by Len Levinson
“Do you think we could have our guns back?”
Delgado spoke with the chief, who issued orders. The warrior who'd jabbed his knife into Duane's throat stepped forward, with Duane's Colt jammed into his belt. He drew the gun and protested vigorously. An argument ensued among several warriors, the chief, and Delgado. It appeared that the warrior didn't want to give up the gun.
Duane looked at Delgado. “What does he say?”
“That is Gootch, and he says that the gun is rightfully his, since he won it from you.”
“But he didn't win it from me,” Duane protested. “He stole it from me while I was asleep.”
Delgado relayed the message, and Gootch jumped up and down furiously, slammed his fist into his palm, glowered at Duane, and issued a statement in a bloodcurdling voice.
“He says that you have insulted him,” Delgado interpreted. “If you want the gun, you will have to fight him for it.”
Duane looked at Gootch, who was two inches shorter than he, but with thick corded arms and a barrel chest. He appeared as though he could break Duane in half, but Duane had fought bigger men before and knew that you had to maintain your distance, pick your shots, and systematically beat them down. But fighting an Apache wouldn't be a mere barroom brawl. Apaches were said to be even worse than Comanches.
“Don't even think about it,” Phyllis cautioned. “You wouldn't stand a chance.”
Duane felt more like a coward every moment. He looked at Gootch and imagined blood dripping from his fangs. This is the kind of Apache who burns people upside down on wagon wheels. Duane wasn't afraid of white men, because white men had a certain code that he understood, but an Apache was unknowable. He wanted to back down but couldn't say the words.
Then the chief spoke again and proceeded to deliver another major statement. It went on at some length, and Duane wondered what he was saying. It was like President Grant delivering his State of the Union Address. Finally the chief completed his statement and turned toward Delgado for interpretation.
Delgado smiled faintly. “This chief has said that a White Eyes cannot be expected to fight a warrior from the People, because White Eyes are so much more frail than the People. So no disgrace will come to you if you do not fight Gootch, who is an experienced warrior and has killed many enemies in the past.”
Apaches looked at Duane with pity in their eyes, while others were openly contemptuous. “What about my gun?” Duane asked.
“This chief will give you one of his.”
“I want my own gun.”
“I am sorry, but Gootch will not give it up.”
Duane turned toward Gootch, who smiled triumphantly and murmured something that sounded like an insult.
“What did he say?” Duane asked, a deadly edge to his voice.
Delgado coughed. “I did not hear.”
“What was it?”
Delgado sighed. “White Eyes, why don't you keep quiet while you are ahead?”
“My name is Braddock, and I want to know what he said.”
“Duane,” Phyllis said, “this is no time for a temper tantrum.”
The Pecos Kid ignored her as he glowered at Delgado. “I'll ask you once more—what did he say?”
“He said that . . . you remind him of a girl he knew once.”
It felt like a slap in the face, and the old familiar rage and shame ignited in the orphan's belly. Gootch winked and made another remark.
“What did he say that time?” Duane asked.
Delgado frowned. “White Eyes, you've had a long day. Why don't you lie down and rest for a while?”
“I asked what he said.”
“He said that it would be a disgrace for a warrior such as himself to fight a puny White Eyes like you, but perhaps you might want to fight his wife for the gun?”
A silence came over the gathering, and Duane was aware that the chief was peering at him intently. Maybe I can punch Gootch into submission, but if he ever catches me in his arms, he'll crush my ribs.
“I think it's time for you to be sensible,” Phyllis offered. “Why don't we lie down for a while?”
“I'm not tired,” Duane said, his eyes fixed on Gootch.
Gootch burst into laughter at the mere thought that a feeble White Eyes would want to fight him, but the orphan was extremely sensitive, and derisive laughter was the cruelest insult he knew.
“I'll fight him for the gun,” he said.
Delgado smiled and raised his hands in supplication. “Do not be a fool, White Eyes. You are listening to the evil ones.”
Duane's blood rose, and he'd left caution behind long ago. “If he doesn't give my gun back, I'll beat the piss out of him. Tell him what I said.”
“But, White Eyes ...”
“I told you that my name was Braddock.”
The chief requested interpretation, and Delgado responded at length. Then Delgado delivered Duane's challenge to Gootch, and the warrior's mouth became a thin grim line. He replied in a low throaty utterance.
“He said that he would not dirty his hands on the White Eyes.”
Duane's spine stiffened involuntarily. He knew that a wise man would make a polite remark, but he didn't feel polite. He stared at Gootch and said to himself: There stands a man who thinks he's better than I.
“Let me handle this,” Phyllis cautioned.
Duane ignored her. “Mister Delgado, tell him that if he doesn't give my gun back, I'll break his neck.”
Delgado smiled diplomatically. “White Eyes, you are at the brink of death, whether you know it or not.”
“Please convey my message.”
“I am afraid I cannot, because you will be dead an instant later.”
The warriors, women, and children were all looking at Duane, and he knew that they saw him as an inferior creature. The orphan was outraged, while the theology student tried to assert himself. Fighting is wicked, but a man who seeks to humiliate another can't be permitted to get away with it.
Before Duane knew what he was doing, he found himself rushing toward Gootch. He reached out his fingers for Gootch's throat and dived into the air, tensing for the inevitable collision. Gootch appeared unaware that danger was about to descend upon him, when suddenly he moved, and that was all Duane saw. Duane was plucked harshly out of the air and unceremoniously thrown to the ground. Stunned, he looked up to see Gootch pinning him down, holding the knife to his throat. Their faces were only inches apart, and Duane could smell Gootch's fetid breath. The point of the knife pierced Duane's throat in the identical spot as before, and Duane realized that he was going to die. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
“No!” hollered Phyllis.
Her onrushing boots could be heard, and then came the sound of a scuffle.
“Let me go!” she hollered.
The knife sliced deeper into Duane's throat as Gootch grinned fiendishly above him. The Apache warrior murmured something in his feral language, and Duane heard his funeral oration. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
Suddenly Gootch pulled back and rose to his feet. Duane raised himself on his elbows and saw a group of Apache warriors holding Phyllis's arms. Gootch raised two of his fingers and made a brusque statement in his language.
“He said,” Delgado interpreted, “that he has given you your life two times, but next time you will not be so lucky.”
Blood oozed out of the hole in Duane's throat and dripped to his shirt. He was shaken by the experience, because his own speed and skill usually won fights. He couldn't help feeling humiliated.
The warriors turned Phyllis loose. She ran toward Duane and he caught her in his arms. They hugged, kissed, and she tried to comfort him, for she'd never seen such an expression on his face.
Gootch stormed away and disappeared into the crowd. The chief approached, held out his arms, and delivered another speech. He'd never use one word when fifteen would do, but Delgado supplied a terse interpretation. “A wickiup is being provi
ded for you. The chief invites you to have supper tonight at his fire.”
Duane nodded, for he had no words for the experience that he'd just endured. A knife had been a fraction from severing his jugular vein, blood trickled down his chest, and he'd just received a dinner invitation! The sun disappeared behind the mountains, and the wickiup huts cast grotesque shadows over the camp. He felt Phyllis's breasts jutting into his chest, and realized that he was still alive. The crowd dispersed, leaving Duane and Phyllis alone. He held her tightly, and wasn't sure if he were comforting her or she were comforting him.
“The only reason he didn't kill you,” she said, “was he didn't want to offend the chief.”
“But he didn't give our guns back either.”
“Maybe you can trade your new horses for them.”
Duane scratched his head. “Why didn't I think of that?”
“You'd rather fight than think. It's what's wrong with you.”
The Apaches retreated toward their wickiups, except one old man. He appeared to be seventy, average height, with one eye half-closed, and deep leathery lines on his face. He studied Duane, and Duane felt two beams of light pass through him. Then the old man limped away, and Duane thought perhaps he was an Apache lunatic. Night came to the encampment as the women lit fires. Duane and Phyllis sat cross-legged on the ground near the chief's wickiup and faced each other. Duane tried to grin bravely, but it came out crooked and uncertain.
Phyllis spat on her handkerchief and pressed it against Duane's throat. “For a moment, I thought I was a widow, and we're not even married yet. Christ said that we should turn the other cheek, remember? It looks like you forgot everything you learned in that monastery.”
“I'm not Christ.”
She pressed the handkerchief against his throat. “He insulted you pretty bad.”
“He threw me around like a rag doll, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it.”
“We don't want to insult our hosts, but in a couple of days, after the posse gets tired of chasing us, we'll ask to leave. And if the old chief says no”—Phyllis made her own tough smile—“I guess we'll have to be Apaches for a while.”
***
Approximately sixty miles to the north, Marshal Dan Stowe rode his lineback dun across the night desert. The moon was bright, and he could make out the forms of prickly pear cactuses. The lawman was wide awake, poised, and vigilant. Apaches didn't generally attack in the night, but a bear, rattlesnake, or hungry wildcat might be lurking in the vicinity. The desert was a place where creatures killed and ate each other constantly, and he could smell the sweet perfume of death in the air.
Sometimes he wondered why he'd never settled for a normal life, with a wife and kids, a normal home life, and all the accoutrements that most men desire. Occasionally he suspected there was something wrong with him, as if he were incomplete, malformed, and demented.
He'd been raised in a family of four boys and three girls in a small Michigan town. His home life had been a tangle of conflicting alliances, verbal cruelty, and continual competition among his brothers and sisters for nothing of consequence. He was overjoyed when the war broke out, because it provided the chance to leave the domestic catastrophe into which he'd been born.
War was the most profound experience of his life, and to his amazement, he'd been good at it. He'd enlisted as a private in the First Michigan Volunteer Cavalry, worked his way up the ranks, and had been awarded a battlefield commission for “gallantry in the face of the enemy” at Gettysburg. Marshal Dan Stowe didn't appear heroic, but he'd participated in numerous cavalry charges, cut down countless Confederate soldiers with his cavalry saber, shot them with his service pistol, and strangled a few with his bare hands. General Custer himself had congratulated him after Brandy Station, and he'd participated in the Grand Review in Washington, D.C., on May 23, 1865, to commemorate the penultimate victory. With the rest of the U.S. Army, Captain Dan Stowe had ridden down Pennsylvania Avenue at the head of old Troop B, passing in front of the White House and saluting President Johnson, distinguished senators, famous generals, and wealthy industrialists from New York, Boston, and Philadelphia.
The Grand Review had been the pinnacle of his life, and his situation had deteriorated ever since. Captain Stowe mustered out of the army, roamed the frontier like a vagabond, then an officer friend with connections in Washington had secured the appointment as federal marshal. Stowe had been earning his daily bread stalking outlaws since they'd pinned the tin badge on his shirt.
He lived in hotels, boarding houses, and frequently slept under the stars. He drank fairly heavily, out of boredom and loneliness, and if it really got bad, there were always whores of one stripe or another, not to mention rambunctious wives, old maids, and the occasional squaw. He didn't know what a family would do for him, except make him miserable.
His thoughts turned to Vanessa Dawes, whose marriage was currently in the hands of lawyers and judges. Although Marshal Stowe had slept with many varieties of female, there weren't any Vanessa Dawes in his repertoire. She was the ideal woman who ordinarily became the wife of a wealthy financier or a U.S. senator, but instead she'd run off with an eighteen-year-old hard case known as the Pecos Kid.
It didn't make sense, but the world often presented discordant notes to a man whose trade was the underbelly of life. The marshal had met child murderers, jewel thieves, counterfeiters, cutthroats, bank robbers, rapists, assassins, and madmen. Nothing was strange or unusual to him, and sometimes he thought that was why he'd become a lawman, because the darker shadows of life contained iridescent glimmers that he found appealing.
He'd sensed perversity beneath Vanessa Dawes's cool outward reserve, but he'd never sip from that delicious well. The expression in her eyes had been unmistakable. She doesn't find me attractive, and there's not a fucking thing that I can do about it.
He chewed a cheroot in frustration but didn't dare light it. What is it that I lack, he wondered, and how can I get it? Charm isn't something you buy at Gibson's General Store, and I guess you have to be born with it, like Duane Braddock.
Marshal Stowe wasn't bitter about the Pecos Kid's romantic advantages, because a man has to play the hand he's dealt. If I bring Duane Braddock back alive, perhaps Mrs. Dawes will reward me. And with two thousand dollars in my pocket, she might even go to London with me. He turned down the corners of his mouth as he rocked backward and forward on the saddle. Sure she will, Marshal. Don't hold your breath.
The haunch of an animal roasted over the fire, sending savory fragrances spattering into the air. Duane and Phyllis approached as Delgado rose to greet them. “I hope you don't mind horse meat,” said the Apache, a twinkle in his eye.
Duane and Phyllis sat among warriors, women, and mischievous children. The chief wasn't there yet, but Duane spotted, on the far side of the circle, the old crippled man who'd scrutinized him earlier. He sported a scar from his hairline to his chin, evidently struck in the face with a cavalry saber, half closing his left eye permanently. His features were kindly as he nodded to Duane.
Duane nodded back. It was a treacherous world, and he was trying to feel his way. The warriors were silent, and he'd never before felt so alien among other human beings. But were Apaches really human? He turned toward Delgado, who didn't become the leader of the savages because he was reluctant to kill white people.
Delgado grinned, and a beam of firelight glinted off a tooth. “Don't worry, White Eyes. We will not poison you tonight.”
Did he read my mind? Duane wondered, a chill passing up his back. There was something superhuman about them, as though they lived in worlds beyond his comprehension. He placed a protective arm around Phyllis's shoulder, although he couldn't defend her from Apaches. These people can do anything to us they want.
The wickiup flap was pushed aside suddenly, and the old chief appeared, wearing his U.S. Cavalry blue shirt with the gold leaf insignia of a major on the shoulder straps. Everyone rose to greet the chief, who nonchalantly sat at the
fire next to the old man with the scarred face and crippled leg.
Duane found himself wondering what had happened to the major, because the Apache chief didn't buy the shirt at a rummage sale. Apaches weren't farmers and owned no factories. If Apaches wanted guns, saddles, or army shirts—they stole them.
An old woman emerged from the tent, wearing the same two-piece buckskin billowing blouse and skirt as the other women. Her hair was medium gray, tied with a red bandanna, and she wore a blue bead necklace. Duane thought her picturesque, and she moved with immense grace as she cut slices from the dead horse. No plates, silverware, or napkins were provided, and the table was nonexistent. They're nomads and travel light, Duane realized. That's why the Fourth Cavalry can't catch them. He looked at stars glittering overhead, and the moon appeared to be laughing at him. They roam this beautiful land, and their main problem is us.
Duane held up his hands as a hot slab of meat was handed to him. He nearly dropped it, and a strange succulent odor wafted to his nostrils. He tried to think friendly thoughts, but it was difficult with so many armed savages in attendance. He glanced at Phyllis and caught her looking at Delgado. She noticed Duane's sudden interest, and a guilty expression came to her features, then she smiled. Duane felt jealous as he turned toward Delgado. If an ordinary warrior like Gootch could knife me in a second, what could a leader like Delgado do? Absentmindedly, Duane touched the handkerchief covering the scab on his throat. It hurt every time he moved his head.
He continued to examine Delgado, who calmly gnawed horse meat. There was something vaguely Oriental about him. What a strange hybrid he must be. “Why'd you go to an American school, Delgado?” he inquired.
“Many years ago, when the White Eyes first came to this land, they made treaties with us, and we didn't understand. It was decided that we must learn their language, so some of us went to their schools.”
