Under Apache Skies

by Madeline Baker

  The Apache believed that Is dzdn naadleeshe’ sat cross-legged in front of her gowa’a one morning. Sitting there, with her arms raised toward the sun, she prayed to the Great Spirit. As she prayed, she bent low to touch Mother Earth, first on the north side and then on the south side. As she prayed, a crimson ray of light from the sun penetrated her woman’s place and so her menses began.

  Shortly after that, Is dzdn naadleeshe’ became pregnant. Her first child was named Naye’ nazghdne, or Slayer of Monsters. A short time later, she gave birth to Tubasdeschine, or Born of Water Old Man.

  During the ceremony, the girl sat on a blanket facing the east. The shaman, known as the diiyin, and the singers stood behind her. Marty thought it odd that they kept their hands over their mouths, and Ridge explained it was so that no evil spirits could create mischief while the singers were singing.

  Marty thought the most fascinating part of the ceremony was when some masked dancers had burst upon the scene to the accompaniment of a bullroarer and the jingle of bells to banish whatever evil might be present. Ridge told her they were called the Ga’an and that they represented the Mountain Spirits. The Ga’an danced during the beginning of the ceremony to chase away evil spirits. With their garishly painted bodies and elaborate wooden headdresses, they were an awesome and frightening sight. Ridge told her that the Ga’an had the power to know if a person had done wrong. He remarked that when he had been a young boy, a friend of his had told his mother a lie. That night, when the Ga’an danced, one of the dancers had looked his friend in the eye. With a yelp of guilt, Ridge’s friend had jumped to his feet and run into his lodge.

  Marty found it odd that, during the Sunrise Ceremony, the girl could not wash herself. She wasn’t allowed to scratch herself, either, unless she used a special stick anointed for that purpose, and that she couldn’t drink except though a special tube.

  At sunset on the first day, the girl began to dance, and she would dance for the next four days. She danced hour after hour with her head held high and her eyes fixed on the rising sun.

  Marty had felt sorry for the girl. She danced for hours while the sun rose higher and hotter. Now and then another girl stepped forward to wipe the sweat from the face of the dancing girl.

  Finally, after all the songs had been sung, the girl was allowed to sit down. She swayed back and forth, recreating the moment when Is dzdn naadleeshe’ was penetrated by the sun’s light.

  There was much more to the ceremony, most of which had made no sense to Marty. She had watched while the medicine man “painted” not only the girl but her clothing as well. Ridge told her that sometimes the Ga’an painted the girl and sometimes many people performed the task. When she asked Ridge how the girl would ever get all that paint out of her hair and clothes, he told her that, once the paint dried, it was easily brushed away.

  When the girl had been painted, she was given the basket of paint and she moved through the crowd with another girl, who dipped the brush into the paint and flicked it over the people, thus showering them with blessings. Marty had looked at Ridge and laughed as drops of paint had rained down upon them.

  When the basket was empty, there was more dancing and singing. Ridge had told her that when the ceremony was over, the masks the Ga’an had worn would be broken and carried away to a secret and sacred place where the Mountain Spirits lived.

  And then the girl danced again while members of the tribe stood in line to bless her. First in line was the shaman, who sprinkled a handful of hoddentin over her head. More prayers were offered as hoddentin was sprinkled over the medicine man.

  There were times when the line didn’t seem to move at all. Ridge told Marty that during the Sunrise Ceremony, the girl was believed to have Changing Woman’s power to heal, so men and women who were sick or had sick children sought to be healed at the girl’s hands.

  Ridge said that once, when he was a young boy, the parents of a little girl who had been badly burned brought her to one of the girls who was enduring the Sunrise Ceremony. A silence had fallen over the crowd as the girl took the child in her arms and lifted her high over her head, offering a prayer to Usen that the child would recover. The next day, the little girl was completely healed.

  All in all, it had been the most amazing thing Marty had ever seen. Her last thought as she had followed Ridge back to their wickiup had been gratitude that she would never be called upon to endure such a rigorous ordeal.

  She glanced over at him now, murmuring, “Good morning,” when she saw him looking back at her.

  “Mornin’.”

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Better.” He threw back the covers and she averted her eyes as he stood. Since they had been here, he had taken to dressing like the other Apache men. She still found it somewhat shocking to see him clad in nothing but a breechclout and the bandage swathed around his middle.

  Slipping on a pair of moccasins, he left the wickiup, giving her privacy so she could rise and dress.

  Taking her brush from her saddlebag, she began to brush out the tangles in her hair. As always, her thoughts turned immediately to Dani. It had been weeks now since her sister had been captured. Was she still alive? Was she being treated all right? What if the warrior who had taken her didn’t return to the stronghold in the next few days? She couldn’t wait here forever. She had to get back to the ranch. She had responsibilities there. She had to find out what Nettie intended to do with the ranch. She had to find out who had killed her father and why. But how could she leave here without Dani?

  Putting her hairbrush aside, Marty stepped into her trousers, slipped on her shirt, pulled on her socks and boots. Then, taking a deep breath, she left the wickiup.

  Ridge was sitting outside, his back to the sun, his eyes closed. At the sound of her footsteps, he opened his eyes and looked up at her, then gestured at the bowl beside him.

  “Breakfast is here.”

  Marty nodded. The old medicine man’s wife prepared their meals for them.

  Sitting down across from Ridge, Marty picked up the bowl and began to eat. She had asked Ridge endless questions in the last few days. She had learned that the Apache had a great fear of the dead. The body was buried on the day of death, if possible. Oddly, the task of preparing the body for burial fell to the nearest male relative. The Apache preferred to bury their dead in a remote cave or in a crevice in the rocks; if that wasn’t possible, a grave was dug and the body was buried with all its personal effects. The grave was then covered with rocks to discourage predators from ravaging the body. Once the dead had been buried, those in attendance brushed themselves all over with grass, then placed the grass on the grave. The wickiup of the deceased was burned, along with everything in it, and those who had interred the body also burned the clothing they wore at the time, and then purified themselves in sagebrush smoke. The name of the deceased was never mentioned again so that his spirit would not be called back from its journey to the afterlife.

  She learned that Apache medicine men believed that, when they were in their full regalia, they were no longer mere men but that they became the power they represented. Curiously, the hair of the shaman was believed to hold some special sort of power, and they took great pains to make sure no one touched it. Among the sacred objects used by the shaman were the medicine hat, the medicine cord, and the medicine shirt, as well as other charms and amulets thought to hold power. She learned that the medicine shirt was made of buckskin and painted with symbols representing the sun, moon, and stars, as well as clouds, lightning, and a rainbow. Other symbols represented the snake, the centipede, and the tarantula. It was believed that the medicine shirt protected the wearer from the arrows and bullets of his enemy.

  The Apache ate abundantly of meat, and liked mule meat most of all. They ate their horses, as well as deer, buffalo, beef, gophers, and lizards. The Apache did not eat anything that lived in water. They did not eat bear meat because the bear walked on two legs, like a man. They did not eat pork because hogs ate anima
ls that lived in water. They did not eat the meat of the turkey, though they hunted turkeys for their feathers, as well as mink and muskrat and beaver for their skins. The Indians ate roots and berries and the seeds of grasses, as well as acorns, mescal, and mesquite beans. The pulpy head of the mescal plant was available nearly everywhere in the desert. The women gathered it and roasted it in pits. The mesquite bean, the acorn, and grass seeds were pounded into meal and made into cakes. They also ate the fruit from a variety of cactus and yucca.

  The Apache were good swimmers, and groups of women and children could often be seen splashing around in the stream.

  As far as she could tell, Apache children received little discipline. They were rarely scolded or punished and seemed to have the run of the camp.

  The women made lovely baskets for carrying goods and water.

  She was surprised to learn that, when a man married, he forever left his own family behind and went to live with his wife’s people. From that time on, he was expected to provide meat and protection for his in-laws. Their welfare became his responsibility.

  For all their strange ways, the Apache were a deeply spiritual and friendly people. They made her feel welcome among them, even though she could not speak their language.

  Setting the bowl aside, Marty glanced around the village, then looked at Ridge. “Do you think he’s ever coming back?”

  He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. “Sooner or later, he’ll come home and he’ll bring Dani with him.”

  “I’m not sure I can wait much longer.”

  “That’s up to you. Say the word and we’ll leave.”

  “How can I go?” she exclaimed. “I can’t just ride off and leave Dani here.”

  Ridge held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, you just said—”

  “Oh, I know what I said! I’m just so worried about her, I don’t know what to do. I can’t help worrying about her. And about my mother, and the ranch, and…” She shook her head, fighting tears of frustration. “Damn!”

  Scooting toward her, he placed an arm around her shoulders. Though she hadn’t mentioned her old man, he knew that was who the tears were for. So much had happened so quickly, she really hadn’t had time to mourn her father’s death.

  Burying her face in the hollow of his shoulder, she let the tears flow, unmindful of the curious stares of the Apache.

  Ridge patted her back, overcome by a sudden need to protect and comfort her. One way or another, he would find the man who had killed her father. It had been a job before. It was personal now, though he didn’t want to think about what had wrought the change in his thinking. He was growing far too fond of Martha Jean Flynn, starting to care about her far too much. Since he’d left his mother’s people all those years ago, he’d never given a damn about anyone else or what they thought of him. But somewhere along the way, Martha Jean’s opinion had started to matter, and that bothered him.

  Gradually her tears subsided, and still she remained in his arms. After a time, she drew a deep breath, let it out in a long, shuddering sigh, and then eased away from him.

  “You’re all wet,” she murmured, sniffling.

  He glanced down at his chest, now damp with her tears. “It doesn’t matter. I needed a bath anyway,” he remarked, pleased when his small jest brought a faint smile to her lips. “And speaking of baths, I think we could both use one.”

  Marty nodded. They hadn’t bathed since they had left the ranch, though she had washed her hands and face each day.

  He rose, grimacing as the movement pulled on his wound, then offered Marty his hand.

  Returning to the wickiup, she pulled a change of clothes from her saddlebags, along with a bar of soap. Ridge handed her a piece of trade cloth to dry with, then took another for himself.

  Marty looked around. “Where do you bathe?”

  “In the creek.”

  She should have known better than to expect a hot bath in a place like this. Tucking her clothes under one arm, she followed Ridge out of the wickiup and down a narrow dirt path that led to a tree-lined stream. He continued on until he came to a place where the stream widened.

  Sunlight glinted off the face of the water. Marty looked at Ridge, wondering if he intended for them to bathe together. True, they had shared a few soul-deep kisses, but she wasn’t ready to undress in front of him, or have him undress in front of her.

  One corner of his mouth went up in a wry grin as he read her thoughts. “I’ll go downstream a ways.”

  She nodded.

  “Stay here until I come for you.”

  “All right.”

  She watched him walk away, noting the play of muscles in his back, the width of his shoulders, the way the sun’s light cast blue highlights in his long black hair. He really was a gorgeous man.

  When he was out of sight, she glanced around to make sure she was alone. Undressing hurriedly, she slipped into the water. She had expected it to be cold, but it was surprisingly warm.

  She washed quickly; then, reluctant to get out, sat in the shallows, her thoughts wondering toward home. She had never been away from the ranch long before, and while she was certain Scanlan and Smitty and the others would look after the place, she couldn’t help wondering—and worrying—about what Nettie was doing. Had she already put the ranch up for sale? And what about Victor Claunch? No doubt he’d been sniffing around again. Now that Marty was away, how hard would it be for him to persuade Nettie to sell the home place?

  And what about Dani? What if Ridge was wrong and the warrior who had taken her sister didn’t return to the stronghold? What if something had happened to the warrior? Dani could be wandering out in the middle of the desert, lost and alone…

  Marty stared up at the vast blue sky, thinking that, at the moment, she was feeling pretty lost and alone herself.

  A movement caught her eye, and she saw Ridge striding toward her. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts, felt the heat rush into her cheeks when he came to a halt beside the stream, one brow raised as his gaze moved over her in a long, lingering glance. Heat rushed into her cheeks.

  “Don’t look!” she exclaimed.

  He made a sound low in his throat. “How can I help it? You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in that creek.”

  “Turn around! I’m naked.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said appreciatively. “You surely are.”

  Her cheeks were burning now, the fire spreading through her whole body. “Ridge Longtree, stop staring at me like that this instant!”

  Ridge let his gaze move over her one last time; and then he turned his back to her, knowing that the image of Martha Jean Flynn sitting waist-deep in the slow-moving water would be a sight he would never forget. Her skin was a pale golden brown, her forearms and neck tanned from hours spent outdoors. The sunlight had danced and sparkled in the drops of water in the wealth of her hair. The flush in her cheeks had been most becoming.

  He heard splashing as she climbed out of the creek, the sound of cloth being dragged over wet skin as she dressed. He was sorely tempted to turn around for one more look but something—respect for Martha Jean, perhaps—kept him from doing so.

  Marty stared at Ridge’s back while she dressed. What was it about him that drew her gaze again and again? It was more than the fact that he was tall and ruggedly handsome, though she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was. All she knew was that he filled her thoughts by day and her dreams by night, and that she felt empty inside when they were apart, even for a short time.

  Was she falling in love with him?

  She dismissed the thought immediately. And as quickly as she banished it, it returned.

  Was she falling in love with him?

  The question, once asked, refused to go away. And if the answer, heaven forbid, was yes, what then? He was a hired gun, wanted by the law, hardly the kind of man to settle down and raise cattle.

  Marty was fully dressed when he turned around. His gaze met hers head
-on and she had the answer to her question.

  Somewhere along the trail, she had fallen in love with Ridge Longtree.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ridge sat outside the wickiup he shared with Martha Jean, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. Marty was asleep inside, and the camp was dark. He seemed to be the only one still awake save for the sentries who guarded the entrance to the stronghold.

  A flash of lightning seared the sky in the distance. The Apache believed that lightning was a visible sign of supernatural power from the Thunder People. Long ago, the Thunder People had provided the Apache with meat. After a while, the Apache had started to take the Thunder People for granted. To punish the People for their ingratitude, the Thunder People had stopped providing them with meat. Lightning flashes were their arrows, which could be a good sign or a bad sign, depending on the omens.

  Ridge stared into the distance. Across the stream, the horse herd was a drifting mass of shadows. A few dogs wandered through the camp, searching for scraps. A baby cried in the distance, the sound quickly muffled. Apache children weren’t allowed to cry. Away from the security of the stronghold, a baby’s cry could alert the enemy to the camp’s whereabouts.

  He had avoided this place for so many years, he’d almost been afraid to come back. Surprisingly it felt like home. Reaching down, he picked up a handful of earth and rubbed it between his hands, then ran his hands over his arms and legs, returning, symbolically, to the land of his birth.

  Yet he was still filled with a sense of disquiet, and he knew it was due to the woman sleeping inside. Since the first day he had seen her, he hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind. He wanted her with a single-mindedness he’d never known before, and it scared the hell out of him. He wasn’t interested in settling down in one place. He had no intimate experience with decent women. He’d been on his own since he was seventeen, drifting, hiring out his gun, living for the moment with never a thought for the future. Until he met Martha Jean Flynn, he had forgotten what it was like to worry about anyone but himself.