Apache Caress

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

  He didn’t meet her eyes. “Maybe it was Geronimo’s renegades who did it. She was . . . well, you know.” He blushed uneasily. “Then she was shot between the eyes. I just found her, that’s all.”

  “Tom, I think you know more than you’re telling.” Sierra watched his face, not even sure what it was she probed for. There was just this uneasy feeling in her heart.

  “Now, don’t jump to conclusions. There’s no evidence that your husband or Lieutenant Gillen . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She had wondered about a Pandora’s box, and now her questions had brought all sorts of horrible, dark things winging out of one, things that were worse than those in her nightmares. “I never mentioned either Robert or Gillen; you did. You have reason to think they did, don’t you? From the beginning I’ve sensed a cover-up concerning this whole thing.”

  “I ... I ... It might have been anyone–probably was renegade Apaches.”

  A clock ticked loudly on the wall. She knew now that Cholla hadn’t selected her by coincidence; he had plotted and planned his revenge. “Cholla knew that Robert did it, didn’t he?”

  “Not until Lieutenant Forester blurted out–” Mooney stopped, in an agony of confusion now, and turned away, flexing and unflexing his fingers.

  And then somehow other pieces of the puzzle dropped into place. “The arroyo. It came to a showdown in the arroyo, didn’t it?”

  He turned his back and didn’t answer, but she saw his wide shoulders tremble.

  Whatever had happened out there, she knew abruptly that she didn’t want to hear about it. “Never mind. I ... I’m sorry I asked.”

  He turned around, seemed to be going through an agony of indecision. “You love Cholla, don’t you?”

  Sierra bit her lip and faced her own truth. She had to swallow hard to be able to get the words out. “Now that you ask, I . . . I suppose I do.”

  “And you’re afraid he might have–?”

  “No! I don’t want to hear it!” She put her hands over both ears. “Whatever you’re about to tell me, don’t! Even though my marriage was a sham, I’m not sure I could bear to hear–”

  “If it were just me, I’d tell the authorities.” Mooney almost whispered it. “But besides Cholla, there are three soldiers who might be liable for prosecution for conspiring to withhold the truth.”

  Slowly she took her hands away from her ears and found that she was trembling.

  The clock ticked . . . and ticked . . . and ticked.

  “Mrs. Forester, do you read much poetry?” He went over, picked up a worn book from the desk, handling it almost with reverence, opened it.

  Merciful heavens, what a strange question to ask at this critical point, she thought. He’s been at this solitary place too long. It has affected his sanity.

  She swallowed hard. “A little. My mother loved it.”

  “Do you know a poem by Richard Lovelace–it dates back to the 1600’s–‘To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars’?”

  She couldn’t believe the turn of the conversation. Then it dawned on her that maybe he was trying to tell her something, about Cholla. She thought for a long moment. “ ‘I ... I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more. . . .’ ”

  The rest of it escaped her, and abruptly she felt terribly annoyed. He was trying to get her off the subject of the incident in the arroyo. “I don’t see that this has any bearing–”

  “Sierra, if there was ever a man who exemplified that poem, it’s Cholla.” The sergeant stared at the print on the page. “We . . . we swore an oath of secrecy out there that day. I thought it wrong, but Cholla insisted.”

  “I see.” She didn’t really see at all, but whatever had happened to Robert, it was terrible enough that the survivors had plotted together to cover it up. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking. “Then Cholla’s guilty as I feared.”

  “Sierra”–Tom shook his head–“he’s guilty of being so honorable that he would lose you rather than smear his honor by breaking his oath and endangering his friend and those who conspired to keep the secret.”

  “Please don’t say more.” Her tone made it clear that she had heard enough. He is protecting Cholla, she thought with a rush of empathy. Knowing she cared for the scout, Mooney was attempting to do the honorable thing himself–take the blame. The clock on the wall ticked silently in the growing dusk.

  He seemed to be weighing something heavily in his own mind. “Sierra, please don’t think badly of Cholla. Maybe I should tell you–”

  “Never mind. I don’t want to hear anything else.” She shook her head when he tried to continue. Of course Tom Mooney was lying, but at what cost to himself, knowing by his expression that he wanted her?

  “Sergeant Mooney, have you withheld other things, too?”

  He stiffened, instantly on his guard. “What do you mean?”

  His guarded tone and uneasiness immediately told her that he had.

  “Sergeant”–she bit her lip–“I think you have real reason to believe Robert was responsible for what happened to Cholla’s sister. But you never told Cholla, did you?”

  He actually wrung his hands, paced the floor. “How could I? I knew Cholla would kill him for it. Cholla’s my friend; I was trying to protect him. Instead, keeping quiet brought about what happened that day. That makes me guilty, don’t you see?”

  No, she thought, Robert was guilty of rape and murder, and Cholla took revenge. She faced the realization that the scout meant more to her than what had happened that hot, summer day.

  “I’m going to ride out, see if I can intercept Cholla before he breaks camp, take him his dog.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sierra”

  She ignored him. “Is there any way I can get his horse to him, too?”

  The sergeant ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I doubt it. Everyone recognizes the stallion and knows Lieutenant Gillen bought and paid for it. No one would care about the dog. If you’ll tell me where Cholla is, maybe I can get Ke’jaa to him.”

  “Sergeant, if you get caught helping a fugitive, it would mean big trouble for you.”

  “Cholla is my sikis, my brother,” Tom said. “He saved my life once, and I saved his. Me or any of my men would do whatever it took to help him.”

  She wasn’t sure what the Army would do to a cavalry sergeant who aided a fugitive. Throw him in prison, probably. Besides, Tom Mooney didn’t know exactly where Cholla was camped. She thought she could find her way back to the spot, but she wasn’t sure she could tell Mooney how to get to it. And if she got caught, what could the Army do to a woman? Anyway that didn’t matter anymore.

  There was a knock on the door. Both started, and Sierra looked at the sergeant. Could it be Gillen already?

  Schultz opened the door, moved his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Sarge, can I see you a minute? Taylor’s reported.”

  Tom Mooney hesitated. “Will you excuse me a minute, Mrs. Forester?”

  She nodded. The two men went out, and Sierra fidgeted, trying to decide what to do. It was almost dark outside now. If she didn’t hurry, Cholla would be gone and she wouldn’t get his dog to him. Somehow that seemed terribly important to her . . . or was it only that she wanted one last chance to see him?

  She stood up. She ought to go but she didn’t want to leave without hearing whether the corporal brought bad news. Was Gillen on the post already? Or had Cholla been hunted down and killed? The dog watched her silently, alertly, as if it didn’t intend to let her out of its sight until she led it to its master.

  A rap at the door.

  “Come in,” Sierra said.

  The door opened and a woman barged into the room, a woman wearing a big hat and a bright purple dress. “I’m lookin’ for Lieutenant Gillen. Where the hell is everyone?”

  Trixie. Sierra could only gape at her. What on earth was she doing here?

  The colorfully dressed woman seemed to take a good loo
k at Sierra for the very first time. Then she leaned against the desk, lit a cigarette, and sneered defiantly. “Wasn’t you Robert Forester’s wife?”

  “And weren’t you Robert Forester’s whore?” Sierra said coldly.

  “Well, well!” Trixie blew smoke in the air and laughed. “You’ve certainly changed from the whimpering little mouse who once came to me, begging me to stay away from your husband.”

  “I’m sorry I wasted the effort; he wasn’t worth it.”

  “You say that because he was goin’ to leave you for me.” Trixie gave her a smug smile.

  Abruptly Sierra felt sorry for the woman. “I don’t think he would have, Trixie. That’s something women like you never learn. Married men may cheat with sluts, but they seldom marry them.”

  .“You got your nerve, talkin’ to me like that! I’m a star!”

  “The only talent you’ve got, Trixie, is between your legs, and no man values what he can get cheap!”

  “You’re such a know-it-all! Well, I know things, too,” she crowed, “I’ll bet I know several things about Robert that would surprise you.”

  Sierra sighed and looked toward the door. “I doubt there’s a lot about Robert you can tell me that I don’t already know.”

  “Such a loyal wife!” Trixie taunted, grinning cruelly. “Would you be so loyal if you knew he pushed your crazy old grandfather out of that loft?”

  Sierra grabbed for the edge of the desk, tried to speak, couldn’t. Grandfather had tried to tell her something as he’d died in her arms on the barn floor. Now she knew what it was. He would never have allowed Robert to mortgage the farm . . . if he had lived.

  Her shock and unhappiness must have pleased and encouraged the other woman, because Trixie gloated, “I know something else you ain’t gonna like–something Gill told me. Did ya know Robert was a yellow coward? He didn’t really deserve no medals.”

  “I don’t have to take this kind of abuse from you, Trixie.” Sierra walked to the door. “Go crawl back in your cocaine bottle.”

  As Sierra reached for the doorknob, the other woman ran over, caught her arm. “You will listen to me! I want you to know about Robert, you with your marriage license, thinking you’re so much better than me. He was a coward! Do you hear me? A coward!”

  Sierra tried to pull away from her, but Trixie pressed right up to her.

  “Your high-tone husband was just yellow, running from the enemy. You know how I know? He was shot in the back, that’s why! You hear me? I wanted you to know, you whimpering, weak little–”

  Sierra slapped her then, slapped her so hard that Trixie’s head snapped back and she dropped her cigarette, let go of Sierra’s arm. The marks of five fingers showed redly on her painted face.

  “Trixie, one thing I’ll never be again is a whimpering, weak little anything!”

  Sierra didn’t want to even think of the implications of Trixie’s revelation as she rushed out the door into the gray dusk of evening. The dog went with her.

  . . . shot in the back . . . shot in the back . . . the back ... back ... back ... But the words reverberated through her brain, echoing there like sounds in a canyon. Could this be true? One more piece of the puzzle dropped into place. Yes, it had to be. Sierra had sensed that everyone knew something about all this that she didn’t. Suppose Robert hadn’t been shot by a hostile? Could Cholla have–? She didn’t even want to think about it, but she had to know. She swung up on her horse.

  About that time, Tom Mooney and the corporal came around the corner. “Holy Saint Patrick! Where are you going?”

  She was both angry and hurt. “Sergeant, look me in the eye and don’t lie to me. I want some answers.”

  “I–”

  “Was my husband shot in the back?”

  He didn’t have to speak. The stricken look on both men’s faces gave her all the answers she needed. Sierra slashed the startled mare with her reins and took off at a gallop, the big yellow dog running with her.

  “Sierra, come back! Lieutenant Gillen is on his way from the station!”

  She didn’t even answer as she galloped away.

  . . . shot in the back . . . the back . . . the back . . . The words seemed to echo in her ears. Worse yet, Sierra realized she didn’t care about what had happened to Robert. God forgive her, she only wanted to be assured that Cholla hadn’t done such a cowardly thing. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances, she thought as she rode blindly toward his camp. So this was what the oath was covering up! There could be no legitimate reason for shooting a man in the back . . . could there?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Lieutenant Quimby Gillen snapped the small whip over the horse and shifted his weight in the rented buggy. At least the wind had stopped blowing. Blast it all, why hadn’t someone been at the station to meet him? The long train ride and, before that, the wild-goose chase around New Mexico Territory looking for that pair, had done nothing to improve Gill’s mood.

  In the silvery gray dusk of evening, the low adobe buildings of the fort looked deserted. Maybe that was why nobody had met him; they were all off getting drunk. It crossed his mind that maybe someone was trying to delay him. But why?

  He pulled a small bag out of his jacket, popped a peppermint in his mouth, knowing his teeth would begin to hurt again. But every time he spent money on candy, he felt he was thumbing his nose at his cold, stingy parents.

  As the buggy creaked down the road in the twilight, Gill realized just how quiet the fort was. In the barracks a few men must be playing cards or celebrating, he decided. With the Indian wars over and security lax, many were on leave or had deserted; others must be in the cantinas outside the fort, drinking and dancing.

  If I don’t get that damned Injun here, I can kiss my Army career good-bye, Gill thought. Not only was the American public beginning to pull for the underdog, the publicity of the escape, coupled with the fuss General Crook was making about shipping the Apaches to Florida, was becoming very embarrassing to the administration, and President Cleveland was furious.

  “Blast it all anyway,” he grumbled, and urged the horse to move a little faster. “What a hell of a way to spend New Year’s Eve.” Many soldiers had been at the little settlement at Bowie Station, getting an early start on the holiday. And how was Lieutenant Gillen going to spend his evening?

  “At the fort,” he groused, “makin’ plans to try to intercept that damned Cholla.”

  Of course Cholla wouldn’t be foolish enough to come here, he told himself as he drove on. If the Apache had any sense at all, he’d already crossed the border south of New Mexico Territory.

  On the other hand, Cholla knew the terrain south of the Chiricahua Mountains and would favor it. Besides, he was just brazen enough to try to steal his stallion back.

  The low adobe buildings loomed closer in the pale lavender dusk of evening. The lieutenant wondered about Sierra, where she was. If the scout didn’t take her with him, Gillen wasn’t sure what the Army could do to her for aiding and abetting the fugitive. Of course, if she got up in front of a judge as the wife of a dead hero, wept a little, and said she’d been forced to help her kidnapper, there wasn’t a jury in the world who would convict her. Gill wondered if she realized that?

  A movement on a distant ridge to the southeast caught his eye, and he blinked, looked again. For just a second in the growing darkness he’d thought he saw a woman on a paint horse, long hair flowing out behind her, a big yellow dog running alongside her mount. Then the figure had been swallowed up by the purple twilight.

  “Blast, I must be losing my mind!” Of course no woman would be out riding alone and headed away from the fort when it was almost dark. With the Apaches corralled, there wasn’t any Indian trouble, but there were bandits and rattlesnakes about. No, a woman just wouldn’t do that.

  He hadn’t had anything to drink, so that couldn’t be it. Gill stared at the empty horizon to the southeast again, not at all sure now that he hadn’t imagined the hazy, mounted figure. A chill went down his
back. He didn’t believe in ghosts or in the spirits the old Apaches said haunted these mountains. Could he be losing his mind? The thought scared him. He’d known of men who were never quite the same after serving at some of these isolated posts. In fact, Forester had acted a bit crazed toward the end, just before he was killed in that ambush. Gill hurried his horse along, drove into the fort, and headed toward the stable.

  Corporal Schultz and Sergeant Mooney looked up, dashed over, snapped to attention.

  He gave them a halfhearted, sneering salute. “This is more like it. Why the hell didn’t anyone meet me at the station?”

  “Sir,” Mooney responded, “there must have been a mix-up in communication.”

  “Blast it all, if I didn’t know better, I’d think someone was tryin’ to delay me.”

  “Oh no, sir.”

  Just then Gill noticed Taylor’s bay gelding standing in the shadows of the stable, lathered and snorting. Had that bastard been watching for Gill? Instead of meeting him, had he galloped back to alert others of his arrival?

  Gill crunched the candy between his teeth and decided not to make an issue of it, since he couldn’t prove it and he might end up looking like a fool. He wasn’t any more popular with the troops than Forester had been, he knew that. “Corporal, take this rented rig back to town later.”

  “Yes, sir.” Schultz looked nervous as he took hold of the harness.

  Gill swore and climbed down from the buggy. “Where is everyone?”

  “Away from the post for the evening, sir,” Mooney said, “and Lieutenant Gatewood’s sick.”

  Gill merely grunted. He didn’t like Gatewood anyway–too ethical. Ambitious officers like Lawton and Wood were men he looked up to. He thought again of the mounted phantom.

  Sergeant Mooney cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon sir, but there’s a lady lookin’ for you.”

  “A lady?” Gill brightened at once with the prospect of seeing Sierra Forester. Of course the shadowy figure on the horse had been only a product of his troubled mind.

  “Yes, sir. She’s in Lieutenant Gatewood’s office.”