking about why all of us are going to die. About why I’m going to die.”
“A man like you? I don’t see how.”
As if to refute the statement, a racking spasm struck the gambler, doubling him over in the saddle. He quickly fished a handkerchief from a pocket and pressed it to his mouth as he coughed violently for over a minute. The fit passed. Starky straightened, his face the color of flour, his mouth a grim gray line. “Maybe you see now, kid,” he rasped.
Timothy only had eyes for the handkerchief, for the bright red stain which covered a third of it. Not really watching his words, he said, “No, I still don’t. You’re Ren Starky, the best damn shot in Arizona. You shouldn’t be talking like you are. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you want to die.”
Starky swung around so sharply that Timothy Cody drew back, afraid he had overstepped himself. The gambler’s eyes blazed, but not with anger or hatred. He peered intently while Timothy squirmed and looked as if he wished he were somewhere else.
“ ‘Want’ isn’t the word I’d use,” Starky said, and let the matter drop. The kid had been too close to the truth for comfort.
Just then a gray object dashed past their horses. Timothy’s shied. Firming his grip on the reins, he stared at the loping wolf and used it as an excuse to vent his jumbled feelings. “That damned animal! I wish to hell Grandpa never brought it along.”
“Be glad he did.”
“How’s that?”
Starky folded the handkerchief and slid it back into his pocket. “That old wolf has saved your grandfather’s hide, and mine, more times than you have fingers. Once, a day out from Ewell’s Station, a band tried to sneak up on us about sunrise. We were careless. Both of us were sleeping at the same time. If not for Lobo catching their scent when they were still a stone’s throw off, they would have slit our throats while we slept. Either that, or taken us alive to torture. Apaches can be real creative when it comes to inflicting pain.”
Timothy looked on the beast in a whole new light.
“Lobo can smell Apaches from a long ways off,” the gambler warmed to his subject. “Half a mile or better if the wind is just right. His nose gives us an edge we wouldn’t have otherwise. And we need it. Apaches can smell almost as good as a dog can.”
“You’re joshing.”
“Ask Wes or Iron Eyes if you don’t believe me,” Starky said gruffly. “Never forget that Apaches live in the wild all their lives. They learn to read scents we’d never notice. Take a sweaty horse. You and I could smell one from eight or ten feet away. An Apache could smell the same animal from fifty or sixty feet off. I should know. I did my share of scouting before I took to gambling.”
“Grandpa says you were a good one, too. Why did you give it up to make your living at cards?”
Starky gave a short, dry laugh. “I got tired of looking over my shoulder all the time, of always sleeping on the ground, of cold camps and cold meals. I wanted t
o be able to go through a day without worrying about whether I’d be alive to greet the next one.” He laughed again.
Suddenly, ahead of them, Wes Cody raised a hand and halted. Beyond him, the Navajo had stopped and was pointing to the southwest.
A plume of dust marked the passage of a large group of riders. Starky studied them, glad their own party was screened by scrub trees.
‘Indians, you reckon?” Tim asked breathlessly, agog at the likelihood of actually going up against a band of hostiles.
The gambler shook his head. “You can put your tongue back in your mouth. Apaches ride in clusters, kid. See how those are strung out in a column? They’re soldiers, a patrol out of Fort Bowie. Were lucky they’re going in the other direction. If they spotted us this deep into the reservation, they’d haul us back to the post and have us put up on charges. They don’t want anyone stirring the Chiricahuas up.”
After the troopers disappeared in the haze, Iron Eyes motioned and they rode on.
Tim had been mulling over Starky’s comment. “If the government doesn’t want anyone riling the Chiricahuas, why’d they go and offer such a big bounty for the White Apache? They must have known that much money would be hard to resist.”
“That’s the government for you. Coming up with half-baked notions is what they do best.” Starky, out of habit, rested his right hand on his Colt. “They likely figured that since Taggart spends so much time off the reservation, the bounty hunters would be nice and polite and not cross over the line.”
“But that’s plain dumb. Who would ever think such a thing?”
Starky cocked an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve never heard of politicians?”
For the better part of the afternoon they forged on, never riding in the open if they could help it, never riding fast enough to raise dust. Their mounts and the two pack horses plodded along in the blistering heat, heads low, tails swishing at flies.
At one point Ren Starky took a gold pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. “Five o’clock,” he announced. “Another couple of hours and we’ll be stopping for the night. It’s a good thing, too.” Arching his back, he pressed a hand to his spine. “When a man sits on his backside to make a living, it ruins his body in no time.”
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