Apache Caress

by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress

  “If I remember right, Quanah Parker is chief there and half-white. There’s no second-guessing what that crafty fox will do. He might help Cholla just for the hell of it.”

  “Could be.” Gatewood turned and looked toward the northeast. “There’s a terrible blizzard going on farther upcountry in the high plains, snow in big drifts, cattle dying by the thousands. Some say it’s going to be the worst winter on record. Yes, if I were Cholla, I’d be headed south and then west as fast as possible.”

  Tom turned and looked in the same direction as the lieutenant, wondering if the woman was safe, where his friend might be at this very minute. “If Cholla makes it into south Texas, sir, he’ll be out of that terrible cold.”

  “Gillen is being called back. The brass have decided not to waste any more time on this chase. Besides, if the Apache is headed to Arizona, they think they can nab him right here.”

  Tom chewed his lip and thought about his moral dilemma. If he were in a situation where he had to betray his friend but it gave him a chance to have the woman, what would he do? What would any man do?

  “Gillen was going on down to San Anton’ after he left Austin,” Gatewood said, “then catching a train west. Don’t know exactly when he’ll show up here, maybe in time for Christmas.” He turned to leave, then paused and came back. “Oh, I knew there was something else, Sergeant. Your enlistment is up at the end of the month. Have you decided whether to reenlist or head back to Michigan?”

  Mooney hadn’t decided. Nothing had seemed important these last few weeks but Cholla and Sierra Forester. Today he felt old and tired. “I’m still thinking about it, sir. My elderly parents live on a farm there. I thought by being thrifty, maybe I could make a go of the old place.”

  “Would you mind escorting a lady back to Michigan?”

  “Sir?”

  Gatewood frowned. “Sad story. Young schoolteacher from up there. Came down last year to teach ranchers’ children here, even got engaged.”

  “Then why’s she going back?”

  “Well, it seems, in the very last of all that Indian trouble, she was raped.”

  Tom winced. He could almost guess the rest. “And now the young man doesn’t want to marry her.”

  “Worse than that. She’s with child from the attack. I suppose she’s tried to hide it all these months, not knowing what to do. You can hardly blame the young rancher.”

  “I can blame him,” Tom said fiercely, suddenly very protective of the sad little schoolteacher. “It isn’t her fault, and a child’s a child.”

  Gatewood patted his shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, Tom. You’ve got the softest, most fiercely loyal heart of any man I ever met. I thought you might escort the girl back.”

  “She got folks there?”

  “I don’t think she’s got much of anything.” Gatewood shook his head. “But since she’s a Michigan girl, she’s going up there to try to make a life for herself.”

  “Poor little thing,” Tom murmured. Being-Irish, he had a natural sympathy for the underdog, and when it was a helpless woman–and a baby . . .

  “You wouldn’t mind escorting her if you don’t re-up?”

  “Of course not. When’s the lass coming?” The sergeant stroked the horse thoughtfully.

  “Right at the end of the month. There’s snow in the high country, so she can’t get in right now.”

  “I hope I’m gone before Cholla gets here,” Tom blurted out. “I’d be torn between loyalties.” And love, he thought, thinking of Sierra Forester.

  “I understand, Sergeant. I like the Apache, too. But I know you, Tom. You’ll do what’s right, no matter what.”

  Mooney wasn’t so sure of that. Were right and justice the same? Did a man have a higher allegiance to the country he’d sworn an oath to or to what was morally right? He nodded absently, his mind busy with his dilemma. “Thank you for your confidence, sir.”

  Cholla. He may be my problem and it may be my decision, Tom thought. If the scout makes it across Texas, he’ll come here and turn south toward Mexico because he knows the terrain. It’s all sort of like a play, he reflected, each player awaiting his or her turn to come on the stage. With any luck, Thomas Connor Mooney would be on his way to Michigan escorting the pitiful little schoolteacher before Cholla got this far. Lieutenant Gatewood was a man of principle. What the hell would Gatewood do if he had to handle this dilemma?

  Trixie La Femme leaned on the bar at the Birdcage Theater and lit a cigarette. Tombstone. What a dirty, flea-bitten town it was. It might have been something once, but with the mines falling off in production, she could forsee it becoming almost a ghost town in a few years. Well, it deserved to die as far as she was concerned.

  Humming a little of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” she looked around at the nearly empty saloon, took out her medicine bottle, gulped a long drink. Here she’d come all the way from East St. Louie, thinking this might be a step up to a great career, and they’d put her in the chorus. Most of the time, she was flat on her back upstairs under some cowboy or miner. And one of them had given her a disease that would eventually prove fatal.

  Trixie hadn’t told anyone, especially the boss. When the Birdcage found out, she’d be fired, and she didn’t have enough money to make it to San Francisco yet.

  Well, these damned cowboys deserved it if she gave them the unexpected gift of a killing disease. Trixie was no prude and would do anything for a little extra money, but some of these Westerners had fantasies that shocked even her. More than once she’d entertained a naked cowboy wearing only boots and spurs, or she’d had to cater to unusual desires involving whips and pistols.

  She hadn’t even heard from Gill, and he was the reason she’d come here in the first place. “If I don’t hear nothing in a few more days, I’m gonna go up to Fort Bowie myself and see if they’ve heard from him. It ain’t that far,” she muttered.

  She wouldn’t put it past him to forget about her completely. Maybe she’d stumble on to some rich old coot, or a rancher with a few bucks, and wouldn’t need Gill.

  The evening was beginning to pick up, now that it was getting dark. Another man came into the Birdcage. Just a young cowboy, Trixie thought and took a deep drag on her cigarette. Then she took another look. No, not a cowboy, a prosperous rancher. She’d learned how to spot an expensive Stetson, fine, handmade boots. And he wasn’t bad looking.

  Immediately Trixie turned, took a deep breath so that her breasts jutted out. “Hey, mister, you lookin’ for a little fun?”

  “You look like you could give a man some fun.” He grinned as he came over, leaned on the bar, signaled the bartender to bring him a drink.

  “I’m not really one of the regulars,” Trixie hastened to say. “I’m a singer, headed for ’Frisco; got big plans when I get a good break. Everyone tells me I look like the Cameo girl. Just got stranded here by a fella.”

  His expression told her the Cameo girl meant nothing to this dumb hick. “We got something in common then, I reckon. I’m stranded here myself. Got into town on business a couple of days ago, and now there’s snow in the high country. Might as well stay in Tombstone a few days.”

  She snuffed her cigarette out, put her hand on his arm familiarly. “Maybe I can help make that time pass.”

  “You gonna sing to me?” He snickered, shifted his weight so that his sleeve brushed her breasts.

  “If you want. I know how to do a lot more things than the girls around here.” She moved so that her breast pressed against his arm. Trixie smiled when she heard his sharp intake of breath. “You got a wife and kids that’ll be disappointed if you don’t get back for the holidays?”

  “I had me a gal, but I broke it off. What do you think of a schoolteacher who’d let herself get raped by an Injun and then not do what any respectable woman would–kill herself?”

  Respectable woman. Trixie wondered suddenly if that weak, whimpering little Sierra Forester had ever escaped from the Apache. She hoped the scout had made Mrs. F
orester beg for mercy, then batted her eyelashes at the rancher. “No white man would take an Injun’s leavin’s, would he? I mean, if that girl ain’t pure, you don’t want her.”–

  The bartender brought the drink, went away.

  “Worse yet,” the man said confidentially as he sipped the whiskey, “she’s gonna have an Injun brat because of it.”

  “No!” Trixie exclaimed. “So of course you broke the engagement?”

  “Wouldn’t any man? I mean, she tried to hide it for months, but when her belly began to swell and I cornered her, made her admit it, she had the nerve to cry and say she hoped I’d be sympathetic and marry her anyways.”

  “But like most men, you won’t?” She reached out, fiddled with his shirt collar so she could stroke his chest.

  “Of course not.” The rancher pushed his hat back. “I mean, a man expects to get out and sow a few wild oats, but when he marries, he don’t want used goods; especially if she comes with a half-breed brat. She’s goin’ back to Michigan, and I hope I never see the tramp again.”

  Trixie winked at him. “So how about sowing a few wild oats with me?” She took his hand, looked toward the stairs.

  He finished his drink, put his other hand on her bottom, stroked it. “Baby, I hoped I’d find a little fun when I came in here, and I reckon I’m lucky you were the first one I spotted.”

  “Don’t it beat all, though? Maybe it was just meant to be.” She led him toward the stairs.

  “I figure a man who’s been through what I been through, having to realize the girl he was set to marry is used goods, that entitles him to a good time, sort of to kill my sorrow, so to speak.”

  She went ahead of him up the stairs, undulating her hips so he could see them move in the tight green satin dress. Looking back over her shoulder she smiled at him. “Honey, I’m gonna do more than ‘kill your sorrow’. I’m about to give you something you never expected to get in your whole life!” She smiled to herself at the irony of it all as she took his arm and they went down the hall to her room.

  Sierra sighed with relief as she and Cholla settled themselves in an expensive compartment on the westbound train and waved good-bye to Trace Durango. They would be forever grateful to him, she thought as she turned away from the window. She looked down at the expensive blue velvet dress she wore. Trace had costumed them, given them money, and paid for the compartment so they wouldn’t have to ride in a day coach and mix with passengers who might ask questions. More than that, he had loaded two fine horses in the baggage car, the good black gelding for Cholla, the fine Medicine Hat mare for Sierra.

  She looked out at Trace one more time. The handsome rancher stood on the platform. His lips formed the words; Vaya con Dios. Go with God. Then he turned and was gone.

  Cholla sat down on one of the overstuffed chairs and looked around the compartment. “Do you think we’ll have any trouble?”

  “We’ve got lots of food in the picnic basket, so we shouldn’t have to leave the compartment. All we’ve got to do is sit back and ride from San Antonio northwest and then through New Mexico and Arizona Territories.”

  “If there’re any problems,” Cholla said, “will you deal with the conductor? I might be able to pass myself off as a rich Spanish gentleman, but I’d rather not take the chance.”

  Sierra nodded, lost in her own thoughts. In a few days, she would be at Fort Bowie and Cholla would be gone from her life forever. Why did she feel sad instead of relieved?

  Minutes passed, but the train did not leave the station. Cholla became restless. “Something’s gone wrong,” he murmured. “Do you suppose there’s any chance the Army’s found out I’m on this train?” He had not dared get aboard carrying weapons, so if there was any trouble, he was defenseless.

  “Let me go find out,” Sierra said, rising. “I’ll ask the conductor.”

  As she started out of the compartment, Cholla caught her arm. “After all we’ve been through, you wouldn’t betray me?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You know better than that. You gave me your word you’d free me if I helped you get back to Arizona, so I gave you my word I’d help you get there. I won’t break it.”

  Cholla looked away at hearing her words, and she wondered about that, but she shrugged it off as she went in search of the conductor.

  “Is there a problem?”

  The whiskery old man touched his cap with respect as he looked over her expensive dress. “No, ma’am. The connection coming from Austin was a little bit late, and we held up for them–holidays and all, you know. They’re in the station now and loading. We’ll be moving in just a minute or two.”

  Sierra nodded with relief and turned to go back to her compartment. Through the dirty window of the car, she thought she saw a cavalry officer on the platform. The man looked vaguely familiar, but she shook her head and dismissed the thought.

  On reentering the compartment, she explained the delay to Cholla. Still, he did not visibly relax until the westbound train finally whistled a warning, then began to puff and chug out of the station.

  They didn’t leave their compartment as the train traveled west. The Texas Hill Country view gradually gave way to the flat, barren plains of West Texas where only lately Comanches had roamed. It was somewhere in New Mexico Territory that the pair finally exhausted the contents of their huge picnic basket.

  Cholla said, “What should we do? I have gone hungry many times as a scout, but I don’t want you to.”

  Sierra shrugged. “Trace gave us plenty of money and there’s always food available at the stations. I’ll just get off at the next stop, get whatever’s available, and bring it back with me.”

  He looked worried. “Suppose some soldier sees you and recognizes you?”

  “Now who would know me? Besides, I’m a wealthy Spanish señora traveling to Tucson for the holidays. No one would dare question me, I’m too rich and powerful!”

  The both laughed, and Cholla reached out, pulled her to him, kissed her forehead gently.

  “I’m going to miss you when we finally get there.” Sierra sighed.

  He looked away without answering.

  He’s not going to miss me, she thought. He’s going to be glad to be rid of me. I suppose I’ve been nothing but trouble and a hindrance to him. When he needs a woman, he’ll find an Indian or Mexican girl to share his exile.

  At the next station, Sierra got off and went into the grimy little dining area. The food looked bad, but then passengers didn’t expect any better. Maybe someday those Harvey House Restaurants would reach this line, or the trains might actually have dining cars where people could eat as they traveled. But for now, Sierra would just have to buy what she could and take it back on the train for the two of them.

  A great many passengers had pushed their way into the crowded little eating area. Sierra played her role of elegant Spanish señora and was waited on quickly. The tortillas and barbecue she chose appeared to be of better quality than what the other passengers were being served. She filled her basket, added some expensive fresh fruit. Finally she started out of the smoky, crowded building.

  Somewhere near the counter, she heard the rattle of a paper bag and an annoying crunch.

  “Blast it all! Hurry up with that new bag of candy. My train won’t wait forever!”

  Sierra looked up. A cavalry lieutenant was berating the help and creating a scene. Quimby Gillen. Sierra’s heart skipped a beat and she almost dropped her basket. What on earth was he doing here? Then she remembered looking out the train window in San Antonio and seeing a cavalry officer with a familiar face. Why hadn’t she recognized the lieutenant? They were obviously riding the same train west! Merciful heavens, what was she to do?

  He turned his head, looking her direction, chomping the hard candy. She wasn’t sure whether he saw her. Was he alone or was there a whole patrol on the train? As calmly as she could, Sierra left the building, hurried across the platform, carried the basket into the compartment.

  “Have any tr
ouble?” Cholla took the food from her.

  “No, of course not.” She didn’t look at him. He might see her apprehension, and there was no use worrying him when he couldn’t do anything about the situation.

  She went to the window of the compartment as Cholla dug into the basket, pulled out some barbecue.

  “All aboard!” the conductor shouted.

  Sierra watched the passengers rush from the adobe building, get back on the train. Sunlight reflected off the silver bars on his bright blue uniform as Gillen strode across the platform, swung up on the car ahead of theirs.

  “Sierra, what’s wrong?” Cholla momentarily stopped eating.

  “Nothing.” What could they do? If they tried to get off here, Gillen would surely see them from the window. There were a number of soldiers standing around on the platform, some idlers watching the train pull out. All Gillen would have to do was shout to those men and they would overpower Cholla.

  The train began to move out slowly, chugging as it pulled away from the squalid adobe station. Should I tell him? She decided against that momentarily. He would want to fight his way off the train, and unless they could get the horses off, too, they’d be afoot. She couldn’t remember how many men she’d seen among the passengers. Only a couple of soldiers. But the male passengers might be counted on if Gillen needed them. It occurred to her abruptly that she could betray Cholla, go up into the forward car and alert Gillen. At the next station, there’d be a telegraph office where the lieutenant could send out a call for help, armed soldiers waiting at some station down the way. No, she wouldn’t do that. Cholla had given her his word and she intended to help him get away.

  Cholla watched Sierra and wondered. Her mood had changed since she had gotten off the train to bring back the food. The very fact that she wouldn’t look at him when he questioned her alerted him that she wasn’t telling the truth. Something had happened back at the station, and Sierra was lying about it. Had she betrayed him? There would be a telegraph office at that station. Had Sierra sent a message ahead so an Army patrol would be waiting to board the train and arrest him farther west?