She Returns From War

by Lee Collins

  "No," Naalnish said, his hips swaying with the rhythm of his horse's steps. "Our women do not fight. She received this name when she returned to the village without her husband."

  "Her husband?" Victoria asked. "So she has been married before."

  "Yes, but her husband was killed by men from your army."

  Victoria's back stiffened at his tacit accusation. "You mean the United States Army. I can assure you that Her Majesty's soldiers had nothing to do with it."

  "This is so," Naalnish agreed. "I am sorry."

  "Quite all right," Victoria said. "Please continue."

  "Her husband died three years ago," Naalnish said. "When she returned to the village and told us her story, we gave to her the name Anaba."

  "Why did the army kill her husband?"

  Naalnish shrugged. "This is not known. I believe it was for no other reason than he was Dine. The white man's soldiers do not fear to kill our people without cause. It is not often, but it is so."

  "I'm sorry," Victoria said. "Men can be such monsters."

  "Yes."

  The pair rode in silence for a few moments before another question came to her. "You and the singer both said the word 'Dine'. What does this word mean?"

  "It is our name for ourselves," Naalnish replied. "You call us Navajo, but we have always been Dine. It means 'The People'."

  "Practical enough," Victoria said.

  The Indian looked to their left and raised his hand. "There is Ata'halne now."

  Victoria followed his gaze to a figure standing outside a hut some way off. The figure raised his hand in reply, and Victoria waved at him. The blanket behind Ata'halne moved aside as a woman emerged. She wore a smaller blanket around her shoulders, and silver medallions flashed about her waist. Thick hair framed her face and flowed over her shoulders in a waterfall of shimmering sable. The woman raised her hand toward them as well. Victoria smiled as she waved back.

  Then nearly fell off her horse.

  Victoria gripped the saddle horn with her free hand, trying to steady herself. The blood drained from her face. Once she had waved long enough to be polite, she turned her head away. Fear twisted inside her, even in the light of the noonday sun. It was all she could do to keep herself from spurring her horse into a gallop.

  Naalnish looked at her. "What is wrong?"

  "This Anaba," Victoria said, "how much do you know about her?"

  "Not much," Naalnish replied. "She is not a young woman like you, but she is not old. She has no mother, but I do not know how her mother died. She has no children."

  "And that was her? With Ata'halne?"

  "Yes."

  "Naalnish," Victoria said, "I believe the woman that has been hunting us is this Anaba."

  "This is not possible," he said. "We have no people of that kind in our village."

  Victoria couldn't help stealing a glance over her shoulder. The woman had turned away from them, but Victoria knew she hadn't been mistaken. The woman's face had haunted her in dreams and the waking world; she knew it all too well. "But what if she is?" Victoria asked. "What if this woman has been living with you all this time?"

  Naalnish shook his head. "No," he said. "She is quiet and sad, but she is not..."

  "A witch?" Naalnish refused to look at her. "I am not lying. That woman back there is the one who kidnapped me."

  "No," he said again, but his voice was weaker. His eyes did not leave the horizon. "Anaba is the daughter of the singer. She would not choose... that path."

  "Are you certain of that?" His silence was reply enough. "I think I can find my way from here if you want to go back and speak to the singer."

  Naalnish dropped his gaze. "I do not want you to get lost."

  "No need to worry," Victoria said more confidently than she felt. Her mind was exploding from the implications. Cora needed to know, and Naalnish needed to warn his village. Now that the skin-walker, this Anaba, knew that they were on to her, she might become more aggressive and unpredictable. Victoria didn't want any harm to come to Naalnish, the singer, or any of the other innocent people in their village.

  What if she was wrong, though? The poor widow could simply be that, a woman whose husband had been heartlessly killed by the U.S. Army. Maybe Victoria had been mistaken. Maybe she was just afraid, seeing the witch in every Indian woman's face. She had been so certain when she first saw Ata'halne's friend, but now she wasn't as confident. If Naalnish accused Anaba of being a witch, they might shun her or kill her. Victoria knew history well enough to understand that such accusations were seldom taken lightly, and they almost always resulted in death or some other form of punishment. By speaking her mind, she may have well just condemned an innocent woman to be burned at the stake, or whatever form of execution the Navajo used for their own witches.

  Naalnish turned his horse around.

  "Naalnish," she said. He looked over his shoulder. "Don't hurt her if she isn't a witch."

  "We can show her no kindness."

  "But only if she is a witch," she said. "Promise me you won't if she isn't."

  "The singer will decide," he replied, then turned away.

  Victoria watched him recede into the distance. Her hands twitched, eager to spur her horse after him, to ensure that the woman would be safe from any unjust punishment. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if Anaba died because of a guess made through a fog of heat and fear.

  The skin-walker and her vampire pet had to be stopped, though. If they weren't, more innocent people would die. Pride firmly swallowed, she would ride back to Ben's Print Shop, tell Cora what she'd learned from Naalnish and the Navajo singer, and ask her to ride against their enemies that night. They would need new horses, fresh supplies, and the handful of ash she carried in her satchel. God willing, they might bring this all to an end that very night, and then they could be on their way back to England.

  Pulling her hat down, she urged her horse forward, in the direction of Albuquerque.

  FOURTEEN

  "Well, ain't that strange? Seems we got us five aces on the table." Cora sized up each man in turn. "Which one of you all is funning around with my cards?"

  The men didn't answer. Nervous glances flicked around the table like frenzied ants. From her seat near the batwing doors, Victoria couldn't see the hunter's face, but she could see the faces of the other gamblers. They were all playing the part of innocence accused well enough that she couldn't have picked out the guilty party. Whoever the cheater was, he'd done it enough times to make a convincing display of suspicion.

  "Wilson, I've got a hankering to see what you got under that shirt of yours," Cora said. "Why don't you show the other fellers here."

  Victoria's breath caught in her throat when she recognized the man who had threatened her before. His ears were crimson with anger again, but his gaze wasn't directed at her. He stared at the old hunter, as if he could make her take back her accusation through sheer force of will. Victoria lifted her hand to her mouth to hide her grin. Strong and quick to anger though he was, it seemed that Wilson was none too quick to realize when he was fighting a losing battle.

  The other men at the table sat in silence, eyes darting between Cora and Wilson. Around them, other conversations carried on. Victoria caught snatches of them, tales of exploits and adventures too wild to be true. In the back of the room, the piano marched its way through an off-key melody.

  Wilson slowly stood to his feet. "Reckon I'm done for the day," he said, his tone flat.

  "Don't be a stranger, now," Cora said. "Go on and help yourself to a drink. Ain't on the house, mind you, but might help to settle you down some."

  "Ain't so riled up as all that," Wilson replied. "Just need some air is all."

  Wilson walked around the table, each step deliberate, his eyes never leaving the hunter's face. Cora shook her head and reached for an ace. "This one here's yours. Ain't got no need for two aces of hearts at my table."

  She held it above her head, not turning to look at the man. Victoria watche
d his fingers curl into fists. At the table, one of the men looked up at Wilson and nodded.

  The ace drifted to the floor. "I ain't going to hold it for you till sundown, Wilson. Pick it up if you like."

  Wilson bent down to retrieve the card. As he straightened up, the man who nodded shoved the table toward Cora. The edge caught her in the chest, knocking her chair backward. She went with it, cards scattering like leaves. Her elbows hit the floor with a thud Victoria felt in her teeth. Before the hunter could recover, Wilson stepped over her and clamped a hand around her throat. The other man was standing now, too, his eyes watching the other two players, hand hovering near the butt of his gun.

  "Call me a cheater, do you?" Wilson asked, lowering his face toward Cora. The hunter's fingers clutched at his hand, trying to pull it away and failing. "You ought to know by now that you never call a man on his word in a card game. Goes against agreement between gentlemen and all, but I guess a fool woman like you ain't got the sense for such things."

  Around them, the room had fallen silent. Victoria could hear Cora's desperate, wheezing breaths and the scraping of her boots across the floor. She tried to bring her knees up into Wilson's back. He held up his other hand to block her blows, putting more of his weight on the hand around her throat.

  "You ain't nothing but an old bitch past her prime," Wilson said, "and I reckon it's time somebody put you down for good."

  His shoulder moving to block her flailing legs, he drew a revolver from his belt. The barrel pressed against the skin beneath Cora's chin.

  "Hey, now," somebody said.

  Wilson's accomplice whirled toward the voice, pulling his own gun. "Shut your trap, boy." The man put up his hands and backed up a step. Nobody else moved.

  "Hear that, bitch?" Wilson asked, a sneer stretched across his sweating face. "Ain't a man here willing to help you out of a bind."

  The hard, pointed toe of a riding boot smashed into Wilson's face. His revolver clattered to the floor as he rolled to one side, hands holding his cheek. The other man spun toward the sound to find himself staring down the business end of a Colt .38. At the other end of the barrel, cold blue eyes regarded him.

  "I'm consistently amazed at the lack of proper manners in this country," Victoria said. "Really, is this how one should conduct oneself around a lady?"

  Wilson's accomplice stared at her, his own revolver still in his hand. "Little thing like you ain't got the guts to shoot a man."

  "I've shot worse," Victoria said.

  "Better believe her," Cora's voice rasped more than usual. "Girl ain't shy about using that gun of hers. Why, not two nights ago, she had a pudding-headed lump like your own self at gunpoint, and it was only my word that stopped her from pulling the trigger."

  Victoria stole a glance to her right. Cora stood beside her, Wilson's gun in her hand. "Now, why don't you set that gun down nice and easy," the hunter said, "or I might not be able to call off my friend."

  The man's eyes darted between the two women. Somewhere behind them, Victoria heard Wilson groan. She kept her eyes on the other man, finger tense on the gun's trigger. If his weapon moved an inch higher, he was a dead man.

  After a few seconds, the man dropped his gun and raised his hands. "There's a good boy," Cora said. "Now then, why don't you take your buddy Wilson and get before Vicky here loses her patience and shoots the both of you."

  "She wouldn't dare," the man said, but he started moving. Wilson groaned again as his friend helped him to his feet. Throwing a nervous look over his shoulder, the man half-led, half-carried the injured gunman through the batwing doors. Victoria listened to the thumping of their footsteps move down the wooden sidewalk. Only when she could no longer hear them did she let herself relax.

  "You all are white as ghosts," Cora said, turning to look at the rest of the Print Shop's afternoon patrons. "Ain't you never seen folks dust up in a saloon before?" Shaking her head, she walked around behind the bar. The big jug of whiskey made its appearance, and she waved Victoria over.

  "This one's on the house, little lady," Cora said, pouring out a glass. "Ain't every day I get to serve a drink to somebody what saved my hide, and you got yourself the honor of being the first lady ever to do it."

  Victoria picked up the glass. "I will drink to that."

  Cora raised her own drink. Glass clinked against glass, and the two women tossed back the whiskey. The taste still made Victoria grimace, but she managed to keep from coughing. She set the empty glass down on the bar and eyed the hunter. "Does this make up for earlier, then?"

  "What's that, now?"

  "Our...altercation?" Victoria asked.

  "Oh, that?" Cora snorted a laugh. "You call that an altercation? That wasn't nothing but a bit of yelling. What happened just now with Wilson, now, that was a right proper altercation."

  "So no hard feelings, then?"

  "Wilson ain't got nothing but hard feelings," Cora said.

  "I meant-"

  "I know what you meant," Cora said. She looked Victoria in the eye. "Way I figure, stepping in with me against them thugs done washed away any transgressions between the two of us. I ain't the type to let a few hot words get to me, anyhow."

  "Well, I suppose that's all well and good, then." Victoria toyed with her empty glass, which Cora took as a request for a refill. The second shot followed the first, and Victoria shook her head at the burning in her throat. "I never thought you would turn me into a whiskey bibber. Or a gunfighter, for that matter."

  "The frontier makes folk into all sorts of things," Cora said. "Thieves out of honest men, cowards out of soldiers, and monster killers out of fine young ladies."

  "I don't rightly know if the blame can be placed on your frontier," Victoria said. "That fault lies at the door of black shuck, I'm afraid. It gave me the heart, and you gave me the means."

  "Speaking of, we ought to go buy some more of them means before the sun goes down," Cora said. "We only got one revolver between the both of us now."

  Victoria reached for the gun at her belt. "Yes, I suppose this is yours by rights."

  "Nah, go ahead and hang on to it." Cora jammed the stopper back into the bottle. "Ain't like there's anything special about it. One we buy over at the gunsmith will work just as well, I reckon."

  "Are you sure?" Victoria asked. "It doesn't hold any sentimental value for you?"

  The hunter shrugged. "Ain't rightly sure, but I don't bet on it. Go ahead and ride with it tonight, and I'll go fetch me a new one. If I get to missing the one you got, we can switch."

  "Deal," Victoria said. She slapped her palm on the bar. "Shall we?"

  "Yes ma'am. Why don't you mosey on down to the gunsmith and pick me out a shiny one. I'll stop in to the livery and see if I can't get that old fool to lend us a pair for the night, seeing as how Our Lady was killed on his watch and all."

  Cora walked around the bar and toward the door, hollering at one of the tables as she did. A young man, his face dark with stubble, jumped to his feet. "Mind the bar, would you?" she said. The man nodded, settling back down to his game. Cora turned back to Victoria and grinned. "Let's get a move on."

  Victoria lay on the hotel mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Outside, she could picture the sun still hanging in the empty sky, white-hot in its unyielding fury. The hotel's roof hid her from its rays, but they couldn't hold the heat at bay. Sweat glistened on her forehead, trickling through her hair like stray raindrops on a windowpane. Her riding clothes lay in a heap on the floor, a disorderly reminder of her vain attempt to escape the soul-draining swelter.

  Not much longer to wait, she reminded herself. Purchasing a new revolver for Cora had not taken half an hour. Returning to the saloon with revolver in hand, she made small talk with Robert until Cora blew through the batwing doors a few minutes later. Her negotiations with the livery owner had been brief as well, and Victoria had no trouble imagining why. With that, there was nothing more but to wait until sundown. Cora told her to get some rest in case it ended up being a lo
ng night. Victoria agreed and retired, never imagining that her room could be hot enough to prevent sleep altogether.

  She rolled onto her side with a sigh. In lieu of rest, her mind kept returning to her conversation with the Navajo singer. Most of what he said made sense in its own way, but she couldn't quite figure out the part regarding her dream. It seemed so absurd, so contrary to everything she knew about spirituality. There was no place in God's design for such a thing, and yet she couldn't so easily disregard her experience. The memory of it was too clear. What, then, had happened to her?

  Victoria had a thought. Stretching out on her back again, she folded her hands on her stomach and closed her eyes. If she did have the ability to separate her spirit from her body, she should be able to do it at will. There was time enough before sunset to try. When she failed, she would know that the old Indian had been mistaken.

  How to try, though? The singer hadn't elaborated on how the separation was done. When - if - she had done it last time, it had felt like falling asleep. That was out of the question in this heat. She had been keeping watch over their camp, thinking about the strange fox she saw in the bushes. The fox that was not a fox if the Navajo man was correct. Victoria tried to imagine the fox again, running free beneath the stars in the cool of the night, but the wooden oven surrounding her made it impossible. No matter how she tried, all she could picture was an endless line of heat waves shimmering against the horizon.

  Frustrated, Victoria soon let her concentration slip. Instead of trying to imagine the starlit desert, she began focusing on her own discomfort. Somehow, despite the heat and the dry air, the sheet beneath her was damp with sweat. It made her feel disgusting, like one of the unwashed men in Cora's saloon. They probably didn't bathe more than once a fortnight. Some of them probably used water from the horse troughs. She could picture them seated around one of the misshapen structures that passed for tables in the Print Shop, their sweat-stained clothing sticking to them as they gambled away what little money they had.

  The rapid slap of cards shuffling made her blink. It came sharp and crisp, as though she was standing in the room. Victoria looked around. Robert still stood behind the bar, but Cora was nowhere to be seen. What few patrons there were clustered around a greasy deck of cards. From the dark circles on their shirts, she could tell that the saloon was no cooler than her room.