White Apache 7

by David Robbins

  The end of the mesa was in sight. Iron Eyes, who held the new Winchester Cody had given him as if it were the greatest treasure ever bestowed, wheeled his mule and rode back almost to where the gambler and the kid were. The warrior’s dark eyes roved over the mesa, then out over the bluff to the flatland far below.

  Wes Cody joined them. “Something wrong, pard?”

  “Yes,” the Navajo said.

  “Mind sharin’ with the rest of us?”

  Iron Eyes did not want to seem foolish in their eyes, but he could not ignore it any longer. “I have a bad feeling,” he said. “A very bad feeling.”

  Young Tim swiveled to survey the expanse below. “What kind of feeling? What does it mean?” he asked anxiously.

  “It mean trouble comes, much trouble.”

  ‘What kind of trouble?” Tim pressed him.

  “Apaches.”

  ~*~

  Palacio had been right about one thing. ,Few Chiricahuas knew the mountains as well as the renowned warrior Sait-jah. He had roamed the Chiricahua Mountains and the Dragoon Mountains from one end to the other. Every spring, every stream, every valley and ravine and gorge were indelibly imprinted on his memory. Much as a white man went to great pains to memorize passages from favorite books, Apaches memorized landmarks and the flow of terrain. Sait-jah had one of the best memories of them all.

  He had given the problem much thought since the chiefs departure, reliving the wandering done with Delgadito when they were younger. They had explored every nook and cranny, their boundless curiosity taking them far afield in search of new sights to see, new adventures to thrill them.

  Once, they had been like brothers. Sait-jah, in fact, had been the one who let Delgadito know that his cousin was ready to take a husband well before the news became common knowledge. It had given Delgadito an advantage in the courtship ritual. On the night of the maiden dance, when all the virgins had danced in his cousin’s honor, he had seen the hunger in his friend’s eyes. Not long after she had accepted Delgadito by leading his horse to water, and their union had prospered until Delgadito turned renegade.

  Sait-jah could still recall every word said on that fateful night when Delgadito asked him to go with the large band Delgadito was leading down into the land of the Nakai-yes.

  “Amarillo is going,” Delgadito had said, trying to impress him with the name of a highly respected member of their tribe. “So is Cuchillo Negro and El Chico.”

  “All good men,” Sait-jah had said. “But are they wise men? Is it wise to break up our people this way when our only strength is in our numbers?”

  Delgadito had been silent a while. “I wish there were another way but there is not. And I cannot live under the yoke of the white-eyes any longer. They hem us in as if we were cattle, telling us where we can and can’t go. They refuse to let us hunt as much as we would like. They refuse to let us go on raids, even south of the border. They have set themselves up as our masters. I, for one, will not be their slave.”

  “Your pride is strong,” Sait-jah had said. “Mine must be also, because I would like to go with you. But it is better for our people if the tribe is whole.”

  Sait-jah remembered the argument which had ensued, remembered the sorrow in his friend’s eyes when Delgadito realized there would be no changing his mind. They had parted on good terms, and it had saddened Sait-jah greatly to later learn that the band had been wiped out by scalphunters. His dear cousin had been mutilated, her hair sold to officials in Sonora. That was no fit fate for a Chiricahua.

  A faint scrape on the rocks ahead cut short Sait-jah’s reflection. He glanced up to see Mano Rojo running to intercept him.

  Since sunrise Sait-jah had been leading his party of six stalwart warriors at a brisk dogtrot to the northwest. The seventh, Mano Rojo, had been sent on ahead to forewarn them of enemies. So on seeing the strapping younger man, the iron warrior drew up short to await him.

  “Report,” Sait-jah said.

  “Tracks. Very fresh. Made this day, since the sun was straight overhead,” Mano Rojo said in the precise Apache fashion.

  “How many? Which direction?”

  “Five shod horses and a mule which is not shod.”

  “White-eyes!” Sait-jah hissed.

  “They do not ride in a file as would soldiers. From the tracks, it is clear two of the horses carry much weight.”

  Pack animals. Sait-jah withdrew within himself to think. It was against the law of the whites for any of their kind to enter the reservation. Only those who were after something they valued highly would be this far into the homeland of the Chiricahuas. Could it be pesh-klitso the whites sought? The yellow iron which they cherished more than life itself? Or were these men trappers, poachers after furbearing animals only found in the mountains?

  A third possibility dawned on Sait-jah with all the brilliance of the rising sun. “Which direction?” he repeated sternly.

  Mano Rojo raised his arm. “The same direction as we go. We could catch them before the sun set if you want. They do not travel very fast.”

  The same direction? Sait-jah took a few steps and fingered his rifle. “These whites are after Delgadito and those with him,” he declared. “They want the money the White Father has put on his head.”

  “There is one more thing,” Mano Rojo mentioned. “They have a wolf with them.”

  All the warriors looked at him.

  “I saw the tracks,” Mano Rojo insisted. “You will see them yourselves before too long. It is a large wolf of the kind we rarely find in the mountains any more. It stays close to one of the horses, as if attached to it.”

  “Or to the rider,” Sait-jah corrected him. His giant frame pulsed with excitement and he clenched his huge free hand and shook it at the sky. “Yusn has smiled on us. There is only one white man who calls the wolf his brother. The scout our people knew as Tata has returned to hunt Delgadito as he once hunted Apaches for the American army.”

  A warrior named Pindah could not help being skeptical. “It has been many winters since the name of Tata was last heard. He must be very old.”

  “An old panther is just as dangerous as a young panther,” Sait-jah reminded him. He noted the position of the sun and came to a swift decision. “Delgadito is my friend. I will not let Tata kill him. We will follow these whites but not let them know we are there. We will watch them closely and learn their habits. And when the time is right, when they are off their guard, we will swoop down on them and kill them all.”

  Ten

  Two days after Juanita Mendez died in the fall, her sister came out from under the blanket. Or, more accurately, Ponce pulled her out from under it and dragged her from the wickiup.

  It was early morning. Dew glistened on the grass. Birds sang in the trees. The sky was as deep blue as the sea.

  But Maria Mendez noticed none of this. She had been dozing when the warrior grabbed her, having cried herself to sleep for perhaps the twentieth time since the tragedy. Her outrage at being manhandled knew no bounds.

  “Let go of me, you filthy savage! Take your stinking hands off me!” Maria screeched, while twisting and thrashing as if she were a fish caught on a hook.

  Ponce had had enough. He had abided her flow of tears for as long as he could. Now he was resolved to see that she stood on her own two feet. The time for weeping was past. Flipping her toward the stream, he barked in Spanish, “Go. Wash yourself.”

  “I will not!” Maria raged, not moving a muscle. “And you cannot make me.”

  Ponce was in no frame of mind to tolerate refusal. Grasping her by the hair, he turned and marched toward the stream, dragging her along. She shrieked and clawed at his arm, drawing blood, but she was weak from her ordeal and from lack of food and could not give him much of a fight.

  The uproar had brought the others from their wickiups. White Apache looked on and frowned. He was sorely tempted to tell Ponce that they would find a new woman for him, but then he recollected Marista’s belief that the young woman would soon s
top resisting.

  Fiero smirked in smug superiority. At his side, as docile as a tame mustang, stood Delores. Fiero thought it unseemly for Ponce to let his woman disrupt the whole camp. A man who could not control his woman had no right to have one.

  Cuchillo Negro only watched briefly. He appreciated the hard time Ponce was having and knew why. He also anticipated more trouble before matters reached a head.

  Of them all, it was Delgadito who moved to help. Striding in front of them, he speared a finger at the woman and snapped, “You will behave, Mexican, or you will suffer. Apache women do not talk back to their men the way you do. Apache women do not kick and scream.”

  Maria was nearly beside herself. “I am not an Apache! I will never be an Apache. I am a Mexican and proud of it!”

  “You are a child in a woman’s body. You do not know how to conduct yourself.” Delgadito sniffed and returned to his wickiup, giving her a last look of disdain as he went in.

  Maria twisted to glare at all of them. “I hate you!” she cried. “I pray that God destroys each and every one of you for what you have done! You are monsters! Devils! You deserve the fires of Hell!”

  “Enough,” Ponce said. Holding fast with both hands, he hauled her to the bank. She tried to shatter his knees but he sidestepped her blows with ease. At the water’s edge he stooped, forked an arm under her back, and catapulted her over the edge.

  Maria Mendez landed with a loud splash on her stomach. Sputtering and cursing, she rose to her knees, soaked from head to toe. Mud clung to her chin and the front of her clothes. “Bastard!” she shouted. “You will die for this outrage!”

  As calmly as if he were giving directions to a wayward child, Ponce said, “Wash until you are clean. I will not have that smell in my wickiup.”

  “I refuse.”

  Almost regretfully, Ponce waded into the pool, seized her by the shoulders, and shoved her under. She was defiant to the last, pushing and punching. She even tried to bite him but he jerked his hand away, drew it back as if to slap her, gave his arm a shake, and settled for shoving her again.

  White Apache had seen enough. Bending, he entered his wickiup and took a seat facing the entrance. Colletto was off gathering wood for their fire. Marista set to preparing coffee the way he had taught her.

  “I think I be wrong.”

  “About Maria? Yes, I would say you were.”

  “She too filled with hate. Not good. Maybe you be right. Maybe she try hurt warrior.”

  White Apache propped himself on an elbow and listened to the squawks of the captive. “Then I might as well have a palaver with the Chiricahuas later today. Tomorrow some of us will throw her on a horse and head south. Well set her free near the closest Mexican settlement.”

  Marista paused in the act of mixing the brew. “That be smart? She know canyon, know how get here.”

  Clay sat bolt upright. He had plumb overlooked the fact that Mendez might be able to give their enemies accurate directions on how to reach the sanctuary. He should have blindfolded the women on the trip north. But since he had figured none of them would ever see Mexico again, he hadn’t bothered.

  “Damn me for being the biggest jackass this side of the Mississippi,” Clay grumbled. “When will I learn never to take anything for granted? The man who does is asking to be planted six feet under.”

  “What you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Clay confessed. Letting Maria go would be too risky. By the same token, so was keeping her around. The only alternative was to kill her and he couldn’t bring himself to go that far. Her plight was his doing. “I’m open to any ideas you might have.” Marista had a ready reply. “Only one thing can do. Cut out her tongue.”

  Shocked, Clay blurted, “But that wouldn’t do much good. She could still draw a map or write directions on how to get here.”

  “Then cut off fingers too. Only way be sure.”

  “I never knew the Pimas were so bloodthirsty,” Clay commented matter-of-factly. Her suggestion was all the more surprising since her tribe devoted itself to raising crops, not scalps. Except when retaliating for a raid, they were as peaceable a people as were found anywhere. “How can you say such things?”

  Setting down the pot, Marista came closer and gently placed her hand on his wrist. “Want you be safe, Clay Taggart. Nothing else matter. You have many enemy. You must be smart, smarter than enemy.”

  “I try my best,” Clay said lamely. He was both awed and disturbed by what he saw in her eyes. No one had ever looked at him like that before, not his folks, not Lilly, not anybody. Marista was willing to kill to keep him at her side. If that wasn’t genuine love, he didn’t know what was. It flattered him and scared him, both at the same time.

  “Don’t you worry,” Clay said. “I intend to stick around a good long while yet.” He leaned forward to kiss her but stopped when a small form scooted through the opening.

  Colletto dumped the wood, smiled shyly, and sat down facing them.

  Outside, the screaming had ceased. Clay moved to the entrance and saw Ponce leading a glum Maria Mendez back from the stream. Her slick hair clung to her neck and shoulders, which drooped in defeat. “I have to remember to go see him about her in a little while,” he said to himself.

  But the first cup of Marista’s delicious coffee led to a second, and the second led to a third. All the while the two of them shared their deepest thoughts and planned for a future they both knew would never come to pass. And before Clay Taggart realized it, he had forgotten all about Ponce and Maria.

  It was an oversight he would come to regret.

  ~*~

  The warrior known as Pindah was too impatient for his own good. That was the considered opinion of Sait-jah after the younger Chiricahua turned to him for the third time since the sun rose to ask the same question Sait-jah had ignored the previous times.

  “How much longer must we slink along after the white-eyes like dogs trailing a village on the move? We should kill them soon and be done with it. There is still Delgadito to deal with.”

  Sait-jah’s answer was laced with frost. “I do not need to be reminded of the reason we are here. As for the Americans and the Navajo, we will wait a while longer yet.”

  “How much longer?” Pindah pushed.

  Some of the others shared glances. Mano Rojo, for one, was surprised that Sait-jah put up with Pindah’s constant badgering. While every Apache had the right to question another, it was unseemly for any one of them to be so critical of a warrior of Sait-jah’s undeniable ability. If it had been up to him, he would have put Pindah in his place long ago.

  Sait-jah had the urge. He did not like having his judgment questioned. Prior to leaving the village, as a precaution in case any of the warriors were inclined to act up, he had made it clear that those who went along would be accountable to him. He did not want a finger to squeeze a trigger at the wrong moment. Nor did he want the wrong words said to Delgadito. Tact and patience were called for, qualities Pindah sorely lacked.

  “We are close to the hidden canyon so we must dispose of them soon. Tonight, before the sun sets, we will strike,” Sait-jah declared. “Kill all of them except Tata. Him we will question. I must know beyond any doubt that he came to slay Delgadito.”

  “Why is that important?” another warrior wondered.

  “If Tata did, and I kill him, Delgadito will be in my debt. It then may not be as hard to convince him to hand over White Apache.”

  Pindah scowled and swatted the empty air. “White Apache! Pah! It is an insult to the Shis-Inday to have a white pig named after our people.”

  For once Sait-jah was in agreement. Why Delgadito had done it, he would never understand. He had heard through an uncle of Ponce’s that Delgadito had not meant for it to be taken seriously, that it had been used in a mocking way to belittle the white-eye. Yet that made no sense whatsoever.

  A moment later, higher up the sawtooth divide, Cholo signaled.

  Sait-jah bounded up the slope in long leaps none of
the other men could match. He flattened below the rim and snaked to the edge, rising just high enough to see the rocky canyon below.

  Tata’s bunch had stopped for a short while to rest their animals and were now resuming their trek. As usual, the old Navajo led. Tata and the wolf were next. Behind him rode a young one in a white hat which was almost too big for his head. Sait-jah had noticed that the young one hovered around Tata when the whites camped. Tata, in turn, was very fond of the boy. That, and similar facial features, gave Sait-jah cause to suspect the pair were related.

  Last in line, taking his turn at leading the pack horses, was a lean man in a black coat. This man was sickly and at times would double over in fits of coughing. Despite his condition, it was the opinion of the Chiricahuas that he was the deadliest of the four. He was always alert, always watching behind the party. And he had a gleaming pistol which they had seen him take out a few times and twirl so fast that the gun was a blur. Up and down, around and around, the man’s arm had gone, that pistol spinning the whole time. It had been wondrous to behold.

  Talking it over at night, the warriors had agreed to slay the sick man swiftly, before he could use that gleaming pistol.

  Now Sait-jah waited until a bend hid Tata’s party, then he went over the divide and down to their camp. He saw where Tata and the boy had sat and talked, where the wolf had lain, where die Navajo had squatted to listen. He also saw where the man in black had sat, and there in the dirt were small drops of blood. Kneeling, he was going to touch a drop and taste it, as he often did with the blood of wounded animals he hunted, but something inside stopped him, a tiny voice warning him not to put that blood in his mouth.

  Going on, the Chiricahuas spread out, four to the right of the trail, four to the left.

  Sait-jah moved at the head of those on the right side. Gliding like a ghost, never making noise, and never exposing himself, he kept the whites in sight.