Apache

by Tanya Landman

  A strange party we made, full of unease and mistrust. Punte watched me, and Golahka watched Punte. Naite alone seemed untroubled by the currents that flowed silent between us. I wondered what would be the outcome of this raid, for warriors must fight alongside those they trust. Dislike may exist, as long as there is also respect. There seemed to be naught but suspicion between Golahka and Punte, and I hoped it would not bring with it ill luck.

  For two days we rode, entering the western edges of the Chokenne range on the third sunrise. Golahka had thought to cross the plain and follow the twisting river into Mexico. But we were surprised to see the smoke of fires below us. Pines had been hacked from the hillside, leaving the once wooded slope naked and exposed, raw stumps bleeding sap. And when I looked down at the plain I started, for it seemed to be covered by a dark stain. As I watched, I saw it was a settlement of many soldiers; it was their clothing that appeared to colour the land. Many White Eyes were making another huge dwelling; these were not those whom Chodini had encountered in the north of our own range. I marvelled at the number of these strangers and wondered from where they had come. Even as we watched they drove metal stakes along a felled tree’s length until its body was split in two. Could they not hear the tree spirits crying in their distress?

  The habit of caution flowed in Golahka’s blood, and thus, frowning with displeasure at their intrusion, he changed our direction to avoid meeting the White Eyes.

  In two more days, he took us into a different part of Mexico – one where I had never yet travelled.

  And yet I knew it. The curve of the hill. The shape of the distant mountain. The formation of the rock. I knew it so well that it stopped me upon my horse. The land held me still. I recognized this place: Ussen had drawn its image upon the dark river waters of Jujio.

  I had seen it from the doorway of a Mexican dwelling. Looked upon it as the child was taken by an Apache warrior. Up that hill had the Chokenne ridden. My eyes slid down to the grass; there I could discern the faint line of an adobe wall that had crumbled to nothing. My horse’s hooves were planted where the woman’s blood had spilt upon the beaten earth floor. Here she had died.

  And as I stared, trembling, at the grass that now grew there, it blurred, and upon it Ussen drew another vision.

  I saw many Black Mountain warriors on horseback. I knew these men. Ozheh, son of Chodini, came first. Beside him rode Golahka, looking as he had when he had newly joined our tribe – before the slaughter of Tehineh had carved grim lines across his face. Torrez came, with Punte and Chee’s father, Biketsin. Jotah, and Potro and Hozhen – all now dead – passed me. They rode on, without a pause. And now came my father. Ashteh the warrior. Bold. Fearless. Handsome. I saw him clearly.

  His horse stopped suddenly, as mine had done. He looked about him with shock. His mouth fell open. His brows furrowed.

  As he sat frozen upon his horse, Ozheh came to him. My father roused himself, masking his expression at once. I heard not his words, but I saw Ozheh’s gestures telling my father to go ahead with Potro in advance of the rest of the warriors, for my father’s skill as a scout had been great. Leaving their horses, the scouts went swiftly forward on foot. I watched my father until he vanished from view.

  So lost was I in what I saw that I was not aware Golahka had ridden back to where I had stopped. Only when he reached from his horse and put his hand upon my shoulder did I jerk back to the living earth.

  When he asked, “You have seen something, little sister?” I could do naught but answer, “My father. My father passed this way.”

  Golahka spoke gently. “He did. We are near to the place where we were ambushed. I see it gives you unease. You are like a horse that smells blood. Come, Siki, we will go by a different way.”

  Without another word, Golahka changed our direction once more, and we rode far from that place, Punte’s eyes heavy upon me. Distance brought no relief. I felt the weight of my father’s amulet in my pouch and rued that I had not destroyed it as is the custom of my people. With each hoof beat the turquoise beads banged at my hip, searing me with the knowledge of my father’s disgrace.

  I knew of his treachery, and yet even now Ussen sought to show me more. With each fragment, each snatch of truth, the shame I felt burned more hotly. How much more could I endure before I – like the sage leaf – would crumble to ashes?

  We rode in search of cattle, mules, horses – anything that would feed our people and keep them from starvation in the coming winter. We moved stealthily and did not attract attention by making attacks upon our enemies. But well I knew that if we were once seen, the Mexican would fire upon us without hesitation. Without mercy.

  We hobbled our horses in a valley through which a stream ran and where sweet grass grew for them to feed upon, and set forth on foot. But we had scarce touched the soil of Mexico when my palms began to prick.

  To Golahka I spoke the words that Ussen placed in my mouth.

  “To the west. Two Mexicans … a wagon … mules.”

  “How far?” he asked.

  “They are very close.”

  “Then we have not much time.”

  He swiftly scanned the landscape. We were on the side of a steeply sloping hill. At its foot ran the path the wagon would take. No cover was close by it, and thus we remained high above, placing ourselves behind such rocks and bushes as would give us concealment. We held still, and waited.

  The rising cloud of dust thrown up by the wagon’s wheels came closer, and soon they were below us. There were indeed two men, sitting upon a cart drawn by a single horse. Behind it, roped together in a long line, were many mules – all heavily laden. The men were not soldiers, but farmers. Suddenly my heart misgave me, and I regretted that I had drawn Golahka’s attention to them. For had I not once seen into the mind of my enemy and felt pity? I did so now. I did not wish these men to die.

  “Enough meat to feed the whole tribe,” whispered Golahka, pulling back his bowstring.

  He fired at the driver, but at the very instant his arrow flew forth, the man bent to brush a fly from his boot. It missed its mark, and thudded harmlessly into the wooden seat between the two men. A breath of relief escaped from me – a sound that made Golahka’s eyes narrow with displeasure. He cursed, for now these men knew of our presence and would surely defend themselves. As he reached for another arrow, Naite and Punte descended the hill to stop the Mexicans fleeing before the mules were lost to us.

  But the actions of these men were so surprising that Naite and Punte halted, frozen in their tracks, and Golahka never released his second arrow. They did not attempt to fight, nor did they whip their horse into flight. Instead, with high-pitched screams, they abandoned everything, jumping from their cart and running away along the track as fast as a pair of stampeding donkeys.

  So startled by this was Golahka that he let them flee. He looked at me, eyebrows raised, his jaw hanging open. And then his loud laugh rang out amongst the rocks and set them shaking.

  “You bring me good fortune, little sister,” he said, smiling. “Never have provisions been won so easily!”

  My heart joyed in his delight, and I was greatly relieved that he seemed so quickly to forget my treacherous gasp of relief. I was determined that I would not show such weakness again.

  Coming down from the hill, we at once set about freeing the horse from its harness, for we had no need of the cart. Without examining the goods the mules were laden with, we led them away from that place, towards where our horses were hobbled, for although the men had fled, Mexican troops were a constant danger. There we split the mule train in two. Punte and Naite took half the animals in one direction; Golahka and I followed a different route. Until we arrived back at our mountain home we knew well that pursuit might come at any time. With so many animals we would be easy to track, and thus we had to move swiftly.

  Before we parted, Punte looked at me. I did not know if he had heard my gasp, but he gave a small nod as though the question that troubled him had been answered. But whe
ther it was for good or ill, I knew not.

  As Golahka and I returned, constantly we were alert. Constantly we were cautious. Yet no pursuit came, and we met no dangers. We rode laughing into our camp, to the great joy of our people; though Chodini had hunted long and far, game had been scarce indeed.

  Only when we were safe amongst the tepees did we unload the mules, and what they carried caused us great puzzlement. There were several hundred waxen balls of a strong-smelling yellow substance that we took to be a foodstuff. We knew not what to call it, nor how to eat it.

  Punte had been captured by Mexicans as a boy and had spent three long summers as a slave on an estancia before he escaped and returned to his people. He knew their ways. Examining the booty, he declared it to be cheese.

  Thus we survived that long cold winter: feasting daily on mule meat and cheese. It was good to have full bellies. But in truth, as the sweet spring air began to warm the mountains, we had long had our fill of it.

  Cheese was not the only new foodstuff we encountered that winter. Chodini and many other warriors made journeys to Fort Andrews, the dwelling the White Eyes had fashioned in the north of our range, to trade for provisions.

  It was not trade alone that drew the warriors forth – there was a great curiosity about these men and their unfamiliar ways. On one occasion, Ozheh came back with a sack of flour, and none knew what it was, nor what to do with it. We gathered round, sniffing, dipping fingers in and tasting the strange powder. Once more Punte explained its purpose.

  “It is a pounded grain,” he pronounced. “It must be mixed with water and shaped into a long cake.”

  The wife of Ozheh took it away and spent much time puzzling over its best use. Later, her hair sheened with a fine layer of dust, her fingers stuck together with a thick white paste, she presented Ozheh with an odd, misshapen cake. He chewed long and hard, and all watched his expression with breathless interest.

  For a while, his face gave nothing away, but then he suddenly spat upon the ground, and ejected the lump without attempting to swallow.

  “Foul as a long-dead toad!” he exclaimed, and the crowd burst into noisy laughter. “How can the White Eyes eat such things? Small wonder they are so pale and soft! This is not the food of men!”

  To the teasing shouts of his fellows, Ozheh loaded the sack once more onto his horse and began the long ride back to the settlement of the White Eyes. He had given one good blanket for the valueless powder; he would demand its return.

  Ozheh’s cake caused many smiles and much amusement. But not all the White Eyes’ provisions were so unpalatable.

  It was with the White Eyes that Chodini first tasted coffee, returning to our camp his horse laden with sacks of a bitter green bean. Roasted and ground they became appetizing, and soon our whole tribe had developed a passion for the strong-smelling liquid. The women were kept busy twining and coiling baskets to exchange for coffee and sugar with which to sweeten it. Our men also bartered for the White Eyes’ fiery liquor, and would then drink until the supply they had gained was exhausted. Many a warrior would come back from the fort and soon be found lying insensible in his tepee, to wake the next morning with a sorely aching head.

  Friendship flowed between our peoples, and I wondered at my own reluctance to make contact with these strangers. Their presence gave me great unease, and each time our warriors rode towards their dwelling my mind was filled with foreboding. And yet it came to nothing. Each time, they returned safe. I began to doubt my own judgement. These men were guests on our land. Why should I dread them?

  And thus – as the leaves’ buds began to swell – I dismissed my misgivings as the fanciful imaginings of a novice, and when Chodini next rode north to the White Eyes, I went with him.

  In my mind, I had imagined the White Eyes’ dwelling to be as that of the Mexican. Ours is a dry country, and those who make buildings often fashion them from earth bricks, baked in the sun. I had expected to see small adobe houses, grouped together. I was unprepared for the high walls that suddenly rose – sheer as the rock face – from the plain before me, and my eyes grew wide with surprise. It seemed that these White Eyes wished to shut out the wide sky and the sweet grass as though they were things to fear – to be kept at bay. I wondered that they chose to remain upon our land when such terror of it was in their hearts.

  Many men watched as we approached. All were armed with rifles, belts of bullets slung about their waists. Panic rose within me, yet I knew not why. Chodini smiled and called a greeting, and our party of ten warriors was welcomed inside Fort Andrews.

  The White Eyes’ chief came forth to greet Chodini, embracing him as a brother. My stomach lurched with disgust, for his face was disfigured by an unnatural growth of hair. The Apache are smooth-cheeked, and even in great age their hair grows thick and strong upon their heads. When this man removed his hat, I saw his hair had slid from the top of his head and come to rest upon his chin. The skin of his crown was smooth as an egg, and as hotly red as if it had been heated in a fire.

  This hair-faced chief called for coffee and, sitting, he and Chodini drank it side by side, talking slowly in the Spanish tongue they shared. We traded such goods as we had brought for ammunition, coffee and sugar. All was well.

  And yet I was like a dog whose hackles are raised no matter how many soothing words are spoken, and whose low growl refuses to die in its throat. From somewhere – I could not determine where – came a chill that caused my arms to bump like the flesh of a plucked bird. As I looked about me at these men, I felt that their eyes – even as they smiled – concealed contempt, as if they thought themselves superior to those whose land they walked upon. Though the White Eyes’ chief clasped hands with Chodini and swore friendship, I sensed an enmity lurking beneath the surface. It would take the smallest of scratches to bring it forth.

  Seemingly, that scratch was Keste.

  One moon after Chodini and I had returned from the White Eyes’ settlement, the yucca stretched forth its green shoots and the women went to harvest them. At Chodini’s request I went with them, not to harvest, but to give protection, for upon the flat desert plain there was little cover should an enemy approach.

  Chodini rode alone to hunt the antelope. He met with success, and was returning with a fine doe tied to the saddle of his horse. In great thirst, he stopped at the spring near Fort Andrews.

  New buildings had been fashioned either side of the rock from which the water gushed forth, and here a group of twelve or so soldiers had gathered. Chodini at once smelt the strong liquor on their breath and was wary. Full well he felt the subtle threat of their presence. But his horse had hunted long and hard, and needed to be watered. Chodini approached.

  Greeting them, our chief asked the men what they did there, and they told him they had been sent to defend the spring. At this Chodini could do naught but laugh, thinking they spoke in jest. “From what?” he asked them. “From whom do you give it protection? You think the water might be slain, or captured?”

  Chodini’s horse lowered its head to drink and Chodini bent and filled his water vessel. When he stood once more, he found his path blocked by a brash young man who wore stripes – pointed like arrows – upon the arm of his dark coat.

  In a tone of barely concealed contempt, the man began to speak. It seemed that one of their number had lately been slain by the arrows of an Apache. Chodini had no cause to doubt him, yet he wondered at the man’s rudeness, for our chief had ever been courteous to the White Eyes. Carefully he explained that the deed was none of his doing: all the warriors of our tribe were bound by Chodini’s vow of brotherhood. It might perhaps be an act of Keste’s, he said, for Keste alone was beyond the jurisdiction of his chief.

  “If this is so,” he added, “and he has returned to these mountains, we also have much to fear. He is no friend to my tribe. We thought him in the south. I must give my people warning.”

  Chodini made to mount his horse, but found himself halted by the soldier, who now grasped his arm.


  “You lie,” he said. “And we will have compensation. The doe will be payment for it. And your horse too.”

  Chodini was rendered speechless with outrage. Not believe the word of a warrior? Not believe the word of a chief? The insult to his honour incensed him.

  And yet it grew worse. Much worse. Encouraged by Chodini’s silence, the soldier began to swagger.

  “We should take this redskin to the fort,” he told his men. “There he will face justice.” He tried to lay hands upon Chodini and force him along with them. But the men were drunk, and our chief was not.

  Of necessity, Chodini abandoned both the doe and his fine warhorse. By dodging, running, creeping and freezing upon his knees did Chodini, greatest of chiefs, leader of the Black Mountain Apache, return to his tribe.

  Humiliated.

  Dishonoured.

  Hungry for revenge.

  Events came hard upon us that spring, one following another as closely as a line of roped mules.

  While Chodini sat brooding – for such an outrage was not to be endured – Sotchez, chief of the Chokenne Apache, entered the mountains of our home, bringing news that pierced us with fresh anguish.

  The women and children of his tribe had gone out to gather shoots of the yucca even as ours had done. But the Chokenne women had not returned. When the warriors went forth to seek them, they found stripling boys – young novices – who had tried to defend their mothers slain upon the earth. The rest had been taken.

  “You tracked them?” It was Golahka who spoke.

  “We did. They were taken to Marispe, to the mine. There they are enslaved by the Mexicans.”

  “Goyenne?” His daughter’s name was wrung from the throat of Chodini.

  Sotchez nodded. “Our son also. This is why I come.”

  Chodini had already begun to gather his weapons. Sotchez needed not to ask for help. No warrior council was there. Word spread fast throughout the camp, and those who chose the warpath readied themselves at once. Speed was everything. All knew that when the Mexican stole women and children as slaves they might be carried far into the heart of Mexico where none would find them. But these Chokenne were yet close to the border; they might perhaps be recovered before they were taken further. Many warriors would be needed to free them; the gold mines of the Mexican were known to have troops crawling over them as numerous as the fleas on a dog.